Captives of the Desert. Zane Grey

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      “What does he think he’s doing?” exclaimed Mary, hurrying forward.

      Katharine, too surprised to answer, quickened her steps to keep pace with Mary.

      As they approached, the man straightened to meet them, jerking into position much like a soldier about to salute. He was very solemn and very important for a man of such a negative type, and appeared offended rather than the offender.

      “So this is your car!” he said. “I was wondering. I was looking for liquor.”

      “Dreadfully sorry we can’t accommodate you,” said Mary with gentle irony.

      The man’s look of injury deepened. “You misunderstand me, Madam! I am the government agent. I am trying to locate liquor. Some has already been passed on to the Indians. Liquor on the reservation is absolutely against the law, and I’m out to make a few arrests.”

      Katharine, reflecting on the size of the only lawmen she knew—husky New York policemen—smiled.

      “It’s no smiling matter, Madam!” the government agent continued. “It’s really very grave. You’ll pardon me if I make absolutely sure there is nothing in this car?”

      He investigated again as thoroughly as before, and came up red in the face.

      “We wear no coats and have no hip pockets,” said Katharine demurely.

      But he ignored her with perfect dignity.

      Then came a volley of questions: “Who drives this car? How many in the party? What are the names? Any hand baggage? How long do you intend to stay? Have you any cameras? If so you’ll have to turn them over until tomorrow evening. No photographing allowed on Oraibi Mesa at the Snake Dance!”

      From them he stalked impressively to Curry’s car. The girls watched him, amused beyond words. How shocked the professor and the maiden ladies would have been to discover themselves looked upon as liquor suspects!

      Katharine turned to see Wilbur and Hanley returning. Hanley was carrying a burlap bag from which protruded an ear of corn.

      “Didn’t happen to see the government agent around, did you?” asked Wilbur.

      “Yes, very much in evidence,” Mary returned. “He searched the car for liquor.”

      “Been by, has he? Went right on down the line, I suppose,” supplemented Wilbur. “He’s a sketch, isn’t he?”

      Hanley sidled over to Curry’s car. “Guess he’ll want some of this corn,” he said, as if to himself, and hoisted the bag over onto the floor of the car.

      A minute later, as if from nowhere, Curry himself strode up. He had eyes only for the car, and to Katharine they seemed ablaze. He flung open the door, dragged out the burlap bag, and stalked over to the men.

      “Hanley! That’s a skunk trick. I came ’round that adobe house in time to see you. You’ll risk my reputation instead of yours, will you? Take your dirty liquor!”

      “Liquor?—why—why, it’s corn!” declared Mary, her eyes wide with astonishment.

      “John Barley Corn, Mrs. Newton, the inseparable companion of Mr. Hanley and his friends.”

      “That’s a lie! It’s not liquor,” stormed Hanley, reaching for the bag.

      Curry drew it away. “No, not yet, Hanley. I’d better drop the bag and demonstrate to the ladies.”

      “For God’s sake, don’t!” Hanley muttered. “Think of what might happen. Think of it sensibly—the ladies and everythin’.”

      “You and Newton have given them a heap of consideration, haven’t you?” retorted Curry. He thrust the bag toward the heavy-set man. “I’m sorry they are forced into such company.”

      With that he strode off.

      Katharine glanced covertly at Mary. She sensed the humiliation her friend was suffering, saw color rise and recede in her still face. Wilbur was white with the paleness of wrath. But Hanley seemed untouched, now that he possessed the bag.

      “Can you imagine anyone messin’ up such a row about another feller’s private stock?” he asked. “Everybody knows he don’t drink, and in an emergency he could have helped a feller out.”

      To a man of Hanley’s intelligence quotient, that was all the defense his action required.

      Mary, head high, walked past Hanley. “You better come with me, Katharine,” she said.

      Wilbur grasped Mary’s wrist as she stepped past him. “Where are you going?”

      “To the house,” Mary replied quietly. “I’ve quite lost my appetite. I’ll not eat anything this evening. Perhaps Katharine will join you. Call her when you’re ready.”

      “But Mary, nothing’s happened,” protested Katharine. “Don’t be so upset.”

      Mary sat on a bed-roll, her head tilted back against the wall, the lovely curve of her lips lost in a tight line.

      “You’ve told me that Wilbur isn’t a drinking man,” said Katharine. “That’s one of the good things about him. Mr. Curry apparently doesn’t know Wilbur very well.”

      “It’s the duplicity,” moaned Mary. “It’s Hanley—his influence. I’m afraid of it. Wilbur is selfish, egotistical, weak in many ways, but there used to be a sweetness, and at times even a bigness, in things sacred just to him and me. At least I thought so. But Hanley isn’t good for him. Hanley has no real regard for women. It’s superficial—play-acting. He’s the kind who thinks all women fundamentally weak because he could brutally ruin a few. He’s poisoned Wilbur’s mind to such an extent that my husband distrusts me.”

      “Why does Wilbur hate Curry so?” Katharine asked bluntly. “He’s the kind of man, it seems to me, that one would choose for a friend.”

      “Because of the way I first met Curry.” Mary was lost in thought a minute, then she went on, “I went riding alone one day out to a place called Cliff Rocks. I had wanted to go for a year. I knew that I would never get there if I didn’t try it alone. It was twelve miles, but I had a good horse. I wasn’t afraid. The Indians, seen and unseen, are a protection to anyone among them. And Wilbur didn’t care much that I went. . . . I made it beautifully. Then something drew me to ride farther, just a mile to investigate a curious boulder. I thought a deep wash lay beyond. As I came near the boulder, I thought I smelled blood. Suddenly my horse reared and snorted, and then, Katharine—oh, I’ll never forget it—I saw a horse, recently shot, not fifty feet away down in the wash, and just beyond, a man, stretched full length, and face down in the sand. He was groaning. He hadn’t heard me. I was petrified. I thought a thousand harrowing things. I think I cried out, ‘Oh, what’s the matter?’ or something like that—some childish, thoughtless words. Anyway, the man looked up. He seemed dazed. I didn’t know at first whether he saw me or not. It was Curry, though I didn’t know him then. I had never seen him before. It seems he’d been on a mad race from Castle Mesa to get the doctor at Taho to save some poor Indian youngster’s life. His horse tried to clear СКАЧАТЬ