Falcon, of Squawtooth
Date: 2023-05-17T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Western stories; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; California -- Fiction; Railroads -- Design and construction -- Fiction

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Title: Falcon, of Squawtooth

A western story

Author: Arthur Preston Hankins

Release date: May 17, 2023 [eBook #70785]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Chelsea House, 1923

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/70785

Credits: D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by University of California libraries)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FALCON, OF SQUAWTOOTH ***

FALCON OF SQUAWTOOTH

Falcon, of Squawtooth

A Western Story

BY
ARTHUR PRESTON HANKINS
Author of “The She Boss”

CHELSEA HOUSE
79 Seventh Avenue New York City

Copyright, 1923
By CHELSEA HOUSE

Falcon, of Squawtooth

(Printed in the United States of America)

All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER | PAGE
I. | The Falcon Finds a Friend | 11
II. | “Squawtooth” Canby | 24
III. | The Desert | 39
IV. | Camped | 55
V. | Visitors | 67
VI. | Preachments | 88
VII. | Wing o’ the Crow | 98
VIII. | A Trade and New Resolutions | 109
IX. | Dusk on the Desert | 124
X. | Guests | 142
XI. | The Pink Necktie | 154
XII. | Blacky Silk | 170
XIII. | The Children of Amram | 185
XIV. | Escape | 198
XV. | Flight | 210
XVI. | The Rendezvous | 223
XVII. | The Search | 231
XVIII. | The Windstorm | 239
XIX. | The Sorceress | 252
XX. | Preparations for Noon | 263
XXI. | The Signal | 276
XXII. | Breaking Clouds for One | 292
XXIII. | Ambitions Realized | 304

FALCON OF SQUAWTOOTH

CHAPTER I
THE FALCON FINDS A FRIEND

A LONG freight train, westward bound, came to a stop in a little California mountain town with a shriek of brakes and a hiss of air. At once a brakeman clambered agilely down the steel ladder of a box car in the middle of the train, and sent the side door of the car creaking along its rusty track. He thrust his head inside and peered about through the darkness of the interior.

Then he cried raucously:

“Come outa that, now! Make it snappy, Jack!”

In a dark corner of the box car a man arose and stepped slowly toward the square of sunlight that represented the door. As the light of day shone in upon him the brakeman looked him up and down, and did not seem so displeased.

The tramp was dressed in overalls, fairly decent shoes, and a cap. Though he was grimy and stained from hours of travel on a freight, he was no dirtier than the brakeman and was dressed as well. His hair was close-cropped, and no stubble of beard showed on his rather boyish face. His eyes were dark and twinkling. His figure was straight and strong. There was nothing hangdog about this tramp.

The brakeman’s tones were mollified as he asked:

“Where you goin’, Jack?”

“West.”

“Uh-huh. I know that. What’re you ridin’ on?”

“I’m broke.”

“Yeah? You don’t look it. You look like a workin’man.”

“I am.”

“What d’ye follow?”

“Railroad-construction work.”

“Huh! A stiff, eh?”

“Yes—a stiff.”

The “shack” was silent a little. Then seeming to have decided the point under contemplation:

“Well, slide out. Guess it’s time for you to eat anyway. But I’ll let you ride out the division for a dollar.”

“Sorry, but I haven’t a dollar. Thanks, though.”

“Four bits, then.”

“Simply haven’t a cent.”

“Well, then unload—and beat it!”

The tramp sat down in the door, dangled his feet, and dropped lightly to the ground.

“So long!” he said, and strode away beside the train, his hands in his trouser pockets.

“Humph!” snorted the brakeman, and gave the door a vicious shove that forced a protesting scream from the track and rollers.

The little town was six thousand five hundred feet above the sea, in the high Sierras. The breath of pines came to the vagabond’s nostrils as he trudged along. A dynamic trout stream plunged over and around huge boulders on its frenzied race to the blue Pacific, two hundred miles away. The rare air of the high altitude, to which the traveler was unaccustomed, sent the blood pounding through his veins; and despite the beginning of hunger pangs his spirits were elated and his step elastic as he walked on toward the village.

Before he reached even its outskirts he saw five men—tramps like himself, no doubt—in camp beside the rushing stream. The odor of cooking came to his sensitive nostrils. He had only to climb down a twenty-foot fill, crawl through the right-of-way fence, and try his luck. He had fed dozens of fellow wanderers, while his money lasted, since he had left the State of Kansas. He had been penniless, now, only since the day before. He realized that he might not be welcome in this hobo camp, for he had long since learned that the so-called tramp fraternity is a figment of the imagination. But the mountain air had made him desperately hungry—his money had fed many of the class down there in camp—it was time for at least a part of his bread cast upon the waters to drift into an eddy and start floating back.

He scrambled down, forked himself between the strands of barbed wire, and boldly approached the source of those savory odors.

That this was a permanent hobo camp was evident from the many blackened cans that lay about, the cold ashes of ancient camp fires, and the carvings on the trees that shaded the rendezvous.

One man stooped over the fire and stirred a large can of boiling Mexican beans. Another was cutting into slices a loaf of bread with his pocketknife, hacking to the center on one side, then turning the loaf to complete the cuts, by reason of the shortness of the blade. Three others lounged on the ground, smoked and whittled, and eyed the newcomer with disapproval.

“How are you, fellows?” the “buttinsky” said, smiling and seating himself on a moss-covered stone.

No one replied, but the man who was cutting the bread looked up and grinned.

He was about the newcomer’s age, and had a clean, lean face with distinct freckles on it and on his neck. His hair was sandy and kinky, and a comb and brush would have made no change whatever in its wiry appearance. His eyes were blue and friendly.

The stranger at once sensed that this man was of a different type from his four companions. Though a tramp, there were about him no marks of the confirmed John Yegg. The others were old-timers of the oldest known school.

“Going to have a little feed, eh?” innocently remarked the new arrival. “I smelled those beans cooking a hundred yards away.”

The old-timers looked from one to another in blank amazement. “Can you beat it?” was the question their looks expressed. Then with a great sigh as of resignation to the demands of a stern duty, one of them rose and fumbled in a pocket of his grease-salvaged vest.

He extracted a dirty match, looked it over with owl-like wisdom, and, stepping around the fire, silently passed it to the newcomer.

At least four pairs of cold eyes watched this pantomime. The man who had been offered the match took it mechanically, and looked up into the donor’s face.

“Seems to me I get you,” he said, a trifle embarrassed. “I’ve heard of a tramp’s being given the match in a camp where he’s not wanted. It’s a subtle suggestion, I believe, for him to go elsewhere and build a camp fire of his own, isn’t it?”

“Ol’-timer,” the donor of the match said sneeringly, “youse’re right. Dat means ‘Beat it!’—and dis means ‘Beat it quick!’—see?”

He lifted a clenched fist for the other’s inspection.

“Oh, I get you,” the unwelcome visitor replied, rising from the stone. “I’ll beat it, of course. But don’t labor under the delusion that what you’ve just held up has anything to do with it.”

He turned, thrust his hands into his pockets again, and started back toward the right of way.

“Wait a minnit, Jack!”

The ejected one turned. It was the bread slicer who had spoken.

“C’mon back here an’ dig in on the bread an’ beans, ol’-timer,” he invited. “You’re as welcome as the flowers in May. I happen to know, for the simple reason that I’m the Jasper that bungled up for the pinks and the punk myself. I’m entertainin’ to-day.”

The man who had passed the match turned on him with a snarl.

“Wot’s de idear, ‘Halfaman’? Do youse want every farmer on de line to come buttin’ in on yer scoffin’s? Youse gi’me a pain, Jack!”

“Aw, go get in yer kennel and gnaw yer bone, ‘Blister’!” retorted the bread-and-beans magnate. “You ole fuzzy tails get my goat. You wouldn’t give a man a crumb o’ tobacco; but I notice you’re always the first one to butt in yerself when anybody else has scoffin’s. I buys them pinks and I buys this punk; and all that any o’ you stiffs furnished for this little picnic was the salt ‘Monk o’ the Rum’ swiped from the grocer while I was gettin’ the beans. I’ll do the sayin’ who’s to scoff in this camp. C’mon back here, ol’-timer, and dig in!”

“Sinful Blister,” which was the weird moniker of the dissenter, slouched back to his seat on the ground, muttering discontentedly. The other John Yeggs shrugged indifferently, in full sympathy with the Blister, but diplomatically acceding to the wishes of him who had bought the beans.

The now invited guest returned, and the cook poured out the beans into smaller tin cans and silently passed one to him. The one designated as Halfaman thrust two slices of bread into the other’s hands, and into other cans poured black coffee.

For a space the six ate in silence, the stranger from time to time glancing at his benefactor as if he wished to thank him, but could not find the words.

“Where you headin’ for, Jack?” Halfaman presently asked, his freckled cheeks shuttling over jaw-bones that oversaw the mastication of huge portions of food.

“West,” was the short reply.

“What d’ye follow when ye’re followin’?”

“I’m hunting construction work.”

“Dirt or rock?”

“Either.”

“That’s me; I’m a stiff. Was you beatin’ it down to the desert? There’s a big job openin’ up down there.”

“Yes, I heard about that. The Gold Belt Cut-off, eh?”

“That’s her, I’m makin’ it down there. I know lots o’ contractors that’ll have jobs on the road.”

The other ate in silence for a space, as if thinking deeply. “I don’t know but I’ll try to get down there, too,” he said presently. “I wasn’t exactly headed for any particular place.”

“She oughta be a good job. There’s good men’ll be down there. First thing I c’n ketch goin’ west takes me.”

“Do—do you mind if I go along with you?” hesitatingly asked the other.

“I should say not! I don’t like ramblin’ alone. Never did. I get to talkin’ to meself. Sure—we’ll make it out together. What’s yer moniker, Jack?”

Again the stranger hesitated. Then a little red crept into his face as he replied: “They call me ‘The Falcon.’”

One of the John Yeggs snorted softly and winked at a companion. It was quite plain to him that the speaker knew little about hobos’ monikers and such things.

“Been followin’ construction work long?” asked Halfaman.

“Virtually all my life,” returned the other.

At this another of the listeners sighed wearily, and whispered to one near him:

“Get dat, will youse? Been follyin’ de big camps all his life! C’n youse beat it? I’m bettin’ he never seen a railroad camp—hey? No foolin’!”

His friend nodded with a grimace that showed agreement.

When he had finished eating, the new friend of The Falcon rose, and, lying flat, took a long drink from the cold mountain stream.

“Well,” he announced, “I’m beatin’ ’er up to the tracks. C’mon, if you’re goin’ with me, Jack. There’s a westbound freight due before so very long, if the switchman didn’t lie—and he didn’t look like he had brains enough to lie.”

“Much obliged for de scoffin’s, Halfaman,” volunteered one of the tramps as The Falcon followed the freckled youth through the fence.

“Keep the change!” called Halfaman. “But next time I’m settin’ up the eats, le’ me do the invitin’.”

There was no answer; and the two struggled up the hill, and walked along the track toward a water tank to hide and wait the coming of the next westbound freight.

They reached the tank and sat down on the ground behind it, resting their backs against the pedestals. Halfaman removed a greasy cap with a broken visor, and laid it in his lap, allowing the cool mountain breeze to play with the kinks of his sandy hair. He had a way of talking out of one corner of his good-natured and rather wide mouth which amused the reticent Falcon.

“You ain’t been on the road long, have you, kid?” he said kindly.

“Why do you say that?”

“You might just as well be wearin’ a card on yer breast, like a blind man does, tellin’ the world about it,” said Halfaman. “Le’ me tell you sumpin. You don’t wanta go buttin’ into hobo camps like you did back there. Them old Jaspers hate themselves. They got no use fer the likes o’ you.”

“But you’re not like them.”

“I should say I ain’t! I’m a construction stiff. They’re just stiff. I’m a tramp, but I work. They don’t unless they have to—see? I was buyin’ some pinks and punk to cook up for myself—see?—and they butts in on me and gets me for a feed. I never turn a stiff down if I got anything, so I told ’em to come on an’ bust ’emselves. I know two of ’em—‘Sinful Blister’ and ‘Monk o’ the Rum.’ The other two’s pals o’ theirs. I’ll feed anybody—gaycat, yegg, bindle-stiff, skinner, mucker, or dyno. But I want ’em to feed me when I’m broke, too. I got no use for the likes o’ them back there. I’m a decent tramp—get me?”

“Yes,” replied The Falcon. “I try to be that myself. That’s why I approached the camp. I thought maybe I’d be treated like I’ve treated dozens of others since I started West.”

“And wasn’t you?”

“Yes—by you. And I’ll not forget it. Stay by me—if you like me—and you’ll never regret what you did for me to-day.”

The other studied him openly. “I don’t quite get your number,” he stated. “Your hands ain’t the hands of a workin’ stiff, and you talk kinda like you knew how. You say you been followin’ construction camps all yer life?”

“That’s what I said.”

“But you was lyin’.”

“Well, the way you say that, I can’t resent it, of course. Anyway, I call myself a railroad stiff. Accept it as truth, or don’t—it makes little difference to me. I may be raw—I guess I am—but you stick with me and I’ll pay you for that dinner.”

“Don’t do it till I ask for it,” retorted the other, cupping a hand back of one of his prominent ears and listening up the track.

He arose and went to the two lines of steel, sprawling flat and holding an ear to a rail.

“I hear her singin’ to me,” he announced, returning. “She’ll be here in a minnit. Now that moniker of yours.” He stood before the tank looking at the many carvings thereon. “I don’t see it here, f’r instance. Get up an’ I’ll show you mine. Cut ’er there three years ago, when I was ramblin’ east, ridin’ through the snowsheds, stretched out on the backs of a car o’ sheep to keep warm. Some bed if it don’t lay down under you!”

The Falcon had risen and stood looking up to where the other pointed. In neat carving, on one of the wooden pedestals, he saw:

HALFAWAY DAISY
1917, BOUND EAST
PHINEHAS BEGAT ABISHUA

“That’s an odd name,” remarked The Falcon. “And the quotation?”

“Well, by golly, it ain’t any odder’n my real one, ol’-timer! Daisy’s me right name; and as if that wasn’t funny enough the old folks slipped me a Bible name—Phinehas. Phinehas Daisy—c’n you beat it? I’m one o’ the begatters.”

“What’s that?” asked The Falcon, the lips of his grave mouth twitching in amusement.

“Ain’t you never read the Bible?”

“Not as much as I ought, perhaps.”

“Well, the begatters, as I call ’em are in the Bible. I learned that part by heart till it got down to me. It goes like this: ‘And the children of Amram; Aaron, and Moses, and Miriam. The sons also of Aaron; Nadab and Abihu, Eleazar and Ithamar. Eleazar begat Phinehas. Phinehas begat Abishua.’ Didn’t you ever read that?”

“Yes, I suppose so. Rather dry in there, I thought.”

“Well, I’m Phinehas. I’m one o’ the begatters—see? But the bos they call me Halfaman. That’s pretty raw, too. See how they got it on me? I gotta be square all the time, or folks will think I’m only half a man because they call me that. I used to have a pal, and his right name was Holman Rose. Wasn’t that funny?—Rose and Daisy! Sometimes they called us ‘The Bouquet.’ And then, seein’ his name was Holman, they called me Halfaman. Maybe they’re right, but I never refused a guy a feed when I had it. Here she comes, Falcon. Now you do just what I tell you to, and we’ll make ’er out easy, and ride ’er clean to the desert—if we’re lucky. Believe me, ole Falcon, I’m a ramblin’ yegg when I get started!”

CHAPTER II
“SQUAWTOOTH” CANBY

THE village of Opaco, on the fringe of the big California desert, never in all its day had seen such frenzied activity. Ninety miles to the east over the wastes of sand, yuccas, greasewood, and cacti, the engineers of a railroad company had made the preliminary survey of the proposed Gold Belt Cut-off, and every indication pointed to the fact that Opaco would be the natural source of supply for the big camps that would come to build the road.

Even now one of the construction companies was temporarily in their midst, while they unloaded their outfit of tents and tools and horses and wagons innumerable from the sidetracked freight train that had brought it to Opaco. The local livery stable and its accompanying corrals were taxed to the limit to minister to the stock. More than fifty strange men, who spoke in the argot of tramps, labored at unloading the train and piling which they removed in big mountain wagons against the ninety-mile trip to Squawtooth Ranch, the outfit’s camping place. The two hotels were filled to overflowing with the nomadic laborers. Opaco stood about open-mouthed and watched. It was as good as a circus come to town. And the outfit—the Mangan-Hatton Construction Company, from Texas—was the first of many to arrive. Others came from Utah, Colorado, and Washington—and it was rumored that eventually the biggest of them all would come from Minneapolis—the main contract company, Demarest, Spruce & Tillou, a concern that handled millions.

Furthermore, every train that came into Opaco brought tramps and tramps and tramps. Some of them were shipped in; others just came. For the first time Opaco learned that tramps really hunt for work; because all that arrived went shambling to the temporary office which Mr. Hunter Mangan had set up, and came away examining meal tickets and speculating with one another on the job-to-be, somewhere out there in the land of the horned toad and the venomous sidewinder, and the little desert owl called tecolote.

A long-bearded man on a magnificent black horse rode into Opaco, with jingling silver spurs, flapping chaps, and brush-scarred tapaderos. The rider “packed a six,” and rode in an elaborate silver-mounted saddle. The West was written all over him.

“There’s Squawtooth Canby,” Opaco whispered to itself. “He ain’t been in town for three months or more. Say, I guess he should worry, eh? Railroad buildin’ right through Squawtooth Ranch! Where he had to drive his cows from ninety to a hundred an’ fifty miles to ship ’em, and run all the fat off ’em, he’ll shoot ’em in the cars right on his own ranch when the railroad’s built. It’ll make a millionaire out o’ Squawtooth Canby!”

The old man with the flowing gray beard rode direct to the City Hotel, and dismounted as gracefully as a youth of twenty-one. He lowered the plaited, tasseled reins from the black’s neck, and, with the beautiful animal biting at him playfully, stalked into the hotel, spur rowels whirring.

Half of the hotel office had been given over to the needs of Mr. Hunter Mangan, senior partner of the construction company of Mangan & Hatton, and toward this part Squawtooth Canby strode. A dark, good-looking, businesslike young man arose from a desk and held out a cordial hand to the cowman.

“Well, well, Mr. Canby, it’s good to see you again,” was “Hunt” Mangan’s greeting. “This is an unexpected pleasure. We got in only two nights ago, and I have been so busy since that I neglected dropping you a line to notify you that we are on our way. Sit down; sit down! How’s everything out at Squawtooth?”

Their hands gripped—strong hands, both of them—the hands of men who rule and are not afraid of work.

“I heard ye was in, Mr. Mangan,” said Squawtooth. “I hadta ride in on a matter o’ business to within fifteen mile of Opaco; so I just says to myself I’ll fog it on down and shake hands with Mangan while I’m about it. This town looks like a gold rush was on.”

“Oh, we’re a tiny concern compared with some you’ll see before the job’s completed,” Mangan replied. “But how is the ranch?—and—and Miss Canby?”

“Oh, ranch is there yet,” and Squawtooth grinned through his patriarchal beard. “And Manzanita’s flip as ever. Gettin’ purtier every day, by golly! Don’t know where she’ll stop. She was talkin’ about ye only t’other day, and wishin’ ye’d hurry up an’ move out on the desert.”

“Good! And I assure you we’re anxious enough to get there, too. But this represents only about three fourths of our outfit. The rest is coming in to-morrow from a little clean-up job in Utah. So we’re waiting for them, and will all move out together. Let me see—it’s two months since I was at Squawtooth, isn’t it?” Mangan laughed. “I’ll never forget the first day when I drove up with the engineers in the buckboard, and Miss Canby told me what she thought of railroads and railroad builders. At first, you know, she didn’t realize that I was one of the contractors who were coming to desecrate her beloved desert. Did she tell you about it?”

“Oh, yes. She told the world about it. Manzanita’s funny that way. She was born at Squawtooth—in a saddle, she says—and she don’t like any other place on earth. She don’t like railroads ner autos ner flyin’ machines, ner any o’ the modern tricks. And she don’t like neighbors, either. Just wants to ride and ride forever over the desert, and the furder she c’n look without seein’ anything but what the Almighty put there the better she likes it. And as for your railroad runnin’ right through Squawtooth—say, she was wild as a loco Indian. But she’s calmed down now. She took a likin’ to ye, Mr. Mangan, and I guess that’s what made her change her mind.”

“I’m certainly glad to hear you say that last, Mr. Canby.” Hunt Mangan’s face was a little red. “I—I formed a high opinion of your daughter during the few days in which you folks at Squawtooth showed us such royal hospitality. I hated to have her so sore at me for being a party to the desecration of her adored solitudes. I consider her a remarkable young woman.”

“She’s worse than that!” Squawtooth replied, with a slight frown of abstraction.

Outside, across the street, a freight train stopped before the depot. Cautiously the door of a box car slid open, and two hobos looked out, and up and down the track, then dropped to the ground and hurried away.

Squawtooth Canby, who had observed through the fly-specked hotel window, chuckled.

“See them tramps get outa that box car?” he asked Mangan. “Purty slick, some o’ them fellas.”

“Stay here a day and you’ll see hundreds of them,” laughingly replied Hunt Mangan. “They’re drifting in by dozens and twenties. The train crews are not hard on them, for they know they’re beating it in here to work. Tramps—stiffs, as we call ’em—form the backbone of railroad construction, you know.”

“I didn’t know tramps worked at all,” said Canby.

“You’ll know more about them before the steel is laid across Squawtooth,” observed Mangan. “There are tramps and tramps.”

“Here comes them two into the hotel,” remarked the cowman.

“They’re coming to see me about jobs, no doubt. Well, they’ve struck the right place. If they’re old-timers I can use them. But I hate to break new men in. And there’s little need to just now—there are plenty of stiffs all up and down the line.”

He swiveled toward the two, who had entered and now approached the desk.

“Well, fellows,” he said lightly, “what’s the good word from up the line?”

“Hello, Mr. Mangan,” returned one of the tramps, speaking out of the corner of his mouth and grinning good-humoredly.

Mangan rose to his feet “Well, if it isn’t Halfaman Daisy!” he ejaculated, and strode around Canby to grip the hobo’s hand. “Tickled to death to see you, old-timer! Where did you blow from?”

“Aw, I was over in Nebrasky with a little gypo outfit,” Halfaman said bashfully. “I heard some o’ the gaycats talkin’ about the Gold Belt Cut-off, out here in Cal, and when they slipped it that you folks had a piece of ’er I hit the blinds straight out. How’s chances, Mr. Mangan?”

“Best in the world, old-timer—best in the world,” Hunt Mangan assured him. “I’d fire a man to put you behind one of our teams. Let’s see—you drove Jack and Ned on snap down on that little Arkansas job last time you were with us, eh?”

“That’s right, Mr. Mangan.”

“Well, by George, you can have a snap team on this job, if you want it! I’ve got three big white Percherons just breaking into snap work. Under five years old, all three of ’em. Want to take a shot?”

“Sure do, bossman. She listens good to me. When you say a horse is a horse he’s a horse. But say, Mr. Mangan, I—I got a pal that wants a job, too.”

“This man here?”

“Yes, bossman. And take it from me, he’s one good scout.”

“Good skinner, did you say?” queried Hunter Mangan.

“Well—I said ‘good scout;’ but I’ll bet he’s a good skinner, too. If he ain’t, I’ll make him one.”

“I’ll say he’d have a good instructor, Halfaman. But you know me. I’m a crank about good men. I pay well and I feed the best, and I treat a man white from the word go. Therefore I expect—and always get—the best stiffs on the line. So if your side kick is there, he’s on.”

Both Mangan and Canby had been keenly watching the man who accompanied Halfaman Daisy. While he was strong and well-built and bronzed, and had a fearless but kindly eye, he looked anything but a railroad stiff.

“Well, Mr. Mangan,” Halfaman was saying, “he’s an educated plug, this Ike; and I’ll bet he could do lots o’ things better’n chasin’ Jack an’ Ned.”

“That may be true, but it happens that we don’t need anything but skinners. Let him speak for himself, Halfaman. Step out here, old-timer. Can you knock Jack and Ned in the collar to suit the worst crank in the business?”

The prospective teamster smiled. “I can’t truthfully say that I’m an expert skinner,” he admitted. Halfaman, greatly disturbed, was nudging him with an elbow. “I’ve had quite a little to do with horses and mules, but I can’t say that I can handle them as I’ve seen some men do it.”

“Uh-huh. Well, that’s a frank confession, anyway. Most men don’t admit their shortcomings so readily when applying for a job. Well, I’m sorry—but we’ve got a fine lot of railroad stock—all young—and I hate to risk ruining them by breaking in new men on them. It doesn’t take long for a green skinner to put the fixings to a young team—you know that, Halfaman. Sorry, old-timer, but——”

“Now, looky here, Mr. Mangan,” put in Halfaman. “You ’n’ me’s good friends. This Jasper is me pal; and if he can’t get on with me, stuff’s off. Now you c’n give um somethin’ to do, I know. Come on, Mr. Mangan.”

“You old beggar!” Mangan laughed; then he wrinkled his brow. “Wait a minute,” he said. “I’ve just thought of something.”

He went to the old-fashioned telephone back of the hotel counter and whirled the crank in a signal ring. Presently he spoke to somebody, then returned and said:

“I’ve got a job for your pal, Halfaman. The cooks can use another flunky. If he wants to tackle that, at thirty-five and, he’s got a job.”

Halfaman looked inquiringly at his friend.

“I’ll try anything once,” said the other.

“You’ve both got jobs, then,” Hunter Mangan concluded, turning briskly to his desk. “Let’s see—what’s that impossible name of yours, Halfaman?”

“Rub it in!” grinned the new snap driver. “Make me spill it before everybody! You know it’s Phinehas.”

Hunter Mangan, in high good nature, chuckled and wrote the name.

“And yours?” He turned to the other.

“I call myself The Falcon,” came the quiet reply.

“Moniker, eh? But I can’t make out checks to ‘The Falcon,’ can I? What does your mother call you?”

There was a little space of silence. “I don’t use my right name, Mr. Mangan,” said the tramp. “Even Halfaman here doesn’t know it yet. He calls me Falcon.”

Mangan shrugged. “All right,” he said. “I know stiffs. None of my business. I’ll put it ‘Falcon the Flunky’—that do?”

“Good enough.”

Hunter Mangan wrote a little, then handed a card to each man. “Those’ll let you in the dining room here at the hotel,” he informed them. “I guess you can do the rest. And now you’d better get out and help with the loading up.”

Halfaman looked at his card, then at his employer, then up at the solemn-faced clock on the dirty wall. To the clock he spoke.

“It’s three o’clock,” he said. “And this rube dining room will be closed. But I saw a little short-order joint right around the corner, and—ahem!”

Hunter Mangan reached into his pocket and passed him a dollar.

“Get out o’ here!” he ordered.

Grinning, Halfaman pocketed the dollar and hastened out ahead of Falcon the Flunky.

The cattleman had been a silent listener, his blue eyes growing wider and wider as the conversation progressed. Now he looked in puzzlement at the contractor.

“So that’s the way ye treat ’em, eh?” he said in a tone of wonderment. “That’s kinda funny. You’re a college man, Mr. Mangan—I thought ye’d be kinda stuck up with common tramps.”

Mangan laughed heartily. “I see you know nothing about construction camps, Mr. Canby,” he said. “We’re one of the biggest democracies on earth, I guess. Can’t run ’em any other way. The stiff is as independent as a hog on ice. Get uppish with him, and you’ll see your mules standing idle in your corrals. Wait till we get established out there. You’ll change your mind about the men you are pleased to call tramps.”

“What’s a ‘flunky?’” asked Squawtooth.

“Cook’s helper—pot-walloper—roustabout waiter—dishwasher.”

“Oh, I see. Falcon the Flunky! Funny! Kind of a smart-lookin’ Jasper.”

“He’s seen better days,” remarked Mangan briefly.

“D’ye shell out many dollars like that right along?” was Canby’s next question.

“Hundreds of them—between jobs, like this.”

“Humph! Charge it up to ’em?”

“I should say not!”

“Jest put ’er down on the wrong side o’ the profit-an’-loss account, eh?”

“No—on the other side. You’ve got to be a good fellow in the railroad-construction game, Mr. Canby. It pays in the end.”

“I’ll punch cows,” observed Canby dryly.

The cattleman took his leave of the senior partner of the Mangan-Hatton Construction Company within the hour. He was to spend the night at a small ranch eight miles from Opaco, and ride to Squawtooth next day. He mounted the black, swung him around with a slight cant in the saddle, and galloped out of town, seeing little, thinking deeply.

The brooding mood held him until he had crossed the river and passed through a rocky defile in a chain of buttes. Then the yellow desert opened its arms to him, and he and the black horse became a moving atom in the vast waste.

He had ridden the fifteen miles of which he had told Mangan for the sole purpose of seeing that gentleman for a few minutes once more. He had met Mangan during the earlier part of the preliminary survey of the proposed railroad. A month previous to that meeting two of the main contractors had called at Squawtooth—Messrs. Demarest and Tillou, of the big firm of Demarest, Spruce & Tillou, of Minneapolis. It was Mr. Demarest who had told Squawtooth that Mangan very likely would decide to subcontract the piece of work nearest to Squawtooth, and that they would be neighbors. Demarest had spoken of the subcontractors as young, energetic men of means, and Squawtooth had become doubly interested.

Then Hunter Mangan himself had come, and at once old Squawtooth took a liking to him—not forgetting that descriptive phrase of Demarest, “young, energetic men of means.”

For be it known that Webster Canby, more commonly known as Squawtooth, the cattle king of the desert country, was an incorrigible snob. Aside from this he was pretty decent.

Squawtooth Canby’s wife had been dead ten years. The mistress of Squawtooth Ranch, then, was his daughter, Miss Manzanita Canby—a thorn in his flesh, the sting of which he both loved and deplored.

Manzanita Canby was nineteen; and if Squawtooth Canby was an incorrigible snob, she was an incorrigible roughneck. Three years of her young life had been spent away from Squawtooth while she was at school in Los Angeles. These three years had made no appreciable dent in her. She seemed to care for nothing in life beyond her “pa,” her brother Martin, a good saddle and saddle horse, and the illimitable sweep of desert and mountains; and on this rock all of her father’s hopes and ambitions for her had grounded.

She attended country dances and permitted fatuously grinning cow-punchers to swing her lithe figure in their arms. Of this her father highly disapproved. She spoke Mexican Spanish like a native, but beyond this her interest in the languages died. She cared nothing for well-to-do and good-looking young men whom her father coerced out from the cities under the pretext of a bear hunt in the mountains or a deer hunt through the foothill chaparral. To marry her to a man of means—now that this future was assured along these same lines—was the consuming ambition of Squawtooth Canby, an ambition that bade fair to be forever fruitless.

So the old cowman had jumped at the chance of having a young, energetic man of means—one Hunter Mangan—camped on Squawtooth Ranch with his big construction company. Surely this offered the chance of a lifetime to make his daughter see the error of her ways. And at the very beginning Manzanita had voiced her disapproval of a railroad being built over her beloved desert, and particularly through her beloved Squawtooth Ranch, and accordingly was averse to the man who had a hand in the desecration.

Old Squawtooth left no stone unturned to interest Manzanita in Hunter Mangan, and he was quite certain that to interest the young contractor in his wild and willful daughter was the least difficult part of his task.

Squawtooth was considered wealthy. Up at Piñon, in the chain of mountains that fringed the desert on the south, was his summer range—many thousand acres in the National Forest. In the winter the cows fed over a ninety-mile desert range, from Little Woman Butte to Squawtooth and beyond. Thus grass was practically assured for all seasons of the year, and for all time to come, unless the railroad should bring a flock of homesteaders down upon him. But if it did this it would automatically increase the value of his own holdings. It also would give him wonderful shipping facilities, both at Squawtooth and Little Woman Butte.

Yes, Squawtooth Canby was to become a big man, and Manzanita Canby must be thrown into the company of big men, so that she might pick the biggest of them and marry him. And Hunter Mangan seemed to be the man.

Everything was planned carefully, but still, as he rode along, the brow of Squawtooth Canby was corrugated. He could not shake off the presentiment that all of his strategic plans might fail because of the willingness of a slip of a girl called Manzanita.

CHAPTER III
THE DESERT

“LET’S go!” cried Hunter Mangan, seated in the saddle, and cupping his lean, strong hands about his mouth.

At the cry a four-mule team moved off with a load of tents and took to the road that wound through Opaco, across the bridge, and through the rocky defile to the desert. A six-up team of horses followed with a load of lumber. Teams pulling strings of six-wheeled scrapers fell in line. Two-mule teams, four-mule teams, six and eight-mule teams swung into the impressive procession and followed. And soon a parade a mile and a half long was trailing in a cloud of dust through open-mouthed Opaco.

Midway in the procession Halfaman Daisy draped himself over a high spring seat and looked indolently down on the slick backs of six young mules. A cigarette hung from his lip at the corner of his sagging good-natured mouth. Halfaman’s load consisted of ranges and commissary stores, and just behind him, on a huge bundle of canvas lay Falcon the Flunky, flat on his back, gazing serenely up into the dusty desert sky.

