Noon was passed and over. Tompkins, ensconced in a niche of the
cañon, was delightedly observing the scene before him. Sagebrush was
gone. The flivver was laid up out of sight a half-mile away in a
thicket of cactus and piñon.
It was peaceful here in the cañon, and hot. Tompkins lay shaded by
an overhanging rock which concealed him and enjoyed himself while he
waited. He was a third of the way up the cañon, which wound upward
for another mile before opening on the mesa. Here it was fairly
wide, and the sun had excellent chances to radiate from the
boulders, and the spring life of the place was warmed into activity.
Patches of cacti and jack-pine abounded. No water was in sight, but
Tompkins had a water-bag within reach.
He lay perfectly quiet, watching a trade-rat whose nest lay in a
cranny of the rocks just to one side, and a young coyote which was
vainly endeavoring to investigate the rat and nest. It was obvious
that this particular rat had migrated from the desert below, for
while his nest was composed of pebbles and sticks and all manner of
queer objects, it was protected after the peculiar fashion of his
desert brethren. Two runways entered the nest, itself nearly out of
sight under the rocks; and about these runways, laid with
mathematical precision, were hundreds of terrible opuntia joints.
To Tompkins, as to every other naturalist, it was an unsolved
mystery how the pack-rat, with delicate and unprotected paws, could
handle these joints of cactus. No other living creature can face the
_cholla_ cactus, whose spines, as the Indians declare, jump at one,
inflicting acute agony; even the rattler avoids it gingerly. Here
for a space of ten feet around the nest were heaped the matted
_cholla_ joints, while the pack-rat who owned the establishment sat
out in full sight and insulted the hovering coyote with angry
taunts.
That the coyote was young and hungry was obvious, or he would not
have attempted to molest so well-entrenched a rat. Oblivious to the
presence of Tompkins, who sat perfectly motionless, he charged again
and again on those defenses. Each time his courage failed at the
last moment and he would draw off, snarling and snapping in futile
rage, before his nose touched the _cholla_.
In a cool niche between two rocks, in sight of Tompkins above but
concealed from the furious coyote, lay a fifteen-inch sidewinder,
safely sheltered from the deadly rays of the sun, his brown-and-gray
length practically invisible against the rocks. He lay stretched
out, head lifted ready to strike, a venomous and malignant thing
beyond all words with his horned features and green jewels of eyes.
The coyote, unconscious of this lurking death, continued backward
and forward, now rushing and now sending a flurry of sand flying in
his anger. One such flurry had aroused the sidewinder, and Tompkins
waited for the inevitable, since the coyote was drawing closer and
closer to the unseen death.
Now it came, with such rapidity that the eye could scarcely follow.
Pawing the sand, the coyote came sidewise toward the niche of the
sidewinder, then went forward in another rush, stopped short,
snarled, and took courage again. His leap brought him past the
niche; and the sidewinder, after the fashion of his kind, struck
without warning or coiling. There is nothing swifter than the strike
of a sidewinder—but the coyote saw the lurking death just in time. A
frantic yap of fear broke from his jaws. He gave a desperate twist
sidewise in midleap—a doubling-up of his body that evaded the
reptile’s blow—and in mad panic came down and leaped again, blindly.
He landed squarely in the matted _cholla_.
Agonized howls rent the air, and sticks and bones and odd objects
from the pack-rat’s nest were hurled about; the coyote became a
whirlwind of furry agony from which proceeded howl upon howl of
anguish. Then, tail between legs, wailing to high heaven with every
leap, the wretched coyote went down the cañon like a streak and was
gone.
Tompkins caught up the stone under his hand and hurled it, then
rose. Crushed, the sidewinder lay quivering. A glittering object had
caught the eye of Tompkins, and now he raked it forth from the
cholla with a long stick. It was one of the mass of objects which
had formed the rat’s nest, flung about by the agonized flurry of the
coyote. When he had it within reach, Tompkins picked it up and stood
staring at it, incredulity and horror mingling in his eyes. It was a
small tarnished cigarette case of silver, and upon it he made out
the initials “A. R.”
“The case I gave Alec for Christmas two years ago!”
The words died on his lips. It was the property of his vanished
brother Alec Ramsay. Holding the case in his hand, he stared over
the desolate, empty cañon until the heat of the sun roused him. He
stooped, donned his pith helmet, and then looked again at the metal
case. Mechanically he pressed the spring, which refused to work.
