When Percival Henry J. Tompkins, mammalogist, walked into the First
State Bank the next morning, he wore his best professorial air.
Moses J. Crowfoot, more generally known as Sidewinder, was his own
banking force, and sat alone at a desk behind a grill which hedged
off most of the bank. He was not afraid of robbers. No professional
robber in the combined areas of Nevada, Utah and New Mexico would
have dreamed of tackling the Stovepipe Springs bank, because
Sidewinder Crowfoot was an old-timer who knew his business. Three
amateurs had undertaken the job two years previously, and each of
them received a forty-five slug squarely between the eyes.
The nickname was highly appropriate. Like his namesake, Crowfoot was
highly venomous, he struck without warning, and he struck to kill;
he was not a pleasant man, and he did not care to be pleasant. He
lived alone. In the old dim days, Sidewinder had been a monte dealer
in the Alcora Dance Hall; when the law clamped down on gambling, he
had owned the Oasis Saloon; when the law clamped down on liquor, he
had gone into banking. Some people would claim this was natural
evolution.
He looked up at his visitor without speaking. Tompkins, entirely
ignoring what had happened upon his arrival in town, came forward to
the grill and smiled.
“This, I believe, is Mr. Crowfoot? I have been referred to you, as
owner of the local garage. I desire to rent an automobile with which
to survey near-by areas of the great American desert and pursue my
investigations of the fauna—”
“Can’t be done,” said Sidewinder curtly. “We only got one rent car,
and that’s engaged. The other’s a demonstrater, and we can’t rent it
or we’d never sell it.”
“Ah! Thank you very much indeed,” said Tompkins, and turned to the
door. “In that case I had better buy it.”
Before Sidewinder could call up any suitable retort, his visitor was
gone to the garage next door; before Sidewinder could get there,
money had changed hands and the shiny flivver reposing on the garage
floor was the property of the Professor. Finding himself too late to
prevent the purchase, Crowfoot put on his best air and engaged
Tompkins in amiable talk, while the mechanic in charge filled the
car with oil and gas and put in half a dozen water-bags.
“Hassayamp was telling me,” observed the banker, “that you were
askin’ about a man named Ramsay. Seems to me like I recall the
feller. Friend of yours?”
“A mere acquaintance,” said Tompkins. “I met him at Palmdale, on the
other side of the Mohave, while I was engaged in a study of the
curious flora over there. Poor fellow, I felt sorry for him! He had
lost one eye, and was afflicted with tuberculosis, and was at the
age of sixty-five with not a cent in the world. He mentioned that he
thought of coming in this direction to locate, having been here some
twenty years ago during the mining boom.”
“Oh!” said Sidewinder, with a relieved air. “Then it aint the same
one. The one who went through here last year was a right young
feller, red-haired and active. If I was you, Perfesser, I’d get
loose of that Sagebrush. He aint only a desert rat, and folks tell
mighty queer stories about him. All desert rats are queer in the
head, you know.”
“Why—er—that’s very good of you, indeed!” said Tompkins gratefully.
“Still, I have engaged the man, perhaps heedlessly, and must keep my
promises for a certain time. I suppose, if I were to deposit my
money and valuables with you, I’d be in no danger!”
“Right good plan,” said Sidewinder. “Step into the bank, and we’ll
arrange it.”
Tompkins obediently retraced his steps, and when he displayed his
two certified checks and his roll of loose bills, the banker became
almost affable. Tompkins, meantime, was quite conscious that he was
being closely studied, and did not hesitate to shove out all his
chips and play the game of innocence. He agreed at once that the
best scheme was to deposit all his money in care of Mr. Crowfoot,
taking the latter’s receipt for it, and his air of eager gratitude
was pleasant to behold.
“Whom would you recommend as a guide?” he inquired, when the
transaction was completed. “After a trip with the person I have
engaged, I might find it advisable to take another cicerone.”
“Right good idea,” said Mr. Crowfoot. “Hassayamp’s a good man—I tell
you! There’s a feller will be in town next week. I’ll speak to him
about it. Harrison, his name is—Mesquite Harrison.”
A slight pallor crossed the face of Tompkins, but he responded
gratefully: “By all means. Kindly engage him for me. I shall expect
to use him at once, and thank you again for your kindness in the
matter.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Sidewinder, and grinned to himself when his
caller had departed. There was no longer any doubt that the
Professor was what Hassayamp proclaimed him—a natural-born fool,
like all bug-hunters. No one else would have handed over his money
so readily.
Tompkins walked back to the hotel, and on the doorstep of his own
cell found Sagebrush awaiting him. Inside, with the door closed, the
desert rat chuckled.
“I reckon Hassayamp is right uppity over losin’ the chance to guide
ye, Perfesser,” he announced. “But you done jest right. Hassayamp
don’t know nothin’ about the desert.”
“No?” Tompkins lighted his pipe. “He lives here, doesn’t he?”
“Sho! He’s like José Garcia; let a vinegaroon git on him, and he
throws a fit. No sir, Hassayamp jest plumb aint a desert man. He
knows a sight o’ locations. Him and Sidewinder have sold a hell of a
lot, too. Folks buy a place and set awhile, and next time I come in
to town, they’re gone. Thar’s cabins all over betwixt yere and the
Chuckwallas, where the ground has been sold and deserted. Hassayamp
hires fellers to prove up on homestead rights, then buys the
homestead off’m ’em and sells it again. He aint no guide, though.
All he knows is roads. Git him off’m the road, or show him a
t’rant’ler in his blankets, and gosh! Hassayamp is worse’n a
tenderfoot. Say, I heard a good one on him this trip!”