“‘And the children of Amram; Aaron and Moses and Miriam,’” quoted Halfaman drowsily. “‘The sons also of Aaron; Nadab and Abihu, Eleazar and Ithamar. Eleazar begat Phinehas’—that’s me—‘Phinehas begat Abishua.’ Abishua—that’s him! And I’m huntin’ him down—I’m on my way. I’m on the trail o’ the ‘Wing o’ the Crow’——

“Oh, I been a-down on-a the gumbo line,

A-skinnin’ mules when the weather’s fine,

A-shootin’ craps when the sun don’t shine,

An’ now I’m a-ramblin’ to that baby mine!

With the pay day—for me ba-bay!

With the pay day of that gumbo line!”

As a vocalist there was room for improvement in Mr. Halfaman Daisy, but he sang the old skinner’s song with a swing and gusto that entertained his lolling passenger.

“A-hikin’ through a camp on the ole S. P.,

A gypo queen she a-throwed a kiss at me!

The pay was a dollar, and the board cost three,

But I stuck till she beat it with the cook, Hop Lee—

And me pay day—oh, ba-bay!

And me pay day on the ole S. P.!

“How d’ye like that song, ol’-timer?” he drawlingly asked his friend.

“It’s interpretive, to say the least,” Falcon the Flunky vouchsafed.

“They’s a hundred and fifteen verses that I remember,” observed Halfaway, “but I’ll only spring ’em on you two or three at a time. Know what a gypo queen is?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of gypo queens, or shanty queens. A gypo man, or shanty man, as I understand it, is one who owns a very small, dilapidated construction outfit, and takes subcontracts in light work from a bigger subcontractor. His daughter—if he has a daughter—is usually in camp with him, and she flirts with the stiffs to keep ’em on the job, despite the poor grub and poor pay and long hours. Am I right?”

“Right as a fox,” Halfaman replied. “Say, you have been about the camps a little, ain’t you? Now, then—did you get an earful o’ my recent begattin’ remarks—pertickelerly the last, where I says: ‘Eleazar begat Phinehas. Phinehas begat Abishua?’”

“Yes, I heard.”

“And now another question, ol’-timer: You’re such an old head at the railroadin’ game, did you ever know anybody named Abishua?”

“I think not.”

“Uh-huh—I guess you’re right. It ain’t known generally that the bird I’m thinkin’ about is named Abishua. Only the members of his family and a few close friends—sounds like a newspaper tellin’ about a weddin’ or a funeral—only them know he’s got a Bible name like that. But his right front name is Abishua. And don’t forget that Phinehas begat Abishua. Phinehas—that’s me. And if I begat Abishua I’m a bigger Jasper than Abishua, ain’t I? Well, what I say goes. How ’bout it?”

“I am hoping,” remarked The Falcon dryly, “that if you keep on you you may tell me something.”

“Gi’me time, Jack—gi’me time,” retorted Halfaman. “Stick yer neck in th’ collar, there, ole tassel-tail! Gi’me time. So you’ve heard tell of gypo men and gypo queens, but you never heard of an Ike called Abishua. Well, then, did you ever hear of a gypo queen called Wing o’ the Crow?”

The Falcon turned on his side and looked down at Halfaman. “Wing o’ the Crow,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s picturesque. What about her?”

“Her is right. And Abishua begat Wing o’ the Crow. Believe me, ole Falcon, that was some begattin’!”

“Yes—go on.”

“Well, his name’s Jeddo—Abishua Jeddo. He’s a tall, bony shanty man with only one arm. And his eyes and his hair are black as a crow. So the stiffs monikered ’im ‘Jeddo the Crow.’ And what Jeddo the Crow begat is called Joy. She’s twenty-one years old, as dark as her dad; and say—you c’n look at her just as easy!

“Her ma’s dead. The girl was born in her dad’s gypo outfit, and she’s a gypo queen. But not like the rest of ’em. Oh, no! She don’t slip none of ’em a kiss on the side to keep ’em followin’ Jack and Ned for Jeddo the Crow. No, no! Get fresh with her, and she’ll bend a pick handle over your frontispiece. She works in the cook shack, waits table, washes the dishes, and then goes out and hitches up a team and moves dirt till mealtime again. Or she c’n stick pigs”—load scrapers without wheels, commonly called “slips”—“swing a drillin’ hammer, skin four-up or six-up or jerkline—do anything on a railroad grade, by golly! And purty! Say, am I gettin’ talkative?

“Well, anyway, she’s her dad’s right-hand man. Bein’ one-armed, he couldn’t run the outfit without Wing o’ the Crow. And now d’ye savvy where she gets that moniker! Ole Jeddo the Crow is shy a wing, but he’s got the girl. So she’s Wing o’ the Crow to the stiffs. And purty—— But now I know I’m gettin’ talkative!”

“You’re very entertaining,” admitted Falcon the Flunky. “But I’m curious to know what brought Jeddo the Crow and Wing o’ the Crow to your mind just now.”

“Huh! That’s easy! ‘Phinehas begat Abishua,’ and Abishua gotta do what Phinehas says. An’ ole Phinehas he says: ‘Jeddo the Crow he’s so reckless with giant powder and things he’s likely to lose his other wing. And he’d better prepare for it by gettin’ another wing in the family beforehand.’ That’s what Jeddo the Crow’s begatter says.”

“Oh-ho! I think I begin to understand. It may be that out over the desert there Wing o’ the Crow is in camp, waiting for her Phinehas.”

“Well, if she ain’t there now she’s gonta be soon. Say, mule, poke yer neck furder into that, will you? Gonta be soon, ole Falcon. And Phinehas crossed four States like a ramblin’ kid to be there, too.

“Oh, when I’m a-ramblin’ down to rest,
Just ramble me out into the Golden West,
On a ramblin’ train, on a ramblin’ quest.

To die like a rambler on the tramp queen’s breast!

On pay day—oh, ba-bay!

On a pay day lay me down to rest!”

“Is it all settled between you and the young lady of the picturesque moniker, Halfaman?”

“Settled! I’ve chased them crows from coast to coast! Worked for half wages and et two suppers in one night! Beans? I hate the sight o’ beans—unless Wing o’ the Crow boils ’em! Settled! I’ve lost weight and ambition and everything to get things settled. But on this job, boy, I’m gonta make one big effort to nail the Wing o’ the Crow to a convenient tree. I won’t be with Mangan long after Jeddo the Crow gets perched out there, ’cause I gotta get that gypo queen this time or lose me reason. I’m what you might call distraught right now.

“Oh, a-Jeddo the Crow he’s a gypo man,
Gotta sling-bloke harness and a movin’ van,
Gotta three ole mules and a wheeler pan,

But I’ll stick around forever if I can-can-can!

Without a pay day—oh, ba-bay!

Without a pay day from that gypo man!

“I didn’t just make that up. Whoever did I don’t savvy. But I guess he was nuts about Wing o’ the Crow like I am. And, say, when a plug tells the truth right out like I do, he sure is nuts, ain’t he? Oh, well, at the worst I’m a ramblin’ kid. Now, I’ll say this is some desert—what, ol’-timer?”

The Falcon looked and gloried in the sight.

Away to the east appeared a hazy line of irregular calico buttes. To the south and west the pine-studded ridges of the mountains rose. Between them, level as a dance floor and covered sparsely with yucca palms, bronze greasewood, sage, and innumerable dry lakes, lay the colorful desert baking in the sun. Now and then a lone coyote stood staring, then slunk away mysteriously through the low growth. Tecolote, the wise-eyed little desert owl, perched himself on the dirt heap beside his hole in the ground and scolded at them, brave as a lion. Lean jack rabbits hopped away indifferently through the avenues of the greasewood. Halfaman pointed ahead with the long whip that he never seemed to need for another purpose.

“I think we’re makin’ for the saddle in that range o’ buttes,” he said. “That’s where the ole road comes through and hits the desert—our old road, boy. I think Squawtooth Ranch is about in there. That’s where we’re gonta camp, I hear. Boy, boy! Pass me that ole water bag. Make haste or I die! ‘And Phinehas begat Abishua!’”

Higher and higher mounted the yellow dust cloud. On and on into the mocking desert forged the wagon train, a long, winding snake whose joints were men and teams and vehicles—a mere worm wriggling slowly over a yellow carpet in the banquet hall of the gods.

Evening on the desert, with the mountains casting their long shadows athwart the rapidly cooling land. Three black specks, far apart, but drawing together slowly at a converging point between them and the squat adobe house at Squawtooth, with its sheltering cottonwoods and its oasis of green alfalfa set like an emerald in a sheet of yellow brass.

The three black specks grow larger and larger—two galloping horses, the one a pinto, the other a bay, and a mouse-colored pack burro—the California chuck wagon. A girl rides the pinto, a boy the bay, the burro trotting ahead of the latter. The boy and girl wave their hands at each other and gallop on. The ponies neigh greetings; the burro adds his mournful “Aw-ee-aw!” Two of the specks now become one. Side by side in the cow pony trot, Manzanita and Martin Canby ride home together from a day on the desert, the burro, with Martin’s camp outfit, trotting ahead.

Manzanita was colored almost as brown as the stumpy trunk of the beautiful shrub after which her mother had named her. Her hair was chestnut. She usually wore it in two girlish braids that reached to the bottom of her saddle skirts. Her eyes were hazel. With the possible exception of the waxen plume of the Spanish bayonet, there was nothing prettier nor more graceful on the desert; and the hill-billies and desert rats of the male persuasion would not have admitted the exception. One thing certain, the plume of the Spanish bayonet was far more dignified than its animate beauty rival. She rode with the ease of an amazon in her silver-mounted man’s saddle—a prize won at a rodeo for horsewomanship—and carried a holstered Colt .38 on a .45 frame for company. She wore a man’s hat with a rattlesnake band, an olive drab shirt, fringed leather chaps, and riding boots.

Martin Canby was just a freckle-faced, chapped, spurred, sombreroed kid of the desert—live as an eel, all grins, good nature, and backwardness. He was three years younger than Manzanita.

“Well, kid, did you find those strays?” asked the girl.

“Yes—a dozen of ’em. That old breechy bunch with them calves. They’d wandered down the mountainside and was makin’ it for Caldron Cañon. Ask me why? I dunno. No grass down there like’s up on top. Cows don’t know nothin’.”

“Your speech is artistic, mi hermano. Say ‘Cows don’t know anything.’”

“‘Cows don’t know anything,’” repeated Mart dutifully. “Has pa got back from Opaco?”

“Quién sabe! Hadn’t when I left home. I don’t expect him before to-night.”

“What’d he go for, anyway? Said he wanted to see ‘Flip’ Globe. What’d he wanta see Flip for?”

“I haven’t the remotest idea, Martie.”

“I have,” Mart declared. “Not what he wanted to see Flip about, but what took ’im to Opaco. I met ‘Splicer’ Kurtz this afternoon. He was comin’ down from the mountains for somethin’—I forget what. Said he heard yer friend Mangan had got into Opaco with his outfit. If that’s so, pa went to see Mangan. What’ll ye bet?”

“Nothing. I’m positive he rode in for the sole purpose of seeing Mr. Mangan and that the Flip Globe story was—well, just a story.”

“Pa Squawtooth sure took to that Mangan, didn’t he, Nita?”

“Si, señor. Yo penso.”

“And I know why! I know why!” Mart sang boyishly, wrinkling his snubbed and peeling nose at his sister.

“Oh, you do! Well, let me tell you something, old kid—he’s on a wild-goose chase. This Hunter Mangan seems to be a pretty square sort of a fellow. But that ends it so far as I’m concerned. Between you and me, podhead, I don’t dislike Mr. Mangan nearly so much as I pretended I do to Pa Squawtooth. That is, personally, you understand. But I do detest what he represents—the railroad through Squawtooth. I don’t want it there; and if I had my way it would never be there. Pa Squawtooth, old money snob that he is, thinks it the finest thing on earth, of course. It’s a wonder he didn’t try to have it through the front yard, with a depot before the door! It’ll ruin my desert—that’s what it’ll do! Soon folks will be moving in and taking up land, and—oh, dear!—it makes me sick to think of it!”

“Aw, what d’you care? We’ll have lots fun when the camps get here.”

“You will, maybe, but I won’t. And furthermore, Mr. Wiseman Pod, you don’t know whether even you will have fun, as you so youthfully express it. What do you know about camps like that? You know nothing of the world that you haven’t seen between a cow’s horns, muchacho. Maybe you’ll have fun, and maybe you won’t.”

Mart grasped his saddle horn and leaned toward the ground, hooking the counter of one of his high-heeled cowboy boots about the cantle. Mart had been still entirely too long. With ease he grasped a bunch of the plant called squawtooth, which gave the district its name, and five spears of which, shaped like the ribs of a fan, was the Squawtooth brand. Mart held on for dear life while his pony polled. The slender, fluted, rushlike spears were tough and held tenaciously; and next instant Mart was unhorsed and standing on his head in the sand.

His sister shouted with derisive laughter. “You’re a goose!” she cried. “Watch me!”

Leaning low in the saddle, she set her mare at a gallop toward a bunch of squawtooth that upreared itself from a bed of fine desert sand. As the pinto neared it Manzanita swung toward the earth, hooked a heel about her cantle, and grasped the plant as the mare sped by.

This was an old game of the two. The squawtooth was tenacious; sometimes they were able to snap it off, sometimes otherwise. If not, and they refused to loose their hold——

Well, in this instance, too, there was a flutter of leather chaps, a girl spinning head down in air, and a smothered plup in the sand bed.

A hundred yards apart brother and sister sat on the ground and watched their horses and the burro, the latter with his shaggy head down and playfully kicking to right and left, racing off toward home without them.

“Le’s walk!” shouted Mart. “Darn that burro! There goes my fryin’ pan!”

The girl brushed the sand from her hair and ears and eyebrows.

“All right!” she sputtered. “And there goes your bacon, too! And that last looked like a loaf of bread. As I was saying,” she continued serenely when he came up to her, “you know nothing whatever about railroad-construction camps. Neither do I, and I’m content in my ignorance. I know just what pa means to do. He’ll invite Mr. Mangan and any of the rest of the bosses that he thinks are big bugs to the house; and he’ll do everything in his power to make me interested in one of them—Mangan, of course, since he’s supposed to be the wealthiest of all of them. Oh, he makes me sick! Say—wait a minute; my boot’s full of sand.”

She sat down, removed her elaborately stitched tampico-top riding boot, shook the sand from it, and dusted her stocking. Mart waited, chewing absently on a spear of squawtooth. Mart had been told by the Indians that to chew squawtooth was good for kidney trouble. Mart did not know that he had kidney trouble, and he did not like the bitter taste of squawtooth. But considering that an ounce of prevention is better than a pound of cure, he chewed it all day long when riding the desert and mountains after cows.

“There! That feels better.”

Manzanita had slipped her boot on again and removed her silver spurs. Side by side they plodded on through the clinging sand.

“Darn them caballos!” muttered Mart.

“You should say, ‘Darn those caballos,’ brother mine.”

“‘Darn those caballos,’” seriously repeated Mart, chewing his squawtooth and stooping to recover his frying pan.

“But I’ll fix Pa Squawtooth,” Manzanita went on. “I’ve got it all planned out. He can’t sell me like one of his beef stock to any moneyed man. I’m going to revolt.”

“What d’ye mean revolt?”

“Can you keep your young face closed?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, then, I’m going to make monkeys out of Pa Squawtooth and any one who contemplates aiding and abetting him in the crime of making a lady out of me. I’m going to pretend to fall right in with the big scheme of getting friendly with the men in the camps. I’m going to pick me a railroader and make up to him. Listen, kid brother—I’m going to pick out the least prominent person in the whole shooting match—the man who gets the lowest pay of all of them, the scum of the camps. And I’ll at least give him the time of his young life. Say, won’t they be sick, podhead! Try to make a monkey out of me! We’ll see who’s a monkey by the time I’m through. Mart, I’m going to be a regular little devil! You watch!”

“That’ll be fun,” Mart observed sagely. “Who you gonta make out like you’re stuck on, Nita? Say, that was my side o’ bacon! Here she is half covered with sand. That ole skate o’ yours stepped on her!”

“It’s all right. Dust it off, and it’ll be good as ever. Sand’s good for your craw. It’s a wonder you wouldn’t learn how to throw a diamond hitch on a pack, Mart. But listen: Mr. Mangan told me all about the camps, and the different kinds of work the men do. I’m going to make friends with the man who wallops the pots in the Mangan-Hatton cook tent. I don’t care who he is or what he’s like. Pa says I’m a roughneck, and I’ll at least show him he’s right about that. I’m going to get stuck—as you so vulgarly put it—on the helper of Mangan’s cook. They call him a flunky, Mr. Mangan said. Now you keep that under your hat, will you?”

“Sure,” Mart promised, still taking his kidney treatment.

Then suddenly he stopped in his tracks and pointed across the darkening desert toward Opaco. “What’s that big dust cloud?” he wondered. “Can’t be a whirlwind—she’s too big. Say, Nita! That’s Mangan’s outfit a-comin’. What’ll ye bet?”

CHAPTER IV
CAMPED

NIGHT had cast its black poncho over the desert when the Mangan-Hatton outfit completed its ninety-mile journey from Opaco. Up close to the chain of calico buttes that upreared from the level land as if a giant child had piled them there in play, the wagon train was halted.

It was two hours beyond their regular feeding time, and the disappointed mules brayed ceaselessly. One minute’s delay in this important matter is sufficient to cause a railroad mule to tell the world about it, and two hours of infraction of the rules brought forth a protest proportionately heartrending. The vehicles were drawn up in a hollow square, and teams were unharnessed and fed inside the barrier, which served as a corral. There was necessarily a great hubbub, for there was no moon and nobody seemed to know where anything was. Orders were bawled right and left, amended, countermanded, and disregarded. Men swore intermittently, especially when they came in contact with a nest of desert cacti, unseen in the dark, but quite able to make its presence known. Teams stamped and eagerly crunched their feed. Men fell over piles of harness and kicked things—sometimes to their regret.

A calmer crew presided over a range set up temporarily in the sand. Here was little confusion, for all had seen to it that the cooks and their flunkies were supplied with provisions and the necessary tools.

Falcon the Flunky was greatly in evidence, slicing loaf after loaf of baker’s bread by the flickering light of gasoline torches, cutting ham into what he tried to convince himself were thin slices, carrying bucket after bucket of water from the tank wagon, conveniently backed up to the scene of these culinary activities, and staking the range with greasewood roots foraged from the desert which had heaved them up. It is said of the desert that there one digs his wood and climbs for his water; which is quite true, since the roots of the greasewood make better fuel than the branches, and springs are invariably in the foothills, on higher land.

Already Falcon the Flunky was becoming familiar with his task. The outfit had camped several times since leaving Opaco, and he had learned much.

The head cook—or chef, as he is dignified by the stiffs—was an old-time camp cook, and one of the best in railroad-construction circles. “Lardo the Cook” was a hard worker and a whirlwind for speed—tall, bony-faced, and paste-skinned—and, furthermore, he was a good fellow. There was a second cook called “Baldy,” and two more flunkies called “Rambo the Bouncer” and “Strip.”

Not long after the stock had been fed and watered Falcon the Flunky, at Lardo’s command, beat upon a dishpan with his knuckles and shouted: “Come get it!” And like a pack of hungry wolves the strangers on the desert swooped down upon ham and eggs and cottage-fried potatoes, for the unaccustomed coldness of the desert night and the delay had made them ravenous.

They sat on the ground about the range and held plates and coffee cups, while Falcon the Flunky and the other two piled victuals in the plates and poured steaming coffee in the cups. Over the range the cooks worked speedily, frying more and more and more.

Hunter Mangan, with his walking boss and his bookkeeper, sat with the rest on the ground and ate as greedily as anybody. Mangan’s eyes followed Falcon the Flunky as he hustled about supplying the hungry men, always ready, always willing, silent when asking some one if he wanted anything more, patiently efficient.

“That’s quite a flunky you’ve got, Hunt,” remarked the walking boss, a big, fat, red-faced giant named Reynolds. “Now, that’s the way I like to see a man act. He savvies that these stiffs are half starved and that most of ’em have been drivin’ teams all day, while he’s been only ridin’ and lookin’ at the scenery. He can’t do enough for ’em. Where’d that bird blow from?”

“He blew into Opaco with Halfaman Daisy,” replied Hunt Mangan. “That’s all I know about him—except that he’s not a stiff.”

Reynolds chuckled in his fat, rollicking way and held out his coffee cup toward Falcon the Flunky, who reached him promptly with his big copper coffeepot.

“What else, now?” asked the flunky, when the coffee was poured. “Better have another egg. No? And how about you, Mr. Mangan?”

“That ain’t so bad,” observed Reynolds, “and he ain’t handshakin’ either. He says the same thing to the stiffs. I like the feller’s face, Hunt. He savvies a lot, that bird.”

“I’ve got my eye on him,” Hunt Mangan said; “I like to see a man put his heart into what he doesn’t consider a very good job. That’s the boy I’m going to watch. Mangan & Hatton can usually find a place for men like that.”

“I’ll say so,” Steve agreed. “Where’d Halfaman blow from, did he say?”

“Yes, I was talking with him last night. He’s been over in Nebraska on the G. & N. M. job. Said he heard we were going to have a piece out here, and he hit the road west. He thinks I swallowed it, I suppose. Why should he leave the G. & N. M. job to come out here? There are some good old contractors on that job, and he knows all of them and can get about what he wants there. But he blew, and beat it all the way out here for the love of Mangan-Hatton. Huh!”

“Then why did he come. Hunt?”

“Remember when he was with us on the T. P. in Texas?”

“Yes.”

“And remember who was subbing off us on the south—camped right next to us?”

“Sure—Jeddo the Crow. Oh, I get you now! Jeddo’ll be on this job soon, hey? And with him will be Wing o’ the Crow! So that’s the big idea. You can’t hold Halfaman when Jeddo gets out here.”

“I thought I might if I give him a snap team,” said Hunt. “Jeddo the Crow will probably camp right next door to us. Halfaman can have a good job, and not be a mile away from the girl at that. I’d like to hold him. He’s a bear with a team.”

“Good man, all right. Popular with the rest o’ the stiffs, too. And that means a lot. How ’bout that black-haired little kid of Jeddo’s, Hunt? Is she a regular shanty queen of the old school?”

“No, Steve. She’s mighty pretty, too. And work! She’s as good as a man. If that fellow Jeddo had any pep and would cut the booze he’d make good. But he’s a thorough gypo man—doesn’t care, I guess. Just loves the life and is content to drag along with a few old skates and a collection of junk for tools. But Wing o’ the Crow is different. She takes after her mother, I suppose. Mrs. Jeddo was a pretty nice little woman, mild and ladylike and uncomplaining. Say, it wouldn’t be a bad idea for all concerned if Halfaman could horn in there. He and that girl would move dirt.”

“Uh-huh,” agreed Steve.

Soon the camp was rolled in blankets after the meal, and only the flunkies worked under the gasoline torches. Later they, too, lay on the hard ground, looking up at the desert stars, speculating on their future in this wilderness before they dropped asleep.

The mules and horses crunched their alfalfa hay, or rested their weary bodies in the white sand. The night wind of the desert blew softly through the chevaux-de-frise of the yuccas, which moaned dismally. Over on the summit of a rocky butte a coyote laughed at his mate, who laughed derisively back from another eminence. Falcon the Flunky lay under a wagon, wrapped in a quilt, his head on his rolled-up coat. If there was a mystery in the line of Falcon the Flunky it was now in the background of his mind; for he was dreaming that Lardo the Cook had ordered him to slice a thousand hams, with no slice a hair’s breadth thicker than the rest. The task kept him rather busy.

At six o’clock the following morning Webster Canby and his brood of five were at breakfast. Besides Mart and Manzanita, the brood for the present consisted of “Crip” Richey and “Limpy” Pardoe—gentlemen of the saddle—and Mrs. Ehrhart, the housekeeper. The cows were on summer pasture at this time of year, up on the mountain meadows, and the remainder of the vaqueros were with them at the camp called Piñon—Ed Chazzy, “Lucky” Gilfoyle, Splicer Kurtz, and “Toddlebike” Todd. Pardoe and Richey belonged up there, and were at the home ranch for only twenty-four hours. Mart Canby, too, belonged up there; but for the present Mart was interested in the new railroad camps and had decided, with the consent of a lenient father, to “get an eyeful” before returning to the altitudes. Miss Manzanita Canby was always anywhere she wished to be at any time she wished, so long as the pinto could get her there in conformance with these wishes.

“Did you see ’em, Manzy?” Mart asked his sister, who had just taken her seat at the foot of the table, for Mrs. Ehrhart occupied the head.

“Yes,” Manzanita replied. “And goodness knows they all but cover the desert! Did you ever see so many wagons and horses and mules and things?”

“By the way, Crip,” said Squawtooth to one of the vaqueros, “you want to have Ed kill a couple o’ steers and get ’em down to Mr. Mangan by to-night. I don’t know how often he’ll want beef after that, and I guess he don’t know himself just yet. But find out if you can when you deliver this, and try and not disappoint ’em.”

Manzanita winked at Mart. “That’s right, Pa Squawtooth,” she cut in. “Take care of ’em the best you know how. We don’t have such close neighbors often. Muy bueno!”

Squawtooth gravely stroked his long beard and eyed his beloved daughter speculatively.

“Still sore about us havin’ a railroad?” he asked.

“Us? That’s about right, Pa Squawtooth! Oh, I don’t know. I guess not. Mart says he and I are going to have lots of fun at the camps.”

“Oh, is that so! Well, Mr. Mart will be foggin’ it for Piñon when he’s had what fun his dad thinks is good for him. There’s drift fence needs buildin’ up there, ain’t they, Limpy?”

Limpy could not answer immediately, for Mrs. Ehrhart’s biscuits were large, and Limpy was of that school of epicureans who hold that half a biscuit constitutes a bite, regardless of the biscuit’s over-all dimensions. But he could nod—and did so, glancing guiltily at Manzanita, for he knew she was not of his school. Anyway, her little mouth, which always looked as if she had just kissed that brilliant desert flower called Indian paint brush, would have excluded her from the half-a-biscuit-at-a-bite cult.

“I don’t like to build drift fence, pa,” Mart told his father. “Can’t I go on herd when I go back, and let some one that likes to build drift fence do it?”

By this time Limpy had proved the efficacy of his school, and was able to remark:

“They ain’t no such animal.”

At which Manzanita laughed—whereupon Limpy and his dining chair were transported to the edge of a silver-tipped cloud, which is a giddy perch indeed.

“What are you going to do to-day, Mart?” asked the girl.

“Go over to Mangan’s camp, o’ course, and see the stiffs.”

“What do you know about stiffs, I’d like to know!”

“I’d like to know what he knows about them mulies and their calves that drifted down toward Caldron Cañon,” dryly put in Squawtooth.

“I got ’em,” Mart proclaimed. “I headed ’em onto the Canterbury grade and drifted ’em up as far as Shirttail Bend.”

“Wonderful! And they told ye they’d go on back up to Piñon then, did they?”

“Aw, they will! You know they will, pa. They always do that.”

“Nice cows, son—dootiful cows. Like my son and daughter. Well, if they don’t you can throw the diamond hitch on Mono and get in yer little saddle and stay out till they do. An’ in the meantime, I reckon the stiffs can take care of ’emselves.”

“All right! That’s a go. You le’ me stick around here till I see what’s to be seen, an’ if Crip or Limpy says them cows ain’t back when they bring down Mangan’s meat, I’ll go shoot ’em back.”

“I’d say Mr. Mangan, if I was you, son,” complacently corrected his father.

“Mr. Mangan,” dutifully parroted Mart. He had learned that to correct himself when corrected by his so-called betters was to forestall unpleasant argument.

“When are you going over to the railroad camp, muchacho?” Mart’s sister wanted to know.

“Just as soon as I eat this biscuit and Mis’ Ehrhart clears her throat like she does when she thinks everybody’s et enough.”

Everybody laughed at this.

“You little nut!” cried Manzanita, and, throwing her arms about her wriggling brother, kissed him on his blistered nose.

Limpy thoughtfully studied his own nose and no doubt wished that it were blistered. Crip looked at the bottom of his coffee cup and sighed.

“Well, clear your throat, Mrs. Ehrhart!” cried the girl. “Everybody’s through. I’m going with Mart.”

“Who said you was?”

“Were, hermano.”

“Were.”

“I did. Can’t I, pa?”

“Certainly, Nita. Mr. Mangan’ll be more than glad to have you. He told me as much.”

Limpy decided to kill Mangan on sight, if his look meant anything.

“Tell Mr. Mangan I’ll be over pretty soon,” said Squawtooth.

They rose from the table together.

“Now don’t bother Mr. Mangan, Mart,” cautioned his father.

“Huh! How ’bout Manzanita?” retorted Mart. Whereupon Manzanita punished him by pinching his arm.

“Your sister’s older than you, Mart, and she’s a lady,” said Squawtooth Canby.

“Huh! I don’t want no ladies in mine if she’s one,” said Mart.

“If I thought you meant that,” said his dad, “there wouldn’t be enough quirts on the rancho to last out what I’d do to you. But seein’ you’re a Canby, I reckon you just slipped a little. Go on now before the both of you get my goat.”

“Not till I’ve kissed you where your mouth ought to be!” cried his daughter, parting his heavy mustache and planting a kiss on his lips.

Then Manzanita and Mart raced from the old one-story adobe to the stables to saddle up. They raced in the saddling, mounted, and raced to the corral gate, and out of the yard to the desert, where they continued to race over the yellow stretches toward the big dirty-white tents that were rising one by one against the background of the calico buttes.

Although nineteen and sixteen respectively, these children of the desert were not so sophisticated as are young persons of the same age born and reared in cities, and they acted like sixteen and thirteen, which they were perhaps in worldly experience. It seemed to their doting, gray-headed father that neither ever would grow up. And he did not know that he wished it to occur too soon, in Mart’s case, anyway. But Manzanita was growing altogether too pretty and susceptible to be allowed to dance with cow-punchers and penniless prospectors much longer, for Squawtooth knew the way of a man and a maid, and the girl showed a marked preference for the chapped and ragged-shirted man of the plains. She was of age and her own mistress—and girls married young in the cattle country.

“I’m going to do it to-day, Martie!” came his sister’s shout on the morning wind. “I’m going to snub Mangan and make friends with the dirtiest flunky in the bunch! You watch, old kid!”

“Mr. Mangan!” shrilly corrected Mart from behind, for his snip-nosed bay was no match for Manzanita’s pinto mare.

CHAPTER V
VISITORS

THE stock of the Mangan-Hatton Company were soft from the trip by train from Utah, and the pull through the desert sand on top of that had worn them out. Therefore Hunter Mangan decided to let them rest out their first day in the new camp, while the men devoted themselves to making their coming sojourn at the foot of the buttes as comforting as possible.

Early they went to work and before the two young Canbys swooped down upon them, the large dining tent and the cook tent were up, together with several bunk tents and the commissary, which last was as big and as round as a good-sized circus tent. Now the men were at work on the stable tent—a mere “top” of huge proportions. At their portable forges the smiths were busy shoeing horses, sharpening drills, and mending broken implements. Freighters and axmen had gone to the distant mountains for piñon pine fir, and mountain mahogany for fuel, as the desert greasewood supply soon would prove insufficient for the big camp’s needs. In the commissary tent the clerks arranged their stock of goods. In the office tent the bookkeeper, his assistant, and the timekeeper fussed with their appliances and books. In the cook tent and dining tent the cooks and flunkies worked, setting up the long oilcloth-covered tables, mending benches broken by travel, building shelves, and sorting out provisions.

“Look who’s here!” remarked Lardo the Cook to Falcon the Flunky, as the former came in from the tank wagon. “Couple o’ Alkali Ikes just made it in on de Jack-an’-Ned Short Line. A Ike an’ a Ikerooess. Couple o’ splinters offen sumpin—a he one an’ a goil. Some Moll, I’ll say—only she wears leadder pants. Lamp de bot’ of ’em, Jade. Scenery—no foolin’!”

Falcon the Flunky stepped to the cook-tent door and saw the new arrivals shaking hands with Hunter Mangan, fresh and immaculate in neat khaki and leather puttees.

“Wot about her, ol’-timer? There—wot?”

“She’s certainly pretty,” agreed The Falcon in his perpetually grave manner. “Brother and sister, I should say. They seem to be acquainted with Mangan.”

“Guess dey b’long to dat ranch over dere in dem cottonwoods an’ jungles—hey? Ain’t dat wot dey call Squawtoot’?”

“I believe so.”

“An ancient hick wid w’iskers—hey? I seen um in dat Opacko boig talkin’ to de squeeze.”

“Oh, is that he?” observed The Falcon. “I believe I saw him, too, when I applied for my job. Wore silver-mounted spurs and chaps—quite a picturesque old Westerner.”

