Cactus and Rattlers. H. Bedford-Jones

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СКАЧАТЬ stepped, met the glittery gray eyes, and spoke.

      "Am I correct in assuming that this is Stovepipe Springs?" he asked.

      "Yep," returned the small man curtly.

      "Excellent! An admirable spot. I am Percival Henry J. Tompkins, a humble member of the American Society of Mammalogists, in search of material for a paper on the fauna of the great American desert." Mr. Tompkins spoke in a precise, neatly clipped voice. "I seek a temporary domicile here—"

      "Git over to Mormon Wells, then," snapped the small man.

      "You misapprehend my meaning," said Mr. Tompkins patiently. "I seek rooms at your hotel, and a guide. I want a man who knows the desert, who can lead me to the haunts of its creatures. Particularly I desire to study the habits of the crotalus cerastes."

      With a flick of his shoulders, the small man turned as though to leave. Mr. Tompkins reached out and laid a restraining hand on his shoulder, unwarned by the gasp from those near by.

      "My dear sir, I am addressing you—"

      What happened was startling to see. The little man moved with a swiftness that the eye could not follow, then stood snarling, his gray mask of a face glittering with sheer malignity. Tompkins, knocked sprawling half across the road, rolled over, sat up, and then struggled to his feet. He stood blinking around.

      "That—er—that was a most remarkable thing!" he exclaimed in his precise tones. "Did somebody run into me?"

      With a sneer and a snap of his teeth, the little man turned and departed toward the bank, which he owned. Haywire drew the old desert rat hastily aside.

      "Look out! Sidewinder's feelin' mean today. Him and that female woman have been talkin' chicken-ranches, I reckon. Oh, my gosh! Now that there mistake for a human is headin' this-a-way—"

      Mr. Tompkins, indeed, seemed to sense a general lack of cordiality all around him, except in the gaping countenance of Sagebrush, whom he now approached.

      "My friend—"

      "Pilgrim, don't bother me!" said Sagebrush defensively. "It jest can't be true!"

      "I'll pay three dollars a day to a man who knows the desert."

      Sagebrush changed countenance. So did the remainder of Stovepipe Springs. There was a general forward movement, but the desert rat was the first to recover voice.

      "You're done, pilgrim, you're sure engaged! What was it you wanted to find?"

      "Crotalus cerastes. Undoubtedly you can introduce me to specimens?"

      Sagebrush swallowed hard, but had a reputation to sustain, and upheld it nobly.

      "You bet!" he announced promptly. "Lots o' them specimens up around Marble Cañon, and over by Lost Waterhole I've seen 'em so thick you couldn't hardly move without steppin' on 'em. I'll take you right where them things breed, Perfesser."

      The "Perfesser" looked slightly startled, but nodded assent.

      "Very well; you are engaged. We shall have to hire an automobile."

      "You got to see Sidewinder Crowfoot about that. He owns 'em all."

      "Very well. Come to my room in an hour, when I have had a chance to remove the stains of travel. By the way, where is the hotel? I wrote to engage rooms, but see no hostelry."

      "Right yere under your nose, Perfesser. Hassayamp is takin' in the mail—thar he is.—Hey, Hassayamp! Meet my friend the Perfesser. This is Hassayamp Foster, Perfesser. The Perfesser's a bug-hunter, Hassayamp, and wants a bed."

      "My beds wont help him none," said Hassayamp, a lean and melancholic individual who came forward, chewing a ragged mustache. "I got a room for you, Puffesser."

      "With bath," said Tompkins. Hassayamp halted and blinked.

      "Bath? Good gosh, we don't allow no washin' in the springs this time o' year! Got to use a cream separator to git enough drinkin' water. Rains are over, but they aint filled the springs yet—not for another two weeks, I reckon."

      "I refer, sir, to a bathroom attached," explained Tompkins.

      "Well, there aint none," said Hassayamp. "Whar's your grips?"

      Two enormous and bulging suitcases, each as big as a small trunk, were in the stage boot, and Hassayamp hauled them out with antagonistic air, and led his victim away.

      THE Stovepipe House was built for desert use, not for looks. The front building contained post office and hotel dining-room; and passing through this, Tompkins descended the rear steps and found two long adobe structures stretching in front of him, each divided into cells; between them drooped some parched flowers and shrubs. He was shown to his cell, a room twelve by twelve, furnished with all the comforts of home.

      "Don't do no cussing nor singing after midnight," warned Hassayamp as he shoved in the two enormous grips, "'cause a lady's got the next room. When the bell rings for supper, you show up prompt; my old woman's liable to be real ornery if folks don't 'preciate hot vittles. Two-fifty a day. What did you go tangle up with that old desert rat Sagebrush for? I'd ha' been glad to pilot you around my own self. Int'rested in mines, are you? Don't let him show you no specimens, Puffesser. That old rascal would salt hell and unload it on a pilgrim. Don't you trust nobody around here but me. I got two quartz lodes and a placer location that'll make your eyes water—"

      "Not interested in mines, thanks," said Tompkins, cutting short the flow of talk. "If I saw a good chicken-ranch, I might invest, but not otherwise. Ever hear of anyone around these parts by the name of Ramsay? Alec Ramsay. Might have passed through here a year or so ago."

      "Nope," said Hassayamp, shaking his mustaches. "Well, if ye want anything, come and holler for it."

      Hassayamp withdrew; in more haste than he had previously displayed, he ducked around the side of the hotel, rambled down the desert sands of the nominal alley, and in three minutes was rapping sharply at the back door of the adobe bank. This was opened to him by the small gray-faced man, who was no other than Sidewinder Crowfoot. Hassayamp slid inside and closed the door behind him.

      "Well?" rasped Sidewinder. "What's up?"

      "That bug-hunter," said Hassayamp agitatedly. "What ye think he said? That if he knowed where there was a good chicken-ranch, he might buy it!"

      A thin smile appeared in the gray mask.

      "That so? We'll see about it."

      "And he asked if I knowed anyone around here, a year back, name of Alec Ramsay."

      The smaller man started, and his eyes glittered venomously.

      "So that's it—so that's it!" murmured Sidewinder. "I thought he didn't act right natural. By gosh, I'll look into him!"

      "Wa'n't Ramsay the one," began Hassayamp, "that bought that there claim from Mesquite up in Pinecate Cañon, and got mixed up with—"

      "Shut up!" snapped the other man suddenly. "Listen to me, now. I'll attend to this gent myself, if he needs it. Let him run as far's his hobbles will let, for a while. First we got to fix up Miss Gilman. You got to take her out day СКАЧАТЬ