Cactus and Rattlers
Here’s a real thriller for you—a double-action, big-caliber
novelette of adventure in the West, by a writing man who knows his
business, the distinguished author of “Sixteen Miles,” “Brome’s
Luck,” “Shadows of Saffron,” and other noted stories.
Cactus and Rattlers
by H. Bedford Jones
At least twice a year, when he came in to Stovepipe Springs to get
his mail and flour, Sagebrush answered to the cognomen of George
Beam. This was one of the occasions. To his acute consternation, he
had discovered that “The Springs” was crowded with life and gayety,
for there was a strange female stopping at the hotel, and another
pilgrim was coming in by stage this same afternoon.
Sagebrush presented a general vista of whiskers, red nose and
nondescript garments, bleached by sun and white with alkali dust;
yet it was his proud boast that he was the only man between Death
Valley and the big bend of the Colorado who kept abreast of the
times. Subscribing to several weekly magazines, he came in once
every six months to get the accumulated copies. Then he sat down and
answered the advertisements, requesting circulars. Thus he had a
burro-load of magazines to read for six months, then a burro-load of
circulars wherewith to while away the next six months—an involved
and vicious circle in which Sagebrush was always trying to catch up
with himself. He kept the post office on the map, however.
“Now, dog-gone it,” he observed to his three patient burros, as he
tied on his grub and magazines and a bundle of postal cards, “you
and me got to hike out again in order to git our correspondence
goin’ in peace! Dad blame this dad-blamed town! What in hell is
folks crowding in this country for, anyhow?”
Haywire Johnson, assistant postmaster and general utility man about
the hotel, showed up in time to answer this query.
“Hi, Sagebrush! Aint you stoppin’ over in town? Things is pickin’ up
right fast. We got a settler yesterday, and we got a tourist comin’
today.”
“That’s jest it,” growled Sagebrush. “A feller can’t have no peace
no more. That makes three women in town now, not countin’ them
females over to José Garcia’s shack.”
“Well, listen!” Haywire laid his hand on the desert rat’s arm.
“Where’d you get that dust you weighed in over to the store, eh?
Let’s you and me go in and talk, Sagebrush. If you aint got no
objections to wettin’ down them whiskers with a mite o’ licker,
s’pose we go inside and arbitrate.”
Sagebrush grunted, hitched his three burros to the rail, and
vanished in the hotel.
Once Stovepipe Springs had been a boom mining town, but now it was
dead and dried out. To west and north lay desert, to the south lay
more desert and the Colorado. To the east was the Chuckwalla
Range—in it and beyond it rich cattle country with water galore.
Here in Stovepipe Springs, and over across the Chuckwallas, men
talked different languages, had different customs and were
themselves different. No cow-men came over this way unless they were
well ahead of the sheriff; and Stovepipe Springs, having its own
railroad connections at a distance of twenty miles, was supremely
independent of the remainder of the county, and heartily despised
all ranchers and cow-men.
Here, besides the hotel, were five inhabited houses and two stores,
a bank and a garage. Had it not been for the literary enterprise of
Sagebrush Beam, even the post office would have long since been
wiped off the map. The town was a point of call for desert rats, and
being at present on a detour of the cross-continent automobile
highway, had more business than its looks would warrant. Its
inhabitants lived only for the day when some one would strike it
rich and bring back the boom.
It was three in the afternoon and blazing hot when the exhaust
whistle of the autostage announced its arrival. The entire dozen
persons of the local constituency gathered to watch. One of these
onlookers was a small man in rusty and dilapidated attire. He stood
barely five feet six, his face was a grayish mask from which shone
two bright and glittery gray eyes, and there was a stoop to his
shoulders—but he was not crowded. He was not only the most
flourishing, but he was the most respected citizen of all Chuckwalla
County.