“Say, kid, youse sure c’n spill de lingo,” Lardo commented. “Now if I’d ’a’ been a-tellin’ ’bout dat ole Ezekiel I’d ’a’ said: ‘An ole mattress robber wid his pins in leadder stovepipes an’ one geed lamp.’ Pictur-es-que, was he? I’ll say he was worse’n dat. But wot about dis jane—give us de dope on her, Jack! Like’s not she’s dis ole cocklebur’s dawter.”

“She’s pretty,” repeated The Falcon, his eyes on the girl.

“Any ole snipe shooter could say dat!” retorted Lardo the Cook. “I done it meself—easy. Youse’re a disappointment on dat deal, Jack. Well, I guess youse’ve contrackted an eyeful, now. I didn’t tell youse to make a telescope outa yerself. Find me dose drip pans I was huntin’, and den fasten yerself to de crank o’ dat meat grinder. We’ll shoot ’em hash fer dinner, ketch-as-ketch-can, an’ if dey don’t like it dey c’n tell Lardo de Cook. And dat’s sudden deat’! I killed more gaycats for kickin’ about hash dan fer any udder reason, Jack.”

Falcon the Flunky returned to his work, but the girl that he had seen had aroused his interest. She was as pretty as the little desert flowers he had enjoyed so much on the trip across the wastes. She looked like a wild-West moving picture actress as she sat there in her elaborate saddle, chapped and booted and spurred, talking to Mangan, except that—well, Falcon the Flunky did not particularly care for actresses. The girlish freshness of her appealed to him most.

He hunted for and found the dripping pans, made sure that the cold meat they had brought along had not spoiled, and began grinding it into one of the pans for hash. It requires a great deal of grinding to make hash for a construction camp, and Falcon the Flunky was still engaged in turning the crank three quarters of an hour later when, at the cook-tent door, he heard Mangan say:

“And this is the cook tent, Miss Canby. Go right in. Lardo is a wild man, but we’ll watch him while you’re around.”

The flaps of the tent were pulled aside to frame a picture of a girl in chaps and boots and Stetson. Then said the picture, to whoever was outside at her back:

“Oh, I want to see the flunky first,” said the girl. “I’ve never seen a flunky.”

She was looking directly at the patient grinder of cooked beef. And in that instant the grinder wished fervently that he was anything but a flunky.

Now a boy with wide eyes and a blistered snub nose joined the picture. It moved forward a step or two, and Hunter Mangan became a part of its composition. He pointed laughingly at the man who ground meat.

“That is a flunky,” he said.

There came a devilish twinkle into the girl’s hazel eyes. With quick, rustling strides she left the doorway and whirled her spur rowels straight toward the object under discussion. She held out a strong hand, browned to the color of her chestnut hair by desert winds.

“How do you do, Mr. Flunky!” she cried, her eyes as friendly as a baby’s.

Lardo the Cook, Baldy, Strip, and Rambo the Bouncer were all eyes and ears. Mangan was laughing a little forcedly. The snub-nosed cow-puncher was grinning.

Then The Falcon’s hand left the crank of the food chopper and grasped the girl’s.

“I’m happy to meet you,” he said easily. “I’m called Falcon the Flunky.”

Almost a giggle came from the Indian paint-brush lips.

“I’m Manzanita Canby,” the girl exchanged, with a roguish twinkle in her eyes. “And this is my brother, Martin—better known as Podhead. It’s a wonder Mr. Mangan wouldn’t introduce us.”

“Mr. Canby, I’m happy to know you,” Falcon the Flunky said, offering his hand to the boy and making a friend for life by calling him mister. “And Mr. Mangan is excusable, Miss Canby,” he continued, smiling easily, “for he doesn’t know me by any other name than Falcon the Flunky. It would have seemed awkward to introduce me to you as that.”

Her hazel eyes grew round. “Is—is that a—— What is it, Mr. Mangan? A moniker?”

“That’s my moniker,” said Falcon the Flunky. “You see, most tramps have monikers, and some of them are quite unique. I called myself The Falcon; and when Mr. Mangan took me on as a cook’s helper he labeled me Falcon the Flunky. It’s alliterative, and not unpicturesque, and suits me to a T.”

“But I want to know you by your real name!” she protested.

“Sorry,” he replied, “but I’m not traveling under my real name just now.”

“And won’t you tell even me? Whisper it?” There was a pout on her red lips. Miss Manzanita Canby could be a wretched little flirt when she wished. Ask Crip or Limpy or Lucky or Ed or Toddlebike—gentlemen riders of well-known integrity.

“Sorry to seem rude,” The Falcon held out, “but I must refuse even you.” To whisper into that little pink ear a secret kept from all others in the world was a temptation indeed, but the flunky held to his rule.

“Falcon the Flunky is our mystery man, Miss Canby,” put in Hunter Mangan in tones that showed he was not quite sure whether he liked the unexpected situation or not.

“Oh, that’s delightful!” she cried. “I’ve always wanted to know a mystery man! And now I don’t want to know your name. If you ever begin to tell me I’ll stick my fingers in my ears. Because—I’ll tell you why—I’m going to be a detective and find out what the mystery is about you!”

“Ha-ha!” and Mangan laughed. “Quite an idea. And now let’s go back to the commissary tent, Miss Canby. I’ll show you——”

“No! No! Not yet. Please! I want Falcon the Flunky to show me around the culinary department first. You and Mart go see whatever you had in mind, Mr. Mangan. I want to begin on my solution of the mystery.”

“But—er—that is, Miss Canby——”

“Go on, please—I’ll be over directly. Mart wants to see the stable tent, I know. He’s crazy about horses. I’ll be over soon—really, truly!”

Martin thereupon braced up and took his cue. “Aw, come on, Mr. Mangan, an’ let ’er alone. You don’t know ’er like I do. She always gets whatever she wants.”

“And, Mr. Mangan,” added Manzanita, “please ask the cook to have somebody else grind the meat, won’t you? Really, I want to find out about Falcon the Flunky. I’ll solve your mystery for you.”

There was nothing else for the contractor to do but to comply with this seeming whim of an irresponsible and adorable girl. He shrugged, glanced a little shamefacedly at Lardo the Cook in a request for him to bow as he had bowed and led the way out ahead of the grinning Martin.

“Now,” said Manzanita Canby, “introduce me to the cook and everybody. Mr. Mangan’s too stuck up for me. They call me a roughneck around here. Anyway, I like to know just folks, and I’m wild about stiffs.”

“Cu-can youse beat it!” Lardo the Cook whispered to Baldy, hastily rubbing dough from hands and bare arms to be ready for the presentation.

When the rest of the cook-tent’s crew had stammeringly responded to The Falcon’s introduction of them to Miss Canby, that young person immediately lost interest in them and the cook tent.

“I want to see the dining tent,” she informed The Falcon. “Show me that, won’t you?”

The Falcon would, and Lardo the Cook nodded acquiescence.

The back entrance of the dining tent was only two steps from the cook tent—the separation making for coolness in the former. Both entrances were screened. Falcon the Flunky held the door open for the camp’s guest, and she passed in under the big top.

“The stiffs eat here,” explained her self-chosen guide, indicating two long oilcloth-covered tables that extended the length of the tent. “And that smaller table over there is for the royal family.”

“What’s that? But let’s go on out in front before you tell me. Then I want to know—oh, everything about construction camps and stiffs.”

He led the way between the long tables to the front entrance, and she passed out into the morning sunlight.

“Let’s sit down on the ground here by the door,” she suggested.

“I’ll get a chair——”

“No, I prefer sitting on the ground. I sit in chairs only at mealtime.”

Accordingly she sat herself down in the desert sand, and The Falcon sat beside her. The commissary tent and the stable tent were in plain view, both fronting them. At the door of the commissary stood Hunter Mangan and Mart, the latter pretending that he was enjoying the big cigar that mated the contractor’s and looking very important indeed. Mangan looked toward the dining tent, and then suddenly turned his eyes elsewhere.

“Look at that kid brother of mine smoking that big cigar!” Manzanita said with a laugh. “If Pa Squawtooth should see that! I ought to tell on him, but I never do. That boy’s a great care to me.” She sighed pensively. “Well, now, Mr. Falcon the Flunky, what is the royal family?”

The Falcon was watching her closely. While she scooped up sand and allowed it to trickle through her brown fingers, and seemed to be idly intent on it, she now and then shot a quick glance from under her long chestnut lashes toward the commissary. The flunky was nonplused. Quite apparently she had been little interested in the culinary department. That she had made him come straight through to where she could see Mangan and her brother was as evident. What had she in mind? Not a sudden interest in Falcon the Flunky and the mild mystery suggested—of that he was disappointedly certain. It piqued him a trifle. Somehow he found that he wanted her to be interested in him. How old was she—sixteen or twenty-two or three? The long heavy braids of glimmering chestnut hair said “sixteen.” Her developed womanly figure, for all its strength and litheness, proclaimed that she was in her twenties.

“Well?”

“I beg your pardon. Why, the royal family of a construction camp consists of the white-collar brigade—men who don’t work with their hands to any appreciable degree—together with the women of the camp, if there are any about. The contractors and their families, the bosses, the bookkeepers, timekeepers, commissary men, and sometimes an engineer’s party, if one happens to be boarding with a contractor. In most camps these eat at a separate table, and in some cases in a separate dining tent—smaller. That’s the royal family.”

“Snobs, eh?”

“We-ell—perhaps. I don’t know, though. When you know the camps better you’ll realize that democracy is pretty prevalent in big construction work. I don’t exactly think that snobbish. The stiffs don’t seem to resent it, anyway. And that’s the test, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so. Are you a stiff?”

“Oh, yes.”

“You don’t talk out of one corner of your mouth and say, ‘De bot’ o’ youse togedder.’ Oh, I think that’s so funny! They’re regular clowns.”

The Falcon cleared his throat. “How old are you?” he asked bluntly.

“Nineteen,” she readily told him, sifting sand over her chaps.

“Mum! You’re deceptive. It’s the way you wear your hair, I suppose.”

“I fall down in the sand so much,” she said, “it’s easier to keep it out of my hair this way.”

“I didn’t ask out of mere curiosity,” he told her, chuckling at her confession. “I—well, I hardly know how to say it, Miss Canby. But if you were my sister, for instance, I’d warn you not to be too familiar with the stiffs. Now please don’t be offended. You see, I realize that you know nothing about the tramps or near tramps that make up a construction camp. They’re all right in their way—I’m not condemning stiffs in general—but some might misinterpret your democratic manner. You’ve had lots to do with cow-punchers, I suppose, and that might prove misleading. There’s hardly the chivalry among stiffs that you have found in the cow camps, I imagine.”

“But you’re a stiff!”

“Of course; of course. But there are stiffs and stiffs—while it might be said that all cow-punchers are gentlemanly. You must understand that your cowmen are always in virtually the same environment, and are not nearly so nomadic as these men. But perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken as I did—especially on such short acquaintance. I meant well, though.”

“Oh, I can take care of myself pretty well. I’ve always managed to do so. I pack a six usually.” Her look implied that life had cheated her in never having offered an opportunity for her to shoot a villain or two. “Now you mustn’t censure me. I get enough of that at home. I’m frightfully crude, I know; but I do hate to be told about it every day. But don’t apologize. Go on and tell me about monikers and getting sloued in the hoosegow, and the main squeeze and gypo camps, and skinners and muckers and dynos and things. Mr. Mangan told me a lot before ever I’d seen a camp and fired my imagination. Who’s the main squeeze?”

The Falcon laughed until he caught her peeking from under her lashes at the stable tent, where Mangan and the struggling cigar smoker had gone. Then he stopped laughing suddenly. Was this a subtle little flirtation? Was Mangan interested in this girl? Was she trying to make him jealous? But if so, why had she picked on the recruit flunky as a pawn in her game? The Falcon was mystified. Mangan, it seemed, never had even looked toward the dining tent since the two had come out and sat down.

“The main squeeze,” he informed her, “is hobo slang for anybody in high authority. Mr. Mangan there is the main squeeze about this camp. But ordinarily when a construction stiff speaks of the main squeeze he means the head contractor, or main contractor, as he is more often called.”

“And who is the main squeeze on this road?”

“The main contractors are the firm of Demarest, Spruce & Tillou, of Minneapolis. They are a large concern.”

“Oh, I’ve met Mr. Demarest! I like him. He’s my kind—bluff, rough-and-ready, and cross and kind at the same time. He pulled my queues and kidded me something fierce, and said if I was his daughter he’d spank me. Pa had just caught Mart and me smoking corn-silk cigarettes behind the stable, you know. But at the same time Mr. Demarest aided and abetted me in my meanness. He bet me a dollar I couldn’t jump from one stack of alfalfa to another that we had on the ranch then, in three trials. I took him up; and the first two times I slid off to the ground. But the third time I stuck, and held there clawing at the hay for pretty nearly a minute. Then he laughed like thunder in the mountains and paid up like a sport, and his face got red with little purple jiggers all over it, and veins and things. He’s a sport. But go on—explain about main contractors.”

“Well,” complied The Falcon, “the main contractors take the entire contract for, say, fifty or maybe a hundred miles—or sometimes maybe for the entire work—if they’re big enough to swing it. Then they sublet portions to smaller contractors for a smaller figure per yard than they have agreed upon with the company.

“For instance, there’ll be rock work here on Mangan & Hatton’s piece. There’ll be a deep cut through the saddle of those two big buttes. The main contractors probably figured that they could run that cut and build the accompanying fill for, say, seventy cents a yard. Then they probably sublet the job to the Mangan-Hatton Company for sixty-five cents.

“Dirt work pays far less per yard, according to the nature of it.

“Now, after contracting, the main squeeze will sublet every mile that he can to smaller men. Then the parts that no one wants to tackle, perhaps because of the inadequacy of the outfits on the job, must be attended to by the main contractors themselves. Naturally to them are left the roughest, most difficult pieces of the work. They usually move in last, then, and not only do their own work but keep a weather eye on what the subs are doing.”

“And Demarest, Spruce & Tillou are to come here later on?”

“Very likely—unless they sublet all of it. And there will be dozens of other outfits, large and small, and ragtowns and——”

“What’s a ragtown?”

“Well, the less you know about a ragtown the better. They’re tent towns that move around with big construction work—composed of saloons, dance halls, gambling games, and such things designed to get the stiff’s money away from them.”

“Oh, I want to see a ragtown! I was in a saloon once. There was one up at the gold mine near our mountain ranch. I put my foot on the rail and bought drinks for the house. But I drank red pop. Beer’s bitter. And I can shoot craps, too. Listen: The kid and I were shooting craps back of a stable one day, and I threw seven or ’leven six times straight; and I’d just won his neckerchief and clasp and one of his spurs when old Pa Squawtooth came snooping around a haystack and nailed us. That is, he got the kid. I beat it! When will a ragtown come, do you think?”

“I think I’ll have a word with your father when one does come,” he told her.

“No, don’t! I won’t get hurt or do anything wicked. Pa’ll spoil everything. He wants me to sit around the house all day and play the piano and crochet. Then, besides, the kid will be sticking his peeled nose into things, and I’ll have to go along to take care of him. Now you aren’t going to lecture any more, are you? What’s a gypo camp—and a gypo queen?”

Falcon the Flunky had started to tell her when from the dining-room door behind him he heard a fervent “Good night!” in familiar tones. Turning, he saw the drooping mouth and flaring pitcher-handle ears of Halfaman Daisy, who apparently had been seeking him.

“Come here, Halfaman,” he ordered. “I want to introduce you to Miss Canby. She wants to know about gypo queens, and you’re an authority on that subject.”

Halfaman’s freckled face went red to the ears, and he winked with one eye and then the other at his partner, pleading to be released.

“Miss Canby,” The Falcon went on, “this is my partner, Halfaman Daisy.”

The girl was holding out her ready hand, and Halfaman wriggled toward her and covered it with his own, removing his cap and promptly dropping it—stooping for it, stubbing his toe on a greasewood root buried in the sand, making a spectacle of himself, and realizing it painfully.

“Ma’am,” he said, straightening at last, “how’s each paltry division this mornin’? Please’ ta meet you, ma’am.” Then he stood as if he had been ordered to be shot at sunrise.

“Are you a stiff, Mr. Halfaman?” the girl asked, ingenuously.

“Oh, sure—worse’n that.”

“‘Halfaman’ sounds like a puncher name,” she informed him. “You look like all man to me. Why do they call you that?”

“Well, you see, ma’am, I’m one o’ the begatters. I’m Phinehas; and Phinehas begat Abishua. First Chronicles, sixth chapter—that’s where the begatters are. Now, you couldn’t call a bird Phinehas and look pleasant, could you, ma’am? So my old pardner, his name was Holman, and the stiffs they got to callin’ me Halfaman just for a kid.”

“Tell Miss Canby about the begatters, Halfaman,” suggested The Falcon. “Perhaps she doesn’t understand.”

With a look of seriousness Halfaman scraped his bedraggled cap to one side of his kinky head.

“Have you ever read the Bible, ma’am?” he asked.

“Oh, yes—lots. Every night before I go to bed I read a chapter.”

“That’s right, ma’am—that’s right,” approved Mr. Daisy. “Now next time you read First Chronicles, sixth chapter. Then you’ll know all about the begatters. Here’s the way she runs:

“‘And the children of Amram; Aaron and Moses and Miriam. The sons of Aaron; Nadab and Abihu, Eleazar and Ithamar. Eleazar begat Phinehas; Phinehas begat Abishua.’

“Phinehas—that’s me. Phinehas begat Abishua. Now, ma’am, did you ever hear tell o’ Wing o’ the Crow?”

“No, indeed. Tell me.”

“Well, she’s the daughter of a one-winged gypo man called Jeddo the Crow. She’s just about your age—maybe a leetle older—but black, ma’am—black as tar.”

“Oh! Mercy!”

“Whoa! Not all over! You don’t savvy. Just her hair and eyes. Well, now, you live over there, don’t you?”

He pointed over the shimmering desert to the low adobe ranch house, swimming hazily in a yellow mirage.

Manzanita nodded.

Halfaman raked his cap to the other side of his head.

“Well, now, when Wing o’ the Crow gets here with her dad—that’s Abishua—I want you to meet her—see? You ’n’ her oughta be good pals. She’s as pretty as you are—and I’ll tell the world that’s progressin’ some. So you meets her—see?—and you two gets nice and acquainted—see?—and then I wanta slip you an earful o’ somethin’ I got on my chest. Then all you gotta do, ma’am, is use your inflooence—see? Get me? Now I gotta beat it. I’m mendin’ harness. Please’ to meet you, ma’am!”

And he hurried away, whistling out of one corner of his mouth.

“Why, what a funny man!” remarked Manzanita laughingly. “What on earth was he talking about?”

“For a heart,” said The Falcon earnestly, “he has a big nugget of gold. He was talking about his sweetheart, Wing o’ the Crow, a shanty queen. But I’m afraid he didn’t explain very well.”

Falcon the Flunky did, however, and now it seemed that his listener was more interested. She looked less frequently toward the various places to which Mangan betook himself, trailed by Mart and the cigar, and watched The Falcon’s face.

It was a fine, frank face to watch; and more and more, as thoughts of her petty little game took to the background, she realized that here was a sincere, likable young man with brains that were anything but sluggish. She liked his eyes and their steady, brotherly look; she noticed that his hands were trim and clean and strong. His careful articulation, effortless though it seemed, told volumes about his upbringing. She had sought out Falcon the Flunky to use as a tool in her willful game of thwarting her scheming father and Hunter Mangan; and now she realized that she had picked the wrong man for her purpose. She actually was going to like the flunky.

This would never do! She despised herself now. Suppose the flunky had proved to be an uncouth, uninteresting, ignorant person, and that she had tried to use him in the furtherance of her own silly ends! Her confidence in her own desirability was great, spoiled as she had been by adoring vaqueros. Would it not have been terrible if she had caused a poor, unfortunate flunky to fall in love with her? She blushed for shame at her unthinking selfishness.

But this man was different He was well knit and muscular, good to look upon, refined, and mysteriously interesting. If he wanted to fall in love with her, he should be perfectly able to take care of his own interests in such a matter. So if he wanted to go and fall in love with her—why, he could just go ahead and do it!

In the midst of these musings Manzanita suddenly straightened apprehensively. A familiar figure had ridden in on a magnificent black horse. Over near the stable tent a half-smoked cigar dropped in the sand and was stealthily covered by a booted foot.

“Goodness!” breathed the girl. “There’s pa. I—I guess I’d better be going.”

Youth plans and plans, but youth’s actualities are ofttimes disconcerting—nay, appalling!

CHAPTER VI
PREACHMENTS

A MONTH passed, and where had been only yucca palms, sand, and cactus, now stood many tent cities, and hundreds of toilers worked incessantly. For a hundred miles on the other side of the chain of calico buttes one might walk and pass through several camps a day. On the inner side of the buttes the situation was the same. There were four rather large camps on Squawtooth Ranch, including that of the Mangan-Hatton Company; but the piece of work allotted to Jeddo the Crow was still without its camp.

Just beyond the buttes a mushroom town had sprung into being, where were bars and restaurants and dance halls and gambling devices. Such towns usually are named as are the Indian boys—on the spur of the moment. The first settler in this one was a saloonman from San Francisco. As he and his workmen were setting up the tent saloon, which was to become the nucleus for the town, a desert twister came along, grabbed the tent by its four corners, and whirled it round and round at lightning speed, flattening the men or enveloping them in numerous whipping folds of canvas and snarls of guy ropes. One man looked up from the bed of cactus into which he had been sent sprawling, and shouted in pidgin: “Whassa malla? Stling bloke?” So the town became “Stlingbloke.”

From Stlingbloke’s single street late one afternoon rode two on horseback, and set their horses’ faces toward the desert.

“Manzanita,” said Hunt Mangan, “I asked Mart to ride on ahead of us because I wanted to have a few words with you. I don’t want you to feel offended, now. I am quite a little older than you, and think more of you than perhaps you understand. For these reasons I am going to risk presumptuousness and try to show you where you’re wrong. Girl, you have no business in Stlingbloke.”

“Why not? Mart was with me.”

“A mere slip of a boy,” expostulated Hunt. “You don’t understand at all, and I consider it my duty to tell you. That’s a wretched hole. Nothing but saloons and gambling dens.”

Manzanita looked away from him. “No one spoke to me. Only one man stared at me—a fellow with a silk vest and a waxed black mustache. But I guess he only thought I was a freak. Mart wanted to go, and I went along to look out for him. He’s such a kid, that little podhead!”

“Heavens and earth!” the contractor replied. “And what are you? Now listen here: Would your father approve of your going to Stlingbloke?”

“He was keen enough for the camps to come, and for the road to be built, I notice. Stlingbloke’s a part of it, isn’t it?”

“It is—a necessary evil, I suppose. But stay away from it, Nita. If I’m not too bold what were you doing there, anyway? I nearly fell from my saddle when I saw you poking around and peering through doors.”

“Speaking of dropping from your saddle,” said the girl, “do you see that bunch of squawtooth ahead there? Well, lope your old skate at it, and grab your saddle horn, and lean out, and le’s see if you can pull it up. Bet I can!”

“I won’t be diverted,” he told her gravely. “Anyway, I’m not up to you in fancy stunts in the saddle. What were you up to at Stlingbloke?”

“I wanted to buck roulette,” she confessed. “Mart said there were roulette wheels there. Ed Chazzy has got a big picture up in the mountains, all framed and colored and everything, of a lot of men playing roulette in a gambling house in Arizona. It’s a dandy. The gamblers have on green eye-shades, and there’s one fellow just walks about with a big cigar in his mouth and his hands behind his back. The lookout, Ed said he was. And big, big stacks of chips—all colors. And stiffs and buckaroos and Mexicanos bucking the game. So I—Mart said there was roulette at Stlingbloke, and I wanted to try it just once. So Mart and I sneaked off and rode over, but there were so many men in the places that we both lost our nerve—and then you came along and bawled us out!”

“Does your brother drink, Manzanita?”

“About a gallon and a half a day.”

“Wh-what!”

“Milk. He wants to get fat, like a traveling man he saw in Opaco once. And when we have boiled beef he eats the marrow, too. Now he goes to your camp and makes Lardo the Cook let him dig the marrow out of the beef bones, because you folks have lots of it. But he’ll never get fat—he eats too much squawtooth for his kidneys. It counteracts the milk and marrow.”

A man who thinks it his duty to be serious and cannot is a pitiable sight. Hunter Mangan was such.

“So Mart doesn’t drink intoxicants?”

“That little podhead? I should say not! He likes red pop too well, like I do. We both tasted beer once. Pa Squawtooth gave it to us. No more for us—squawtooth is bitter enough. Come on, now—there’s another bush. Try it once!”

“No, I’m no fancy rider. Something would crack if I were to lean very far from the saddle. So you didn’t play roulette?”

“No—we backed out. Mart’s going to make a roulette wheel out of an old wheelbarrow wheel we’ve got. He says he can make a wheel of fortune out of it, anyway. Did you ever buck a wheel of fortune, Hunt?”

“I’m not on the confessional carpet to-day,” he replied evasively. “I guess I’ve been as big a sucker as the next man in my time, though. Where do you get such weird ideas, Manzanita?”

“Quién sabe!” She shrugged. “Hearing the boys talk around cow camps, I guess. I’m going to be a moving picture actress. I can ride and shoot, and I’m pretty. How about that last?”

“You are,” he assured her fervently.

“Well, that’s what I want to be. Mart’s going to be my manager. We were going to run away several times, but something always prevented us. In the pictures cowgirls go into saloons and buck the games and all. I’m a cowgirl; but this country’s always been so tame. Do you think I have the screen face?”

Hunter Mangan clenched his big tanned fists. He knew what kind of a face she had, and he was trembling to take her in his arms and kiss every inch of it, from the piquant chin to the chestnut hair. “Cradle robber!” he growled to himself; then remembering that this girl was nineteen, he marveled the more.

“You won’t go to Stlingbloke again, will you?” he pleaded. “Not with just Martin, anyway. Go with your father or with me, if your curiosity won’t let you keep away.”

“Oh, I suppose not. Unless Mart persists in going. Then I’ll have to go for his sake, I suppose. I like the color of it, though.”

“Humph! It seems that for the manager-to-be of a moving picture star Mart plays second fiddle to the managed,” he observed dryly.

“Oh, that would be just a convenient business arrangement,” she explained. “I’d be the boss, of course. Stars really are, aren’t they? But I’d want Mart along—I couldn’t live without the little nut!—and he’d be my manager—a mere figure-head, of course.”

Gravity gave way to the inevitable, and Hunter Mangan was lost.

“And now,” he said finally, “I have a more intimate matter still that I wish to discuss with you. I certainly hope I’ll be forgiven. I’m usually pretty blunt, though. So here I go with my head down and both eyes shut:

“Why have you courted the friendship of Falcon the Flunky?”

“Why, I like him,” was the swift reply. “What’s the matter with The Falcon?”

“I am glad to be able to say that, so far as I know, there is nothing the matter with him. However, it strikes me—and all the rest of us, I suppose—as a strange comradeship.”

“He’s a nice young man—a perfect gentleman.”

“I haven’t the slightest doubt in the world as to that. And still it’s strange. Were you interested in him from the first day?”

“Perhaps I was. It’s hard to tell.”

“And you really like him?”

“Immensely.”

“Does your father approve of the friendship?”

“Well, he—he doesn’t know anything about it, I suspect. I’ve never had occasion to mention Falcon the Flunky to him, as it were.”

“I think you should have left off that ‘as it were,’ Manzanita. It leads me to believe that you purposely have refrained from mentioning him to Mr. Canby.”

“You’re using some dandy words, Hunt,” she said admiringly.

“You’re not offended, then?”

“Not in the least, amigo!”

“Have you learned Falcon the Flunky’s name?”

“No, he hasn’t told me; and I haven’t pressed him to tell what he doesn’t wish to.”

Mangan cleared his throat uncomfortably. “The stiffs, as we call them, Manzanita, come from every place,” he said. “Nobody knows anything of their various pasts, and they’re nobody’s business. There are many bright, intelligent, capable men in trampdom—far more than is realized by the general public. But can’t you see that this fact in itself should make you cautious about picking a friend from among them? Bright, capable men have taken to tramp life in many cases because polite society has for some reason ostracized them. They may be bank defaulters, forgers, or even worse. Surely your reason will tell you that no educated, refined man need be a tramp laborer these days; and that, since he is educated and refined, ambition can’t be lacking. So, such a man must be a renegade, a fugitive from justice, an ostracized member of good society to explain his adherence to the slip-along life of the construction stiff. Now, I haven’t said a word against Falcon the Flunky, have I?”

“No, you haven’t. You wouldn’t. You’re a gentleman and a good sport.”

“Thank you. Despite your many tomboy pranks, I always find you so reasonable. There’s just one thing you need, Manzanita, and that is a little worldly experience. You must grow up.”

“And yet when I want to buck roulette for worldly experience you kick!”

“I consider that as hardly necessary to your education,” he said. “But I’m glad you don’t resent my effort to be friendly. I’ve told you how matters stand, or may stand. It’s merely a friendly warning from an old-timer—for even your father doesn’t understand our life. And of course, anyway, I wouldn’t go to him with your case.”

“Of course not, Hunt. You’re all right. But I like The Falcon now; and I just couldn’t think bad about anybody I like. It’s a Canby trait. We imagine that anybody we happen to like must be all right or we wouldn’t like ’em.”

“It’s a lovable trait, too,” he told her warmly. “And from your unsophisticated viewpoint, it’s a pretty practical one. But for general purposes in the complicated life beyond Squawtooth and the desert, I don’t know that it will fill the bill.”

“I like to hear you talk. Please go on.”

“Are you serious?”

“Sure, Mike! I wish you’d talk lots to Mart. He certainly can murder the English language.”

“It’s not my theme, then, that interests you—merely my stilted words.”

“No, no! Not that. I like to hear people say pretty things. I read lots of poetry. Did you ever write poetry, Hunt?”

“You’re bound to make me confess, aren’t you?” he questioned with a laugh. “I’m through lecturing now. Think over what I have said.”

“Sure. Thank you very much. And now how about a bunch of squawtooth?”

“You do it. I like to see you, even though I realize that it is dangerous.”

“When I miss, I suppose, and wave my feet in air?”

She touched her mare’s ribs, and guided her toward a bunch of squawtooth, leaning low from the saddle as she neared it. Then the mare raced past, and she grasped it. And this time it plopped from the sand, and, with her saddle slipped halfway to the mare’s belly, she righted it and herself and waved the plant triumphantly.

Hunter Mangan breathed again.

“You tell Mart you saw me do it!” she cried, circling back to him. “He won’t take my word in a thing like this. Oh, look! What’s coming?”

They had neared the road, and now coming along it they saw a little cavalcade that heretofore had been hidden by particularly tall greasewood.

In the lead moved a camp wagon, the cover made of wood, as is a gypsy’s migratory home. Six lean mules heaved in the collars to pull the chariot through the heavy sand. Driving them was a girl, with hair and eyes as black as night. Behind the camp wagon trailed other teams, hitched to other wagons and wheeled implements of the grade.

“Jeddo the Crow at last!” cried Mangan. “You’ve heard of him, Manzanita—you told me so. That’s Wing o’ the Crow driving six-up. If it were thirty-six it would make no difference to her. I must see them. Let’s ride over.”

“Oh, I want to meet Wing o’ the Crow! I’ve heard so much about her. Come on—beat you there ten lengths!”

CHAPTER VII
WING O’ THE CROW

HUNTER MANGAN was the senior member of the rather large firm of contractors from which the Jeddos had taken their subjob; so Hunt’s dignity would not permit a dash with Manzanita to the moving van. They rode forward, then, at a sedate walk, and when she saw them coming the young driver of the van pulled her six disconsolate mules to a stop.

Mangan lifted his broad-brimmed Stetson.

“Hello, there, Miss Jeddo!” he greeted her. “So you’re here at last. Pretty tough pull, isn’t it?”

Wing o’ the Crow was a beauty—there was no denying that. She was twenty-two and strong and lithe as an Indian girl. On her cheeks was that mahogany-red coloring so attractive in decided brunettes. Her skin was smooth and flawless as the skin of an olive, and her great black eyes, made darker still by the long, black lashes that shadowed them, were fascinating. Her masses of black hair showed no more careful attention than does a wind-blown straw stack, but it lost no picturesqueness because of this.

“My stars!” gasped Manzanita under her breath.

Wing o’ the Crow smiled bashfully at Hunter Mangan, then her big eyes settled a curious look on his companion.

“Pa’s back at th’ tail end, Mr. Mangan,” she said. “How fur ’re we from th’ job?”

“Oh, not more than two miles now. I want you to meet Miss Canby, Miss Jeddo. She lives at that adobe house over there in the cottonwoods, where we get our water. You’ll be camping on the ranch.”

Wing o’ the Crow shyly smiled at Manzanita.

“Well, I guess I’ll have to be movin’ ahead,” she said.

“Wait,” Manzanita told her. “Hunt, you ride back and see her father, if you want to. I’m going to ride in the van, if you’ll lead my mare.”

“Good!” said Hunt. “You two get acquainted.”

