A CELESTIAL ENTERPRISE
Broad avenues of feathery pepper trees, long driveways between shadowy
rows of the soldierly eucalyptus, wide lawns and gigantic palms of the
southern isles, weaving pampas grass, gay as the plumes of romance,
jasmine, orange-bloom, and roses everywhere. Over all is the eternal
sunshine and noon breeze of the sea, graciously cooling. Roundabout is a
girdle of far hills.
Some old Spanish padre named it "Nuestra Señora Reina de Los Angeles,"
making melody that still lures with its ancient charm. A city for
angels, verily. A city of angels? Verily; some fallen, indeed, for there
is much nefarious trafficking in real estate, but all in all the
majority of souls in Los Angeles are celestial bound, treading upon
sunbeams in their pilgrimage.
The plaza, round which the new town roars from dawn to dusk, is still
haunted by a crumbling old adobe, while near it droop dusty pepper trees
that seem to whisper to each other endlessly--"Mañana! Mañana!" Whisper
as did those swarthy vaqueros and the young, lithe, low-voiced
señoritas who strolled across the plaza in the dusk of by-gone days.
"Mañana! Mañana!--To-morrow! To-morrow!"
And the to-morrows have come and gone as did those Spanish lovers,
riding up through the sunshine on their silver-bitted pinto ponies and
riding out at dusk with tinkling spur-chains into that long to-morrow
that has shrouded the ancient plaza in listless dreams. Mexicans in
black sombreros and blue overalls still prowl from cantina to cantina,
but the gay vaquero and his señorita are no more.
Overland Red, a harsh note in the somnolence of the place, stepped
buoyantly across the square. And here, if ever, Overland was at home.
A swarthy, fat Mexican shaved him while a lean old rurale of Overland's
earlier acquaintance obligingly accepted some pesos with which to drink
the señor's health, and other pesos with which to purchase certain
clothing for the señor.
The retired rurale drove a relentless bargain with a countryman,
returning with certain picturesque garments that Overland donned in the
back room of the little circus-blue barber shop.
The tramp had worthily determined to hold wise and remunerative converse
with the first Easterner that "looked good to him." He would make
half-truths do double duty. He needed money to purchase a burro, packs,
canteen, pick, shovel, dynamite, and provisions. He intended to repay
the investor by money-order from some desert town as soon as he found
the hidden gold. This unusual and worthy intention lent Overland added
assurance, and he needed it. Fortune, goddess evanishing and coy, was
with him for once. If he could but dodge the plain-clothes men long
enough to outfit and get away....
The "Mojave Bar," on North Main Street of the City of Angels was all but
empty. Upon it the lassitude of early afternoon lay heavily. The
spider-legged music-racks of the Mexican string orchestra, the empty
platform chairs, the deserted side-tables along the pictured wall, the
huge cactus scrawled over with pin-etched initials,--all the impedimenta
of the saloon seemed to slumber.
The white-coated proprietor, with elbows on the bar, gazed listlessly at
a Remington night-scene--a desert nocturne with a shadowy adobe against
the blue-black night, a glimmer of lamplight through a doorway, and in
the golden pathway a pony and rider and the red flash of pistol shots.
Opposite the bartender, at a table against the wall, sat a young man,
clad in cool gray. He smoked a cigarette, and occasionally sipped from a
tall glass. He was slender, clean-cut, high-colored, an undeniable
patrician. In his mild gray eyes, deep down, gleamed a latent humor, an
interior twinkling not apparent to the multitude.
Sweeney Orcutt, the saloon-keeper, noticed this reserve characteristic
now for the first time, as the young man turned toward him. Sweeney was
a retired plain-clothes man with a record, and a bank account. It was
said that he knew every crook from Los Angeles to New York. Be it added,
to his credit, that he kept his own counsel--attending to his own
business on both sides of the bar.
"Do they ever do those things now?" queried the young man, nodding
toward the picture.
Sweeney Orcutt smiled a thin-lipped smile. "Not much. Sometimes in Texas
or Mexico. I seen the day when they did."
The young man lazily crossed his legs. "Nice and cool here," he remarked
presently.
"Been in town long?" asked Sweeney.
"No, only a few days."
"I was goin' to say there's a good show over on Spring
Street--movin'-pictures of the best ridin' and buckin' and ropin' I seen
yet."
"Yes? Is there any one in town who is not working for the movies?"
Again Sweeney Orcutt smiled his thin-lipped smile. "Yes, I guess there
is. I might scare up one or two I used to know who is workin' the
transients, which ain't exactly workin' _for_ the movies."
"I should like to meet some character who is really doing something in
earnest; that is, some cowboy, miner, prospector, teamster,--one of
those twenty-mule-team kind, you know,--or any such chap. Why, even the
real estate men that have been up to my hotel seem to be acting a part.
One expects every minute to see one of them pull a gun and hold up a
fellow. No doubt they mean business."
"Bank on that," said Orcutt dryly.
"You see," continued the young man, "I have too much time on my hands
just now. The doctors tell me to rest, and I've been doing nothing else
all my life. It's pretty monotonous. I've tried to get interested in
some of the chaps on North Main Street, and around the plaza. I've
offered to buy them drinks and all that, but they seem to shy off. I
suppose they think I'm a detective or something of that kind."
"More like, a newspaper man after a story. Hello, there! Now, what's
doin'?"
