Two weeks later, Robert Fairchild sat in the smoking compartment of the
Overland Limited, looking at the Rocky Mountains in the distance. In
his pocket were a few hundred dollars; in the bank in Indianapolis a
few thousand, representing the final proceeds of the sale of everything
that had connected him with a rather dreary past. Out before him--
The train had left Limon Junction on its last, clattering, rushing leg
of the journey across the plains, tearing on through a barren country
of tumbleweed, of sagebrush, of prairie-dog villages and jagged arroyos
toward the great, crumpled hills in the distance,--hills which meant
everything to Robert Fairchild. Two weeks had created a metamorphosis
in what had been a plodding, matter-of-fact man with dreams which did
not extend beyond his ledgers and his gloomy home--but now a man
leaning his head against the window of a rushing train, staring ahead
toward the Rockies and the rainbow they held for him. Back to the
place where his father had gone with dreams aglow was the son traveling
now,--back into the rumpled mountains where the blue haze hung low and
protecting as though over mysteries and treasures which awaited one man
and one alone. Robert Fairchild momentarily had forgotten the
foreboding omens which, like murky shadows, had been cast in his path
by a beaten, will-broken father. He only knew that he was young, that
he was strong, that he was free from the drudgery which had sought to
claim him forever; he felt only the surge of excitement that can come
with new surroundings, new country, new life. Out there before him, as
the train rattled over culverts spanning the dry arroyos, or puffed
gingerly up the grades toward the higher levels of the plains, were the
hills, gray and brown in the foreground, blue as the blue sea farther
on, then fringing into the sun-pinked radiance of the snowy range,
forming the last barrier against a turquoise sky. It thrilled
Fairchild, it caused his heart to tug and pull,--nor could he tell
exactly why.
Still eighty miles away, the range was sharply outlined to Fairchild,
from the ragged hump of Pikes Peak far to the south, on up to where the
gradual lowering of the mighty upheaval slid away into Wyoming. Eighty
miles, yet they were clear with the clearness that only altitudinous
country can bring; alluring, fascinating, beckoning to him until his
being rebelled against the comparative slowness of the train, and the
minutes passed in a dragging, long-drawn-out sequence that was almost
an agony to Robert Fairchild.
Hours! The hills came closer. Still closer; then, when it seemed that
the train must plunge straight into them, they drew away again, as
though through some optical illusion, and brooded in the background, as
the long, transcontinental train began to bang over the frogs and
switches as it made its entrance into Denver. Fairchild went through
the long chute and to a ticket window of the Union Station.
"When can I get a train for Ohadi?"
The ticket seller smiled. "You can't get one."
"But the map shows that a railroad runs there--"
"Ran there, you mean," chaffed the clerk.
"The best you can do is get to Forks Creek and walk the rest of the
way. That's a narrow-gauge line, and Clear Creek 's been on a rampage.
It took out about two hundred feet of trestle, and there won't be a
train into Ohadi for a week."
The disappointment on Fairchild's face was more than apparent, almost
boyish in its depression. The ticket seller leaned closer to the
wicket.
"Stranger out here?"
"Very much of one."
"In a hurry to get to Ohadi?"
"Yes."
"Then you can go uptown and hire a taxi--they 've got big cars for
mountain work and there are good roads all the way. It 'll cost
fifteen or twenty dollars. Or--"
Fairchild smiled. "Give me the other system if you 've got one. I 'm
not terribly long on cash--for taxis."
"Certainly. I was just going to tell you about it. No use spending
that money if you 've got a little pep, and it is n't a matter of life
or death. Go up to the Central Loop--anybody can direct you--and catch
a street car for Golden. That eats up fifteen miles and leaves just
twenty-three miles more. Then ask somebody to point out the road over
Mount Lookout. Machines go along there every few minutes--no trouble
at all to catch a ride. You 'll be in Ohadi in no time."
Fairchild obeyed the instructions, and in the baggage room rechecked
his trunk to follow him, lightening his traveling bag at the same time
until it carried only necessities. A luncheon, then the street car.
Three quarters of an hour later, he began the five-mile trudge up the
broad, smooth, carefully groomed automobile highway which masters Mount
Lookout. A rumbling sound behind him, then as he stepped to one side,
a grimy truck driver leaned out to shout as he passed:
"Want a lift? Hop on! Can't stop--too much grade."
A running leap, and Fairchild seated himself on the tailboard of the
truck, swinging his legs and looking out over the fading plains as the
truck roared and clattered upward along the twisting mountain road.