Manzanita swung to the ground and handed the contractor her bridle reins. Then she clambered up over the hub to the seat beside Wing o’ the Crow, who divided the seat pad with her.

“Hojup!” she exhorted the mules; and they leaned to the collars and heaved the wagon into motion again.

For a little neither girl spoke, and both watched the mules as if a great deal depended on careful attention to their efforts in the clinging sand. Both were men’s women, and knew less about other members of their own sex than of their opposites. Neither knew how to begin the conversation.

Manzanita, out of the corners of her eyes, took note of the unlaced, run-over shoes and the negligently held-up black stockings of Jeddo’s daughter, also the cheap ring on a workworn finger, and the unstarched gingham dress, over which had been slipped a man’s shirt, the tail hanging to her knees. Wing o’ the Crow observed, when chance offered, the worn leather chaps, the tampico-top boots, the flannel shirt, and the big-roweled Mexican spurs of the daughter of Canby.

Then Manzanita thought of something brilliant.

“How long have you been coming?” she asked.

“Jest from Opaco, or all th’ way?” asked the black-haired girl.

“Both,” said Manzanita.

“We was more’n a week on the railroad,” replied Wing o’ the Crow. “An’ three days drivin’ outa that Opaco. Stock’s wore out, purty near. The railroad trip always does ’em up.”

“Uh-huh—they don’t get any exercise, do they?”

“No.”

“Do you like building railroads?”

“I got to. I don’t know anything else. Sometimes I think I don’t like it; but I guess I do most o’ the time, any way you look at it.”

“Your mother’s dead, isn’t she? So is mine. I was only nine when mine died.”

“I was fifteen,” said Wing o’ the Crow. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

“I’m twenty-two. Do you ride lots?”

“All the time.”

“I’d like to, but we ain’t got any decent saddle hoss. Herd cows?”

“Sometimes. Mostly just ride, though. I could get you a saddle horse, and we could ride together and have lots of fun. Mart—that’s my kid brother—he’d be along whenever he’s down from the mountains. Our cows are all up there in summer. That’s where Mart is supposed to be, building drift fence and things. He was keen enough to be with the cows until the camps came. Now he wants to hang around them all the time. We could shake him, though, now and then, if we wanted to be alone.”

“I couldn’t go with you,” said Jeddo’s daughter. “I gotta work.”

“All the time?”

“Yep.”

“Does your father make you?”

“Not exactly. I like to, I guess. Pa and me never have trouble. He’s easy-goin’—too easy-goin’, some folks say. He’s good to me, though. He’s only got one arm, and I have to do more’n I would if he wasn’t like that, I guess. That’s why they call me Wing o’ the Crow—an’ because I’m black. But I guess you’ve heard.”

“Oh, yes—lots about you. I’ve wanted you to come. I don’t see many girls out here. I thought it would be nice for both of us. I’m sorry you can’t ride with me. We could go up to Little Woman Butte, and—oh, everywhere.”

“I wisht I could, but I ain’t got the time. I got lots an’ lots to do every day.”

“What all?”

“Cookin’ an’ washin’ dishes an’ things like that, an’ stickin’ pigs or skinnin’ Jack an’ Ned—whatever’s to be done.”

“What is sticking pigs?”

“Settin’ slips. You know—loadin’ them little scrapers that ain’t got wheels.”

“Is it hard?”

“Purty. ’Long about three in the afternoon, anyway. It gets you in the back. Then I kinda got to run things—especially when pa’s cuckooed.”

“When pa’s what?”

“Cuckooed—drunk. Takes him four days to get enough, an’ five days to get over his jag. That’s nine days I gotta be bossman.”

No words came to Manzanita now. Brought face to face suddenly with a tragedy, so matter-of-factly introduced into the conversation, she did not know what to say.

“How long have you been a gypo queen?” she asked presently, still thinking of that naïve reference to Jeddo the Crow’s shortcomings.

“Born in a gypo camp.”

“Have you been to school?”

“No. Ma used to teach me, but she died. I c’n read an’ write an’ figger a little. I’m keen about learnin’ things. I read a lot when I ain’t too tired. You see, we’re poor. Somehow we jest about break even on every job we tackle. Pa’d like me to quit th’ road an’ go to school somewheres, but him with his one arm, he couldn’t get along. You been to school a lot, ain’t you? I know by th’ way you say ‘ing’ at th’ end o’ words. Do you read lots?”

“Not so very much,” Manzanita confessed. “I’m usually pretty busy.”

“Doin’ what?”

“Well—now—riding, mostly.”

Manzanita could not read the message of the inscrutable black eyes now turned upon her. Somehow, though, she felt uncomfortable, and hastened to ask:

“Do you live in this van?”

“Yes, I do. I sleep in here. We back it up to th’ cook tent. Hejupah, ole Ned! Ain’t this here sand fierce? Guess I’ll let ’em blow a mite.”

She pulled in gradually on the six lines, and the mules stood heaving.

“I guess I ought to walk,” observed Manzanita.

“Oh, your weight don’t add nothin’ much. They’ll be all right when we get outa this sand an’ hit that dry lake over there. Do you like this country?”

“I love it! Don’t you think it’s pretty?”

“Purty dry an’ purty sandy. How’s Mangan-Hatton gettin’ on with their job?”

“Why, all right, I suppose.”

“Got a cut an’ a fill in rock, ain’t they?”

“I—I think so.”

“This sand’ll make a mighty poor roadbed. Guess they’ll be lots o’ borrowin’ for th’ crown.”

“Ye-yes, I should imagine so.”

“Mangan-Hatton got any Holligans in the rock?”

“I—I never noticed any. This is just common rock, I guess.”

“Common rock! What’s that got to do with Holligans?”

“I thought perhaps Holligans were fissures of some sort.”

“No, they ain’t much on fishin’, I guess. Unless they’re ginnies. Most of ’em are Greeks or Austrians, though. Mostly Mangan-Hatton works stiffs. Any ragtowns on th’ job?”

“One—quite close. Stlingbloke, they call it.”

“Purty raw?”

“I—I suppose so.”

“How close to where we’re gonta camp will it be?”

“About four miles off, I should think.”

“Huh! Jest our luck! They’s always a ragtown right near us, it seems. An’ poor pa he jest can’t keep away from booze. An’ when he’s pifflercated then I gotta keep jumpin’.”

“He isn’t mean to you, is he?” asked Manzanita, in an awed little voice.

“Oh, no. I wouldn’t stand for that. I’m of age. He jest can’t do nothin’ but lay ’round an’ groan—so I gotta cook an’ be bossman, too. Hejupah, Ned! Hejup, Jack!”

“It seems that every mule on railroad work is named either Ned or Jack,” remarked Manzanita, anxious to change the topic.

“Them’s jest railroad names,” explained Wing o’ the Crow. “Railroaders always call tassel tails Ned an’ Jack. D’ye know any o’ th’ stiffs yet?”

“Oh, yes—lots of them.”

“Who all’s at Mangan-Hatton’s? Any ole-timers, did you hear?”

“You bet. I know all the old-timers’ names. There’s Lardo the Cook and Laflin the Goblin, Tombstone, Totaljohn, and Demijohn, Gus the Finn, Bung the B-B—I think that’s just too funny!—Davie the Child,—and, let’s see—Grimes o’ the Coffins, Raddle the Swamper, Dippy-Dip, The Parasite, Lobbygow, Markle, and Spot o’ the Outcasts. Laflin the Goblin is a strange creature. They say his name will be put up at the next hobo convention for king of the tramps. Isn’t that too ridiculous?”

“What d’ye mean, redickilous?”

“Why, tramps having a king.”

Wing o’ the Crow was thoughtful. “I guess maybe it is,” she admitted at length. “I never thought about it. I know purty near all them stiffs—knew most of ’em all my life. I wish we could get stiffs—they work so much better, somehow. But stiffs won’t stay in a gypo camp long, if they stop there at all. We get hicks—farmers, and bindle stiffs. They don’t know no better.”

“Why won’t the stiffs work for you?”

“Well, we can’t feed like th’ big bugs do. An’ we can’t afford to furnish blankets. All our men are bindle stiffs—not regular stiffs, you know—but th’ fellas that carry bundles on their backs—their own beddin’. Then our stock is old and rundown, an’ stiffs want good stock to work with. If I was like a gypo queen’s supposed to be I reckon I’m good lookin’ enough to hold the stiffs. But I ain’t like that. I wouldn’t kid any man along to get ’im to stick in our camp. I’m a lady, if I do skin Jack an’ Ned an’ pull a lot o’ rough stuff. Did you tell me all th’ stiffs’ names that’s at Mangan-Hatton’s?”

“There’s—now—Falcon the Flunky.”

“Never heard o’ him. Who’s skinnin’ th’ plow teams on th’ dirt work?”

“I don’t believe I can tell you that. I haven’t paid a great deal of attention to the work.”

“Don’t know who’s on snap, either?”

“Yes, I believe I do know one snap skinner. I was going to tell you his name. Halfaman Daisy. Know him?”

Again there was silence. Then, “I know ’im,” said Wing o’ the Crow. “How long’s he been out here?”

“I think he came with the outfit.”

“Uh-huh—how close to Mangan-Hatton is our campin’ place?”

“Less than a mile away, I think.”

Silence once more. Then, “Does Halfaman Daisy go to this ragtown very much?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve been there only once, though—to-day, for the first time.”

“Have Mangan-Hatton had a pay day?”

“One, I think.”

“Uh-huh. I guess Halfaman’s been to that ragtown then—what d’ye call it? Stlingbloke? Huh—they’re all stlingbloke, I’ll say.”

Here a tall, ruggedly handsome man, with coal-black hair and mustache, and with one shirt sleeve pinned up, rode past on a mule, with Mangan at his side. They galloped ahead, Mangan leading Manzanita’s mare.

“Guess we’re purty near there,” observed Wing o’ the Crow. “I’ll sleep to-night! Don’t suppose you know what Mangan-Hatton ’re payin’ th’ snap?”

“I haven’t the remotest idea,” replied Manzanita.

Wing o’ the Crow looked at her curiously. “Funny!” she said. “That outfit’s been here a month, I hear, an’ you don’t know nothin’ about ’em but a few stiffs’ names.”

Manzanita looked uncomfortable, and felt as she looked. There was a strange tone of accusation in the large black eyes of the girl of the van. It caused the girl of the desert to feel inferior—insignificant.

“A bunch o’ dance-hall girls at this Stlingbloke, I guess—huh?”

“Yes,” replied Manzanita.

“Did you see a girl with very light hair—bleached, I guess?” questioned the gypo queen.

“I didn’t see her when I was there.”

“Well, I’ll find out from somebody purty soon, I s’pose. So the begatter’s drivin’ snap for Mangan-Hatton, eh? Thinks he’s some skinner, that plug! All right, pa!”

Ahead of them was the man motioning for the van to circle around him and Mangan and come to a stop.

“Home, again!” and Wing o’ the Crow sighed. “Some home, I’ll say! Nice shady spot under that flower there! Does this country ever get so hot it smokes?”

CHAPTER VIII
A TRADE AND NEW RESOLUTIONS

IN the “borrow pit” to the left of the long dirt fill that was slowly creeping across the desert one Phinehas Daisy was at work with his snap team. The expert skinners in dirt work drive either the snap team or the plow team. Halfaman’s three white Percherons were beauties, willing workers, and it was a pleasure and an honor to handle them. To see their great muscles at work when he had hooked the trio to the pole of a loaded wheeler, to help out the two mules already pulling to the limit of their strength, was a pleasing sight.

The long line of wheelers and slips moved through the borrow pit, were loaded, and traveled on to the evergrowing fill and the dump—an endless chain. Mr. Daisy rested while a wheeler team was working up to the snap with the earth, previously loosened by the plow, billowing into the pan. During these brief intervals he was thoughtful. Then nonchalantly he would swing the heavy eveners by their chain, hook on to the wheeler pole, and drawl: “Le’s go!”

Then the five animals, with the three proud Percherons abreast in the lead, would heave into their collars and make life hugely enjoyable for Mr. Daisy. “High!” would come the yell of the wheeler holders. The five would stop in their tracks, and Halfaman would quickly disconnect the snap. Then, swinging sharply to one side, the mule skinner with his loaded wheeler would laze away toward the fill. Behind him another wheeler would be moving up to the wheeler holders, and again for a brief interval Halfaman would rest, an elbow on the expansive rump of one of his whites, and grow pensive.

From Squawtooth Ranch came a big tank wagon, drawn by six mules that labored ploddingly in the desert sand. Demijohn drove the tank-wagon team. The work was not difficult, but monotonous, consisting as it did of trip after trip between the pipe that spouted artesian water at Squawtooth and the Mangan-Hatton camp. Demijohn was an active man and loved to be moving about. Furthermore, he was considered an excellent snap driver, and he cast a look of envy at Mr. Daisy and his magnificent three white Percherons. Demijohn was a horse lover; he merely tolerated mules. Again, six mules required more “cuffing” and harnessing and collar scraping than did three horses—a child might figure that! Also the snap team got through work fifteen minutes earlier than the other teams, and at times the water wagon was out so late that the driver was obliged to eat alone, after everybody else had finished. And above all, Demijohn was human; and what human does not wish that he had the other fellow’s job and that the other fellow had his?

Just what was running through Mr. Daisy’s thoughts which caused him to wish that he were driving the tank wagon, and that Demijohn had the snap, would require more space to depict than in the case of the tank-wagon skinner. But if the statement he made that the Mangan-Hatton water wagon was now supplying the comparatively slight wants of the tiny camp of Jeddo the Crow, Jeddo having lost his own tank wagon by reason of careless chocking on the gondola which was to have brought it west, and not being financially able to buy a new one.

“Hey, Demi, how’ll you trade jobs?”

“Nuttin’ doin’, ol’-timer! Dis suits me.”

Demijohn lolled on the high seat to show just how thoroughly it did suit him and how comfortable were the accommodations of the water wagon.

“I ain’t talkin’ through me hat, ol’ settler!”

“Me neider, Jack. Kinda doity in dat borry pit, ain’t she? Dat looks like doity doit to me.”

“You oughta know. You got half o’ Squawtooth on yer face. This here’s the same dirt.”

“Wot’ll youse gi’me to trade jobs?”

“What’ll I give you! Say, this is gonta be good!”

“Gi’me ten?”

“Ten swift kicks!”

“Hejup, Ned!”

“Le’s go, white folks!”

But for half an hour that night in their bunk tent each dwelt at length on the superior advantages of his particular job and scorned the task of the other. Then they traded.

Halfaman Daisy sang as he drove from camp next morning with the empty tank wagon—sang thusly, out of one corner of his drooping mouth:

“Oh, a-workin’ on the levee outa New Orleans,

A-livin’ on-a bananas and-a wormy beans,

Mosquitoes a-bit me through a-nineteen screens,

And an alligator gobbled up me ramblin’ jeans!—

And me pay day—for me ba-bay!

And me pay day outa New Orleans!”

He did not pass near the camp of Jeddo the Crow on his first trip; but from a distance he saw that the small, ragged, dirty tents were up, saw the familiar van backed to the cook-tent door, saw the teamsters already at work at moving dirt. He made out the well-known figure of Abishua Jeddo, but he saw nothing of his daughter.

“Some speed! She’s cleanin’ up after breakfast, I guess. ‘The sons of Levi; Jershon and Kohath and Murari. And the sons of Kohath; Amram, Ishar, and Hebron, and Uzziel. And the children of Amram——’

“Oh, a king snipe’s wife on the Rio Grand’,
She fried a Gila monster for a section hand.
She put it on the track to make it tender—and

It ditched the train that hit it in the desert sand!—

On a pay day—oh, ba-bay!

Oh, pay day on the Rio Grand’!

“Ho-hum! ‘The sons also af Aaron; Nadab and Abihu, Eleazar and Ithamar. Eleazar begat Phinehas; Phinehas begat Abishua.’ Hejup, Ned! Hejup, Jack!

“Oh, a-ridin’ the rods outa Kankakee,

A rail flopped up and-a hit-a me knee;

I took it along to the old Pedee,

And I sold it for a dollar down in Tennessee!

It was pay day—oh, me ba-bay!

It was pay day down in Tennessee!

“Huh! Nothin’ doin’! Still washin’ dishes, I guess. It was pay day down in Tennessee! Hejupah!”

Two hours later Mr. Daisy dexterously backed to the watering trough at the stable tent of the Mangan-Hatton camp and emptied his tank. Then he made another trip to Squawtooth Ranch, and on the return stopped his wagon abreast a small galvanized tank beside the cook-tent door of Jeddo the Crow.

“Hey, in there! In the cook tent! Wake up and hear the horned toads sing! Ship ahoy! Want water in this ole tin can this mornin’?

“Oh, I been a-down on-a the gumbo line,
A-skinnin’ mules when the weather’s fine,
A-shootin’ craps——

“Oh! Why, howdy do, Miss Wing o’ the Crow Jeddo! This is a surprise, as the fella says. Welcome to our city! Nice mornin’, I’ll say!”

Breast heaving, Wing o’ the Crow stood in the cook-tent door, black eyes wide but narrowing. Dough and flour covered her brown bare arms.

“Well, for Heaven’s sake! Was all the jails full in Nebrasky?”

Halfaman clambered lightly down over the wide-tired wheels. A painful grin creased his freckled face as he sidled toward the door.

“Hello, honey,” he said. “How’s every little insignificant item?”

“Well, you got a nerve!” said Wing o’ the Crow. “Who put you on that water wagon?”

“I did, Wing-o. And I rode the rods all the way here from that little State called Nebrasky to get on ’er and haul water to you. Slip us a kiss, Wing-o!”

“I’ll slip you a poke in that rubber jaw! Go kiss Lil o’ the Lobbies!”

“Now, lissen here, sweetheart! Ain’t you ever gonta ferget that? Here I rambled over four States to say hello to you, and you slip me a line o’ begone-sir patter like that! Didn’t I say I was sorry? I ain’t seen Lil for six months.”

“Ain’t she here?”

“Search me! I ain’t been to Stlingbloke once.”

“Tell it to the marines, Halfaman!”

He pulled forth a roll of bills. “There’s me pay day,” he said. “Every cent, ’ceptin’ for a shirt and tobacco and things. I’m off that stuff. I just slipped that time, anyway.”

“I heard you was drivin’ snap.”

“I was—till last night. Then I traded with Demijohn and got the water wagon. I’m on it, too.”

“Why’d you want the tank? Snap’s better.”

“D’ye really wanta to know, now?”

“Uh-huh! Why’d ye s’pose I ast?”

“Well, now maybe I heard Mangan-Hatton’s tank was supplyin’ Jeddo the Crow. What would you say if I was to tell you that, Wing-o?”

“I’d say you was a nut!”

“That’s the right answer. Nuts about you, kiddo. Say, I’m savin’ me jack these days. Everything’s gonta be jake with me. No more booze—no more slips. Now what d’ye say you an’ me——”

“Tell it to Lil o’ the Lobbies—she’d like to hear it, I guess.”

“Aw, cut that old stuff! Be reasonable, now. Slip us a kiss. Wing-o, and le’s ferget the bitter past. Le’s you an’ me get married whether The Crow cares or not. Then I c’n get in here and help move things along. I c’n get some stiffs, I’ll bet. You an’ me c’n keep yer dad away from the booze—and we’ll make some jack. Leave it to us, kid, hey?”

She looked him over. “I’m sore on you, I’ll admit,” she said at last. “I liked you a little—once, but now it’s all off. That’s all’s to it. You might jes’ as well trade back with Demijohn and drive snap. ’Cause I ain’t gonta see you any more. I can’t trust you. If you keep on haulin’ water, you c’n find out fer yerself if the tank’s empty. I won’t come out. So you better go back to yer snap. I’m off you for life!”

“Now, lissen, honey—lissen——”

“On yer way! I’m busy. I’m gettin’ dinner. You deceived me once, and you got my goat. Find Lil o’ the Lobbies; she’ll listen to you!”

“Now, lissen—lissen!”

But the flaps of the tent had dropped, and from inside came a hummed tune as Wing o’ the Crow went on with her work.

Mr. Daisy sighed wearily, examined the galvanized tank and filled it, then drove to the watering trough at the stable tent, all unaware that a black eye was peering at him through a tiny hole in the cook tent.

“Can you beat it! I rambles across four States, eatin’ once every two days whether I felt it or not, and trades the best snap job on the line for—what I got! ‘I’m off you fer life,’ she says—just like that. Slipped once—just once! Good night! Hejupah, ole Ned!—can’t keep a good man down!

“Oh, a-stickin’ pigs in that Lone Star State,

Ate corn bread and-a molasses straight,

On a dime’s worth o’ snuff I gets an awful skate—

And I saw St. Peter in the Golden Gate!

It was pay day—for me ba-bay!

It was pay day in that Texas State!”

“Now, you hold both handles tight, and kinda jiggle the slip up an’ down, see? You gotta hold ’er jest right, er you’ll take on too much dirt to begin with. Not too straight up and down at first, and not too slow. Now try it.”

Miss Manzanita Canby, with a line in each hand and also the handle of a scraper in each hand, looked doubtfully at the two scrawny mules before her.

“Start ’em up,” urged Wing o’ the Crow.

Manzanita flipped the lines and started the mules, stooping over the slip, following it in the attitude of a sprinter who starts with fingers touching the ground.

“Now set yer slip.”

Manzanita lifted the handles slightly and set the point of the pan in the ground. The fine dirt began entering.

“Now keep liftin’ it—a little higher—a leetle higher—but not too high, or——”

Bam!

The mules, suddenly relieved of their load lurched forward. The pan of the slip had flopped over, the handles striking the doubletrees with force almost enough to snap them off. Manzanita lay sprawled on the ground, her mouth full of sand.

“You let ’em go too fast, and you raised the pan too high,” said Wing o’ the Crow gravely. “Did it hurt you?”

“I never get hurt much,” Manzanita said cheerfully. “I’m down half the time, for one reason or another. Don’t mind me.”

“Now watch me,” suggested Wing o’ the Crow.

She picked up the lines, and with a deft flip righted the slip. She laid hold of the handles.

“Hehup, Ned!” she chirruped.

And in almost no time the pan was full and running over, and the team was moving off with it toward the fill.

“It looks so easy when you do it,” Manzanita complained. “Dump it and I’ll try again.”

“You jest watch a little,” advised Wing o’ the Crow.

Manzanita felt humiliated by the words. She thought that her efforts to become a dirt mover were hampering the work. She had tried six times to load a slip, always with the same result, except that now and then she had managed to keep her feet.

Jeddo the Crow was driving the snap team, which is used only in loading the scrapers with wheels. In “sticking pigs” the skinner himself loads and drives and dumps. As Wing o’ the Crow came down the dump with her empty slip Jeddo called to her. Manzanita saw him hurry to camp for something, and while he was away his daughter let her slip team stand and drove the trio on the snap.

Manzanita watched her enviously. She swung the cumbersome eveners as easily as had her one-armed father. Earlier in the afternoon the desert girl had seen her driving six mules hitched to a huge railroad plow. In the saddle Manzanita was at home, but as a railroad builder she had shown many shortcomings. Mart had been driven to the mountains to build drift fence by his father. Manzanita was lonesome. She envied this girl who could do things that really counted. She had forgotten her aversion to the railroad. Suddenly she had grown ambitious to be doing something in life besides riding over the desert on a pinto, wandering aimlessly. She even did not wish to become a moving picture actress now. “Life is real and life is earnest,” she had quoted to Mrs. Ehrhart, apropos of nothing at all, that morning, greatly to the kindly housekeeper’s surprise.

She sighed pensively now; and when Jeddo returned and Wing o’ the Crow drove into the borrow pit with the slip team again, she arose from her seat on a felled yucca.

“I guess I’d better be riding home, Wing-o,” she said. “I’ve lots to do. I’ll see you to-morrow maybe, if I can find the time.”

Whereupon she mounted her mare and galloped toward Squawtooth.

At the ranch she threw off the big saddle and corralled the mare. It was four o’clock in the afternoon. She hurried to the low adobe house and entered the kitchen.

“Mrs. Ehrhart,” she said, “is there anything for me to do toward getting supper?”

The housekeeper turned from her glossy range and gazed at her in consternation.

“Child, are you sick?” she asked.

“Oh, no,” returned Manzanita “I’m quite well, thank you. I just thought if there was nothing I could do here right now, I’d get at that alfalfa.”

“Get at the alfalfa! What alfalfa?”

“Why, our alfalfa. It needs irrigating badly. I heard Pa Squawtooth say so.”

At which she left the kitchen and the speechless housekeeper.

A little later Squawtooth Canby rode in on his big black and found his rubber hip boots walking around and carrying a shovel. So he expressed it, anyway. But in reality the boots had a motive power not their own, for Manzanita, with her skirt tucked into the tops of them, was responsible for their sluggish progress.

Canby stopped his horse and gazed at the apparition.

“Nita, what in th’ name o’ Heaven are you doin’ in them boots?”

“Irrigatin’.”

“Is the water runnin’ on the ’falfy?”

“Yep. I turned her on. It needed it pretty badly, pa.”

“Why, that patch was irrigated only last week, girl!” he cried. “It’s the tent north o’ the house that’s dry.”

“Oh!” said Manzanita. “I didn’t know. I heard you say—— I haven’t hurt anything, have I, pa?”

He dismounted deliberately and walked toward her, chuckling as he thought of the size of the feet within his number eleven boots.

“What’s the matter with ye, daughter?” he asked, kissing her.

“I have awakened,” said Manzanita. “I realize that my life has been wasted. I’ve been a useless creature—a drone—a millstone about the neck of progress.”

“Wait a minute! How’s that?”

“But it’s not too late,” she went on. “It is never too late. From now on I mean to accomplish things before undreamed of. I am not only going to help about the housework, but during my spare moments I mean to work outside and develop this ranch. I’m sorry I got the wrong alfalfa patch. I’ll shut off the water here and start it over there. Go on and do whatever is necessary, pa, and don’t worry about the alfalfa. I feel like a new being already. My coma is over.”

“Your which?”

“My coma. I’ve been asleep—stunned—dazed. But thank goodness I see myself in the true light at last.”

“How d’ye keep them boots on?”

“I don’t. They stick every now and then, and I can’t pull ’em out of the mud. Then I have to step out and lift them free with my hands. I’m barefooted inside the boots.”

“And d’ye wash yer feet before ye put ’em in the boots ag’in?”

“Well—no. I can’t very well. They get all muddy again if I do. I’ll have to have smaller boots.”

“And how d’ye think I’m to get the mud outa the inside o’ them boots? Don’t they hurt yer feet, Nita?”

“Terribly. Little rocks get in. But I can stand it.”

Here her father’s weakening gravity forsook him entirely, and with his long arms he swept up boots, shovel, and girl and carried them to the house.

“I guess we got men enough round here to irrigate the ’falfy,” he said as he set her down on the old Mexican doorstep, a foot thick and a foot high. “Now I’m gonta put up the black, and time I get back here you have them boots off an’ washed out, and yer feet washed and all, and then we’ll find out about this new ambition o’ yours. I’m interested, I’ll admit. Get busy, now!”

CHAPTER IX
DUSK ON THE DESERT

LARDO the Cook and The Falcon’s fellow flunkies had left the cook tent for the day. Falcon the Flunky poured boiling water over the knives and forks and spoons in a gigantic dishpan and hurriedly dried them. Then he removed his apron and scoured the kitchen odors from his hands, combed his brown hair, and called it a day.

Outside he tied the flaps of the tent against erratic winds of the night, and, turning away, strolled off over the desert.

The red glow of the summer sun still hung over the mountains to the west, making a host of speared warriors of the pines that lived on the ridges and lighting the desert. Between hummocks of sand blown up about greasewood bushes Falcon the Flunky wound his way, with lizards that had lingered for the last rays of sunlight scampering to cover before his feet.

He wandered north, smoking a cigarette, his hands locked behind him, deeply brooding. To the west a black speck took form in contrast with the sable dusk colors of the desert. The Falcon saw it; his pulse quickened. At the same time he frowned and sighed as if all were not well with his soul.

On toward him moved the black speck, growing larger as it came. He thought of a fly fallen in Lardo’s big bowl of flapjack batter, swimming desperately toward solid footing. Lardo’s long white forefinger might scoop up the bedraggled insect and hurl it with a battery spat against the tent wall. But to think of Lardo the Cook as fate or destiny or any other of the forces that control nature brought a smile to the flunky’s lips. But the desert was big and flat and awe-inspiring, and the human speck moving over its vast expanse seemed as helpless and insignificant as the ill-fated fly.

Presently Falcon the Flunky waved his hat. Before long Manzanita Canby reined in the blowing pinto mare beside him and dismounted.

“Hello!” she greeted, her face lighted with color, her hazel eyes half hidden by long lashes.

Falcon the Flunky silently took the mare’s reins, and she trailed the pair as they walked on into the north.

“Doesn’t the desert seem big to-night,” remarked the girl. “When the sun goes down it seems to expand, and then as darkness comes on it contracts more and more, till finally you’re all shut in.”

“Yes,” he said simply; and for a time they walked on silently.

“Why are you so still this evening?” asked Manzanita. “Is there something the matter?”

Falcon the Flunky cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking,” he told her, “that we oughtn’t to meet like this, Manzanita.”

“Why?”

“For one thing, your father wouldn’t approve. And back there at camp they can’t help knowing about it.”

“Well? I’m of age. I can do as I choose. If I want to be with you, it’s nobody’s business, is it?”

“That’s the old, old, commonplace defense,” he said. “But they’re wondering and chuckling in their sleeves back there in camp. And that won’t do where you’re concerned. They can’t understand, of course. If you have a friend in camp, he should be Hunter Mangan or the walking boss, or perhaps one of the bookkeepers—not one of the stiffs, a flunky.”

“Oh, you know you’re not a flunky, so far as that goes! And so does every one, I guess.”

“Perhaps. But that doesn’t help matters. It’s a rather difficult subject for a man to talk upon. You’re used to men—accustomed to being comradely with them. So you don’t exactly see the difference, now that the camps have come. And to save my soul I can’t exactly explain it myself. Somehow or other, I should think it right and proper for you to be friendly and democratic with your cowmen, but it’s different with the stiffs. And I can’t tell you why or how, but I feel it.”

“What old hens all men are!” and Manzanita sighed. “Pa Squawtooth and Hunt Mangan, and now even you! Nobody ever takes the time to insult me. No man ever has insulted me.”

“Not to your face, perhaps,” said The Falcon significantly.

“Well, if you don’t want me to come and walk with you——” Manzanita’s chin was a trifle elevated.

“Can’t I go to the ranch sometimes of evenings instead?”

For quite a time she withheld her reply.

“I—I hardly think so,” she told him finally.

“Your father wouldn’t approve, of course.”

“I—I’m afraid that’s it.”

“All the more reason, then, why we should not meet out here on the desert. Listen: I’m going to ask you what may seem to be an unfair question—from a man. Why did you make friends with me so readily in the cook tent the first day you came to the camp?”

“Perhaps I liked you,” she suggested in a low tone.

“No, you didn’t. You knew nothing about me then. I was no more to you than Lardo the Cook or Baldy or Rambo the Bouncer.”

“Does a person have to know all about another before she can like his looks—and—and other things about him? I’m rather an instinctive person.”

“Yes, but you don’t trust to instinct altogether. I think you had a reason for offering me friendship.”

“Perhaps I had—then,” she admitted after a little. “But it’s been different since. It was silly, I suppose—stupid. But I liked you almost at once; and when I like a person I’m not slow to show it.”

“I believe you,” he said. “Otherwise I’d not be here with you now. But tell me what was the beginning of it all.”

Another pause. Then: “I’d rather not—just yet.”

“All right. I’ll not press you for an answer. But I imagine it’s hardly necessary. I think I know.”

“But you can’t!”

“Oh, yes, I can. I think I almost knew even that first day. But now about seeing you in the future. I want to, of course, and I think you want me to. I believe I’ll walk over to the ranch to-morrow evening and call on you. Would there be a great upheaval?”

“I’m afraid there would be—afterward. You see, Pa Squawtooth is pretty much of a snob. I have to admit it. He’s been getting pretty well off the last few years; and now this railroad will make him rich, he thinks. For my part, I have no desire to be wealthy—but that has nothing to do with the situation. Pa’s only a money snob, though. He’s democratic enough other ways, and has always encouraged me to be the same. That is, up until lately. Since I’ve grown up I notice he doesn’t approve of many of the things I do. We have dances around here sometimes. I used always to go with Ed Chazzy or ‘Lucky’ Gilfoyle or Splicer Kurtz, or some other desert rat, and he’d say nothing. But now he takes me himself, or tags along; and if I’m with any particular vaquero two minutes longer than I’m with any of the others he nearly strokes his whispers out. In fact, he’s told me outright that, since he’s becoming rich, I mustn’t be too free with the cow-punchers and all that. Now, if ‘Limpy’ Pardoe, for instance, were to strike it rich in a gold claim that he does assessment work on every year, why, I’ll bet pa would let me dance with him. So you see what kind of a snob he is—just a money snob, not a folks snob. And it’s so new I haven’t got used to it. It came on him all of a sudden when beef sold so high, and the railroad began to boom up. He’ll get over it. I hope so, anyway. So you see—well, I don’t know whether he’d like you or not. That is, admit he liked you. And he’d probably ask me not to invite you to come again. Then I’d have to meet you like this, if I saw you at all, while now I just do it.”