The stage whooped out a final whistle and came to rest amid a whirl
of dust in front of the hotel. The driver flung off a mail-sack,
handed off an empty express-box, then swung down and vanished
abruptly into the hotel. His solitary passenger, meantime, descended
before the assembled gaze of Stovepipe Springs, staring around with
unassumed interest. And Stovepipe Springs, after the first gasp,
stared back—hard.
The pilgrim was apparently a young man, though little could be seen
of his features. He wore an enormous pith helmet which shaded his
face, tinted yellow goggles which hid his eyes, and from the collar
of his khaki coat to the tip of his nose was wound a bright green
shawl which draped back over his shoulder. Just then Haywire and
Sagebrush came out the side door of the hotel, and Sagebrush halted
as though smitten.
“My gosh, Haywire!” he exclaimed. “What was in that there licker? I
never seen nothing like this before—not even from tequila! Is that
thing really there?”
“She is,” said Haywire, with a startled look. “Wait—it’s goin’ to
talk!”
The arrival had unwound the green shawl, to disclose a mouth and
chin which were certainly square-cut enough for anyone. He glanced
around the circle of staring faces, and his goggles fastened upon
the little man in rusty attire. Toward him the newcomer stepped, met
the glittery gray eyes, and spoke.
“Am I correct in assuming that this is Stovepipe Springs?” he asked.
“Yep,” returned the small man curtly.
“Excellent! An admirable spot. I am Percival Henry J. Tompkins, a
humble member of the American Society of Mammalogists, in search of
material for a paper on the fauna of the great American desert.” Mr.
Tompkins spoke in a precise, neatly clipped voice. “I seek a
temporary domicile here—”
“Git over to Mormon Wells, then,” snapped the small man.
“You misapprehend my meaning,” said Mr. Tompkins patiently. “I seek
rooms at your hotel, and a guide. I want a man who knows the desert,
who can lead me to the haunts of its creatures. Particularly I
desire to study the habits of the _crotalus cerastes_.”
With a flick of his shoulders, the small man turned as though to
leave. Mr. Tompkins reached out and laid a restraining hand on his
shoulder, unwarned by the gasp from those near by.
“My dear sir, I am addressing you—”
What happened was startling to see. The little man moved with a
swiftness that the eye could not follow, then stood snarling, his
gray mask of a face glittering with sheer malignity. Tompkins,
knocked sprawling half across the road, rolled over, sat up, and
then struggled to his feet. He stood blinking around.
“That—er—that was a most remarkable thing!” he exclaimed in his
precise tones. “Did somebody run into me?”
With a sneer and a snap of his teeth, the little man turned and
departed toward the bank, which he owned. Haywire drew the old
desert rat hastily aside.
“Look out! Sidewinder’s feelin’ mean today. Him and that female
woman have been talkin’ chicken-ranches, I reckon. Oh, my gosh! Now
that there mistake for a human is headin’ this-a-way—”
Mr. Tompkins, indeed, seemed to sense a general lack of cordiality
all around him, except in the gaping countenance of Sagebrush, whom
he now approached.
“My friend—”
“Pilgrim, don’t bother me!” said Sagebrush defensively. “It jest
can’t be true!”
“I’ll pay three dollars a day to a man who knows the desert.”
Sagebrush changed countenance. So did the remainder of Stovepipe
Springs. There was a general forward movement, but the desert rat
was the first to recover voice.
“You’re done, pilgrim, you’re sure engaged! What was it you wanted
to find?”
“_Crotalus cerastes_. Undoubtedly you can introduce me to
specimens?”
Sagebrush swallowed hard, but had a reputation to sustain, and
upheld it nobly.
“You bet!” he announced promptly. “Lots o’ them specimens up around
Marble Cañon, and over by Lost Waterhole I’ve seen ’em so thick you
couldn’t hardly move without steppin’ on ’em. I’ll take you right
where them things breed, Perfesser.”
The “Perfesser” looked slightly startled, but nodded assent.
