Cactus and Rattlers. H. Bedford-Jones

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      "You don't know a whole lot about the desert, do you?" he asked dryly.

      "No. Do you?"

      "A little." Tompkins puffed at his pipe rather hard for a moment, frowning at the sunset, then he came to a halt, and turned to the girl with an air of decision.

      "See here, Miss Gilman, really I don't want to intrude into your affairs, but I think that you're going ahead rather blindly. Are you all alone here in town?"

      "Yes." Her eyes dwelt on his strong, rather harsh features, with questioning scrutiny. "But I've lived on ranches, I've taught school, I have some money saved up—and really, Mr. Tompkins, I'm able to look out for myself."

      "No, you're not," he said quietly. Suddenly a look came into his eyes that made the girl catch her breath, so furious and deeply filled with passion was it. "You've got to get out of here!" he exclaimed with abrupt anger in his voice. "You don't know what sort of a place this is—what sort of men are centered around here! There's a gang of the vilest murderers somewhere about Stovepipe Springs that ever saw the light of day! The whole place is a decoy-trap for the unwary—for people like you! If that town knew what my real name was, what my errand is here, my life wouldn't be worth a plugged nickel."

      Startled by his vehemence, sobered by his words, the girl met his gaze for a moment, then frowned.

      "Why do you speak this way?" she demanded calmly. "I think you're far off the mark, Mr. Tompkins. I've met everybody in town since arriving yesterday. They're good, simple people—ignorant if you like, but at heart really fine. I'm afraid you're an un-American sort of person. Do you regard everybody outside of New York with the same savage intolerance? Do you think that because nobody speaks French in Stovepipe Springs, everybody is a poor hick?"

      Tompkins stared at her for a minute.

      "Good Lord—my dear girl, get me right!" he exclaimed. "I mean literally what I say. I don't know what you're talking about, but I know what I'm talking about!"

      "What, then—bands of outlaws and robbers?" She smiled ironically, and the smile stung Tompkins.

      "Something like that, yes."

      "Then I simply don't believe you," she said with quiet finality. "Shall we go back now?"

      "As you prefer. I hope you don't have any cause to remember my warning with regret."

      TO this she made no response, and they returned in silence to the hotel, Tompkins inwardly cursing his very undiplomatic way of presenting the warning. Upon nearing the hostelry, they encountered Mose Pincus, an earnest, alert little man who kept the general store, and he immediately cornered Miss Gilman with a request that she send all orders for chicken equipment through his agency. Tompkins went on alone to his own place, and when the lamp was lighted, he picked up his newspaper and went definitely to work. He knew what to look for now.

      It was a Los Angeles paper, which he had bought on leaving the railroad at Meteorite because it was the latest sheet to be had. Now he searched the advertising columns, and after a moment chanced upon the very thing he sought. It was a large display advertisement, and after reading it, Tompkins clipped it out and then perused it more carefully and with keen appreciation. It read as follows:

      CHICKEN RANCHERS

      Come To Chuckwalla County!

      No California fogs in this State; an ideal climate for chickens. Stovepipe Springs will welcome you. Local demand for eggs is heavy. Not a chicken within a radius of thirty miles in one direction and 250 miles in all others.

      Off railroad but on State highway. Land from $1 to $50 per acre. Taxes so light they make you laugh. Correspondence invited. The Stovepipe Springs Chamber of Commerce will cooperate with you in every way; write the secretary, M. J. Crowfoot, First State Bank, Stovepipe Springs:

      Putting the clipping away in his pocket, Tompkins got his pipe going and puffed for a while in frowning reflection. At length he sighed.

      "Well, I suppose I can't help her any—and I don't know that I blame her for feeling as she does. To all appearance, this is a harmless little desert town and nothing else. I don't even know that I'm right; haven't a darned bit of proof to lay before her! But this Sidewinder Crowfoot sure lays a clever trap for suckers. Not a chicken around here, eh? He's dead right, at that. What with coyotes, skunks, lynx and snakes, not to mention rats, any chickens would have a hard struggle. And the advertisement doesn't mention water. Hm! I wonder how many poor flies have been drawn into this spider-net and sucked dry? And I wonder how many poor devils have gone out into that desert around here and never come back—like my brother Alec Ramsay?"

      He puffed on, a somber frown darkening his keen eyes.

CHAPTER III

       Table of Contents

      WHEN Percival Henry J. Tompkins, mammalogist, walked into the First State Bank the next morning, he wore his best professorial air.

      Moses J. Crowfoot, more generally known as Sidewinder, was his own banking force, and sat alone at a desk behind a grill which hedged off most of the bank. He was not afraid of robbers. No professional robber in the combined areas of Nevada, Utah and New Mexico would have dreamed of tackling the Stovepipe Springs bank, because Sidewinder Crowfoot was an old-timer who knew his business. Three amateurs had undertaken the job two years previously, and each of them received a forty-five slug squarely between the eyes.

      The nickname was highly appropriate. Like his namesake, Crowfoot was highly venomous, he struck without warning, and he struck to kill; he was not a pleasant man, and he did not care to be pleasant. He lived alone. In the old dim days, Sidewinder had been a monte dealer in the Alcora Dance Hall; when the law clamped down on gambling, he had owned the Oasis Saloon; when the law clamped down on liquor, he had gone into banking. Some people would claim this was natural evolution.

      He looked up at his visitor without speaking. Tompkins, entirely ignoring what had happened upon his arrival in town, came forward to the grill and smiled.

      "This, I believe, is Mr. Crowfoot? I have been referred to you, as owner of the local garage. I desire to rent an automobile with which to survey near-by areas of the great American desert and pursue my investigations of the fauna—"

      "Can't be done," said Sidewinder curtly. "We only got one rent car, and that's engaged. The other's a demonstrater, and we can't rent it or we'd never sell it."

      "Ah! Thank you very much indeed," said Tompkins, and turned to the door. "In that case I had better buy it."

      Before Sidewinder could call up any suitable retort, his visitor was gone to the garage next door; before Sidewinder could get there, money had changed hands and the shiny flivver reposing on the garage floor was the property of the Professor. Finding himself too late to prevent the purchase, Crowfoot put on his best air and engaged Tompkins in amiable talk, while the mechanic in charge filled the car with oil and gas and put in half a dozen water-bags.

      "Hassayamp was telling me," observed the banker, "that you were askin' about a man named Ramsay. Seems to me like I recall the feller. Friend of yours?"

      "A mere acquaintance," said Tompkins. "I met him at Palmdale, on the other side of the Mohave, while I was engaged in a study of the curious flora over there. Poor fellow, I felt sorry for СКАЧАТЬ