“Suppose we try it, anyway,” he suggested. “Maybe he’ll like me despite himself. Do I sound egotistical—too confident? But maybe we can break him of this newly formed habit.”

“I don’t know,” she said skeptically. “He and I had a long talk last night. He came home and found me irrigating the alfalfa. You see, I’d begun to realize what a useless life I’ve been living. I think I grew up in a day when I saw Wing o’ the Crow sticking pigs and driving a team, then hurrying to camp to get a meal for the stiffs. So I decided to remodel my life. I went home, and as there was nothing I could do in the house, I put on rubber boots and went to irrigating. I had tried to help Wing-o, but I proved a failure at sticking pigs. I was hopeless for a time, then suddenly I realized that I was trying to do something out of my sphere, and that that was the trouble. So I went home and began in my own sphere to make amends. And then pa took me to the house; it was then that we had our talk.”

“And do you wish to tell me about it?”

“Well, he said irrigating wasn’t my sphere, either. He wants me to practice more on the piano and study more and do housework—if I must work—and not run around so much, and—and——”

“Yes?”

“Well, grow up a little more, he said—and think about getting married and settling down.”

“Good advice, I should say.”

“And he said I ought to take more interest in the men he brings to the ranch from Los Angeles sometimes, and in—in Hunter Mangan.”

“Oh!”

“Mangan has lots of money, pa says; and he’s not so terribly old—twenty-nine. Of course, you know he comes over to Squawtooth often. Pa invites him. And, by the way, he’s to be there for supper to-morrow night. So you wouldn’t want to come then.”

“Wouldn’t I? I’ll come if you invite me.”

“I would, of course—you know. But I’m afraid it might spoil everything.”

“I’ll risk it. Suppose I go and try to make your father like me, even though I’m only a flunky.”

“If you want to try it——”

“Do you invite me?”

“Certainly. But—but——”

“It’s settled then. We’ll see what can be done to cure your father of this sudden complaint. Now let’s talk of something else.”

While these two walked slowly over the soft carpet of sand Mr. Halfaman Daisy was repairing to the camp of Jeddo the Crow, swinging along with an exalted stride. As he strode along he lifted his voice in song, or, rather, dropped it out of one corner of his mouth, to convince himself that his head was still unbowed. And thus he sang the ninety-seventh and the hundred-and-sixth stanzas of his favorite lay:

“Chi to the Kerry Woman’s out in Sac

I rides the rods—ain’t a-comin’ back.

She slips me a dollar and I buys a stack,

And I holds four aces on a lumberjack—

For his pay day—for me ba-bay!

For the pay day of that lumberjack!

“Starts for Dallas on the M. K. and T.,

In a Memphis town I caught the ole I. C.

Tanked up in Chi on the M. and Saint P.,

And a-sobered up in Frisco on the Santa Fee—

Without me pay day—for me ba-bay!

Without me pay day from the M. K. and T!”

As he drew near to the blinking lights of Jeddo’s camp his song trailed off; and when he reached the front of the cook tent he was silent altogether.

The cook tent was dark, and its flaps tied together inhospitably, proving that its presiding angel had thriftily finished her work for the day. Mr. Daisy walked around it, stumbled over a guy rope, righted himself and the new pink tie which he fondly imagined went well with his sandy kinks, and continued his approach toward the van in the rear.

Mr. Daisy cleared his throat and knocked on the oaken doubletrees. Achieving nothing beyond a faint, unresounding tattoo and aching knuckle bones, he repeated the signal on the wagon box.

“Well? Who’s there?” came from within.

“Hello, Wing-o! It’s me. How’s each trivial detail this large evening?”

“The can’s three quarters full. You filled ’er this mornin’, you remember.”

“I did, at that I’d forgotten. I’m afoot now, though, Wing-o.”

“Keep that way.”

“You ain’t gone to bed?”

“How d’ye know I ain’t?”

Mr. Daisy pondered over this. “I don’t,” he finally confessed. “But lissen here, Wing-o: I got somethin’ to tell you.”

“Never saw you when you didn’t have somethin’ to tell somebody.”

“Ha-ha! You sure got on yer kid gloves to-night, sw-sweetheart.”

“I don’t need ’em to handle the likes o’ you. Peddle that ‘sw-sweetheart’ stuff where its welcome.”

“Aw, say now! I was afraid you wasn’t gonta think o’ that. Lissen, deary—honest I got somethin’ to tell you.”

“I can’t believe it!”

“Somethin’ big, too. It’ll make yer eyes stick out.”

“It would if I was to swallow it, I guess. But you never saw me have to push ’em in with a pick handle after listenin’ to you, did you?”

“Ain’t you the cuttin’ kid, though! But honest, pettie—this here’s great. Honest!”

“Pettie! Say, how’d you get that way?”

“Are you gonta ask me to climb up and set on the seat and talk to you?”

“Nobody ever had to ask you to talk to ’em. Trouble is to get you to break it off so’s a body c’n get a mite o’ sleep now an’ then. But go on—say what you got to say. I reckon it’s cruelty to animals to stop you.”

“Did you say climb up, Wing-o?”

“If I did I was talkin’ in my sleep. I been asleep for ten minutes. You always put me to sleep. Maybe it was me snorin’ you heard.”

“Aw, now le’s cut out the funny stuff! I’m comin’ up there. Shall I?”

“I thought you said you was comin’.”

“I don’t want to unless you want me to.”

“It’s a cinch you don’t want to, then!”

“H’m-m!” muttered the cornered Mr. Daisy. “Well, I’m comin’ up, anyway,” he added, and climbed on the wagon tongue.

“Shall I?”

“Shall you what?”

“Come on up? I’m standin’ on the tongue.”

“Not your own. I’d get a little rest if you was.”

“H’m-m!” Halfaman Daisy raised himself to his full height, though not in outraged dignity, and peered in over the seat. “Here I am,” he announced in doubtful triumph.

In one corner of the van was a cot, just large enough for the tired little body that slept on it night after night. About the walls hung the meager wardrobe of the queen of the van. There was a tiny homemade table with writing materials, a few books, and a kerosene lamp on it. Before it, in a camp chair, sat the girl of Mr. Daisy’s heart.

Her black hair was down and in a state of picturesque disorder. Someway, the more tumbled her hair, the more fascinating to mankind was the daughter of the one-armed Jeddo. She wore a straight, formless lightweight dress of brown and white plaid—a homely thing on any other woman.

“Heavens, you’re pretty!” Halfaman Daisy said fervently. “You start the joy bells ringin’ in me heart. What’re you doin’?”

“Studyin’.” The tones were more soothing. Mr. Daisy had said much in those last few words.

“’Rithmetic?”

“Yep—an’ hist’ry.”

“How much is two an’ a quarter times thirty?”

She figured with a pencil. “Sixty-seven-fifty,” she reported.

“Less two-fifty fer a shirt and a dollar fer tobacco, an’ fifty cents fer this here tie I’m wearin’?”

After a pause: “Sixty-three dollars and fifty cents.”

“That’s what’s right here in me jeans, kiddo. The way I’m hoardin’ it up these days is what’s makin’ hard times. I’m gonta set on the seat, Wing-o.”

As she did not dispute this he clambered to the seat and sat facing her, his legs draped over the low back uncomfortably. He took from his pocket the stub of a pencil and abstractedly wrote on the seat back between his long legs: “And the sons also of Aaron; Nadab and Abihu, Eleazar and Ithamar.”

“Don’t begat all over that there seat!” warned the girl. “Can’t you think of anything but ‘The sons also of Aaron?’ You talk it an’ dream it an’ write it everywhere you go. You’re a begatto-maniac, Jack!”

Mr. Daisy wet the rubber eraser and tried to obliterate the words. “Bring your chair over here by me,” he suggested.

“I’m doin’ well enough right here, thank you. Why don’t you get ye a rubber stamp with that Aaron business on it, an’ have it and a pad handy in your pocket?”

“Huh! But I got somethin’ to tell you.”

“I’ll begin to b’lieve that pretty soon. Or you might get you one o’ these little typewriters they carry in a case. ’Twouldn’t be heavy. You could keep it on yer tank wagon and begat all the way to Squawtooth an’ back.”

“Huh! Come on over closter. I oughtn’t to butt in there, an’ I gotta talk low. This here’s an important secret.”

She shrugged, rose, and carried her camp chair nearer to the wagon seat, setting it down so that she would be safely out of the reach of this obstinate male.

“They c’n hear me all over camp. This here’s sumpin just between you an’ me.”

With a pout Wing o’ the Crow rose again and moved the chair nearer. But as she started to sit down Halfaman reached out and moved it nearer still, so that she alighted on the bare edge of it and was saved from toppling off by his ready hand. Apparently she considered the near catastrophe as due to her own awkwardness, for she said nothing to show that she thought her lover responsible.

“Well, shoot!” she encouraged, demurely folding her hands in her lap.

Mr. Daisy leaned so that his lips were close to her little ear and shot.

“Kid, I’m crazy about you!” was the ammunition that he used.

“Aw, bunk! Is that all ye got to tell me?”

She made as if to rise immediately, but Halfaman grasped the chair, and of course she could not rise and leave the chair to withstand these indignities alone.

“Don’t you believe me? You know you do! Why’m I here?—tell me that. Why’d I ramble West?—tell me that!”

“Maybe Lil o’ the Lobbies could.”

“Aw, now, sweetheart, that ain’t fair! You know that’s all past. Listen: I got somethin’ to tell you.”

“Yeah? Where’ve I heard that before?”

“Now listen. You think I’m kiddin’ you. How ’bout that little Squawtooth girl?”

“Oh, it’s her now, is it? You big stiff—she wouldn’t use you for a doormat!”

“Maybe not; maybe not. Just the same, you’re all wrong again. She likes you. She slipped it to me that she did, to-day when I was at the ranch. Did she ever say anything to you ’bout me?”

“Her! About you! Say, this is good! Why, say, Halfaman—she can’t talk about anything else.”

Halfaman removed his broken-visored cap and scratched his head. “You’re kiddn’ me again,” he decided. “But did she?”

“You poor fish, she don’t know you’re on earth!”

“Maybe not; maybe not. Just the same, there’s one stiff she’s keen enough about. And I thought maybe she said sumpin about him—see? If she did, she mighta mentioned me. ’Cause this bird and me’s pals. They call um Falcon the Flunky. How ’bout it?”

“She said somethin’ about a stiff with a moniker like that first time I met her,” admitted Wing o’ the Crow, her curiosity aroused.

“What’d she say, apple blossoms?”

“Say, for Heaven’s sake. Apple blossoms! You’re kinda nutty, ain’t you? She just said he was at Mangan-Hatton’s.”

“Uh-huh—he’s s’posed to be a flunky there. Is, fer that matter. But everybody don’t know what I know about um. Him an’ me’s pals, and he slipped me the dope about umself last night. I’ll bet you’d open yer eyes if you savvied what I do, Wing-o. An’ lissen—you don’t wanta ferget about that guy. He’s strong for me, and I’ll bet if you knew what I do you wouldn’t be so placid, kinda.”

“You talk like a Hamburger sandwich! I heard you say you had somethin’ to tell me.”

“Ain’t I tellin’ you? But I can tell you more: This little Canby girl is nuts about Falcon the Flunky. First day she was in camp she was there to see Mangan. An’ Mangan he was showin’ her ’round—see—and when he takes ’er to the cook shack she sees Falcon the Flunky, and from then on she gives Mangan the begone sir. Lissen: Every night Falcon the Flunky beats it out over the desert, and pretty soon here she comes to meet um from the ranch. Everybody’s onto it—even Mangan.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“It’s the truth, so help me! But lissen: There’s a joker. If you knew this Falcon the Flunky an’ what I do about um you’d savvy. Nobody knows it but me—see?”

“I’ll bet he’s crooked. Well?”

“Well, I can’t tell you much, ’cause he tells me not to spill it. But Falcon the Flunky’s an educated guy, and—and he’s there, that’s all. Believe me, kiddo, that guy’s a go-getter!”

“You talk like a man up a tree! I thought ye had somethin’ to tell me. Just trying to horn in as usual?”

“There’s lots to tell, but I dassent spill it. No foolin’! And lissen: It’s got lots to do with you an’ me, kiddo.”

“I don’t know where I come in.”

“Why, this plug’s me pal—see? An’ you’re me little gypo queen that I rambled acrost four States to see again.”

“Is that so?”

“Sure. An’ one o’ these days you’ll say: ‘Gee! I never savvied that guy was the reg’lar feller he is. Say, I was rubber from the chin up when I slipped that Jasper them unkind words!’ No foolin’! You wait an’ see! Later on everything’ll be jake, and there’ll be some eye openin’ in this shanty camp. No foolin’! Gettin’ sleepy, honey?”

“Oh, no—not a-tall.”

“I guess you are. Well, I’ll beat it. Any chance fer a little kiss? Then I’ll go.”

“Not the slightest in the world.”

Mr. Daisy sighed as does one who has quested long in vain, and turned on the seat.

“Well, good night,” he said as he climbed to the ground. “The day’s comin’, though—an’ she ain’t far off—when you’ll say: ‘Sucker that I was! I coulda had that fella Daisy fer just sayin’ a word. But I wasted me opportunity. Now look at um! And it’s too late—too late!’”

“Is that all?” asked Wing o’ the Crow.

“All for the present.”

“Good night!”

CHAPTER X
GUESTS

SQUAWTOOTH CANBY was finding his new rôle a difficult one. As his devoted daughter had expressed it, he was not a “folks snob,” but merely a “money snob,” and a new and inexperienced one at that. The warm hospitality of Squawtooth Ranch was a byword in this section of the country. Any man, vaquero, miner, prospector, homesteader, or the chance wayfarer from the inside of the range was welcome at Squawtooth so long as he showed the slightest evidences of being a gentleman as the term is interpreted in the outland West. Penniless prospectors and underpaid cow-punchers for years had sat at table with the master of the squat old adobe and the master’s daughter, and no member of the household ever had thought of considering them anything but equals. To break the custom of a lifetime is a difficult matter; and to-night Webster Canby found himself perplexed as how to treat his guests. Falcon the Flunky and Hunter Mangan.

He had not known that the first named was to be a guest until shortly before his arrival. He had come afoot five minutes ahead of Mangan, who arrived on horseback. When Manzanita had seen him walking in from the desert she had told her father that she herself had invited a guest for supper, and there had been little time before The Falcon’s arrival for questions. She introduced him, when he stepped over the high threshold, as Mr. Falcon of the Mangan-Hatton camp.

This was a busy time of year for Squawtooth Canby, and he had not found much opportunity to visit his new friend’s camp. Therefore it was not surprising that he never before had met a man called Mr. Falcon. The visitor was hardly dressed as a member of the camp’s royal family would be—in khaki or corduroy and puttees—but he was nevertheless presentable. Dress clothes of any kind were almost unknown to most of the men who came to Squawtooth, so in this The Falcon was not amiss.

During the short conversation that time allowed the two men before the arrival of Hunt Mangan, nothing was asked and nothing volunteered in regard to The Falcon’s place in the Mangan-Hatton camp. Squawtooth at once realized his guest’s refinement and education. Naturally supposing him to be of importance to the work, else Manzanita would not have invited him to be a guest with Mangan, he was getting on famously when Mangan came.

Manzanita met the contractor at the door and brought him in. Mangan’s eyes widened as he saw Falcon the Flunky, and for a moment he looked bewilderedly at the girl. Then his native refinement asserted itself, and he shook hands cordially, if a little awkwardly, with Canby and his fellow guest.

At once Manzanita went to help Mrs. Ehrhart with the dinner, leaving the three men together. The Falcon sat listening to the conversation of Canby and Mangan, not offering a word but perfectly at ease. Presently he stepped to the piano, glanced over the music on the rack, and seated himself on the stool.

“Don’t mind if I loosen up a little, do you?” he asked, smiling around at them. “I see a piano so seldom these days that I can’t keep away from one when I do.”

“Sure! Sure!” genially encouraged Squawtooth. “Give us a tune.”

Thereupon Falcon the Flunky played several semi-classical pieces with a touch and feeling that surprised Mangan, who appreciated good music. As he talked with his host he watched the man at the piano. Where had he come from? Who was he? Was he playing the instrument merely to prove that he was socially above the general run of construction laborers?

The Falcon swiveled presently on the stool and sat listening again to the conversation.

“You’re pretty good at that, Mr. Falcon,” volunteered Canby, to whom almost any noise on an instrument meant music.

The Falcon smiled. “Pretty rusty, I imagine. I haven’t touched a piano in three months.”

“We was talkin’ about the new railroad bridge over the Little Albert,” Squawtooth observed. “Mr. Mangan says she’ll hold, but I tell him he don’t realize what a torrent that river c’n be when the snows thaw up in the mountains. What d’you think about ’er, Mr. Falcon?”

“I’ve seen the abutments only once,” replied The Falcon, “but it strikes me that you have grounds for what you say, Mr. Canby. I’m afraid such a bottom as this sandy country will give is not going to be——”

“Right there’s the idea. They ain’t goin’ deep enough, and them abutments are too light. But o’ course they know more about it than I do.”

The ghost of a smile was playing over Hunt Mangan’s lips. While he was not vitally concerned with the bridge contract or its outcome, he knew that Foster & Bean, who were doing the quarry work, were unsurpassed in their line, and he had perfect confidence in their judgment.

Canby continued to explain the treachery of the sand-bottom rivers of the West as he knew them, speaking to his supporter. Mangan said nothing, but watched and wondered about Falcon the Flunky.

That he should voice any opinion at all about railroad work surprised him, but that he should have tried to display a knowledge of a part of such work altogether foreign to that of the Mangan-Hatton Company, evidently his first experience, was more puzzling still. And he was not a fool! Then the young man began to talk, and Mangan listened. His sentences displayed a technical knowledge of railroad building which was not at Mangan’s command. Mangan knew his own end of the work and nothing more. He was not an engineer, merely a good rock man and a dirt mover. But Falcon the Flunky talked like a man who had studied every phase of railroad construction, from the preliminary survey of a proposed route to the laying of the steel. He talked not from a contractor’s viewpoint, but from that of a high-salaried man employed by the company whose money was being invested, and who demanded that all phases of the work tend toward one ultimate idea, the excellence of their railroad.

Was this young man a spy in the employ of the Gold Belt Cut-off? Was he, at his age, a technical expert come to pose as a common laborer and report the progress of the work? If so, why had he chosen the Mangan-Hatton outfit as his headquarters? There was nothing wrong with the Mangan-Hatton work, Mangan could have sworn. No, he was no spy. He would not have exposed his knowledge of railroad building if he were that. Unless he had thrown overboard all his plans, and was doing this solely to convince Canby that he was as good as the best of them. And Manzanita could be the only excuse for such a foolish play at that.

It was not until after dinner—supper as it invariably was called at Squawtooth—that Canby and Mangan found themselves alone, Manzanita having taken The Falcon away to show him that ever interesting marvel on a ranch, “the cutest little calf, born only last night.” The cattleman and the contractor were left on the broad Spanish veranda, smoking cigars. Mangan’s host cleared his throat apologetically.

“I expect I hadn’t oughta ask it, Mr. Mangan,” he began; “but, d’ye know, I never heard tell o’ Mr. Falcon until to-night! He got here just before you did, and I didn’t know he was comin’ until he was openin’ the gate. Little Apple didn’t tell me anything about ’im, and I didn’t ask. Oughtn’t to be askin’ you, I reckon, but it seems funny I never heard you mention ’im. Am I impolite? Who is he? Smart as a cricket, ain’t he?”

“I must confess,” replied Hunt Mangan slowly, “that I know very little about him myself.” The contractor spoke abstractedly. He was thinking of “Little Apple,” of which “Manzanita” is the Spanish equivalent. He never before had heard the girl called that.

“Been with you long?”

“Oh, Fal—er—Mr. Falcon, eh? Why, he’s been with us since we came to Squawtooth.”

“Seems to me I’ve seen ’im somewheres. Say—I got it! Wasn’t he the fella that come into the ho-tel the day I rode to Opaco to see you, before you’d moved out? Wasn’t he the fella that was pardners with the man you give a dollar to—to eat on?”

“I—I believe he did come to me that day.”

Squawtooth Canby’s craggy eyebrows came down. “Why, you pretty near didn’t hire him, ’cause he said he wasn’t much of a skinner!”

“I believe something like that came up,” conceded Hunt after a pause, during which he had hoped the cowman would continue speaking.

“And you give ’im the job o’ flunky—pot-walloper!”

Again the pause; and finally the contractor had to admit it.

“Well, by cripes!” exclaimed Squawtooth, his bushy brows drawn lower still. Then he raised them suddenly and eyed his guest with a look of shrewdness.

“Hunt,” he accused, “you’re keepin’ somethin’ back. And whether it’s polite er not, I gotta know it now. Come acrost. What’s the fella’s name? Who is he? What’s he doin’ for you?”

“Really, Mr. Canby, I’ve told you all I know about him.”

“You c’n tell me what he’s doin’ for you, I reckon.”

“He’s working in the kitchen,” Mangan was obliged to admit reluctantly.

“Did you ever get his name? He wouldn’t give it down at Opaco that time.”

“He is still on the books as Falcon the Flunky, as I wrote him down when he got the job. He’s drawn no pay as yet, so there has been no check made out to him. Really, I can tell you nothing more about him.”

“Funny deal! How’d Nita get acquainted with ’im?”

Mangan told of the meeting, without embellishment.

“Huh! Funny! I beg yer pardon, Hunt. Come on out now an’ I’ll show ye our new pipe line to the new ’falfy field I’m layin’ off.”

Squawtooth’s guests had taken their leave, walking side by side toward the lights of the camp twinkling across the black desert, Mangan leading his saddle horse.

“Manzanita!”—from the front veranda.

“Yes, pa?”

“Come out here a little, will ye? I wanta have a little habla with ye.”

The girl stepped over the high threshold and stood in the dark beside her father.

“Set down,” he said, relighting his cigar.

She sat in a reed chair beside him.

“Daughter,” he began, “tell me what ye know ’bout Falcon the Flunky.”

“Oh! So Mr. Mangan——”

“Stop right here, Nita!”

She was silent a little. “Yes, I shouldn’t have started that,” she confessed. “Hunt’s all right. If he said anything at all, you forced it out of him.”

“I did—sorta agin’ my will, at that. But I hadta know. It wasn’t curiosity and pokin’ into another man’s affairs. It concerned you, and I had a right to know. Wasn’t much said. I chopped it off and waited for you to tell me. Go on.”

“Well, didn’t you like him?”

“M’m—I thought I was questionin’ you, Nita?”

“I’m not on the carpet, am I, pa? If there’s anything to be discussed, why not just talk and question each other and answer each other?”

“Well, then, what if I did like ’im?”

“That’s why I asked him to come.”

“Don’t get ye.”

“I wanted you to meet him, not knowing he is a camp flunky, and like him for himself. Didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he replied. “I admit I kinda took to the boy, though all the time I thought I’d seen ’im before somewheres. And I had.” He explained briefly. “He’s smart, and he’s got education. He’s there! From an ignorant man’s viewpoint, I’d say he knows more railroad buildin’ in a minute than Hunt Mangan does in a year. In a big way, I mean. But that’s neither here ner there. Who is he?”

“Pa, I actually can’t tell you any more about him than Hunter Mangan could. And I know that was next to nothing.”

“You mean ye don’t even know his name?”

“I don’t.”

“Ner where he’s from, ner who his folks are, ner what he did before he come out here and went to flunkyin’?”

“No, pa.”

“Well, by cripes! And ye invite ’im over here to supper!”

“Why, is that so strange, pa? Hundreds of strangers have been guests at Squawtooth.”

“Desert rats—not tramps!”

“Did The Falcon strike you as a no good, Pa Squawtooth?”

Canby puffed his cigar till the end of it glowed like a little moon through the smoke screen of a forest fire.

“Manzanita——”

“Yes, pa?”

“Has—now—Hunter Mangan ever ast ye to marry ’im?”

“You embarrass me. But I can’t tell a lie. He has not.”

“He likes ye plenty, Nita.”

“I hope he does. I certainly like him.”

“But ye said ye wasn’t goin’ to.”

“I say many things. I’m older now than when I made that remark. And even then I was not displeased with him; I was put out at the thought of a railroad crossing Squawtooth.”

“Don’t care now, do ye, Nita?”

“Not so much, pa. I begin to realize that other people in the world must live, and that railroads are necessary to their prosperity and happiness. Everybody can’t be fortunate enough to live at dear old Squawtooth.”

“Uh-huh. What if Hunt Mangan was to ask ye to marry ’im, Manzanita?—if ye don’t resent my impertinence.”

“I’d refuse, of course.”

“Refuse! ‘Of course!’ Why ‘of course?’”

“I don’t love him.”

“Who do ye love, daughter?”

“You.”

“Uh-huh—ye’d better! Who else?”

“That podheaded little Mart.”

“Who else?”

Silence answered this for a time. “Perhaps you are impertinent, after all,” said Manzanita demurely at last.

“I don’t mean to be. I’m yer pa.”

“I don’t know that I love anybody else—the—the way I guess you mean, pa.”

“Mangan’s a fine fella,” said her father after another intermission.

“He is. But I don’t love him. Even if I did, pa, you’ve made me ’fess up that he hasn’t asked me to be his wife.”

“Has—now—Falcon the Flunky ast ye?”

“How embarrassing you can be, pa! No! No! No!”

“Ain’t sore, are ye, daughter?”

“Of course not, silly! No railroad man has asked me to marry him. Every vaquero in the country has asked me half a dozen times, I guess.”

“Uh-huh—I imagined so. Now about this Falcon the Flunky ag’in, daughter: he’s a kind of a winner, ain’t he? Kinda mysterious, eh? All that? And good to look upon—smart an’ all. What would ye say if he was to ast ye to marry ’im?”

“Pa, I positively refuse to answer such a question! Why, I’m surprised at you!”

“Ye didn’t say as much when I ast ye what ye’d say if Hunt Mangan was to ast ye.”

“Perhaps you’ve worn out my patience!”

“Perhaps—maybe so. We’ll drop it, then. Le’s go to bed. It’s pretty near eleven—three hours later’n my bedtime.”

CHAPTER XI
THE PINK NECKTIE

MR. PHINEHAS DAISY was filling his tank wagon at Squawtooth’s artesian well and keeping an eye on the kitchen door of the old adobe ranch house. It was morning, and his first trip of the day. The heart of Mr. Daisy was hopeful, and to the accompaniment of the rushing water he sang:

“Rattlesnake bit-a me nose and knees;
Scorpion stung me, also bees—
Tarantulas an’ centipedes an’ Frisco fleas,

But they all died a-shakin’ with the dread D. T.’s!

On a pay day—for me ba-bay!

On a pay day with the dread D. T.’s!”

Then Manzanita came from the kitchen door, dressed for the saddle, and approached him. Mr. Daisy promptly swept off his disreputable cap to her.

“Well, ma’am, how’s every little subordinate element this mornin’?” he asked genially, above the roar of the water. Before she could make reply he announced: “I’d like to see you a minute, ma’am.”

Manzanita went over to him.

“Things ain’t just breakin’ right with the children of Amram,” he gravely informed her.

“Why, what’s wrong?”

Mr. Daisy sighed and rested knuckles on one bony hip.

“D’ye remember the first day you saw me?”

“Quite well.”

“Uh-huh. And d’ye remember me sayin’ I wanted you to use your inflooence with a certain party when the time was ripe?”

“Yes, I remember something of the kind. You were rather vague, though.”

“Well, she’s ripe, ma’am.”

“And what do you wish me to do, Halfaman?”

Mr. Daisy became slightly embarrassed. He looked at her gravely, then took from his overalls pocket his pencil stub, thoughtfully touched his tongue to the blunt point, and wrote on the edge of the horse trough: “The sons also of Aaron; Nadab and Abihu, Eleazar and Ithamar.”

Manzanita’s lips twitched as she read it. A week before Mr. Daisy had asked permission to use the telephone in the ranch house to relay a message for Mangan to Opaco. After he had left, Manzanita had found scribbled on the pad that lay always on the telephone table: “And the children of Amram; Aaron and Moses and Miriam. The sons also of Aaron; Nadab and——” But at this point, apparently, whoever Mr. Daisy had been calling had come to the other end of the wire.

Presently Mr. Daisy looked up briskly, as if he had gained inspiration from his chirographic concentration. “Ma’am,” he said, “I want you to slip Wing o’ the Crow an earful o’ chatter that’ll wise her up a little. Now lissen: There was a slip. But that’s all past an’ gone. Wing-o, though, she can’t ferget it—see? Now you sidle round her and kinda say: ‘Say, Wing-o, ain’t that fella Halfaman the limit?’

“‘He sure is,’ she’ll say.

“Then you’ll say: ‘What d’ye mean th’ limit?’

“And she’ll come back: ‘Ripe fer the chipmunks.’

“Then you: ‘Nothin’ stirrin’! You don’t get me, kiddo. I think he’s great!’ See—just like that. Course you’re stallin’—get the idea? You don’t have to think that yerself. Just stringin’ her along—see?

“‘What d’ye mean great?’ maybe she’ll say.

“Then you: ‘Kind an’ everything—and a perfect gentleman, even if he is a roughneck. I just think he’s there!’ See ma’am—you know how to do it.

“‘I think he’s a cuckoo,’ maybe the kid’ll say. But you don’t pay no ’tention to that, but just keep on:

“‘And he’s got such good chances for the future’—see? Like that. ‘There ain’t a stiff on the line that’s likely to make the hit that bird’s due to pull off pretty soon. My!’ you’ll say. ‘Some nice girl’s missin’ a lot just because this fella’s a kind of a woman hater.’

“‘What d’ye mean woman hater?’ she asks.

“‘Oh,’ you’ll say, ‘some jane turned him down, it seems, and he’s got hard and bitter an’ everything. He never told me nothin’ about his troubles, but I c’n see he’s had ’em just by lookin’ in his eyes. And he’s likely to go ’way any day now,’ you’ll say. ‘I guess he’s saved up a lotta jack, and will be goin’ back to his old haunts and habits.’ Haunts and habits—that’ll get her! ‘Ain’t it too bad,’ you’ll be sayin’ then. ‘A man like that oughta have a nice girl to love ’im, and then he’d settle down and be a credit to the country. But I guess it’s too late!’ See—just like that. Was you goin’ over to-day to see ’er, ma’am?”

“Yes, I was just going to saddle up.”

“Then to-day’ll be a good time to spring it on ’er. And then maybe to-morrow you’ll go back again—see—and say:

“‘Well, he’s gone’—blunt, you know—sudden, kinda.

“‘Who’s gone?’ she’ll say. Course she savvies—see—but she’ll stall.

“‘Mr. Daisy,’ you’ll be tellin’ her; and then you’ll go to talkin’ about sumpin else. Get the idea?”

“But you won’t be gone.”

“Oh, yes, I will. I’ll beat it at noon on the stage.”

“You’ll leave the country?”

Mr. Daisy swept his cap to the other ear and winked. “Cameofladge,” he whispered mysteriously.

“Oh, I see! And what am I to do after telling her?”

Again Mr. Daisy winked. “Watch how she takes it,” he instructed. “And then begin pullin’ a lotta patter about what a pity it is—see—and what good chances Mr. Daisy had right here on this ole desert, but threw ’em all away because of a woman.” Mr. Daisy winked once more. “Pull that on ’er,” he added, “and then set on the lid and wait for the cuckoo to come outa her clock. And if she begins puttin’ on one o’ these I’m-to-blame performances, you tell her you maybe could telephone to Opaco in time to stop Mr. Daisy; and maybe he’d come back in Santa Claus’ sleigh.”

“Why, I don’t know what you mean at all!”

Mr. Daisy scratched a pitcher-handle ear with one finger, then jumped at the water cock, as his tank was running over.

“I mean,” he told Manzanita, “that Mr. Daisy might be persuaded to come back and begat a little kick into a certain gypo outfit you an’ me know about, ma’am.”

“And shall I telephone you?”

“Well—now—that won’t be hardly necessary, ma’am—’cause I’m comin’ back, anyway. But all the time I’m gone, you keep on pullin’ that what-a-pity racket—see?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” promised Manzanita, suppressing her laughter as she hurried toward the corrals.

For years a stage line had run between Opaco and Piñon, seven thousand feet up in the mountains. Piñon was the summer headquarters of the Squawtooth outfit, and also a post-office point for gold mining camps and a lumber mill farther back in the wilderness. The stage carried mail, supplies, and passengers; and often it brought out gold ingots to be shipped to the mint in San Francisco. Frequent washouts in the mountain roads and difficult grades made an automobile impracticable, and the company still adhered to the picturesque four-horse mode of travel for the outland lap of the trip. Now that the construction men had come the stage had changed its route, making a wide detour over the desert to include Ragtown, Stlingbloke, and all the camps between the latter and Squawtooth Ranch. Squawtooth had been a way station since time immemorial. Where it ran only once a week before the camps came, it now made trips every other day.