“Very well; you are engaged. We shall have to hire an automobile.”
“You got to see Sidewinder Crowfoot about that. He owns ’em all.”
“Very well. Come to my room in an hour, when I have had a chance to
remove the stains of travel. By the way, where is the hotel? I wrote
to engage rooms, but see no hostelry.”
“Right yere under your nose, Perfesser. Hassayamp is takin’ in the
mail—thar he is. —Hey, Hassayamp! Meet my friend the Perfesser.
This is Hassayamp Foster, Perfesser. The Perfesser’s a bug-hunter,
Hassayamp, and wants a bed.”
“My beds won’t help him none,” said Hassayamp, a lean and
melancholic individual who came forward, chewing a ragged mustache.
“I got a room for you, Puffesser.”
“With bath,” said Tompkins. Hassayamp halted and blinked.
“Bath? Good gosh, we don’t allow no washin’ in the springs this time
o’ year! Got to use a cream separator to git enough drinkin’ water.
Rains are over, but they aint filled the springs yet—not for another
two weeks, I reckon.”
“I refer, sir, to a bathroom attached,” explained Tompkins.
“Well, there aint none,” said Hassayamp. “Whar’s your grips?”
Two enormous and bulging suitcases, each as big as a small trunk,
were in the stage boot, and Hassayamp hauled them out with
antagonistic air, and led his victim away.
The Stovepipe House was built for desert use, not for looks. The
front building contained post office and hotel dining-room; and
passing through this, Tompkins descended the rear steps and found
two long adobe structures stretching in front of him, each divided
into cells; between them drooped some parched flowers and shrubs. He
was shown to his cell, a room twelve by twelve, furnished with all
the comforts of home.
“Don’t do no cussing nor singing after midnight,” warned Hassayamp
as he shoved in the two enormous grips, “’cause a lady’s got the
next room. When the bell rings for supper, you show up prompt; my
old woman’s liable to be real ornery if folks don’t ’predate hot
vittles. Two-fifty a day. What did you go tangle up with that old
desert rat Sagebrush for? I’d ha’ been glad to pilot you around my
own self. Int’rested in mines, are you? Don’t let him show you no
specimens, Puffesser. That old rascal would salt hell and unload it
on a pilgrim. Don’t you trust nobody around here but me. I got two
quartz lodes and a placer location that’ll make your eyes water—”
“Not interested in mines, thanks,” said Tompkins, cutting short the
flow of talk. “If I saw a good chicken-ranch, I might invest, but
not otherwise. Ever hear of anyone around these parts by the name of
Ramsay? Alec Ramsay. Might have passed through here a year or so
ago.”
“Nope,” said Hassayamp, shaking his mustaches. “Well, if ye want
anything, come and holler for it.”
Hassayamp withdrew; in more haste than he had previously displayed,
he ducked around the side of the hotel, rambled down the desert
sands of the nominal alley, and in three minutes was rapping sharply
at the back door of the adobe bank. This was opened to him by the
small gray-faced man, who was no other than Sidewinder Crowfoot.
Hassayamp slid inside and closed the door behind him.
“Well?” rasped Sidewinder. “What’s up?”
“That bug-hunter,” said Hassayamp agitatedly. “What ye think he
said? That if he knowed where there was a good chicken-ranch, he
might buy it!”
A thin smile appeared in the gray mask. “That so? We’ll see about
it.”
“And he asked if I knowed anyone around here, a year back, name of
Alec Ramsay.”
The smaller man started, and his eyes glittered venomously.
“So that’s it—so that’s it!” murmured Sidewinder. “I thought he
didn’t act right natural. By gosh, I’ll look into him!”
“Wa’n’t Ramsay the one,” began Hassayamp, “that bought that there
claim from Mesquite up in Pinecate Cañon, and got mixed up with—”
“Shut up!” snapped the other man suddenly. “Listen to me, now. I’ll
attend to this gent myself, if he needs it. Let him run as far’s his
hobbles will let, for a while. First we got to fix up Miss Gilman.