Taking out his knife, Tompkins pried the case open—and beneath the
spring-holder discovered a folded paper, on which was scrawled in
pencil the writing of his brother.
His blurred eyes cleared. At the top was written:
Send this to Pat Ramsay, Glendale Apts. Denver.
And below, scrawled more sharply, but ending with an uncertain dash:
Dear Pat: Forgot to mail this. Too late. They got me.
Shot through lungs. 3 men in party. Bad gang here.
All located Hourglass Cañon, N. E. of here. Box cañon.
Cholos and whites. Sidewinder—
That was all. Lips compressed, Tompkins read and reread this fateful
message, which now he knew to be a message from the dead. Then, in
that cold certainty, he opened the folded paper and found it to be a
deed, made out by Mesquite Harrison to Alec Ramsay.
“By glory—the deed to Alec’s mining property!” he ejaculated, as he
conned the writing therein. Then, when he had finished reading, he
folded up the deed, replaced it in the cigarette case, slipped the
case into his pocket, and stood staring up the winding reaches of
the green cañon.
That property was located in this very cañon. Stunned as he was by
surprise heaped on surprise, he realized this only too clearly. His
brother was dead. The property in question had been bought from
Sidewinder Crowfoot for whom Mesquite Harrison had acted as a blind.
It lay somewhere up there toward the mesa—marked by that split pink
granite boulder, perfectly described in the deed as to bounds and
extent. It was this identical cañon for which he had come searching
so blindly. Had he gone on around the next bend, he would have found
the boulder with its piñon trees.
Tompkins sank down and took his head between his hands, striving
hard for sanity. His first impulses were not sane at all; they were
murderous. His brain was seething in tumult. He was not red-headed
for nothing.
By slow degrees his thoughts settled down into grim coherence. Now
he knew what he had long ago presumed to be the case—that his
brother was dead. But here in his pocket was evidence as to who was
responsible. There was no direct evidence against Sidewinder
Crowfoot, but Tompkins brushed this impatiently aside; he was
perfectly convinced that Crowfoot was the man behind everything
going on here.
“At the same time, I’ve got to be sane—got to be!” he thought
desperately, fighting for self-control. “I can’t go off half-cocked.
They’ve got brains. They’ll get me if I let out a peep. Nothing but
my own brains will save me now, and if I don’t go slow, I’m a goner
sure! This changes my whole program. Now I know everything—and it’s
up to me to get busy. First thing to do is to get back to town and
get this deed recorded—send it in by registered mail. The stage goes
out in the morning, so any time will do for that. Chuckwalla City is
the county seat; might run over there in the flivver, only I’d
better see Sidewinder Crowfoot, get my money, and sever connections.
And I’ll want a rifle, before I go up against that crowd in
Hourglass Cañon, wherever it is. Then—”
He was abruptly startled from his reflections by an eager hail, and
looked up to see Miss Gilman approaching, with Hassayamp trailing
behind her. He had forgotten the girl, and now an exclamation of
dismay broke from him. Then he rose, donning glasses and helmet
again, and nervously lighted up his pipe.
“We didn’t see you till we were almost on top of you,” exclaimed
Miss Gilman.
“Were you asleep? What makes your face look so white?”
“A touch o’ sun, madam. No, I was not asleep. I was watching the
peregrinations of yonder pack-rat. Not so fast, Mr. Foster—there is
a large _crotalus cerastes_ just by your left foot.”
“A which?” demanded Hassayamp, by no means pleased to see the
professor.
“I believe you would term the reptile a sidewinder—”
“Oh, my gosh!” Hassayamp saw the dead snake and did an acrobatic
stunt that removed him some distance away, while a revolver came out
in his hand.
“Don’t shoot!” said Tompkins. “He’s dead. I killed him.”
“Why in hell didn’t you say so first?” snapped Hassayamp angrily.
“What you doin’ up this-a-way? Thought you was headin’ into the
sink-holes?”
“I changed my mind,” said Tompkins. He showed Miss Gilman the
pack-rat’s nest. “That’s worth seeing. I have a particular reason
for asking you to remember it. But may I inquire whither you two are
heading?”
“Up the cañon to look at a chicken-ranch site,” said the girl,
glancing from him to the nest and back again. “Will you come along?
Or don’t you feel well? Really, you looked almost ghastly at first,
Mr. Tompkins!”