Two passengers boarded the stage to-day at noon as it pulled up, with a merry jingling of the bells on the leaders’ hames, in the Mangan-Hatton camp. One of them was Halfaman Daisy, the other Falcon the Flunky. The two had arranged with a couple of floaters passing through the line of camps to hold down their respective jobs for a few days, while they took a little vacation.

The stage took on the mail and two more passengers and rolled away toward Squawtooth.

It was not yet one o’clock when it reached the ranch, where Manzanita Canby came out with the mail and an order for groceries from Opaco. As she neared the stage one of the passengers leaned out and bestowed upon her a prodigious wink.

“Why, Halfaman! Are you off so soon?”

He winked again. “Off so soon,” he told her. “Any luck this mornin’, ma’am?”

“I made some progress, I think,” replied Little Apple with a smile. Then her hazel eyes widened a trifle as they sighted the passenger at Mr. Daisy’s side.

“Why, are you going, too?” she asked Falcon the Flunky.

“Yes, Halfaman and I are off for a little vacation,” he told her. “All work and no play, you know—the old excuse. We’ll be back in a few days.”

There was time for no more, as the stage started moving.

“I wonder what’s up,” thought Manzanita as she walked back to her house. “The Falcon didn’t say anything to me about leaving when he was over here.”

Five days passed; and in the meantime something happened that caused a great deal of speculation at Squawtooth and in the camps.

The third day after the departure of Daisy and The Falcon the inbound stage, coming from the mountains, was held up by two masked men who wore overalls, and fifty pounds of gold bullion was stolen. The driver, “Dal” Collins, had attempted to draw his gun, and had been shot through the abdomen. He was not expected to live. He now lay at Squawtooth, nursed by Manzanita, and under a doctor’s care. The sheriff was out with a small posse, strengthened by Squawtooth Canby’s cow-punchers, and they were searching the mountains for the thieves.

Then early one afternoon “Crip” Richey rode into Squawtooth from Piñon, corralled his tired horse, and came into the adobe for lunch. He asked to see the wounded man, and was permitted entrance to the darkened room by the doctor. Manzanita, hurrying to get the vaquero some lunch, overheard the conversation.

“Well, Dal,” said Crip, after inquiring after the sufferer’s progress toward recovery, “we found somethin’ that oughta cheer you up. We found where them bandits had camped. The sheriff’s got measurements o’ the footprints o’ both of ’em, too, that he found where they pulled it off. Then we saw the ashes o’ their fire where they’d camped, and some labels off o’ canned stuff. Right near the ashes was a little crick that runs underground pretty near altogether. But at that place you could see down in where the water was, in a kind of a little tunnel, all covered with ferns. It was pretty near five feet down to the water, and we was wonderin’ how they reached it.

“So Lucky Gilfoyle lays flat down on his belly and holds a match down in there, and he sees a new can layin’ on the bottom, under the water. They’d used that, and had thrown ’er in when they broke camp.

“Well, we wasn’t goin’ to pay any attention to it, but the sheriff wasn’t passin’ up chances. And he gets down on his belly and strikes a match and has a look.

“And he sees somethin’ pink, kinda, down in there, but can’t make out just what she is. So we cut a long pole with a crotch at the end of ’er and begins to fish. And pretty soon we fetch up the can; and what d’ye suppose the stick had caught on?”

There was a low mumble from the stage driver, which the listening girl could not distinguish.

“A pink necktie,” said Crip. “She was tied to the can. They didn’t have the savvy to cut a pole, like we did, to reach down to the water; so one of ’em had took off his necktie and fastened the can on it. Then as the water had plumb ruined her, he threw her in with the can when they was ready to go. Did one of ’em wear a pink tie, Dal?”

Dal Collins mumbled something indistinguishable, to which the vaquero replied:

“Can’t remember, eh? Well, it oughta be easy to get ’em now. The sheriff’s sure, anyway, these fellas come from some o’ the railroad camps. He says these Jaspers, so far’s he’s seen, ain’t anything but crooks, anyway. So if they come from any o’ the outfits, or from Ragtown or Stlingbloke, he’s got an idea that the tie was bought somewheres here on the desert. All the big camps sell shirts an’ ties and things like that in their commissaries; and there’s little stores at Stlingbloke and Ragtown. It was a new tie, you could see that. Just wet. Not wadded much or dirty on the edges, like an old tie’d be. The sheriff come down with me. He’s gone over to begin ridin’ the camps now. I come here for a feed, then I’m foggin’ it over to Mangan-Hatton’s to go with ’im, if he finds he wants me to.”

Here Squawtooth Canby came in and went on into the sick room. For his benefit the story was repeated by Crip.

Manzanita called Crip to lunch presently, and when he was settled at the table she left the room, much to the gentleman’s disgust, telling him to pound on something with his fork if he required anything more. In her own little room, which looked out on green alfalfa fields and the pear orchard, she sat down to think.

She had seen Halfaman Daisy dressed up as he went through on the stage to Opaco; and no one who ever had seen Mr. Daisy dressed up could forget the horror of the combination made by his sandy hair and his new pink tie. Halfaman Daisy and Falcon the Flunky were partners. They had come to the desert together from some mysterious place far beyond. Together they had left the desert, five days before. Since their leaving the stage had been robbed, and Dal Collins lay at the point of death. A pink tie had been found in an underground stream near where the holdup men had camped.

Dully Manzanita thought of Hunter Mangan’s serious words in regard to the flotsam and jetsam of the railroad camps:

“There are many bright, capable men in trampdom—far more than is realized by the general public. But do you not see that this fact in itself should make you cautious about picking a friend from among them? Bright, capable men have taken to tramp life, in many cases, because polite society has for some reason ostracized them. They may be bank defaulters, forgers, or even worse. Surely your reason will tell you that no educated, refined man need be a tramp laborer these days; and that, since he is educated and refined, ambition cannot be lacking. So such a man must be a renegade, a fugitive from justice, an ostracized member of good society, to explain his adherence to the slip-along life of the construction stiff.”

There was a dull pain in her some place, she could not tell just where, and her head ached, too. What had Halfaman Daisy meant when he said he might return in Santa Claus’ sleigh? He had hinted at future affluence. And what kept the two away so long? Also, why had not Falcon the Flunky told her he was contemplating a trip away from the desert?

He had not told her that the night he had been at the house for supper, but she remembered that he had told her other things—things to which she had listened with long lashes hiding her eyes. No, he had not said outright that he loved her more than anything else on earth; but the tenderness in his tones and the way he had looked at her told her everything that she wished to know.

And now she realized that she loved him. Until this cloud had settled over him she had not been quite sure of the truth. Oh, why had she cultivated his acquaintance so deliberately—to lead him along half flirtatiously as she had done at first? Not for long, though, she comforted herself. Quite soon she had learned to like this quiet, unassuming young man; and the more she had seen of him the better she had liked him, until—this!

Would he ever come back? How much depended on that! Everything she told herself. If he did not return with Halfaman they were guilty. Fifty pounds of gold was worth approximately fourteen thousand dollars. With this amount to divide between them, why should they come back? Unless it would be a crafty move to divert suspicion. One moment Manzanita raged at Mr. Daisy for being so stupid as to leave his pink tie in the water; the next she was resolutely telling herself that a man with eyes and voice and manners like The Falcon’s could never commit a crime.

One thing certain, though: if they returned she would at once speak to The Falcon on the subject and demand the truth. If they did not return—she could think no further. She did not wish to think further along the line of this possibility.

She went about the ranch in sober mood all that afternoon, attending to the wants of the stricken stage driver and helping Mrs. Ehrhart. She was dull, listless, and her head ached continuously—something to which she was unaccustomed. Early evening brought no less an important individual to the ranch than Martin Canby, racing in from the mountains on his snap-nosed bay, rapidly chewing squawtooth for his kidneys and bursting with enthusiasm over the man hunt.

“Hello, Pod!” Manzanita listlessly greeted him as he watered his horse at the trough.

“Where’s th’ sheriff, Nita?”

“Over at the camps, I think. Wipe the squawtooth juice from your mouth and kiss me.”

“Ain’t got time, Nita,” he replied in a businesslike tone. “We found the cover off a bunch o’ cigarette papers after the sheriff left. I got it. There’s writin’ on it.”

“Let me see it.”

“Ain’t got time. A dep’ty says she’s mighty important. Jest scribblin’, anyway. It don’t mean nothin’ to them ner to me. But we’re hot on their trail, and we found where this had been throwed away. And the dep’ty wanted the sheriff to see it ’cause he might dedooce somethin’.”

“Deduce your grandmother! Everybody in the mountains smokes cigarettes, and anybody might write on the back of a book of cigarette papers in an idle moment. Show it to me, muchacho!”

“Can’t, Nita. I gotta beat it. Wonder if this here ole hoss is gonta drink the trough dry!”

“Please don’t say ‘this here old hoss,’ hermano.”

“This here hoss,” Mart corrected himself.

“I’ll allow that to stand if you’ll show me that cover.”

But here Mart’s horse lifted his nose from the water, and the young scout wheeled him.

“Mart!”

“Ain’t got time! The dep’ty told me not to show the ev’dence to anybody but th’ sheriff. See you to-night if——”

Two bounds and Manzanita grasped the mane of the bay, just lifting his front legs to lunge directly into a gallop. As he leaped the girl’s right hand caught Mart’s sleeve, and with an agile spring she landed astride, behind the saddle.

“Break away from me, will you, you little snipe!” she mocked, as the pony sped away bearing both of them.

“Aw, Little Apple! Slide off now; I’m busy!”

“You little podhead! Show me what you have, or I’ll ride with you to the ends of the desert. You can’t shake me, and you know it!”

She was hatless, and wore neither chaps nor riding skirt. Mart glanced down at the generous display of tight black stockings and jeered:

“Oh, yes, I c’n shake you! You oughta be ashamed—a big girl like you showin’ all them legs!”

“Only two, brother. But if you don’t wish to disgrace me, come across with that cover. If you don’t, I’ll ride with you right into the camps.”

“Yes you will!”

“I’ll show you. Come across!”

“Will you slide off and leave me be if I let you have a look at ’er?”

“Uh-huh!”

“Cross yer heart!”

His sister agreed.

Mart took from a shirt pocket the dark-blue back that had once held brown wheat-straw papers.

“Inside,” he directed.

She opened it as the bay galloped swiftly along, and on the pink paper pasted there she read in scrawly penciling:

“The sons also of Aaron; Nadab and Abihu, Eleazar and Ithamar.”

For a moment the desert swam toward her, yellow, suffocating. Then she said:

“Mart, I—I’m going to keep this.”

She was thrusting it into her pocket, but he turned sharply and grasped at it.

“You’re crazy! Why——”

Unexpectedly she reached around his body and grasped the saddle horn with her left hand. A moment and she swung herself forward along the bay’s side. She had felt his hands clutching at her pocket as she threw herself from the speeding pony’s back. She alighted safely in the sand, lost her balance and pitched forward on her face.

“Hi-yi!” came Mart’s derisive shout; and like a streak of brown the snip-nose dashed away at a dead run.

Manzanita felt in her pocket. The pasteboard cover had gone on with Martin.

CHAPTER XII
BLACKY SILK

TWENTY minutes after Manzanita Canby had struggled up from the sand into which her leap from Mart’s pony had pitched her, she was throwing the silver-mounted saddle on the back of her pinto mare. She was chapped and spurred now and ready for any meeting.

The fiery little mare leaped forward at the suggestion of spurs about to touch her belly. They dashed out of the gate and sped away over the desert toward the railroad camps.

It was possible that Mart would not readily find the sheriff to show him the pasteboard cover found by the man hunters in the mountains. The sheriff had been investigating in the various camps during the greater part of the afternoon, and by this time—early evening—he must have reached a point some distance up the line. If only she could overtake her brother and in some way manage to wheedle him out of that damning bit of evidence against Halfaman Daisy and Falcon the Flunky.

She had not stopped to reason. She knew now, beyond all doubt, that she loved the flunky of the Mangan-Hatton camp, and, womanlike, she cared not who knew it nor what any one might think. Womanlike, also, she was riding now in unquestioning devotion to protect the man she loved, be he guilty or innocent. The makers of our laws were perhaps wise when they decided it to be unjust for a wife to be compelled to implicate her husband. For if the wife loves the husband it would require more than laws to make her condemn him. Blind justice for men—blind love for women!

On and on she rode, pulling up only when the pinto raced alongside the work in the camp of Jeddo the Crow, where Manzanita saw her black-haired girl friend driving a wheeler team.

Wing o’ the Crow stopped her mules when she saw her bearing down in a cloud of dust. With her pony on her haunches, Manzanita leaned from the saddle when she reached the railroad girl, and asked excitedly:

“Has the sheriff been here, Wing-o?”

Startled black eyes looked up at her as she replied, just above a whisper:

“Yes, why?”

“And my brother, Mart?”

“He rode in, lookin’ for the sheriff, Nita. Wh-what’s wrong?”

“It’s about the—the holdup. Did the sheriff say anything about a pink tie?”

Wing o’ the Crow’s eyes grew wider and more startled still. “He was carryin’ one—all in a string. It—I know it——”

She came to a stop and bit her lips.

“I know, Wing-o; I know,” Manzanita said. “You think perhaps it belonged to Halfaman, don’t you? I—I’m afraid I think so, too. I’m riding now to try and overtake Mart. There’s something else. Mart has it. If I can get it away from him——”

Wing o’ the Crow was staring at her, her red lips parted.

“Get it! Get it!” she cried. “If it’s bad for Halfaman. Go on! You c’n tell me later. I c’n wait. Halfaman never held up th’ stage. Him an’ your flunky.”

“My flunky! No—they didn’t. I know it. I just know it! But even if they did——”

“That’s right. Even if they did! The sheriff an’ your brother rode on up the line. You oughta ketch th’ kid. Sheriff was here hours before. Cut dust! I c’n wait.”

The pinto leaped forward again, and horse and rider sped for the Mangan-Hatton camp.

Manzanita became tactful as she rode into the bigger camp, though she slackened the mare’s speed but little. The men had stared at her, and some had yelled as she rode past the work. In camp she found Hunt Mangan at the commissary door.

“I’m looking for Mart, Hunt,” she said lightly. “Has he been here?”

“Why the great speed?”

“Oh, the mare’s been up for a day or two. She feels good. Then I want Mart as quick as I can find him.”

“Why, he was here a few minutes ago, looking for the sheriff. He rode on up the line. Has anything new developed in the man hunt? Mart seemed in a hurry, and rode directly on when he found the sheriff wasn’t here.”

“I—I don’t know,” faltered the girl. “You’ll excuse my abruptness to-day. I want to find Mart. Thanks for your help. Now I’ll hurry on.”

Hurry on she did, indeed, for the pinto was covered with sweat and foam as they took the road that followed the new grade at a run.

They neared the buttes. Mart had passed between them, Manzanita knew, else she would have seen him on the level desert across which she now sped along.

Now and then she passed through groups of workmen, who stared curiously at the foam-flecked mare and her rider. Mart could not be so very far ahead, she reasoned, for it was doubtful if he had traveled as swiftly as she had after he had shaken her off. Still, twenty minutes is a long time in a matter of one rider overtaking another, and the girl would not allow the tough little mare to flag.

They passed between the buttes, and here for five minutes she was held back by a shot that was scheduled to be fired. There was but the one shot, and as it detonated between the rocky walls she lunged her mare past the astonished man who had stopped her, and, with rocks and earth falling about her, spurred on through the deep cut.

She made three more camps, each time to learn that Mart had ridden on up the line only a few minutes before her arrival. Yes, the sheriff had ridden on ahead of him, hours before.

And so she came to Stlingbloke, with her faltering mare about all in and her rider’s hope receding with each new stopping point.

The ragtown was alight. It was growing dark now. Piano music tinkled in the resorts. There came the sounds of ribald laughter and dancing feet. Stlingbloke was rousing itself from the afternoon siesta.

In the street Manzanita accosted the first man she met.

Yes, a man who said he was the sheriff had been there that afternoon. The sheriff had been riding alone. Her informer had seen nothing of a boy on a bay horse looking for the sheriff.

“But there’s the sheriff now,” said the man, pointing suddenly to a gray horse and rider just jogging into town from the desert to the west.

Now the railroad grade ran almost due north from Stlingbloke, and to have been at the camps on up the line the sheriff should have come in from the north; Manzanita wondered.

The sheriff saw her and rode toward her—a big-mustached man with a small, wizened face, seeming smaller still under the big Columbia-shape Stetson that he wore.

“Ain’t you Miss Canby?” he asked, riding up.

“Yes,” replied Manzanita. “I know you, Mr. Glenn. How do you do?”

“Yes, I been to Squawtooth several times. How’s yer dad?”

“Oh, he’s just fine.”

“Why don’t he come up and help us hunt the bandits?”

“He’s pretty busy just now. We’re doing some building over at Little Woman, and he rides there a great deal. That’s our winter camp, you know.”

“Yes, yes. Quite a sight, these here camps. First time I seen ’em. D’ye ride here often, Miss Canby?” He was curiously eying her heaving mare.

“Not much. I’ve been here only once before, in fact.” Then Manzanita made a plunge. “I’m looking for my brother, Martin. Have you seen him?”

“Left him up in the mountains. Did he come down?”

“Yes, this afternoon. And you haven’t seen him?”

“No. I rode on through here and to two camps above, then cut west across the desert to a water hole, where the second outfit gets water for their stock. I was over there some time; then I cut in straight for this place—made a triangle, see?”

“Have—have you found out anything? You see, I know about the—the tie.”

Again he looked at her speculatively, and studied the mare’s fatigued condition.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I ain’t got anything to say, anyway, Miss Canby—if you’ll excuse me.”

“Oh, that’s all right. I shouldn’t have let my curiosity get the better of me. Well, I must ride on and try to find Martin. We—we want him.”

“Tol’able het up—the mare.”

“Yes, she’s bound to go, and I thought I’d let her work it off.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I’ll be peggin’ on, I guess. Ain’t ye pretty far from home this time o’ night, Miss Canby? Maybe ye’d better ride back with me. I’m stayin’ at the next camp below here for to-night.”

He glanced around at Stlingbloke and several curious observers standing in saloon doors.

“Course it ain’t any o’ my business,” he said apologetically, “but ain’t you a bit worried, ’way out here this time o’ day? ’S almost night.”

“Oh, I’ll get along—thanks. I ride lots after dark. I simply must find Mart. Don’t let me detain you.”

He touched a finger to the broad brim of his hat, hitched up his heavy cartridge belt, and rode on through town. Manzanita moved her pinto until tents and sacks hid her from the retreating sheriff, then sat her saddle a moment or two and heaved a great sigh of relief.

For some reason obscure to her the sheriff, after leaving the second camp beyond Stlingbloke, had departed from the right of way and rode westward across the sandy wastes. From the water hole he had mentioned—she knew its location—he had ridden back to the ragtown as the crow flies. Thus she had come upon him before her brother had. Mart probably was still trailing him. At the water hole he doubtless would be told that the sheriff had ridden straight to Stlingbloke, completing his triangle, and Mart at once would continue on here in his trailing. What luck! The sheriff was to spend the night in the next camp below Stlingbloke—two miles away, perhaps. There was no course for her to pursue other than to remain at the town to intercept her brother and in some way rob him of the record of the family tree of Aaron. For many men might wear pink ties, regardless of the tastes of others, but who other than Phinehas Daisy could have written his fantastic rigmarole on that bit of pasteboard? And who in the camps did not know that Mr. Daisy was a proud member of the “begatters”—who did not know that Daisy and The Falcon were friends?

She was at the edge of town farthest from the retreating sheriff. He would not know that she had not ridden on up the line. Her mare was spent, anyway. She needed rest and water.

Manzanita dismounted and found a piece of lath, with which she scraped the foamy sweat from the pinto’s neck and rump and belly. This done, she looked about for a means of at least letting her wet her mouth, and caught sight of a tank wagon in the rear of a big structure, half tent, half boards and corrugated iron.

She saw nothing else that promised water, and, though she dreaded to, she led the mare to the tank.

A man stood in the rear door of the establishment behind which the tank wagon was at rest. She did not by any means like his looks.

“May I turn on a little water?” she asked. “My mare needs it badly.”

At once the man became active. “Sure; sure!” he said with a grin. “I’ll get you a bucket.”

She waited, the pinto pulling the reins and nosing the spigot of the tank.

Directly the man came to her with a galvanized pail. Behind him in the door more men now appeared, and two women with impossibly pink and white faces stood on tiptoe and watched over the men’s shoulders. From behind them came the click of gambling devices and the wheezy complaint of a piano.

The man who brought the bucket wore a black Stetson hat, a cream-colored silk shirt without a tie, and a fancy silk vest. Underneath the vest the shirt bloused comfortably, cow-puncher fashion. He was dark and had a carefully waxed black mustache. His dark eyes seemed small and calculating—a slight cast in one of them. Manzanita remembered him now. He was the man who had watched her so keenly on her first surreptitious visit to Stlingbloke.

“Oh, thank you so much,” she said, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice, for now she was just a little bit afraid of this man’s steady stare.

She attempted to take the bucket. Their hands touched.

“Le’ me draw the water,” he suggested.

“Just a little, please—not over two inches in the bucket. More might hurt her, overheated as she is.”

“Sure! I know. Just a little at first. More pretty soon, maybe.”

He turned on the water, and the pinto frantically nosed him aside to thrust her muzzle into the refreshing downpour. Manzanita stood silent, ill at ease, as the group in the door still gazed at her and laughed occasionally among themselves.

“Where you from, kid?” asked the man.

The red mounted to Manzanita’s forehead in resentment of the unwarranted familiarity. But she thought it the part of wisdom to appear serene.

“I live at Squawtooth,” she replied. And she added significantly: “My brother’s not far from here. I’m waiting for him.”

“Who? The kid that rode through a little while back?”

“Well, maybe he might be called a kid,” she replied, “but he does a man’s work, and—and he can throw a dollar in the air and hit it with a six-gun. For that matter, I can, too,” she added.

“So? Nice little popgun you pack on your hip there. Thirty-eight on a forty-five, ain’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Huh! I usta take thirty-eights for pills when I was feelin’ a little puny.”

“Indeed? Such pills are often good for certain complaints—if they’re administered properly.”

He laughed. “Pretty good!”

“Thank you ever so much now,” said the girl. “She mustn’t have any more at present. Now I’ll ride around in front and wait for my brother.”

“Stick here five minutes and give the little mare another drink.”

“No, thank you. I think that will be too soon.”

“I don’t.”

“Well, perhaps you don’t know her as well as I do.”

“How ’bout yourself, then?”

“I don’t understand,” Manzanita answered, her lips straight. She was reaching for the reins, which he had taken when the mare forced her head into the bucket, and now seemed loath to surrender.

“Why, you ain’t had a drink yourself.”

“I don’t care for any, thanks.” In truth her throat was uncomfortably dry at that very moment. “I’ll take the reins now, please. Thank you again.”

“Kinda anxious, ain’t you?”

She fought back her growing terror. “Perhaps I am. I don’t want to risk missing my brother.”

“Nice little filly. Will she stand?”

“Certainly. But please—I must be going.”

Again she reached for the reins, which he held just out of her grasp. She could not lay hold of them without coming into close contact with him.

“We’ll leave her stand, and you ’n’ me’ll go into Johnny’s place and have a glass o’ beer.”

“‘You ’n’ me’ will do nothing of the sort!” she said hotly. “Will you please hand me those reins?”

She was trembling from head to foot now. From the door she heard the sounds of tittering. Those who occupied it were too far off to hear, but they were able to interpret the meaning of her outstretched hand and the immovable figure of the man.

“What makes you so sore on me, kiddo?” he asked. “Ain’t I treated you like a gentleman?”

“To a certain extent. You’re not doing so now, though. Give me those reins!”

“Aw, come now! Forget the dignity stuff. I’ve seen you before. You and your kid brother was here one day, and the two o’ you was sneakin’ around, peepin’ into dance halls. I guess you was interested, all right, but kinda shy about buttin’ in. Well, there’s nothin’ to be afraid of. Come on in with me. I’ll show you a good time. Ask any of ’em if ‘Blacky’ Silk ain’t a perfect gentleman.”

“If you’re a gentleman you’ll hand me those reins.”

“Aw, cut it out! You gi’me a pain! Come on”—he dropped the reins to the ground—“you ’n’ me’s gota have a couple o’ beers and get acquainted.”

Shaking like a leaf, Manzanita took a step toward the reins, trying to avoid him and at the same time get hold of them.

He waited disarmingly until she stooped for them, then suddenly took her by the shoulders.

With a little scream she straightened, but she held the reins. Indignantly she shook her shoulders, her tremor outmatched by her anger now. But he tried to take her in his arms, grinning maliciously.

Then with all her might she shot a little brown fist to his jaw, and it cracked musically. It was not a slap—it was a punch, deliberate and not ineffective. In the instant that he was staggering back, surprised beyond measure, she grasped the saddle horn, and, without throwing the reins over the mare’s neck and ignoring the stirrup, vaulted like an acrobat to a sitting posture in the saddle. When Blacky Silk stepped quickly toward her, his dark eyes alight with anger and determination, he stopped suddenly and looked into the black muzzle of her Colt.

“Perhaps you feel like taking one of your pills now,” she said, her voice cool and steady as the whistle of a valley quail.

Blacky Silk seemed to feel better at once, though his face did not show it. A laugh of derision came from the door of Johnny’s place.

“Go on, Blacky!” they called jeeringly. “Ain’t losin’ interest, are you? What’s the matter all of a sudden?”

The muzzle of the gun was steady. The girl held it on a line with her thigh, pointing straight at his breast—not at his head, proving that she was no amateur. Blacky seemed suddenly to have remembered that when he took .38’s for pills it had occurred in the day before high-power powder had been invented.

“You made me,” she said. “I didn’t want to. But now that you’ve started this thing, I’ll see it all the way if you make another move toward me. I’m a woman, you must remember. A jury couldn’t be got together that wouldn’t acquit me. Think it over.”

Blacky did, then said huskily: “You win, I guess.”

“Then turn around and walk away from me.”

He obeyed her silently, and she touched the mare’s ribs and rode swiftly away from the tank.

Roars of derision sounded behind her as the disappointed Romeo returned to Johnny’s Place.

The triumphant but badly shaken girl reached the street in front and rode before Stlingbloke’s single store. There she dismounted and made a purchase hurriedly, and, back in her saddle, she engaged herself with it and the pencil she always carried in her chaparajos.

She finished just as Mart came riding in from the darkening desert on his snip-nosed bay.

Still pale from her recent experience, Manzanita rode to meet him, calling:

“Mart! Mart!”

CHAPTER XIII
THE CHILDREN OF AMRAM

“NITA, what’n the mischief you doin’ here? And it pretty near dark!”

Mart Canby, recognizing his sister’s voice, galloped swiftly to meet her at the edge of Stlingbloke.

“Oh, Mart!” she cried in a low, tense tone. “I’ve had a dreadful experience. Let’s get out of here. Come on; I’ll tell you as we ride.”

“But I gotta find the sheriff,” persisted the messenger with his old boy-on-the-burning-deck determination.

“He’s not here; come on. Please, Martie!”

They galloped down the now noisy street to Stlingbloke, and took to the desert, which now seemed more friendly than ever to the girl, who loved it always.

“What was you doin’ there, Nita? That ain’t no place for you. You was chasin’ me!”

“I know it. I admit it. I’ll tell you if you’ll give me time.”

“Where you goin’? Don’t cut across the desert, I gotta follow the grade. I missed the sheriff. He——”

“I know. But he’s not at Stlingbloke. He rode on through, on his way back. Maybe he has gone back to Mangan-Hatton’s for to-night. You can find him better to-morrow morning.”

Mart granted. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

When she told him he youthfully decided to turn directly back and punish Blacky Silk, but the girl pleaded with him to ride on. He was envious of his sister in actually having had the experience of “throwing down” on a man. Mart had packed a six for three years, and had never had the opportunity to throw down on anything more threatening than a coyote. He agreed to spare Blacky when she assured him that nothing serious had occurred; then, manlike, he began to scold her for getting herself into such a predicament.

Both talked at once on the various subjects uppermost in their minds, and as Mart was hungry and mannishly ill-humored accordingly, they verged upon a quarrel.

“Why’d you tag me?” he burst out at last.

“Why did you treat me as you did, then?”

“Why’d you try to swipe the evidence?”

“I didn’t.”

“You did! You put ’er in er pocket!”

“I just wanted to examine it Mart.”

“Didn’t you? Course you did! You tried to swipe ’er. I guess I could have you sent up for that. And I oughta do it, too, I guess. If you wasn’t my own sister——”

“Fiddlesticks! I just wanted to see it. I didn’t get to—good. Let me see it again, Mart.”

“Huh!”

“Please!”

“It’s too dark.”

“I’ll light a match.”

“What d’ye wants see it for, Nita? You gi’me a pain!”

“I want to see if I can make out what the writing means. I can’t even remember all of it.”

“None of us could. It’s loco.”

“Let me try to make out what it means, Mart.”

“And you rode all the way to Stlingbloke after me just for that?”

“Uh-huh!” There was a caress in the female’s tones now. Mart loved his sister. They always had been pals. The carrying of the “ev’dence” to the sheriff was probably the biggest event in Martin’s life. Here was his old pal pleading to share in his triumph.

“Will ye give ’er right back?”

“Uh-huh—course I will.”

“You ain’t got any match.”

“I have, too. I always carry matches.”

“Pa Squawtooth better not find it out.”

“He knows. Suppose something was to happen, and I had to cook a jack rabbit on the desert to keep me from starving. Or get caught in front of a forest fire and be obliged to back fire.”

“Well, you wanta keep ’em outa the stables, anyway.”

“Of course. Are you going to show me the cover, Martie? Please, now!”

“Here, then. Now don’t drop it, like you do everything.”

As he passed it over something plunked lightly in the sand between the ponies.

“Oh, dear! Wait! I—I did drop it, Mart!”

“Confound it! I knew you would!” Mart reined in. “Don’t let your mare tromp it into the sand now.”

They dismounted, lighted matches, and groped about through the sand. The male was blusteringly angry. Meekly the girl remained quiet under his deluge of rebuke, seeming to sense for once her many shortcomings.

“Please don’t scold, Martie!” she begged. “We’ll find it.”

“Yes, we will—not! Now you’ve ruined everything! Confound it, Nita, you’re always buttin’ in and puttin’ the kibosh on things!”

“I’m so sorry. I—surely we’ll find it.”

“If I do you’ll never see ’er ag’in; don’t ferget that!”

“All right. Only don’t be mean.”

“Ah!” Mart sucked in his breath. “I got ’er! Almost hid in the sand. Now you keep yer nose outa what don’t concern ye, will ye?”

“Ye-yes, brother.”

In outraged dignity the boy mounted, thrusting into a pocket of his chaps the cover of the book of cigarette papers his sister had bought at Stlingbloke, and from which she had torn the contents. In a pocket of her own chaps safely reposed the “ev’dence.” Mart Canby had much to learn of the wiles of the other sex, but it would have been a difficult matter to convince him of this fact.

“We must be hurrying,” meekly said Manzanita.

“I wonder if the sheriff didn’t stop at that camp over there for to-night.” Mart pointed through the blackness to a cluster of lights on their left. “I oughta follow the grade, Nita, and stop at every camp.”

To his surprise his seemingly chastened sister did not object now.

“Maybe you ought,” she replied. “It’s not a great deal farther for us to go home that way. If I go over with you, and he happens to be there, will you promise to give it to him and hurry right back to me? Pa’ll be worried about me if he got home this evening.”

“Aw, worried nothin’! You been ridin’ the desert nights ever since I c’n remember.”

“But there’s no moon to-night. And that business at Stlingbloke has made me nervous. I want to get home.”

“Well, come on, then.”

“Do you promise? Just give it to him, if you find him in any of the camps, and don’t wait to hear what he has to say. You’ll know all about it later, anyway.”

“All right; come on.”

Mart found the sheriff smoking in the commissary tent of the first camp out of Stlingbloke. He handed the pasteboard cover to him and explained how it had come into the possession of the searching party in the mountains.

“There’s some funny writin’ in it,” he began.

But before he could get any farther his sister called to him sharply from outside, and he remembered his promise and reluctantly turned away and joined her.

They set their ponies’ faces in a bee line for Squawtooth and galloped away into the night.

It was ten o’clock next morning when Manzanita rode to see Wing o’ the Crow again. Mart had resentfully returned to the mountains early that morning, ordered to do so by his father. The black-haired girl looked up with a question in her large, luminous eyes as Manzanita reached her in the borrow pit.

“I got it!” triumphantly announced the cowgirl, alighting from her saddle.

Wing o’ the Crow took the pasteboard cover. “Is that all it was?”

“Look inside.”

The gypo queen’s lips parted as she opened the cover and read:

“The sons also of Aaron; Nadab and Abihu, Eleazar and Ithamar.”