You got to take her out day after tomorrow—_sabe_? I’ll have her all
primed up about the location—you sell it to her. Take her up the
Chuckwalla road, then off to Pinecate mesa and up the cañon to that
big boulder. Sell her the same ground we sold that Ramsay fool.
There’d ought to be water in it right now, and it’ll look mighty
pretty. Sell her any location she picks out. _Sabe?_”
“All right,” said Hassayamp. “And ye needn’t worry much over that
bug-hunter. He’s jest a natural-born fool.”
“Maybe,” was the response. “But don’t be too durned sure.”
Sidewinder’s doubts would have been verified could he have seen
Professor Tompkins at the same moment. Tompkins had removed goggles
and helmet, reveal snapping blue eyes which looked anything but
weak, and close-cropped red hair that spelled trouble. Also, from
beneath his shirt he had produced an automatic pistol, and was now
carefully examining its load. When he spoke to himself, his voice
lacked all the precision and clipped utterance it had displayed in
public.
“Confound it, there’s one thing I sure overlooked!” he was musing as
he frowned at a silver plate set into the butt of the pistol. “If I
take it off, dust will get into everything; if I leave it on, I’m
running risks. Well, guess I’ll run risks! If I need you, my friend,
I’ll sure need you real bad.”
The initials on the silver plate were P. A. R.—which by no stretch
of the imagination could be made to fit the name Tompkins.
CHAPTER II
The usually free-and-easy dining-room of the Stovepipe House was
hushed and uneasy when supper came around, before the unwonted
presence of a strange female. Tompkins had a table to himself, and
at the next table was Miss Gilman; there were only two other
occupied tables.
Tompkins was interested in his fellow-p’lgrim. She was a young
woman; she was possessed of an indoor complexion; and if not exactly
beautiful she had an air of character and firmness; when she smiled,
indeed, as she did whenever Haywire came to her table with his tray,
a dancing light came into her eyes, and Haywire was straightway
confused and flustered. Seated with his wife at another table was
Hassayamp, and Tompkins observed that the proprietor addressed his
better half in a tone of voice intended to reach other ears.
“Marier, we got to improve on Manuela’s cookin’ ’fore next week,
when them road-workmen git here. I aint stuck on Mex cookin’ my own
self. We’ll be right crowded up with folks workin’ on the highway
next week. Mose Pincus tells me today there’s a feller name o’
Rosenblum comin’ in from Meteorite, goin’ to open up a army goods
store for this here district; wants him a shack big enough to hold
six kids and a missus, and a store front. Speakin’ as the president
of the Stovepipe Springs chamber o’ commerce, I’d say this here town
is started on her boom. They tell me Sagebrush Beam weighed in a
right smart o’ dust today, too. Wouldn’t s’prise me a mite if a
rush’d start this way that’d ride Gold Hills a mile! Dang it, I
wisht we didn’t have to ship in these here aigs; somehow, they don’t
taste like aigs should, as I remember ’em.”
Miss Gilman departed, and thereafter Hassayamp essayed no more
information at large. Tompkins, who was decidedly hungry, was the
last out of the dining-room. He came through the post office lobby,
performed the delayed ceremony of registering, and was then escorted
outside to the street by Hassayamp. They found Miss Gilman standing
under the sun-shade and looking up at the glorious sunset that
flooded all the sky with gold and scarlet. She turned at their
approach, and Hassayamp performed the introductions.
“Miss Ethel Gilman, lemme make you acquainted with the Puffesser.
You folks want to make yourselves to home in Stovepipe Springs. We
don’t put on no airs here, and everybody’s sociable. Miss Gilman,
she figgers on startin’ a chicken-ranch and settlin’ in our midst,
and I dunno but what we might make her our school-teacher. This time
next week we’d ought to have six Rosenblums, and we got four little
Garcias right now, and Manuela tells me her brother is liable to
come over from Chuckwalla City next month, and he’s got five more.