Outside near the curb a crowd had collected. A traffic officer was
talking to the driver of an automobile. As Sweeney Orcutt strolled
toward the doorway, Overland Red, clean-shaven, clothed in new corduroys
and high lace boots, and a sombrero aslant on his stiff red hair, dove
into the saloon and called for a "bucket of suds."
"Close--shave--Red--" whispered Orcutt.
"Had me Orcutt, likewise," replied the tramp. "Say, Sweeney, stall off
the Dick out there. I think he piped me as I blew in, but I ain't sure.
He'll be pokin' in here in a minute. If he sees me talkin',--to the guy
there, for instance,--and you give him a steer, he won't look too close.
Sabe?" And Overland drank, observing the Easterner at the table over the
top of his glass.
"They got that guy Overland Red mugged in every station from here to
Chicago," whispered Orcutt. "Paper says he put it over a desert rat up
near Barstow. Did you hear about it?"
"Some," replied Overland sententiously.
"And did you hear about his last get-away on one of the Moonstone Rancho
ponies? Some class to that!"
"I read somethin' about it," replied Overland.
"Well, Red, if you won't tumble, all I got to say is, beat it. You're
worth a thousand bucks to any fly-cop that nips you in this town. I'm
handin' you a little dope that you can slide out on and not get stuck."
"Thanks, Sweeney. Well, I'll ring you up from Kalamazoo."
"Kalamazoo? In them clothes?"
"Sure. There's a law against travelin' naked in some States. Where you
been grazin' lately?"
"In the bull-pasture; and say, Red, it's gettin' warm there, for some."
"Well, I guess I'll beat it," said Overland.
"Take a slant at the door first."
Overland turned leisurely. In the doorway stood the traffic officer. He
glanced from Orcutt to the two men near the table. "Hello, Sweeney!" he
called, glancing a second time at Overland.
"Hello!" answered Sweeney, strolling to the end of the bar. "Somebody
speedin'?"
"Yes. Say, who's the guy, the big one?"
"Him? Oh, that's Billy Sample, the fella that does the desert stuff for
the General Film Company. The kid is his pardner who acts the
tenderfoot. They 're waitin' for the machine now to take 'em out to
Glendale. Got some stunt to pull off this afternoon, so Billy was
tellin' me. They're about half-stewed now. They make me sick."
"Thought I saw the big guy out on the street a minute ago," said the
officer, hesitating. "There's a card out for a fella that looks like
him. I guess--"
"He thought it was his machine comin'," said Orcutt. "He run out to see.
It's a wonder how them movie actors can make up to look like most
anybody. Why, I been in your line of business, as you know, and I been
fooled lots of times. Makes a fella feel like he don't know where he's
at with the town full of them movin'-picture actors."
"Well, so long, Sweeney." And the traffic officer, a little afraid of
being laughed at by the famous ex-officer, Sweeney Orcutt, departed,
just a thousand dollars poorer than he might have been had he had the
courage of his convictions.
Overland and Orcutt exchanged glances. Orcutt's glance rested meaningly,
for an instant, on the Easterner at the table. Overland grinned. Orcutt
spoke to the young Easterner, who immediately rose to his feet and
bowed.
"You was lookin' for somebody that's the real thing, you said. This
here's my friend Jack Summers. He used to be sheriff of Abilene once. He
ain't workin' for a movin'-picture outfit and he won't borrow your
watch. Mebby he has a little business deal to put up to you and mebby
not. Take my word for it, he's straight."
"I'm William Winthrop, back East. 'Billy' will do here. I'm a
tenderfoot, but I'm not exactly a fool. I observed the delicacy with
which you engineered the recent exodus of the policeman. I'm
interested."
"Sounds like plush to me," said Overland. "I got a little time--not
much. You're correct about the cop. I got a pretty good thing out in
the Mojave--gold--"
Winthrop laughed. "You aren't losing any time, are you?"
"You wouldn't neither if you was in my boots," said Overland, grinning
cheerfully.
"Oh, Red's all right," said Orcutt. "What'll you gents have?"
"Seein' I'm all right, Sweeney, I'll take five dollars in small change.
I need the coin for entertainin' purposes, I'll pay you in the mornin'."
"You got me that time," said Orcutt. "Here's the coin."
"Shall we sit down here?" asked Winthrop, indicating one of the tables.
"Sure! Now this ain't no frame-up. No, I'll set where I can watch
Sweeney. He's like to steal his own cash-register if you don't watch
him." And Winthrop noticed that his companion faced the door. He also
noticed, as the man's coat brushed against a chair as he sat down, that
that same coat covered a shiny black shoulder holster in which gleamed
the worn butt of an automatic pistol.
"My real name is Jack Summers," began Overland Red. "Some folks took to
callin' me 'Overland Red,' seein' as I been some towerist in my time."
"Great!" murmured the Easterner. "'Overland Red!' That name has me
hypnotized."
"You was sayin'?" queried Overland.
"Beg your pardon. Nothing worth while. I haven't been so happy for a
year. Let me explain. I have a little money, pretty well invested. I
also have lungs, I believe. The doctors don't quite agree about that,
however. The last one gave me six months to live. That was a year ago. I
owe him an apology and six months. I'm not afraid, exactly, and I'm
certainly not glad. But I want to forget it. That's all. Go ahead about
that desert and the gold. I'm listening."