“He wrote that!” she said chokingly, looking up with wide, scared eyes.

Manzanita told all about it then.

“Pa’s gone to Stlingbloke,” said Wing o’ the Crow listlessly. “He’s all gowed up ag’in. I’m runnin’ the outfit. Will be now fer a week, I reckon. And I’m all wore out, too. Now this has come!”

“Wing-o,” said Manzanita softly, “you love Halfaman Daisy, don’t you?”

The gypo queen’s black eyes, suddenly afloat with tears, looked unabashed into the hazel eyes of her friend. “O’ course,” she answered simply. “And you love his pardner, don’t you?”

Manzanita’s cheeks went crimson. “I—I think so,” she made confession. “I can’t say it right out like you do, Wing-o; but I want to protect him. He didn’t steal that bullion.”

“He’s went away with Halfaman,” the other dully pointed out.

“I know. But—but he just couldn’t do such a thing. There’s some horrible mistake.”

“Wasn’t any mistake about that pink tie,” returned Wing o’ the Crow. “Halfaman come sportin’ it ’round the first night he come to see me. Thought it was the grandest thing, the poor nut! And now that cover. Who else would write that foolishness into a book o’ cigarette papers? Halfaman’s wrote that all over the United States. He writes it on everything, or something like it. It’s all the Bible he ever read, and I reckon he’s proud o’ his education. He’s just a big-eared nut, that’s all.”

“What shall we do, Wing-o?”

“Keep this hid, anyway, or burn it up. What’d you write in the other cover that Mart give to the sheriff?”

“Oh, I scarce know what I wrote, I was so rattled at the time. I saw Mart riding in, and I couldn’t think of anything but that fresh creature that had been insulting me. He called himself Blacky Silk. And I wrote that three times. But really I wasn’t trying to implicate the fellow. I was afraid I couldn’t get Mart away from the sheriff before he’d told him there was writing on the inside. And I was right about that. He did tell him, in spite of me. So I just wrote ‘Blacky Silk, Blacky Silk, Blacky Silk’ three times. I couldn’t seem to think of anything else.”

“I guess you didn’t do so bad, after all,” said the girl of the camps. “I’ve heard Blacky Silk’s a bad actor.”

“What is he?”

“Gambler, I guess. He usta smuggle opium and Chinamen into the States over the Mexican border, they say. He did a stretch for it. I heard he was in with the po-lice and slipped ’em somethin’. They call it ‘Black Silk’ when a po-liceman gets a drag from an opium runner or a chink runner. That’s how come it he’s got that name.

“You couldn’t ’a’ done better,” she went on. “I hate that fella. He follies the camps and robs the stiffs and does anything mean. I wouldn’t care if what you wrote was to send ’im up for life.”

“But really I didn’t mean to implicate him, Wing-o. I—I was just all nerves, and so mad and scared I could hardly think or see. And I wrote the first thing that came into my mind, I had to hurry so.”

“Don’t worry about that. Tell me if your Falcon said anythin’ before he pulled out that made you suspicious.”

“I didn’t even know he was going until I saw him in the stage.”

“Same here with that cuckoo, Daisy. Funny! Once Halfaman was braggin’ about what he was gonta do one o’ these days. He said your Falcon was in on it. He was tryin’ to be mysterious. I couldn’t get ’im. D’ye know anything about that?”

“No—nothing. Oh, I don’t know what to do or think. I can’t believe either of them guilty—I won’t believe The Falcon is!”

Wing o’ the Crow said nothing to this.

“What shall we do?” repeated Manzanita. “Oh, I wish they’d come back!”

“We’ll jest lay low and keep our mouths shut,” was the shanty queen’s decision. “If they do come back we’ll find out all about it.”

Manzanita mounted to ride back to Squawtooth, and her higher elevation in the saddle brought to view a dust cloud hanging over the chaparral a short distance away.

“What’s coming?” she asked, pointing.

Wing o’ the Crow climbed on her wheeler and steadied herself by holding to the Johnson bar.

“Some kind of an outfit,” she answered. “Not railroaders, I guess—all the outfits are in now, except Demarest, Spruce & Tillou’s. What’s comin’ wouldn’t make a wart on their outfit. Desert rats, maybe.”

Manzanita stayed her departure, and the two girls waited and watched, for travelers on the desert whose progress makes an appreciable dust cloud always aroused curiosity.

It was evident that the moving outfit was of some length, composed of a number of animals and vehicles. The desert wind was blowing, however, and a haze of dust surrounded it, so that not until the cavalcade left the main road and cut across straight toward Jeddo’s did Wing o’ the Crow recognize the foremost driver.

“Mercy!” she cried suddenly. “There’s the begatter now!”

“What?”

“Two skinners. The other’n must be your Falcon. Yes—sure it is! Well, goodness me—what d’ye know ’bout that!”

The small procession marched on over the sand heaps and neared the borrow pit. The sagging grin of Mr. Phinehas Daisy greeted them from behind the team in the lead. Abreast of him another span of strong mules drew up and came to rest, and Falcon the Flunky was their driver. In all there were ten teams of brown mules, young, thin-limbed, well fed, and all wearing shining new harness. Behind some of them trailed ten new number-two wheelers, whose pans never had disturbed plowed earth.

Mr. Daisy widened his grin and swept off his broken-visored cap.

“Greetings, ladies!” he said. “How’s every inconsiderable element this mornin’?”

The Falcon smiled gravely and lifted his hat.

“Where you been, Halfaman?” challenged Wing o’ the Crow.

“Shoppin’ for mules and harness and wheelers and things. Cast yer black lamps over this here display of railroad haberdashery, apple blossoms. This here’s the new half of the Phinehas-Abishua Construction Company. Where’s the dad?”

“At Stlingbloke.”

“Good night! Well, le’s unhitch ’em, ole Falcon.”

“Daisy, whose shave tails an’ wheelers are them?”

Mr. Daisy placed the tips of five fingers against his breastbone and bowed till he was shaped like a carpenter’s square.

“Mine,” he impressively proclaimed.

“Yours! Where’d ye get ’em?”

“Bought ’em.”

“With what, I’d like to know?”

“Money.”

Manzanita had been silent, watching Falcon the Flunky out of the corners of her eyes. He was chuckling audibly, apparently enjoying hugely the coup of Mr. Daisy. It occurred to the girl that he had refrained from speaking to her or to any one because he did not wish to trespass upon what seemed to be his partner’s great moment. Now he looked straight at Manzanita and smiled at her as he threw a set of creaking new harness from the back of a mule. He looked like anything but a man who knew himself to be guilty of highway robbery. Wing o’ the Crow had turned to Manzanita, and her look was one of significance.

“He—he’s tryin’ to horn in here with them teams and tools,” she whispered. “That’s what he’s had up his sleeve—what he was hintin’ at all along. They’re—they’re dandy, ain’t they? My, we could move dirt! But if he thinks he c’n win me with mules and new harness he’s off his nut. And he bought ’em with money, he said. Didja hear ’im? Where’d he get money to buy that bunch? There’s six thousan’ dollars’ worth o’ prop’ty there, if it’s worth a cent. And—lissen!” She placed her red lips closer to Manzanita’s ear. “Half o’ the gold that was swiped would be worth somewhere between six and seven thousan’, they said.”

Manzanita closed her eyes and nodded, her cheeks a little whiter.

Mr. Daisy was walking toward them, leading a bunch of mules, his big hand filled with tie ropes.

“Ladies,” he said with a sweeping bow, “let me interdoose you to these here tassel tails. Miss Canby, an’ Miss Wing o’ the Crow, this first bunch here is the children o’ Amram—Aaron an’ Moses an’ Miriam. The sons also of Aaron; Nadab and Abihu, Eleazar and Ithamar. They wasn’t named when me ’n’ The Falcon bought ’em.”

CHAPTER XIV
ESCAPE

AT seven o’clock in the evening on the day of Mr. Daisy’s triumphal return, Manzanita sat on the broad veranda of the old adobe at Squawtooth Ranch. She and Mrs. Ehrhart were alone. Supper was over, and the housekeeper had gone to her own room. Manzanita’s father had been at Little Woman Butte all day, and she did not expect him home for the night. The patient had been taken in the stage to a hospital on the other side of the range—“the inside,” as the desert dwellers called the peopled district between the mountains and the coast.

Falcon the Flunky was coming to see her soon. Any moment she expected to see his figure loom up at the whitewashed gate that separated green Squawtooth from the burning, barren desert beyond. He had spoken to her a few moments that day in the Jeddo borrow pit, after Mr. Daisy had inveigled Wing o’ the Crow into a whispered conference. He had asked to come. She was tense as she waited, starting at every little night sound of the creatures that inhabited the ranch.

The gate creaked suddenly. Some one was walking along the path toward the house. She rose and stepped to the edge of the veranda, and the new arrival saw the gleam of her white dress.

“That you, Nita?” came the question.

She sighed with disappointment. It was not Falcon the Flunky, but one of her father’s vaqueros, Splicer Kurtz.

“Yes. Hello, Splicer! What brings you out of the mountains?”

“Sumpin. Got anything cold you could gi’me to eat, Manzanita?”

“Sure; pie and milk and cold beefsteak. Or I’ll cook you something. Are you afoot? I didn’t know you could walk.”

The cow-puncher stepped on the veranda and laughed. “Oh, I’m ridin’. I left my caballo out on the desert, though, and walked in.”

“Why, what a silly thing to do!”

“Maybe; maybe. Just gi’me somethin’ cold—all you c’n spare—and I’ll pack ’er away with me, Nita.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind! Come in and put your big feet under the table, Splicer.”

“No, thank ye, Nita; I gotta be foggin’ it. You see, I’m busy.”

“What’s up?”

“Oh, that holdup business. Gi’me all you can rake up, Nita. They’s a bunch o’ the boys waitin’ for me out there. We’re all hungry.”

“Come in, then, while I get you something. What’s—what’s new?” She found that her voice was trembling.

“Well, I wouldn’t say. I oughtn’t to. Sheriff said keep it quiet, you know.”

He followed her into the large kitchen, seating himself awkwardly on the edge of a chair.

“When did you see the sheriff last?” she asked.

“This afternoon—late. He’s gone inside now.”

“He has? Why?”

“Well, I mustn’t tell, you know.”

“Oh, I forgot. His—the trip is connected with the holdup, though, I suppose.”

“Maybe. Yes, it is—I c’n say that much. And he left us boys to scout around over here. He come up in the mountains this afternoon and said for some of us to come down and keep our eyes on certain parties while he went inside. He left in an auto. We just got down. And I thought maybe you could give us a bite.”

“Who-all are with you? Our boys?”

“Some of ’em. And the dep’ties. We’re through up there. But don’t say a word. I’m tellin’ too much now.”

“Don’t suppose you’d tell me who you are watching?”

“No, I couldn’t, Nita. Honest, I don’t like to. You know how it is.”

There came a step on the veranda. Manzanita darted to the door. Splicer had not heard, she was almost sure. Her keener senses had been alert for it. She stepped out on the veranda and closed the door after her and stood facing the man who had been about to knock.

“Listen, Falcon,” she said, grasping the lapel of his coat before he even could offer her greeting. “Go to the end of the veranda and sit down in the shadow of the vines. Make as little noise as possible. Go—I’ll explain later.”

She returned to the lighted kitchen after seeing that her command was being obeyed.

Now, though her pumping of Splicer Kurtz was skillful, she learned very little more from the vaquero. She loaded his arms with paper sacks of food, and he thanked her and took his leave. Then Manzanita went out and into the shadow of the vines that clambered over one end of the long veranda.

“Well,” asked The Falcon, “what’s all this?”

“Come into the house now,” she said. “We—we must come to an understanding.”

Silently he followed her, and they sought the kitchen, which room was farthest of all from Mrs. Ehrhart’s quarters. She seated him in one of the straight-backed, thong-bottom chairs, and for perhaps half an hour they talked of inconsequential things, the girl watching the play of his features all the time.

Then, when he least expected it, she rose suddenly, confronted him, and silently handed him the “ev’dence.”

He looked at it bewilderedly, turning it over and over, then smiled up at her and shook his head.

“Open it!” she commanded.

He obeyed her, saw the writing, and held it toward the miserable light of the kitchen coal-oil lamp. He read aloud, then laughed.

“Daisy’s, of course,” he said. “And what shall I say next? I seem to be sort of on the carpet, am I not?”

“It was found up in the mountains some place,” she told him, straight-lipped and watchful.

He lifted his brown eyebrows.

“Near a temporary camp, perhaps,” she added.

“Really, Manzanita——”

“And also close there somewhere they found a pink tie in an underground creek. It was tied to a can.”

“What’s that?” His expression suddenly had changed; his eyes had narrowed.

“Who found it?” he asked.

“The sheriff’s men.”

“By George!” He slapped his thigh. Then he turned brown eyes upon her and half rose from his chair.

“I see; I see!” he said. “Heavens above! What a mess! The holdup, eh?”

She closed her eyes and nodded slightly.

Then he rose altogether and stepped before her. A moment he stood thus, while she looked fearlessly up into his eyes.

“How does it come that you have this?” he asked with a strange, new thrill in his tones.

“I stole it,” she told him naïvely, “from my kid brother Mart, who was taking it to the sheriff.”

He reached out both hands and laid them on her shoulders. “Why?” he asked, his tones husky with eagerness.

Her long eyelashes shaded her eyes. The red mounted to her cheeks. Falcon the Flunky waited for no other answer, but folded her in his arms and searched with his lips for hers. Again and again he kissed her, his heart singing with gladness.

Then a step. The kitchen door opened. Squawtooth Canby stood looking at them, slowly stroking his patriarchal beard.

“Pa Squawtooth!” Manzanita’s eyes were tragic.

“Yes, daughter.” Canby stepped farther into the room, his stern glance bent on The Falcon.

The younger man was now recovering from the surprise. He smiled in his unobtrusive way and stepped boldly to meet the cattleman, who remained silent.

“Mr. Canby,” he said, “you surprised us. But I’ll tell you now what I would have told you the next time we met, anyway. I love Manzanita. I think I’ve loved her since the first day I saw her. I’ve just learned, through a rather peculiar happening, that she loves me. She hasn’t even told me so in words, but I know it’s true”—his brown eyes shone with the lover’s triumph—“and—and—well, that’s all, I guess. Except that, of course, I want your consent to marry her.”

Like a storm brewing over the mountains evidences of anger almost uncontrollable were growing in Squawtooth’s eyes.

“Manzanita,” he said in a loud voice, “go to your room!”

“Pa!”

“Go, I tell you! And you”—he took two quick steps, and, before The Falcon knew what he was about, had slapped his hips and coat to locate a concealed revolver—“you,” he finished in a roar, “are a prisoner! The nerve of ye!”

Manzanita stifled a scream with her hand across her mouth. Falcon the Flunky backed away from Squawtooth, his jaw dropping.

Canby laid a hand on the ivory butt of the heavy Colt that was always at his hip.

“O’ course,” he said, “’twon’t be no use fer ye to try startin’ anything. I’m gonta tie yer hands an’ feet, an’ then ride over to the camps fer the dep’ties. You here makin’ love to my daughter! I oughta horsewhip ye!”

Falcon the Flunky’s face was twitching. “Mr. Canby,” he said earnestly, “I’ll thank you to refrain from such violent remarks until there has been a little explanation. I——”

“I don’t wanta hear any explainin’. I guess a thief always can explain some way. Manzanita!” He flashed a quick glance at her. “You don’t savvy, o’ course, or ye wouldn’t ’a’ acted like ye did. This here’s one o’ the men that held up the mail stage. T’other ’n’s this minute on his way to the inside, with handcuffs on.”

“They’ve arrested Halfaman Daisy!” cried the Falcon.

Squawtooth paid no attention to the interruption, but continued to his daughter:

“I jest learned the latest pertickelers over to Mangan-Hatton’s as I was ridin’ through. I already knew about the tie, o’ course. The sheriff wasn’t any too sure about anything when he left for the inside. He’d gone up in the mountains to get the boys to come down and take charge o’ things while he was away. And when they got down here on the desert this evenin’ they found that, while the sheriff had been on his way up, these two bandits had come in, bold as Cuffy, with six er seven thousan’ dollars’ worth o’ mules and new harness and scrapers. The sheriff had gone and didn’t know anything about it, so the head dep’ty took up this Daisy at Jeddo’s camp where he saw that outfit, an’ now they’re huntin’ fer this fella here. Word come to-day that Dal Collins died in the hospital, and our boys an’ the desert rats was gettin’ so mad the dep’ties hadta rush that Daisy away in the machine to save ’im.

“Now, I ain’t keen about lynchin’ a man myself.” He turned back to the flunky. “But Dal was mighty popular with the boys in this part o’ the country, and they ain’t no tellin’ what they might do if they got their hands on you two fellas. So best thing you c’n do is le’ me tend to things and not raise any rumpus. I’ll keep ye here an’ go tell the dep’ties I got ye. They’ll sneak ye away to Opaco somehow, ’thout lettin’ the desert folks know ye’ve been caught. If I take ye to ’em, why, my boys are there, and it wouldn’t be a nice sight—not a nice sight at all. Suit ye to stay here while I go tell ’em?”

“But, Pa!” from Manzanita.

“I told you once to go to your room, didn’t I? I meant it. Ye ain’t gonta stick up fer this fella after what I’ve jest told ye, are ye? Don’t be a fool, Nita! I’ll fergive the rest ’o yer silliness with this flunky.”

“You’re all wrong, wrong, wrong!” she cried with a sob in her voice.

Canby shrugged and jerked his head toward the door.

“But—but if he’s guilty, of course—of course——” she faltered, her eyes fixed on The Falcon.

“O’ course he’s guilty. That’s the way to talk! Now go. I’ll ’tend to the rest.”

With her ear to the keyhole of her door, Manzanita stooped, her heart thumping throbbingly. Sounds came dully from the distant kitchen, then she heard the closing of the outside door.

She hurried to her window and listened, and presently heard her father ride from the corral on his big black saddle.

This was her signal to spring into rapid action, and a moment later she ran into the kitchen. It was empty of human occupancy. She jumped to the pantry door and twisted the knob.

The door was locked and the key gone. She placed her lips to the keyhole and called softly:

“Falcon, are you in there?”

“Yes,” came the answer.

“Listen! Listen!” she cried. “You must stay there for the present. The key’s gone, and I’ll have to break in the door. But I must get everything ready first, or the noise will disturb Mrs. Ehrhart. Are—are you tied?”

“Yes, hand and foot.”

“You’re not—not suffering?”

“Not at all.”

“Then be patient. I’ll let you out in a little while.”

The girl left the pantry door and began working desperately now. She collected all the edibles she could lay hands on and a few utensils, then hurried to her bedroom and slipped into chaps and shirt and boots. She strapped on her Colt, and also found a .25-.35-caliber rifle in a saddle scabbard. Jerking two blankets from her bed, she hastened with the collection back to the kitchen.

She grasped up all the articles then, and hurried out into the night.

In the corral she caught her own mare and saddled her, then essayed to catch another horse—the only other one in the corral fit for the saddle—a roan that Limpy Pardoe had broken only that spring. Time and again the roan evaded her. At last she got her rope from her saddle, and, though it was dark, managed to cast the noose over his head after many attempts, which took a great deal of precious time.

Despite his protests, she saddled him, and, after wrapping her collection of articles in the blankets and tying them on behind, she led him and her pinto to the kitchen door.

She was obliged to tie the roan, and this, too, took time. Her heart was pounding now, for she imagined she heard the rumble of hoofs.

After a desperate search she found the ax, hurried in, and began belaboring the panels of the pantry door. When they had given way before her onslaught, she crawled through with the bread knife and severed the rawhide lariat that held Falcon the Flunky so helplessly on the floor.

With Manzanita dragging at him, they crawled out just as Mrs. Ehrhart, in a long white nightdress, appeared with a small glass bedroom lamp and stood gazing with wide eyes.

“Get on the mare!” ordered Manzanita outside.

“I won’t run away,” The Falcon protested. “I’ll face this thing. I’m innocent. I won’t desert Halfaman.”

“You must—now—for the present! They’re coming! Get on! Later we can think. Now we must get away. You must! To protect me, if for no other reason.”

From the desert there came plainly now the thunder of hoofs.

Manzanita’s last words decided Falcon the Flunky.

He mounted the mare. Manzanita untied the roan, fought him a little to get the bridle reins over his head, and, when she had accomplished this, took the half-broken animal by surprise and vaulted on his back.

Bucking fiendishly, he bore her away toward the west line of the property, The Falcon following and protesting that he ought to ride the bucker.

“Ride! Ride!” she shouted back. “This horse couldn’t ditch me in twenty years—he’s an amateur. Let her out! They’ll miss us in a minute now.”

CHAPTER XV
FLIGHT

THE rapid development of the unlooked-for situation seemed to have bewildered Falcon the Flunky. One moment he had been overjoyed at the discovery that the girl he had loved almost from the first day he met felt the same toward him, that he had held her in his arms and kissed her. Now they were fleeing from the hand of the law. The biggest day of his life suddenly had been turned into a nightmare of improbabilities, a whirlwind of exotic happenings of which he had never dreamed.

After a run of a mile or more, the roan colt that Manzanita rode steadied down and ceased pitching and plunging. The girl directed their route of escape, leading the way over the illimitable sweep of the desert by an unmarked course. Away on their left blinked the lights of the camps, like great ships seen at a distance on the sea. On their right the mountains frowned down, black and mysterious and forbidding in their world-old vigil over the desert.

Since leaving Squawtooth the two riders had not spoken. Whether or not they were being pursued The Falcon could not tell, for Manzanita had not stopped even to listen. She kept the steadying roan to a swift gallop, swinging him from right to left to avoid the clumps of desert growth. The pinto mare followed him persistently. On and on into the night they rode. Their quick progress made conversation next to impossible.

They had been traveling two hours, perhaps, when the girl reined in and The Falcon drew up at her side.

“We’ll be obliged to let ’em blow,” she remarked. “That clip would kill them before morning.”

They slowed to a brisk walk, and as the greasewood was frugal here they kept side by side.

“Manzanita,” Falcon the Flunky said, “I don’t know what to say or think. We shouldn’t have fled this way. I——”

“We did exactly right,” she interposed. “I know our boys and the desert rats generally about here. Dal Collins, the stage driver, was an old-timer in the country and liked by everybody who knew him.”

“But the deputies——”

“They would have been helpless. It would be almost impossible for Pa Squawtooth to tell them that he had imprisoned you without the desert folks getting wind of it. They might have taken the law into their own hands. Anyway, I was taking no chances. This is safer.”

“But where are we going? What are we to do?”

“I know where to go to hide until we can think the matter over and decide upon a plan of action. I know where to go, all right. They’ll never find us.”

“Where?”

“Up in the mountains. Mart and I found the place. We’ve kept it a secret. We were going to run away once, and we planned to hide there till the hue and cry had died down. Then we played outlaw there once. Weren’t we the silly kids? That was years and years ago.”

“How many?” he asked.

“I won’t tell you!” she shot back. “It’s not fair to ask.”

“But if Mart knows of this place, won’t he suspect and lead them there?”

“That little rattle pod work against me, his old pal! Not in a thousand years. He’ll be on our side.”

“But Halfaman Daisy? Heavens, dear girl, I never deserted a friend in my life! And Daisy has been a good, true friend to me. Unselfish, cheerful, loyal to the last drop of his blood. I——”

“You’re not deserting him, Falcon. Arrest won’t hurt him. From what he’s told me from time to time it will be no new experience. Not that he’s bad at all, but—well, he’s been a tramp, and——”

“I understand all that. No, you bet he’s not bad. He has a heart of gold.”

“He’ll be all right. They got him safely away and started for the inside. When you and I clear this thing up he’ll be none the worse for his experience. You couldn’t help him, anyway.”

“But——”

“And you could not clear things up if they lynched you, could you? And you couldn’t do much if you were in jail with Halfaman, either. No—freedom is best. Besides, it all made me mad clear through. I don’t believe in meekness. I’d rather take care of myself and fight ’em in the open.”

“Our teams——”

“Our teams?”

“Well, Halfaman’s. What’s to become of them?”

“Are they at Jeddo’s still?”

“Yes.”

“Was Halfaman there when he was arrested, do you suppose?”

“I think so. I went over to the Mangan-Hatton camp directly after you rode home to-day. I left Halfaman there trying to convince Wing o’ the Crow that he hadn’t stolen the outfit. I think he intended to drive later to Stlingbloke and try to get Jeddo the Crow to come back to camp and sober up.”

“Wing-o will take good care of the stock,” Manzanita observed after a thoughtful pause. “Halfaman would have had lots of time to explain everything before they arrested him. He’ll have told her what to do before they took him away.”

“But convincing her was one of Daisy’s problems. He was worrying——”

“He needn’t have worried.”

“Why?”

Manzanita laughed. “Because Wing o’ the Crow loves him,” she made answer.

“He’s not so sure about that.”

“I am, though. Rest assured she’ll aid and abet her beloved Halfaman to the last atom of her energy and devotion.”

“Do you know that?”

“Positively. She was helping me all she could to keep from the sheriff’s hands the evidence against you two.”

“The cover off the book of cigarette papers, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t told me about that.”

Manzanita did tell him, then, to the last detail.

“And now we must go back,” was his decision in the matter.

“You’re thinking of Blacky Silk, of course,” she said.

“Certainly. What an odd thing for you to do, dear. But also what a loyal thing.”

He rode closer, found her hand, and held it until a large clump of greasewood forced their horses apart, and the combined length of their arms could not bridge it. Manzanita laughed.

“Separated already!” she cried merrily, her bubbling youth refusing to harbor downcast spirits in the face of their predicament.

“Wing o’ the Crow says Blacky Silk is a villain, anyway,” she complacently observed as they rode together again, holding hands once more.

“That makes no difference. He’s innocent of this——”

“How do you know that?”

“Well, so far as we know he’s innocent, at any rate.”

“It seems that the sheriff didn’t arrest him, anyway,” she added. “No, we’ll not worry about Blacky Silk, Falcon. He owes me a little discomfort, I think. We’ll not worry about anybody or anything. We’ll just get clear of this vicinity for a time, and give folks a chance to cool off. Meantime we’ll look the situation over and find out how best to prove your and Halfaman’s innocence.”

“Did you expect Blacky Silk to be arrested?”

“I did—afterward. But, really, when I wrote his name on the cover I had no thought of making trouble for him. I just knew something had to be written there, and, as Mart was right upon me, I scribbled what naturally was uppermost in my mind.

“Yes,” she continued, “when Wing-o and I had talked it over, I expected any minute to hear of Blacky’s arrest. Then you two rambled in with your mules and—well, spilled the beans, as they say. I’m confident, though, that if the sheriff had been there Halfaman would not now be under arrest, and you and I would not be fleeing across this old desert. I think the sheriff went inside on some matter connected with Blacky Silk, whom my scribble had caused him to suspect. Maybe he went to try and find out more about the man. He told the deputies to come down out of the mountains and see that he did not get away, perhaps, while he was on the inside. They came, and in the meantime you fellows had shown up with your mules and things. You two already were under suspicion because of the pink necktie—and you being a man of mystery, anyway, you know. So the deputies decided that to arrest you two would be the proper thing.

“And now,” she added, “I’m ready to hear what you have to say on the subject.”

“You think me innocent, then?”

“Of course.”

He leaned toward her and put an arm about her. Screened by the desert darkness, they kissed again.

“Despite the pink tie and the pasteboard cover?” he asked softly.

“Despite everything. Please explain, though. I’m merely curious—that’s all, d——”

“Say it,” he urged.

“Dearest!” she whispered, under the sheltering blackness that hid her face.

“It’s all so simple,” he told her at last, “so ridiculously simple. Long ago I promised Daisy that I would help him any way I could, for I have learned to love the heart of the man and to forget his unlettered mind and lack of culture. It’s a fellow’s heart that counts, after all. Culture and education alone never could cause a friend to do what he’s done for me. I could tell many stories of his sacrifices for me when we were on the road together. And once he saved my life on a fast train at the risk of his own.

“I’d do anything for old Halfaman, and, as I said, I made him that promise long ago. In his crazy way he imagined that, to win the love of Wing o’ the Crow, it was necessary for him to impress her with his importance. It was his ambition to get a string of good mules and tools and go into partnership with her father—or both of them—for Wing-o is half of the concern as it stands. The best half at that, I imagine.

“So about all there is to the mule story is that I promised to advance him the money to buy a good outfit, taking a mortgage on them as a matter of businesslike self-protection and allowing him to pay me back as the teams made money. Apparently he had in secret talked the matter over with Jeddo the Crow, and unbeknown to his daughter had been offered a partnership if he could deliver the equipment. So he put it up to me, and we decided to spring a pleasant little surprise on Halfaman’s sweetheart—and he at least was arrested for it.”

“What did the outfit cost?” asked Manzanita.

“All together, six thousand seven hundred dollars,” he told her.

“You—you gave—loaned—advanced—Halfaman Daisy six thousand seven hundred dollars!”

“Yes, dear.”

“Wh-where did you get the money?”

“From a Los Angeles bank.”

“But you’re only a—a flunky.”

He laughed gayly. “Yes, only a flunky,” he said. “And a good one, too; ask the stiffs! You see, the deal was to be kept a secret. Unless Daisy lost control of his tongue, Wing-o was not to learn right away where he got the funds to buy the outfit. Now, though, I suppose, everything will come out, and Falcon the Flunky will pass into obscurity.

“But let me work up to that gradually. I must explain about the tie and the pasteboard cover.

“We went inside to Los Angeles, then made it by train to Sycamore Grove, directly opposite here on the other side of the range, as you know. There we got track of a bunch of mules that were on pasture up in the mountains. From the description, they seemed to be about what we were after. The owner, however, was absent and the sale was in the hands of a friend of his—with no commission guaranteed him, I imagine. Anyway, he could not, or would not, take us up into the mountains to show us the stock. But he told us about where we might find them, if we wanted to make the trip ourselves.

“We had bought everything else in Los Angeles, and ordered it shipped to Opaco by train. We wanted the four mules that this man described. So when we learned that they were on this side of the range we decided to cross over from Sycamore Grove, see the mules, take them if we liked them, and come on down to the desert camps on this side, settling with the owner later—and later, also, go to Opaco for our shipment, having described a complete circle in our travels.

“In an automobile stage we went up into the mountains from the other side to a resort. There we bought a few provisions, and, being old hobos, did not require much of a camp outfit. We set off afoot across the range to see the mules on this side. We got lost, of course, and to this moment have never set eyes on those four long ears. We did camp several times, and almost froze in the high altitude at night. Daisy did use his beautiful pink tie to haul up water from an underground creek. But there seemed no other way to get at it, and the tie was already wrinkled. For my part, I didn’t miss it at all. As to the cover from Halfaman’s book of cigarettes, I imagine he threw it away at some time or other, the papers being exhausted. But of course I can’t recall such a trivial incident as that. The writing is his, though, and I’m not surprised to see it where it is. If there’s anything between here and northern California on which he hasn’t written his begatting sentiments, there was a great oversight somewhere.

“We had run out of grub, so gave up the hunt. We knew where the desert was, of course, and headed ourselves this way. Once down on the level we caught an automobile bound for Opaco, and decided to go on in and get our shipment, so as not to fail in our proposed surprise and triumphal entry for the benefit of Wing o’ the Crow. We bargained for a ride, went to Opaco—passing directly through Squawtooth, by the way—got our outfit, drove out, and—bingo!—you know the rest. At Opaco for the first time we heard of the robbery.”

“And is that positively all there is to it?”

“Positively all. Do you believe it?”

“Of course,” she told him simply.

“I’d rather have you say that than all the jurymen and judges in the State,” he said. “I live on loyalty. It’s my religion. As Halfaman would say, you’ve made an awful hit with me. And through all the happy years that you and I are to spend together, dear girl, I want loyalty to be our watchword. It’s a beautiful thing—loyalty.”

“I guess the Canbys have their share of it,” she said. “I’ve been told we carry it too far. But we’ll take a chance. Loyalty begets loyalty sometimes. It pays in the end. And now for the big question and its answer. Then I have a confession to make.”

“I’ve been occupying the floor for some time,” he pointed out. “Suppose you confess first.”

She gave in, and told him of her father’s ambition for her to marry Hunter Mangan, and how she had revolted and planned to humiliate Mangan and her father by making up to what she considered the least important individual in the camp—the flunky. How fate had taken the situation into her own hands and caused her first to admire, then come to love the man she had mischievously chosen to bear the burden of her girlish willfulness.

Falcon the Flunky chuckled. “So your father desires a moneyed man for you, does he? Well, we’ll see what we can do for him. Disappointments should be avoided in this life, if possible, you know. He’s too old to face disappointments any longer. I imagine he’s stood his share of them. I admire your father. He’s so forceful and—and convincing. I doubt if any other man I ever met could tie me hand and foot so easily. He has a convincing way with that big gun of his. It’s folly to misinterpret him.”

“He’s an old dear,” said Manzanita. “And as for disappointment, he started out as a homesteader at Squawtooth, with almost nothing for backing. Disappointments! Goodness me! His life has been one disappointment after another up until the last ten years.”