Sagebrush chuckled again, spat on the floor, and scratched his
whiskers.
“Met up with two fellers in the Salt Pans—ol’ Hardrock Miller from
Tucson, and another feller. Hardrock used to be a Mormon ’fore they
run him out of Arizona for bein’ too durned Mormonistic. He tells me
Hassayamp used to be one too, away over to St. John’s, ’bout fifteen
year back. ’Cordin’ to him, Hassayamp vanished real sudden one
night, and so did all the money belongin’ to the church, and several
head of hosses belongin’ to other folks. May not be true, though.
Hardrock Miller saved hisself from bein’ lynched once by tellin’ the
truth, and aint never done it since. Afraid his luck’d turn, maybe.”
Tompkins smiled. “Know a fellow by the name of Mesquite Harrison?”
“Do I?” Sagebrush scowled and spat again. “Is that skunk in town?
Then by gosh, I’m goin’ for him!” The desert rat shot a hand to his
waistband, where there was a swelling about the size of a revolver.
“Why, Perfesser, Mesquite is rank pizen! Yessir. I’ve knowed him to
rob prospectors of their grub—it’s a fact! And once he changed the
signs over in the Salt Pans, so’s a poor pilgrim took his team the
wrong way and durned near died, and that skunk Mesquite robbed him
bare. By gosh, anybody who changes water-hole signs in the Salt Pans
gits shot on sight! Mesquite knows it, too. He don’t come to town
when I’m due, usually—”
“He’s not here now,” said Tompkins. “I heard the name mentioned;
that’s all. I’ve bought a flivver, and I wish you’d purchase all
supplies necessary and get them loaded into the back seat. Strap her
down good. We can get off in the morning.”
“Gosh!” said Sagebrush, a far-away look in his eyes. “It’ll seem
lonesome as hell without them burros—well, s’pose I got to do it.
Where we goin’ to?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“I’d sort o’ like to look over them ledges jest this side the
Chuckwallas—over by Pinecate Cañon,” said the desert rat
thoughtfully.
“Can we find any _crotalus cerastes_ there?”
“I reckon so. Find most anything there.” Sagebrush inspected his
employer curiously. “Say, you aint so bad a feller when you git off
to yourself, Perfesser. You talk real human. Kind of put on dog when
there’s any folks around, don’t you?”
Tompkins laughed. “I expect I do, Sagebrush. How about water over by
that place you mentioned—Pinecate Cañon?”
“Plenty right now. Rains aint only jest quit. Another two weeks, and
we wont find nary a drap. Cañon ought to look right pretty; too,
with the flowers. The desert sure is handsome this time o’ year. All
the bugs comin’ out,’ too, so’s you’ll feel to home. Lots o’
tumblebugs over by the mesa and cañon—that’s how come it’s called
Pinecate, bein’ the Mex name for tumblebug.”
“Ever hear of a fellow named Ramsay, who was interested in mines
around here?”
“Nope.” Sagebrush rose. “Well, I reckon I’ll go git them supplies,
then git my correspondence finished today. See you around sunup
tomorrow.”
He departed. Tompkins, left alone, opened his two large grips and
began to pack one of them for the trip. The larger part of the
contents consisted of supplies such as could not be purchased in
Stovepipe Springs; there was even a large alcohol stove with
plentiful fuel. The packing finished, from a secret pocket inside
the grip Tompkins took a letter and began to peruse it carefully,
not for the first nor the tenth time. The envelope had been
postmarked “Stovepipe Springs” and bore a date of a year past. It
was the final portion of the letter which attracted the rereading of
Tompkins, however.
Enclosed is the deed to the property. I am more than satisfied
with the prospects of the location. You will notice that the
mining rights revert to the State in most instances, but here
I have bought the land outright so there is no question of
mineral rights. A man called Mesquite Harrison owned it.
I have seldom seen a more beautiful spot, even after the desert
rains, for it is filled with all kinds of flowers. What a pity
that flowers and water cannot last! Halfway up the cañon there
is a huge boulder of pink granite, split squarely in two, with
three piñons growing out of the split, and a tiny spring trickling
from the piñons. Really a marvel! I understand the spring never
fails, though it is too tiny to be of much use. Well, good-by for
this time. I’m going to spend two months at the location, and if
it has any gold I’ll know by that time.
Your loving brother,
Alec.
Tompkins folded the letter and put it away again, then sat down and
sucked at his empty pipe.
“Poor Alec—what happened to him, I wonder!” he muttered. “And not a
thing to go on. Deed to the property lost. No way of finding its
location. Never recorded the deed. How was that deed lost? The
letter was mailed here. It must have been in the letter.
Therefore—but I’ve no proof. Hell! Once let me get a grip on
something definite!”
He seized his glasses impatiently, donned them, and left the room.
Outside he almost ran into Miss Gilman. She greeted him brightly.
“Good morning, sir! I hope your digestion is better today?”
“No, it’s worse.” Tompkins smiled. “Please remember to say nothing
of my remarks.”
“I’ll have no chance,” she returned. “We’re leaving after breakfast
tomorrow. Mr. Foster—otherwise Hassayamp—is taking me over toward
those hills in the east. He knows of a splendid location for my
chicken-ranch. Pinecate Mesa—isn’t that a romantic name?”
“Very,” said Tompkins gravely. “Very romantic. It means tumblebug. I
may be going in that direction myself, so I’ll hope to see you
again.”
And before she could say yea or nay to this, he went on his way.