Higher, higher, while the truck labored along the grade, and while the
buildings in Golden below shrank smaller and smaller. The reservoir
lake in the center of the town, a broad expanse of water only a short
time before, began to take on the appearance of some great, blue-white
diamond glistening in the sun. Gradually a stream outlined itself in
living topography upon a map which seemed as large as the world itself.
Denver, fifteen miles away, came into view, its streets showing like
seams in a well-sewn garment, the sun, even at this distance, striking
a sheen from the golden dome of the capitol building. Higher! The
chortling truck gasped at the curves and tugged on the straightaway,
but Robert Fairchild had ceased to hear. His every attention was
centered on the tremendous stage unfolded before him, the vast
stretches of the plains rolling away beneath, even into Kansas and
Wyoming and Nebraska, hundreds of miles away, plains where once the
buffalo had roamed in great, shaggy herds, where once the emigrant
trains had made their slow, rocking progress into a Land of Heart's
Desire; and he began to understand something of the vastness of life,
the great scope of ambition; new things to a man whose world, until two
weeks before, had been the four chalky walls of an office.
Cool breezes from pine-fringed gulches brushed his cheek and smoothed
away the burning touch of a glaring sun; the truck turned into the
hairpin curves of the steep ascent, giving him a glimpse of deep
valleys, green from the touch of flowing streams, of great clefts with
their vari-hued splotches of granite, and on beyond, mound after mound
of pine-clothed hills, fringing the peaks of eternal snow, far away.
The blood suddenly grew hot in Fairchild's veins; he whistled, he
repressed a wild, spasmodic desire to shout. The spirit that had been
the spirit of the determined men of the emigrant trains was his now; he
remembered that he was traveling slowly toward a fight--against whom,
or what, he knew not--but he welcomed it just the same. The exaltation
of rarefied atmosphere was in his brain; dingy offices were gone
forever. He was free; and for the first time in his life, he
appreciated the meaning of the word.
Upward, still upward! The town below became merely a checkerboard
thing, the lake a dot of gleaming silver, the stream a scintillating
ribbon stretching off into the foothills. A turn, and they skirted a
tremendous valley, its slopes falling away in sheer descents from the
roadway. A darkened, moist stretch of road, fringed by pines, then a
jogging journey over rolling table-land. At last came a voice from the
driver's seat, and Fairchild turned like a man suddenly awakened.
"Turn off up here at Genesee Mountain. Which way do you go?"
"Trying to get to Ohadi." Fairchild shouted it above the roar of the
engine. The driver waved a hand forward.
"Keep to the main road. Drop off when I make the turn. You 'll pick
up another ride soon. Plenty of chances."
"Thanks for the lift."
"Aw, forget it."
The truck wheeled from the main road and chugged away, leaving
Fairchild afoot, making as much progress as possible toward his goal
until good fortune should bring a swifter means of locomotion. A
half-mile he walked, studying the constant changes of the scenery
before him, the slopes and rises, the smooth valleys and jagged crags
above, the clouds as they drifted low upon the higher peaks, shielding
them from view for a moment, then disappearing. Then suddenly he
wheeled. Behind him sounded the swift droning of a motor, cut-out
open, as it rushed forward along the road,--and the noise told a story
of speed.
Far at the brow of a steep hill it appeared, seeming to hang in space
for an instant before leaping downward. Rushing, plunging, once
skidding dangerously at a small curve, it made the descent, bumped over
a bridge, was lost for a second in the pines, then sped toward him, a
big touring car, with a small, resolute figure clinging to the wheel.
The quarter of a mile changed to a furlong, the furlong to a hundred
yards,--then, with a report like a revolver shot, the machine suddenly
slewed in drunken fashion far to one side of the road, hung dangerously
over the steep cliff an instant, righted itself, swayed forward and
stopped, barely twenty-five yards away. Staring, Robert Fairchild saw
that a small, trim figure had leaped forth and was waving excitedly to
him, and he ran forward.
His first glance had proclaimed it a boy; the second had told a
different story. A girl--dressed in far different fashion from Robert
Fairchild's limited specifications of feminine garb--she caused him to
gasp in surprise, then to stop and stare. Again she waved a hand and
stamped a foot excitedly; a vehement little thing in a snug, whipcord
riding habit and a checkered cap pulled tight over closely braided
hair, she awaited him with all the impatience of impetuous womanhood.
"For goodness' sake, come here!" she called, as he still stood gaping.
"I 'll give you five dollars. Hurry!"
Fairchild managed to voice the fact that he would be willing to help
without remuneration, as he hurried forward, still staring at her, a
vibrant little thing with dark-brown wisps of hair which had been blown
from beneath her cap straying about equally dark-brown, snapping eyes
and caressing the corners of tightly pressed, momentarily impatient
lips. Only a second she hesitated, then dived for the tonneau, jerking
with all her strength at the heavy seat cushion, as he stepped to the
running board beside her.