That looks right healthy, don’t it? Then take the old Alcora Dance
Hall down the street, it’d make a right smart school, if we fix her
up and spill a little paint around and so forth. The Puffesser is
likewise int’rested in hen chickens, Miss Gilman. He’s lookin’ up
bugs right now, but—what did you say your name was, Perfesser?”
Tompkins cleared his throat and bowed to the young woman.
“Percival Henry J. Tompkins, entirely at your service, madam. May I
solicit the pleasure of your company in a short walk, to breathe the
inspiring evening air and view the noble aspect of the Creator’s
handiwork in the heavens?”
“Gosh!” murmured Hassayamp in awe. Miss Gilman gave Tompkins a
curious glance, as though wishing to peer past those tinted goggles;
a smile was in her eyes, as she made demure assent.
“Thank you, I’d enjoy showing you the sights. You just arrived
today?”
“Only this afternoon, madam,” returned Tompkins. “Mr. Foster, if you
apprehend any specimens of _crotalus cerastes_ in the near future, I
should be glad if you would confine and preserve them for me.”
“I’d sure like to, Puffesser,” said Hassayamp, blinking, “but we
aint got a bug in the house. If you was to go up to Garcia’s, you
might have some luck.”
Tompkins waved his hand, and strode off beside Miss Gilman, who
seemed rather red in the face.
Neither of them broke the silence. They passed down the street, came
to the fast-disappearing rows of ancient buildings, relics of boom
days, and presently were walking along the open desert, following
the white road that went straight as a die across the horizon. The
silence became oppressive, until suddenly Tompkins chuckled and
spoke in his natural voice. It was a drawling, rather whimsical
voice, and drew a swift glance from the girl.
“Our friend Hassayamp is a human phonograph,” he said.
“You’ll go too far one of these days,” said Miss Gilman. Tompkins
stopped short and stared at her.
“Eh? Just what do you mean?”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the girl sharply, yet with a laugh in her
eyes. “That red hair and your natural voice and the shape of your
head don’t go with your assumed character, Mr. Tompkins. Take off
those glasses and let me see what you look like. And stop fidgeting
with that pipe in your pocket. Take it out and smoke. I’d like you
to.”
Tompkins broke into a laugh, reached up and removed the goggles, and
met the curious regard of Miss Gilman.
“What do you wear them for?” she demanded. “You look better without
’em.”
“Protection,” he drawled, bringing forth his pipe. “You’re an
observant young woman, but I trust fervently that you’ll keep your
observations to yourself. I look very much like another man, and do
not care to be recognized for him—or mistaken for him.”
The girl laughed. “You don’t look like a criminal, Mr. Tompkins!”
“I’m not. I’m really a mammalogist. Now, everybody here is positive
that a bug-hunter is crazy, so I’m making it easy all around by
playing up to the part. You, however, don’t look like a
chicken-raiser.”
“But I am—at least, that’s what I’m going to be. I’ve come from Los
Angeles to start a ranch here. Land is cheap; there’s no fog; the
climate is ideal, and for a while I can sell all I can raise right
here in town.”
“D’you mean it?” asked credulously.
“Of course I do. The prospect looks a whole lot better to me than
the prospect of your finding any animals or bugs out on the desert.”
“You don’t know a whole lot about the desert, do you?” he asked,
dryly.
“No. Do you?”
“A little.” Tompkins puffed at his pipe rather hard for a moment,
frowning at the sunset, then he came to a halt, and turned to the
girl with an air of decision.
“See here, Miss Gilman, really I don’t want to intrude into your
affairs, but I think that you’re going ahead rather blindly. Are you
all alone here in town?”
