Cactus and Rattlers/Chapter 2
CHAPTER II
THE usually free-and-easy dining-room of the Stovepipe House was hushed and uneasy when supper came around, before the unwonted presence of a strange female. Tompkins had a table to himself, and at the next table was Miss Gilman; there were only two other occupied tables.
Tompkins was interested in his fellow-pilgrim. She was a young woman; she was possessed of an indoor complexion; and if not exactly beautiful she had an air of character and firmness; when she smiled, indeed, as she did whenever Haywire came to her table with his tray, a dancing light came into her eyes, and Haywire was straightway confused and flustered. Seated with his wife at another table was Hassayamp, and Tompkins observed that the proprietor addressed his better half in a tone of voice intended to reach other ears.
"Marier, we got to improve on Manuela's cookin' 'fore next week, when them road-workmen git here. I aint stuck on Mex cookin' my own self. We'll be right crowded up with folks workin' on the highway next week. Mose Pincus tells me to-day there's a feller name o' Rosenblum comin' in from Meteorite, goin' to open up a army goods store for this here district; wants him a shack big enough to hold six kids and a missus, and a store front. Speakin' as the president of the Stovepipe Springs chamber o' commerce, I'd say this here town is started on her boom. They tell me Sagebrush Beam weighed in a right [qu]art o' dust today, too. Wouldn't s'prise me a mite if a rush'd start this way that'd (illegible text)de Gold Hills a mile! Dang it, I wisht we didn't have to ship in these here aigs; somehow, they don't taste like aigs should, as I remember 'em."
Miss Gilman departed, and thereafter Hassayamp essayed no more information at large. Tompkins, who was decidedly hungry, was the last out of the dining-room. He came through the post office lobby, performed the delayed ceremony of registering, and was then escorted outside to the street by Hassayamp. They found Miss Gilman standing under the tin sun-shade and looking up at the glorious sunset that flooded all the sky with gold and scarlet. She turned at their approach, and Hassayamp performed the introductions.
"Miss Ethel Gilman, lemme make you acquainted with the Puffesser. You folks want to make yourselves to home in Stovepipe Springs. We don't put on no airs here, and everybody's sociable. Miss Gilman, she figgers on startin' a chicken-ranch and settlin' in our midst, and I dunno but what we might make her our school-teacher. This time next week we'd ought to have six Rosenblums, and we got four little Garcias right now, and Manuela tells me her brother is liable to come over from Chuckwalla City next month, and he's got five more. That looks right healthy, don't it? Then take the old Alcora Dance Hall down the street, it'd make a right smart school, if we fix her up and spill a little paint around and so forth. The Puffesser is likewise int'rested in hen chickens, Miss Gilman. He's lookin' up bugs right now, but—what did you say your name was, Perfesser?"
Tompkins cleared his throat and bowed to the young woman.
"Percival Henry J. Tompkins, entirely at your service, madam. May I solicit the pleasure of your company in a short walk, to breathe the inspiring evening air and view the noble aspect of the Creator's handiwork in the heavens?"
"Gosh!" murmured Hassayamp in awe. Miss Gilman gave Tompkins a curious glance, as though wishing to peer past those tinted goggles; a smile was in her eyes, as she made demure assent.
"Thank you, I'd enjoy showing you the sights. You just arrived today?"
"Only this afternoon, madam," returned Tompkins. "Mr. Foster, if you apprehend any specimens of crotalus cerastes in the near future, I should be glad if you would confine and preserve them for me."
"I'd sure like to, Puffesser," said Hassayamp, blinking, "but we aint got a bug in the house. If you was to go up to Garcia's, you might have some luck."
Tompkins waved his hand, and strode off beside Miss Gilman, who seemed rather red in the face.
NEITHER of them broke the silence. They passed down the street, came to the fast-disappearing rows of ancient buildings, relics of boom days, and presently were walking along the open desert, following the white road that went straight as a die across the horizon. The silence became oppressive, until suddenly Tompkins chuckled and spoke in his natural voice. It was a drawling, rather whimsical voice, and drew a swift glance from the girl.
"Our friend Hassayamp is a human phonograph," he said.
"You'll go too far one of these days," said Miss Gilman. Tompkins stopped short and stared at her.
"Eh? Just what do you mean?"
"Nonsense!" exclaimed the girl sharply, yet with a laugh in her eyes. "That red hair and your natural voice and the shape of your head don't go with your assumed character, Mr. Tompkins. Take off those glasses and let me see what you look like. And stop fidgeting with that pipe in your pocket. Take it out and smoke. I'd like you to."
Tompkins broke into a laugh, reached up and removed the goggles, and met the curious regard of Miss Gilman.
"What do you wear them for?" she demanded. "You look better without 'em."
"Protection," he drawled, bringing forth his pipe. "You're an observant young woman, but I trust fervently that you'll keep your observations to yourself. I look very much like another man, and do not care to be recognized for him—or mistaken for him."
The girl laughed. "You don't look like a criminal, Mr. Tompkins!"
"I'm not. I'm really a mammalogist. Now, everybody here is positive that a bug-hunter is crazy, so I'm making it easy all around by playing up to the part. You, however, don't look like a chicken-raiser."
"But I am—at least, that's what I'm going to be. I've come from Los Angeles to start a ranch here. Land is cheap; there's no fog; the climate is ideal, and for a while I can sell all I can raise right here in town."
"D'you mean it?" asked Tompkins incredulously.
"Of course I do. The prospect looks a whole lot better to me than the prospect of your finding any animals or bugs out on the desert."
"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.