"Can't get this dinged thing up!" she panted. "Always sticks when you
're in a hurry. That's it! Jerk it. Thanks! Here!" She reached
forward and a small, sun-tanned hand grasped a greasy jack, "Slide
under the back axle and put this jack in place, will you? And rush it!
I 've got to change a tire in nothing flat! Hurry!"
Fairchild, almost before he knew it, found himself under the rear of
the car, fussing with a refractory lifting jack and trying to keep his
eyes from the view of trimly clad, brown-shod little feet, as they
pattered about at the side of the car, hurried to the running board,
then stopped as wrenches and a hammer clattered to the ground. Then
one shoe was raised, to press tight against a wheel; metal touched
metal, a feminine gasp sounded as strength was exerted in vain, then
eddying dust as the foot stamped, accompanied by an exasperated
ejaculation.
"Ding these old lugs! They 're rusted! Got that jack in place yet?"
"Yes! I'm raising the car now."
"Oh, please hurry." There was pleading in the tone now. "Please!"
The car creaked upward. Out came Fairchild, brushing the dust from his
clothes. But already the girl was pressing the lug wrench into his
hands.
"Don't mind that dirt," came her exclamation. "I 'll--I 'll give you
some extra money to get your suit cleaned. Loosen those lugs, while I
get the spare tire off the back. And for goodness' sake, please hurry!"
Astonishment had taken away speech for Fairchild. He could only
wonder--and obey. Swiftly he twirled the wrench while lug after lug
fell to the ground, and while the girl, struggling with a tire
seemingly almost as big as herself, trundled the spare into position to
await the transfer. As for Fairchild, he was in the midst of a task
which he had seen performed far more times than he had done it himself.
He strove to remove the blown-out shoe with the cap still screwed on
the valve stem; he fussed and swore under his breath, and panted, while
behind him a girl in whipcord riding habit and close-pulled cap
fidgeted first on one tan-clad foot, then on the other, anxiously
watching the road behind her and calling constantly for speed.
At last the job was finished, the girl fastening the useless shoe
behind the machine while Fairchild tightened the last of the lugs.
Then as he straightened, a small figure shot to his side, took the
wrench from his hand and sent it, with the other tools, clattering into
the tonneau. A tiny hand went into a pocket, something that crinkled
was shoved into the man's grasp, and while he stood there gasping, she
leaped to the driver's seat, slammed the door, spun the starter until
it whined, and with open cutout roaring again, was off and away,
rocking down the mountain side, around a curve and out of sight--while
Fairchild merely stood there, staring wonderingly at a ten-dollar bill!
A noise from the rear, growing louder, and the amazed man turned to see
a second machine, filled with men, careening toward him. Fifty feet
away the brakes creaked, and the big automobile came to a skidding,
dust-throwing stop. A sun-browned man in a Stetson hat, metal badge
gleaming from beneath his coat, leaned forth.
"Which way did he go?"
"He?" Robert Fairchild stared.
"Yeh. Did n't a man just pass here in an automobile? Where'd he
go--straight on the main road or off on the circuit trail?"
"It--it was n't a man."
"Not a man?" The four occupants of the machine stared at him. "Don't
try to bull us that it was a woman."
"Oh, no--no--of course not." Fairchild had found his senses. "But it
was n't a man. It--it was a boy, just about fifteen years old."
"Sure?"
"Oh, yes--" Fairchild was swimming in deep water now. "I got a good
look at him. He--he took that road off to the left."
It was the opposite one to which the hurrying fugitive in whipcord had
taken. There was doubt in the interrogator's eyes.
"Sure of that?" he queried. "I 'm the sheriff of Arapahoe County.
That's an auto bandit ahead of us. We--"
"Well, I would n't swear to it. There was another machine ahead, and I
lost 'em both for a second down there by the turn. I did n't see the
other again, but I did get a glimpse of one off on that side road. It
looked like the car that passed me. That's all I know."
"Probably him, all right." The voice came from the tonneau. "Maybe he
figured to give us the slip and get back to Denver. You did n't notice
the license number?" This to Fairchild. That bewildered person shook
his head.
"No. Did n't you?"
"Could n't--covered with dust when we first took the trail and never
got close enough afterward. But it was the same car--that's almost a
cinch."
"Let's go!" The sheriff was pressing a foot on the accelerator. Down
the hill went the car, to skid, then to make a short turn on to the
road which led away from the scent, leaving behind a man standing in
the middle of the road, staring at a ten-dollar bill,--and wondering
why he had lied!