“Yes.” Her eyes dwelt on his strong, rather harsh features, with
questioning scrutiny. “But I’ve lived on ranches, I’ve taught
school, I have some money saved up—and really, Mr. Tompkins, I’m
able to look out for myself.”
“No, you’re not,” he said quietly. Suddenly a look came into his
eyes that made the girl catch her breath, so furious and deeply
filled with passion was it. “You’ve got to get out of here!” he
exclaimed with abrupt anger in his voice. “You don’t know what sort
of a place this is—what sort of men are centered around here!
There’s a gang of the vilest murderers somewhere about Stovepipe
Springs that ever saw the light of day! The whole place is a
decoy-trap for the unwary—for people like you! If that town knew
what my real name was, what my errand is here, my life wouldn’t be
worth a plugged nickel.”
Startled by his vehemence, sobered by his words; the girl met his
gaze for a moment, then frowned.
“Why do you speak this way?” she demanded calmly. “I think you’re
far off the mark, Mr. Tompkins. I’ve met everybody since arriving
yesterday. They’re good, simple people—ignorant if you like, but at
heart really fine. I’m afraid you’re an un-American sort of person.
Do you regard everybody outside of New York with the same savage
intolerance? Do you think that because nobody speaks French in
Stovepipe Springs, everybody is a poor hick?”
Tompkins stared at her for a minute.
“Good Lord—my dear girl, get me right!” he exclaimed. “I mean
literally what I say. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I
know what I’m talking about.”
“What, then—bands of outlaws and robbers?” She smiled ironically,
and the smile stung Tompkins.
“Something like that, yes.”
“Then I simply don’t believe you,” she said with quiet finality.
“Shall we go back now?”
“As you prefer. I hope you don’t have any cause to remember my
warning with regret.”
To this she made no response, and they returned in silence to the
hotel, Tompkins inwardly cursing his very undiplomatic way of
presenting the warning. Upon nearing the hostelry, they encountered
Mose Pincus, an earnest, alert little man who kept the general
store, and he immediately cornered Miss Gilman with a request that
she send all orders for chicken equipment through his agency.
Tompkins went on alone to his own place, and when the lamp was
lighted, he picked up his newspaper and went definitely to work. He
knew what to look for now.
It was a Los Angeles paper, which he had bought on leaving the
railroad at Meteorite because it was the latest sheet to be had. Now
he searched the advertising columns, and after a moment chanced upon
the very thing he sought. It was a large display advertisement, and
after reading it, Tompkins clipped it out and then perused it more
carefully and with keen appreciation. It read as follows:
CHICKEN RANCHERS
Come To Chuckwalla County!
No California fogs in this State; an ideal climate for
chickens. Stovepipe Springs will welcome you. Local demand
for eggs is heavy. Not a chicken within a radius of thirty
miles in one direction and 250 miles in all others.
Off railroad but on State highway. Land from $1 to $50 per
acre. Taxes so light they make you laugh. Correspondence
invited. The Stovepipe Springs Chamber of Commerce will
coöperate with you in every way; write the secretary,
M. J. Crowfoot, First State Bank, Stovepipe Springs.
Putting the clipping away in his pocket, Tompkins got his pipe going
and puffed for a while in frowning reflection. At length he sighed.
“Well, I suppose I can’t help her any—and I don’t know that I blame
her for feeling as she does. To all appearance, this is a harmless
little desert town and nothing else. I don’t even know that I’m
right; haven’t a darned bit of proof to lay before her! But this
Sidewinder Crowfoot sure lays a clever trap for suckers. Not a
chicken around here, eh? He’s dead right, at that. What with
coyotes, skunks, lynx and snakes, not to mention rats, any chickens
would have a hard struggle. And the advertisement doesn’t mention
water. Hm! I wonder how many poor flies have been drawn into this
spider-net and sucked dry? And I wonder how many poor devils have
gone out into that desert around here and never come back—like my
brother Alec Ramsay?”
He puffed on, a somber frown darkening his keen eyes.