“Reckon the climb would be too blamed hard on the Puffesser, ma’am,”
struck in Hassayamp, who did not desire company. “And there aint no
bugs up there.”
“All the more honor in discovering some, sir! I accept your
invitation, madam, and shall accompany you a little way.”
“We’ve brought lunch along, if you’ll join us,” invited Miss Gilman,
starting off again with Tompkins at her side. He glanced around and
saw that Hassayamp had paused to wipe a dripping brow and bite off a
fresh chew, and was momentarily out of earshot. Swiftly, he took the
cigarette case from his pocket and passed it to the girl.
“Open this and read it—quick, now! I found it in that rat’s nest.
When I tell you my real name is Pat Ramsay, you’ll be able to guess
why I came here—and whether my warning was well founded. Read the
deed carefully, then see whether the place you’re going to buy
corresponds with it. Quickly! I’ll hold this rascal engaged. Read
and give it back to me. I must get back to town at once.”
With this rapid utterance, he turned abruptly from the girl and
walked back to Hassayamp, halting the latter’s advance with upraised
hand.
“Mr. Foster!” he said solemnly. “May I inquire, sir—ah, that is a
very interesting creature on your collar, very interesting indeed!”
Hassayamp screwed his head to look at himself, but could see
nothing.
“What is it?” he demanded nervously. “A beautiful little creature,
peculiar to our deserts,” said Tompkins in bland accents.
“Undoubtedly it has sought refuge from the sun under your
shirt-collar. You know, of course, that the _solpugid_ is really an
insect, having tracheal tubes instead of the spider’s book lungs—”
“A spider!” exclaimed Hassayamp. “Git it off’m me, Puffesser,
quick!”
“Not a spider at all, my dear sir, and quite harmless, I assure you,
despite local superstition. Ah, there it goes about your collar—no
wonder the dear little creatures are called wind-scorpions or
vinegaroons—”
“A _matavenado_—wow! My gosh, git him off’m me!” Hassayamp let out a
yell and began to claw at himself. “I’m a dead man—git him off’m
me—”
Tompkins seized him and brushed vigorously at his back.
“There—he’s gone. Pay no more attention to the matter, I implore
you. I was about to ask whether you ever indulge in spiritous
liquors, Mr. Foster? In such case, I have in my pocket a small vial
of medicinal whisky. I understand that it is the custom in the
desert to offer a drink—”
Hassayamp, who like many another man with slight experience of the
harmless but frightful-looking vinegaroons believed them to be
deadly creatures, was pale with emotion. And with more than emotion,
too.
“If you got a drink, Puffesser,” he implored, “for gosh sake give it
here! I swallered my plug.”
Tompkins produced a small pocket flask and began to unscrew it.
Hassayamp became yet more pale and agitated.
“Oh, gosh!” he groaned. “I’ll never eat no more tobacker—”
He reached out and took the flask. He sniffed it, and into his
melancholic eyes came a glow of warmth and happiness. Tompkins
beamed upon him, as he lifted the flask.
“I forgot to mention, Mr. Foster, that you must use your mustache as
a strainer, because in that whisky I am preserving a very fine
specimen of rock scorpion which I recently discovered, and I should
be very sorry to have it lost—”
Hassayamp jerked the flask from his lips. He looked at the Professor
with slowly distending eyes, then thrust the flask at him; and, with
one agonized groan, retired among the near-by boulders.
Tompkins turned and rejoined Miss Gilman.
“Hassayamp will rejoin you shortly,” he said. “He unfortunately
swallowed his chew of tobacco—an accident which will unnerve the
strongest man, I assure you—” The girl looked at him with strained
and anxious eyes.
“But this—this paper! Do you mean to tell me that this man Alec
Ramsay was your brother?”
Tompkins nodded quietly. “Yes, Miss Gilman. I came here to trace
him—and by a stroke of sheer luck I found this cigarette case. You
have read that deed? Then I advise you to go on up the cañon and see
if the description fits. I haven’t been up there. Be very careful to
say nothing to Hassayamp about this. I’ll see you tonight, if I may,
and we’ll talk over what is to be done. Now I must get off—you’d
better keep a sharp lookout for rattlers among these rocks. Don’t
wait for Hassayamp; he’ll be along as soon as he’s able. _Hasta la
vista!_”
She made no response, but stood gazing after him thoughtfully as he
turned and departed.