“We’ll see if we can reward him for his patience and perseverance,” said The Falcon with a merry laugh.

“Now tell me,” she pleaded. “Don’t talk in riddles any longer. You forced a serious confession from me to-night. You’ve made me admit that I—that—that you’re everything to me. And, merciful heavens, I don’t even know your name!”

“I’ll keep you in ignorance no longer,” he promised.

But before he could continue she laid her hand on his wrist and whispered: “Listen!”

They reined in, every sense alert.

From a great distance came plainly the sounds of galloping hoofs.

“Let ’em out again!” said the girl. “They’re after us!”

CHAPTER XVI
THE RENDEZVOUS

WHEN, after a long, steady gallop, the fugitives rested their horses again, no unusual sounds broke the eternal quietude of the desert night.

For a time they walked the animals again, and then, at a late hour, the leader of the flight turned sharply toward the mountains and continued in their direction.

Foothills are little more than a figure of speech as regards the mountain ranges of southern California; for the mountains uprear themselves virtually from level land with unexpected abruptness, and there are scarcely any intermediate levels to render an approach gradual. Before very long, then, the night riders had left the desert below them and were in such foothills as the range boasted; and in less time still they were ascending sharply and entering forests of piñon pine and mountain mahogany. Still farther up they came upon a sprinkling of pines and junipers, and before two hours had passed found themselves in a black forest of conifers.

“I can’t imagine how you know where you’re going,” the man muttered to Manzanita.

“I do, though,” she assured him. “There’s an old, old road on our right now, which we have crossed and recrossed several times to give us our bearings. I’m keeping close to it and following its general trend; but it would never do for us to follow it directly. It’s almost overgrown with brush. It ran to a gold mine worked by the Spanish, perhaps fifty years ago.”

Many times they rested their tired horses during the steep ascent. Signs of morning were in air and sky when they topped the summit and crossed a mountain meadow, lush with tall, cool grasses. On the opposite side of the level valley Manzanita plunged into the forest again. They rode for perhaps half a mile, when she reined in and left the saddle.

“This is as far as we go with the caballos,” she announced. “We’ll hide the saddles and bridles here, loose the broncs, and pack in to where we’re going to hide. Two miles farther, perhaps. The horses will head back for the meadow we crossed, and the searchers will find them there, no doubt. But that’ll tell ’em nothing. Whenever our horses get away down at Squawtooth in summer they always drift up here to the meadows. That’s why I had you ride behind me after we left the desert. One wandering horse usually trails another. Even if they should find our horses’ tracks leading to the meadow, they won’t know whether they were carrying riders or not. They’ll have a job to find out just where we got out of the saddles.”

For a time she searched about in the blackness, and presently called to him to bring the saddles to her. When he had obeyed he found her standing over a brush heap of dry black-oak boughs.

“Trimmings from black oaks our outfit cut for fence posts,” she enlightened him. She held a long pole, and now thrust it under the heap. “I’ll pry up the whole pile with this,” she said. “You cache the saddles way under, then I’ll let the pile drop back over them.”

Soon they were away again, with packs on their backs and the rifle, in its scabbard, swinging from The Falcon’s shoulder.

It was growing light now. The eastern sky was shell pink, and clouds were revealed.

“Those look like wind clouds,” said the girl reflectively. “A big blow is about due. You’ve never been in this country when the wind blows. Say, you’ll remember it when it does! I hope one is on the way. I could use a windstorm just now.”

They left little or no trail on the soft, slippery carpet of pine needles. Through an unbroken forest Manzanita led The Falcon, seeming to guide herself by instinct, since to the latter one tree looked as straight and unindividual as thousands of others through which they had passed.

Then they began to ascend again, and the land grew broken and rocky, with trees scattered about. Soon, except for a sentinel pine here and there on a rugged hillside, there were no trees; the ground was covered by rocks and scattering chaparral. The chaparral, about twelve feet in height and composed of prickly buckthorn and southern manzanita, grew continually denser, till at last they were confronted by a solid wall of it seemingly impregnable.

“Now, if our Bible student, Halfaman Daisy, were here,” said the girl, “the harrowing experience of old Nebuchadnezzar probably would be recalled to his mind. For, like Nebuchadnezzar, we’ve got to crawl now.”

The Falcon watched with interest while she readjusted her improvised pack. She lowered it from between her shoulder blades to the small of her back, then lay down flat on her face.

“‘Follow your leader!’” she quoted from the old game and wriggled into the chaparral and disappeared.

Falcon the Flunky followed her example.

Under the chaparral tops it was black as ink once more. The land was covered with a deep carpet of the bushes’ tiny shattered leaves, and was unobstructed save for the sturdy trunks of the growth. Falcon the Flunky could hear the girl wriggling over the cackling leaves ahead of him, and set his course by the sounds. Now and then he collided with a trunk, and now and then the prickly foliage, three feet above his head, raked off his hat. Birds twittered and fluttered away, disturbed from their nap just before the dawn.

Then of a sudden the crawlers came out in an open space and lay panting. The sky had lighted amazingly during their progress through the dark. Manzanita lay flat, with her arms outstretched and a smile of accomplishment on her young lips.

“Well,” she sighed at last, sitting erect and picking the trash from her hair, “we’re here. And they won’t find us in a thousand years. In these mountains there are hundreds of chaparral patches like this one, and no one ever thinks of crawling into them. No sensible person, that is to say. Mart and I do it, though. We’re always hunting for hidden treasure, you know, old Spanish mines, and skeletons and things like that.”

The Falcon looked about.

Great, gaunt gray rocks upreared themselves in the middle of the opening, which was circular and not over a hundred feet in diameter, with heavy chaparral forming a dense wall on all sides.

“There’s water in those rocks,” she informed him. “That’s how we might stay here forever, if we had enough grub. Down below, on our right as we came up, are a creek and sinegas; and I presume the water here is a part of that same system. But no one would suspect that there is water here, in the heart of this thicket. Chaparral won’t stand wet feet. Too much water kills it. That accounts for the break here in the heart of the patch. Mart and I are the sole discoverers, of course. Now, any one trying to find us will know that we must be near water in order to live. And as chaparral is invariably on dry, poor soil, they’ll never dream we could be in here, with water right beside us.”

“How long do you propose to stay here, Manzanita?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied lightly, rising to her feet. “Till we can collect our wits, anyway. I love this sort of thing. Mart and I’ve played fugitive so much, but never before have I had the chance to do anything of the kind for a really truly reason.”

“You’re only an imaginative kid,” he sternly accused. “What will your father think! He’ll be distracted, dear.”

She remained thoughtful and silent for a time.

“He may worry,” she admitted at last. “But, then, he brought it all on himself. The idea of his forcing you with a six to be tied up! I don’t know what’s getting to be the matter with pa here of late—ever since I’ve been eighteen. If it hadn’t been for me—oh, well, let’s not worry. I’ve been thinking up all sorts of plans. If the wind gets up we’ll communicate with pa or somebody before very long. We’ll enter into negotiations with our enemies. If they’ll do so and so, we’ll do so and so—and they’ll have to agree, ’cause we’ll have the cinch on ’em from the start.

“Now, let’s stir our stumps and fix up our camp over there in the rocks beside the water. Then we’d better get some sleep if we can.”

They went into the outcropping of huge, gray stones, some of them as high as twenty feet above their heads, a grotesque assemblage that formed an admirable shelter. From under one of them water bubbled up, but seemed not to spread far over the surface of the ground before the loose, gravelly soil soaked it down again.

“Artesian,” observed The Falcon.

“I suppose so. It’s a freak outbreak, way up here. Outlaws could hide here and defy a posse for months, if their grub didn’t give out.”

With the small fencing hatchet that the girl carried in a scabbard on her saddle The Falcon cut chaparral limbs for their beds. On one side of a large, pyramidlike rock in the center of the group he made a bed for his companion, and laid down his own on the other side. Then she “went into her room,” as she expressed it, and stretched her tired body on the boughs and a blanket.

Falcon the Flunky did likewise on his side. He was far more tired than the girl, for, though a fairly good rider, he was not hardened to the saddle as was she.

To state that he was worried would be putting it lightly. What a chimerical idea it seemed; and, still, when he reviewed the situation, he was obliged to compliment Manzanita on her swift decision and the practicality of her strategy. He did not worry about his own predicament, but was thinking of the wretched state of mind into which their flight must have plunged Squawtooth Canby.

If he thought Falcon the Flunky to be a scoundrel—and he could think little else from his viewpoint—what tortures he must be suffering, when he knew that his beloved daughter had escaped into the mountains with such a man and was now at that man’s mercy somewhere up there in the illimitable fastness.

He could not sleep. Morning came fast now. The sun was casting its dazzling rays on the tips of the gaunt rocks above his head. Then came a plaintive voice from the other side of the thick partition.

“Falcon, I can’t sleep! My brain’s going like a herd of longhorns milling.”

“Neither can I,” he told her. “Come around and we’ll cook our breakfast; and then we’ll get to our planning.”

“All right; I’m coming.”

CHAPTER XVII
THE SEARCH

THE face of Squawtooth Canby was drawn and haggard as he rode his big black into the Mangan-Hatton camp and dismounted before the office tent.

“Tell Mr. Mangan I wanta see him, will ye?” he asked plaintively of the assistant bookkeeper, who just then appeared around the corner of the tent.

“He’s up in the cut, Mr. Canby,” informed the young man. “I’ll phone up for him.”

“Do that,” said Canby. “Tell ’im I’ll be ridin’ to meet ’im.”

He rode off toward the calico buttes, and soon saw the contractor riding toward him from the fifty-foot rock cut in the saddle.

Hunt Mangan’s face was serious, too, as he unsmilingly rode up and gripped the cowman’s hand.

“You’ve heard about it, o’ course, Hunt?” Squawtooth began.

“Yes,” Mangan replied.

“I’ve come to ask a favor of ye,” said Squawtooth. “Me and my boys and the dep’ty sheriffs was out all night scourin’ the desert, and even made ’er up into the mountains a ways. Ain’t seen hide ner hair of ’em, and ain’t even struck their trail. The boys are restin’ up a bit at Squawtooth now; but I can’t rest with her out there in the wilderness somewhere, in that fella’s clutches. There’ll be murder when I find ’em, Hunter. But I come to ask ye if ye could le’ me have some men to help run ’em down. That is, till we c’n get the desert rats together and get at the business right. I’ll pay the men their reg’lar wages, o’ course, and’ll give the man that locates ’em five hundred dollars to slip in his jeans. And, o’ course, I’ll make it right with you, Hunt, for disturbin’ the course o’ yer work.”

“It’s all made right with me this moment, Mr. Canby,” Mangan feelingly told him. “I was going to look you up and offer my services as soon as I attended a pressing little matter up in the cut. I’m sorry you were obliged to hunt me up.

“Now, I’m going to give you twenty-five men. I’ve been looking into the matter, and can scout up that many who claim they can ride. We haven’t many saddles, and our stock’s not fast nor fit for such work; but we’ll strap blankets and sacks on some of our lightest mules and do the best we can.”

“I thank ye,” Squawtooth said simply. “I already sent word up in the mountains for Martin and Toddlebike to fetch down a string o’ hosses, and they oughta get in some time late this afternoon. We got a lot o’ saddles at the ranch, but mighty few mounts this time o’ year. I’ve phoned and sent messengers all over the desert hereabouts. By evenin’ at the latest we oughta have a hundred mounted men on their trail. What d’ye think o’ the proposition, anyway, Hunt? I’m plumb floored—can’t think, it seems.”

The contractor was careful with his reply.

“My advice, Mr. Canby,” he said, “would be for you not to take this matter too seriously. Your daughter——”

“Not take ’em seriously! Why, man, ain’t my only daughter—my poor, innocent, inexperienced little child—out there somewhere with that ruffian! Didn’t he coerce her into turnin’ him loose and gettin’ horses and runnin’ away with him? Serious—why——”

“Just a moment,” interposed Mangan. “I am positive that Falcon the Flunky is not a ruffian.”

“Why, you don’t even know his name, man! Didn’t him and that big-eared Jasper with the chop-suey face hold up the stage? And then spend the money fer mules an’ tools, and have the nerve to come right out here with ’em. Why——”

“Just a moment again, please. Doesn’t it strike you that both Falcon the Flunky and Halfaman Daisy are far too shrewd to do such a stupid thing as you have suggested?

“Put yourself in their shoes, Mr. Canby. If you had stolen fourteen thousand dollars’ worth of gold from the stage, and killed the driver, would you buy mules and harness and wheelers and return to your job on the desert? It strikes me as a bit ridiculous.”

“Shrewd! Yes! That’s jest the point. Them two knew they’d likely be caught on the inside. A man with saddle-pocket ears like that fella Daisy’s got couldn’t get away from the constable down to Opaco. And he can’t stop a dog fight! So they was jest clever enough to fog it right back here; and they says to themselves: ‘We’ll go back and go to work again, and nobody’ll ever suspicion us then.’”

“And the mules and equipment?”

“Well”—Squawtooth grew hesitant—“they’d think up some way to explain that. How did that boy Daisy explain it, anyway? I never heard.”

“He said that Falcon the Flunky had loaned him the money to buy them—six thousand seven hundred dollars—and that he drew the amount from a Los Angeles bank.”

“A likely yarn! A flunky drawin’ that amount from the bank! And how ’bout the pink necktie?”

“Daisy admitted it to be his. Said he’d used it as the finding of it indicated. Said he and The Falcon had been in the mountains looking for mules on pasture there, and had got lost and eventually given up the search for them.”

“Oh, say! And you swallowed that, Hunt!”

“It’s as easily downed as the idea that those two held up the stage, then deliberately came back here to return to work—mules or no mules.”

“I can’t agree.”

“In defending this pair,” said Hunt Mangan, “you may not know that I am passing up an opportunity to further my own wishes, Mr. Canby. But my sense of justice and the proportion of things makes me say what I have said.”

“What d’ye mean by that?”

“If I could think Falcon the Flunky guilty—and help to prove him guilty—I’m sure your daughter would have nothing more to do with him. And that is what I selfishly want. I love Manzanita, Mr. Canby.”

The fierce blue eyes of Squawtooth filled unexpectedly.

“I know that, Hunt,” he said. “I—I’m glad. She’s young and crazy with the heat—plumb loco!—that’s all’s the matter with the girl. Lack o’ years and experience. I’d like fer ye to marry her, Hunt, once she gets outa this scrape. She’s just a kid without a mother—she don’t savvy. But I’m scared—Lord, I’m scared! That low-down c’y-ote will——”

“Again I can’t agree,” Mangan stopped him. “Mr. Canby, I’ve handled men as you’ve handled cattle. I’ve employed hundreds and hundreds—no, thousands and thousands. I’m naturally a pretty good judge of them. This Falcon the Flunky is no reprobate, I’m positive.”

“What is he, then?”

“That I can’t say. I know no more about him than you do—except instinctively.”

“But didn’t he run away with my girl?”

“I am inclined to the belief,” returned Mangan, with a little smile, “that your girl ran away with him.”

“She did, o’ course—seein’s she was outside the closet and he was in it, tied. She deceived me, Hunt. She made me think she was agin’ The Falcon, and agreed to what I was goin’ to do. Then I’m no more’n gone when—bingo!—she turns ’im loose, and together they fork saddles and fogs it. She done it, o’ course, but he’d pulled the wool over her eyes and made ’er.”

“I can’t blame him,” Hunt objected. “Things looked a little hot when you and the deputies and your vaqueros started for Squawtooth. I guess I’d have hit the trail myself, under the circumstances.”

“Maybe; maybe. O’ course he’d protect ’imself, guilty or not guilty. Well, we’ll get ’im and see, anyway—that is, if the desert folks don’t get too rambunctious and fix ’im so he can’t talk before we get a chance at ’im. But, Hunter, this won’t make any difference in yer feelin’s toward the girl, will it?”

“Not the slightest,” Mangan told him. “But I’ve given up hope. Falcon the Flunky is her choice, I know. She has decided.”

“Oh, no, no! She’ll ferget all that.”

Mangan shook his head. “She’s a steadfast little body,” he said. “Girls like her don’t forget—don’t shift about in their affections from one to another. She’s too simple—too sincere for that. No; I’m out of it.”

Canby tried to encourage him, but he remained firm in the belief that The Falcon had won Manzanita’s affections. Squawtooth left him within half an hour and went about his arrangements for a big, concerted effort to hunt down the missing couple. As yet no word had come from the sheriff at the county seat, but it was known that Halfaman Daisy had been safely lodged in the jail at Opaco, awaiting the sheriff’s orders. By four o’clock Mart and Toddlebike rode in from the mountains with a string of saddle stock. By four-thirty the hundred that Squawtooth had predicted would gather were at the ranch, awaiting the signal to start.

Though little could be done during the remaining daylight of that twenty-four hours, they moved off soon and spread out fanwise over the desert, searching for a trail or clews. They picked up the trail that evening, and long before darkness came had followed it for many miles.

Night overtook them, and they went into the foothills to camp close to water. Next morning, as early as they could see, they were away again. They trailed the roan and the pinto mare into the mountains, and eventually found the unsaddled horses, still showing evidences of their hard trip, in the meadow on the mountaintop. But here the trail played out abruptly.

On every side of the meadow they searched through the timber diligently, but found absolutely nothing to signify which way the fugitives had gone after deserting their horses.

Then at dusk some one turned over a pile of brush and found the saddles.

It was too late to proceed farther that night, so they repaired to a mountain lake to camp until morning. Meantime, Indian trailers were on the way to them from beyond Opaco—experts whom the sheriff had often employed, sharp-eyed aborigines who could detect signs of a person’s progress where a white man would see nothing.

These arrived at dark. And in the event that they should fail, Squawtooth had sent a messenger to the resorts on the coast side of the mountains to telephone the sheriff for the county bloodhounds—highly bred dogs that had been known to pick up a man’s trail twenty hours old.

But this night came the expected windstorm.

CHAPTER XVIII
THE WINDSTORM

IN the mountains the storm developed a stunning downpour of rain such as only the West experiences. Down on the desert there was no rain whatever, but the wind blew with such terrific force as to flatten many of the railroad camps, whirl desert cabins around, carry away chimneys, and send a sand storm raging over the level stretches which was more than cruel to man and beast. Down there men staggered around in the blackness, their shelter swept from over their heads, their eyes and teeth filled with sand—a scene of turmoil and intense discomfort if not of actual suffering. Up in the altitudes the search party was soaked to the skin, their supplies were ruined, their stock stampeded, and the rain eventually turned to a wet snow, with the temperature lowering fast, while always the terrific wind blew and swept all movable obstacles before it. All traces of the fugitives’ flight would be wiped out. Neither Indians nor keen-nosed bloodhounds would be of any avail when the storm had passed. To search while it raged was a hopeless task, if not impossible. The telephone wires running out of the mountains were down, and so no word came from the sheriff after he had started with the dogs. Squawtooth Canby was the picture of discouragement.

And through it all, the only two in the entire country who were not drenched and half frozen or robbed of shelter and stung by particles of sand were Manzanita and Falcon the Flunky, who sat huddled comfortably in their blankets, under the protection of an overhanging rock, and talked and laughed and told each other how she or he had felt when she or he first began to realize that life would be a wretched drag of time without the other’s love.

“Isn’t this just great!” shouted the girl above the roar of the storm.

“Magnificent!” The Falcon shouted back.

“I hope no poor, unfortunate souls are out in it!” cried Manzanita, as a flash of lightning played over her radiant face.

“I hope so, too!” he yelled.

From time to time they dozed through the night, and they had been able to sleep a little during the afternoon before the storm swept down upon them. They were as fresh as could be expected when morning came, with the wind still blowing a gale but no rain or snow falling.

Outside of their retreat the wind quickly cut the snow as no sunshine would have done at that high altitude. It remained between the rocks of their rendezvous, however, and the fugitives found difficulty in getting rid of it. But they made snowballs and rolled them about until they were of gigantic proportion, then left them outside to be whittled down by the wind at its leisure. Other small snowballs were used for a different purpose; and but for the fact that they dared not laugh and shout they thoroughly enjoyed the pastime.

Inside the shelter of the rocks again, they built a tiny fire on the stone floor of their half cave, and cooked their breakfast. The fire soon dried the inclosure, and as they were shut off from the worst of the wind they were comfortable.

“Well, the rain and snow are over, thank goodness!” said Little Apple. “But this wind probably will blow for days. I’d like to see the camps down on the desert. I’ll bet there’s not a tent standing.

“Now, listen,” she broke off suddenly: “I’m going to send Pa Squawtooth and Mart a message to-day. They can answer with signals; and I know where we can sneak out and get a glimpse of the desert in order to see what they signal back. I have my binoculars, thank goodness!”

“I can’t imagine how you expect to get messages to them,” he said.

“Well, I’m going to show you in a little. There’ll be some trifling risk in going out to send them, but the chances are only one in a thousand that we’ll be caught. I wonder——” She came to a pause and tilted back her head. “Say, maybe it’s possible to see the desert from the top of one of these tall rocks. They’re way higher than the chaparral.”

“Wouldn’t the trees outside the chaparral obstruct the view?”

“That depends. We’re on the peak of a hill, you know. The trees not only are scattered in our immediate vicinity, but they’re all much lower. If only one of us could get up there and find out!”

They walked about looking up at the rocks, and finally the girl discovered a jutting portion near the top of one of them that she decided she could rope. She had left none of her accessory equipment with the saddles, so now she hurried between the rocks and reappeared with a thirty-five-foot plaited lariat of rawhide.

“Now, if I can get a lull in the wind! But we’re pretty well sheltered.”

She widened the noose in the hondo, stood back, and circled it about her head. The first cast she missed, as the wind whipped the noose from the target with a fretful whang. But when the rope sang from her hand again the noose settled nicely over the elevated protuberance, and she drew it taut.

“If you can’t climb it, I can,” she informed him sweetly.

For answer The Falcon laid hands on the rawhide and, with a vigorous boost from her, started climbing, his knees working against the face of the rock to aid him.

“You’re all right,” she applauded as he mounted swiftly and dexterously. “The only fears I ever entertained about you, Tom, were that you might turn out to be a mamma’s boy. But you ride like a saddle tramp and you climb beautifully.”

“Huh!” grunted The Falcon, as he reached the noose and clambered to the summit of the rock.

He stood erect cautiously and looked away on all sides, his feet planted and his body braced against the wind.

“Well?”

“I can see the desert,” he announced. “And up here one is safe from being seen by anybody close in the mountains. The slopes of the hill and the forest around us and the chaparral make it impossible for any one close at hand to see these rocks. But if some one were stationed on a distant peak, there might be a different story to tell.”

“I knew that—or suspected it. Don’t worry about the peaks, though. The desert—can you see Squawtooth?”

“I see a square of green.”

“That’s it. And the camps?”

“Can’t make them out. Say, I’ll have to sit down, I guess. That wind could almost blow a fellow off of here. Can you tie your glasses to that end of the rope? Then I can haul them up.”

She did this, and presently he hauled the binoculars in and was training them on the desert, seven thousand feet below.

“Say, the wind is tearing things up down there!” he reported. “Worse than up here, I’d say.”

“Of course. Down there it has an unobstructed sweep. It sucks down from the mountains. Stands Squawtooth where it did, milord?”

“Oh, yes. But the camps! Say, tents are all down and everything in a mess.”

“Is Stlingbloke any bloker?”

“I can’t see it. The buttes hide it. But Mangan-Hatton is simply flat.”

“Oh, dear!”

“And the sand is blowing over the dry lakes till the clouds of it are sometimes so heavy I can’t make anything out.”

“See any signs of a search party?”

“None at all.”

“Well, come down. If you can see the adobe at Squawtooth, that’s all we care about. We’ll make up signals for them to observe, and we’ll tell ’em when to signal. Then you can climb up where everything’s ready, and get what they have to say through the glasses.”

Falcon the Flunky monkeyed down to her, hand under hand.

“We’ll not throw the noose off,” she stipulated. “Now come in out of the wind, and we’ll write our message to Pa Squawtooth and include a secret one to Mr. Podhead Mart.”

“Are you a witch?” he asked, as he followed her in among the rocks.

“Pa’d say, ‘Worse’n that.’” she retorted, tearing and pressing flat a paper sack in which she had brought some part of their pitiably small store of provisions.

“Now,” she said, seating herself flat on the rough stone floor and tucking her feet under her, “we’ll get busy. You say that if you can get word to a Mr. Winston in Los Angeles, you can clear everything up, Tom?”

“I think so. Winston knows my signature, and he knows me well enough to be positive that for me to steal fourteen thousand dollars would be utterly ridiculous.”

“Uh-huh. And he can get in touch with the sheriff of this county and show him where he’s barking up the wrong tree.”

“So I should imagine. Men listen to what a man in Winston’s position has to say.”

“Uh-huh—of course. But listen here: There’s a chance that we have been tracked to the mountains and that Pa Squawtooth and a gang of men are somewhere up here now, hunting for us. So if we send a message down to the desert, and pa wasn’t there, it might fall into unfriendly hands.

“Say somebody else got it,” she continued to speculate, “and decided to signal ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ or whatever we may direct—and would fool us? If Pa Squawtooth signals, ‘Yes—everything will be all right if you come out,’ he will mean it, and we can depend upon it and not be afraid to show ourselves. But in case of his absence, somebody might get our message and think it would be smart to deceive us and get us out—when they’d nab us and give us the ha-ha. See?”

“Yes, all that seems quite probable.”

“And at this distance the glass isn’t strong enough for us to make sure that it is Pa Squawtooth who is sending the signal, even though he were sending it and was standing out in plain view. You couldn’t be sure it was he, could you? It’s more than twenty miles to Squawtooth.”

“Not with that sand storm blowing down there,” he replied. “No; it would be difficult to tell one man from another.”

“Uh-huh—so you see how easily we might be trapped. But we’ll get around that, Tom—I always did like that name!—and I’ll tell you how:

“You’ll write a message to Mr. Winston, asking him to clear things up, and between the lines I’ll slip in a message to Rattle-pod in invisible ink.”

“Say, sweetheart!” he cried. “Has this experience gone to your head? Invisible ink! Why——”

“Oh, listen—listen, can’t you! If you knew how many times Mart and I have played outlaw and robber and sheriff’s posse and lost on a desert island and games like that, you’d know I mean what I say. But that was years and years ago,” she quickly added, glancing at him furtively.

“How many?” he asked for the second time, with an amused smile.

“None of your business, smarty! Anyway, it wasn’t so long ago that Mart will have forgotten. The minute he sees a message from me, with our secret emblem in one corner, he’ll know there’s a second message included in invisible ink. So we’ll have him on our side; and no matter how they try to fool us, we can get a true signal from the old kid.”

“Go on; go on! I give up. If you’re ready, I’ll throw things into the fire and say, ‘Double, double, toil and trouble! Fire, burn and, caldron, bubble!’ and brew the magic ink. I sincerely hope the doctors will pronounce your trouble of the harmless variety, at least.”

“We have about a pint of invisible ink,” she said primly.

“Certainly—certainly. Just keep quiet, now, and don’t think about your troubles!”

“You’d better kiss me for that,” she suggested, hiding her eyes with her long, chestnut lashes.

The Falcon paid the penalty of his levity with good grace.

“Now I’ll write at the top of the paper with my stub pencil, and explain what is to be done in regard to the message you’ll write below to Mr. Winston.”

“Proceed. Little matters like writing in invisible ink and sending the messages for twenty miles are nothing at all to you. I realize that fully. Go on, wonder girl.”

“I don’t half mind your calling me names like that,” she demurely informed him. “Well, here we go to Pa Squawtooth.”

For a while she scribbled industriously, the paper flattened against a stiff portion of her leather chaparajos, often wetting the pencil at her adorable lips, often gazing into space in search of inspiration. The man watched her, and thrilled all over again at the thought that she had given herself into his keeping forever, come what might.

She finished and handed him her part of the message.

He read aloud:

“Dear Old Pa Squawtooth: Forgive me, pa. Forgive us. But one of us doesn’t want to be lynched, and the other of us doesn’t want him to be. Pa, you’re all wrong. The sheriff is wrong. Everybody in the world is wrong but Falcon the Flunky and me.

“Now listen, pa: You’ll never, never find us. We have provisions and guns to kill game with, and any amount of water. I’ve known of the place where we are hiding for two years, and I am the only one in the country that does know it.”

“That’s a legitimate little fib,” Manzanita interrupted. “Mart knows, but he won’t cheep.”

The Falcon continued:

“Falcon the Flunky is absolutely innocent, and so is Halfaman Daisy. The Falcon can prove that for him to be connected with the holdup is an absurdity. Below this note of mine you will find one from him, to a Mr. Winston, in Los Angeles, chief engineer for the Gold Belt Cut-off. Take it to him, and he will confirm what The Falcon says.

“Then when you signal us that this has been done, and that everything is all right again, we’ll come from hiding. If everything is all right, hoist a red blanket at noon to-morrow from the big cottonwood in the corral at Squawtooth, and we’ll trust you and come out. If that is too soon for you, make it next day at noon, or the next. Every day at noon we’ll be watching.

“Show this letter to Mart, pa. Don’t fail to do that, because we want him to ride to Opaco and see Halfaman Daisy to tell him he won’t have to be in jail long, and that his teams are probably all right. This is part and parcel of our conditions, this last. You can cut the paper in two between my part and Falcon the Flunky’s part and give my note to Mart.

“Don’t worry about me, pa, dear. I’m having a perfectly lovely time, and I’m so happy. Love to Mart and Mrs. Ehrhart and—I would fill the paper if I were to continue, so hog the rest of it for yourself.

Devotedly Manzanita.”

“All right?” she asked. “If so, write yours to Mr. Winston beneath it.”

Accordingly, he took her stub pencil and wrote the following, leaving an inch space between it and her communication at her direction:

Mr. Charles E. Winston, Chief Engineer’s Office,
The Gold Belt Cut-off Bldg., Los Angeles, California.

My Dear Mr. Winston: I find myself in a rather difficult situation, and am writing this to ask you to make an effort to set me straight, if you can do so without telling all that you know about me.

Briefly, I am accused of highway robbery and complicity in the killing of a gold messenger. The sum stolen amounts to about fourteen thousand dollars. I think this statement is sufficient for me to count on your coöperation in clearing me. Hope to see you soon. Cordially,

Falcon the Flunky.

“Oh, you are going to sign that way!” cried the girl, when he had submitted his work for her approval.

“Yes—Winston knows what I am called out here. He’ll understand. He’ll know that signature as well as he would know my right one.”

“You know best about that,” she gave in.

Then in one corner of the paper she made a tiny mark, which looked almost as if it had been made accidentally, although it was distinct.

“When the hermano sees that,” she said, “he’ll understand that the paper contains a secret message from his old pal. Now, if only Pa Squawtooth will cut our two communications apart and give mine to Mart, as I directed! Everything depends on that—unless we should be fortunate enough to have the paper fall directly into the kid brother’s hands. You see, my secret message will be written between the lines of my part only. For, to bring the secret message out, the paper must be heated. And, of course, it wouldn’t do to heat the whole of it, for then the invisible writing would appear on the part that’s to go to Mr. Winston, and everybody would see it. But if the kid can get away by himself with my half, we’ll have a loyal henchman in the camp of our enemies.

“Now we’ll write several of these, all alike; and then I’ll put the secret message between the lines of my part on all of them.”

CHAPTER XIX
THE SORCERESS

WITH the pines bending and groaning above them, a group of men struggled against the demoniacal onslaught of the wind to the top of a peak that stood in the middle of Squawtooth Canby’s mountain meadowlands. Over his shoulder one of them carried a set of climbers, such as are used by linemen to ascend telephone and telegraph poles.

On the summit of the peak stood a lofty pine, alone and friendless and torn by the gale. At the base of it the party halted, and as much as possible sheltered themselves from the cutting blast. The pole climber adjusted his spiked leg irons, and, on the lee side of the old pine, began ascending.

“Now watch yerself, Pete!” he was cautioned from below. “By golly, she’s a resky job!”

The man made no reply, but continued to ascend rapidly, evincing confident familiarity with the climbers that he wore. He was a Mangan-Hatton man and was in charge of the electric-lighting system of the camp. Wind and swaying altitudes held no terrors for this old-time electrical man, familiar with all branches of his work.

Before very long he was well-nigh to the top. Settling himself at last on a whipping limb, he roped himself to the trunk of the tree, and then unslung a telescope from his shoulder. At once he deliberately began scouring the surrounding country, swaying back and forth as the tree bent before the wind and recovered its perpendicular stateliness.

A grand sight was revealed to the venturesome climber. To the south and east and west swept a magnificent forest of pines, tossing wildly like waves at sea. Here and there a peak uprose, snowcapped at its summit because of the recent fall. In the background more majestic peaks upreared themselves proudly, the summits of some of them above the line of perpetual snow and always white and glistening. To the west, seven thousand feet below him, swept the beleaguered desert, over which great sand waves rolled in tempestuous billows.

The watcher did not give lengthy attention to the desert nor to the distant peaks, enticing as was the view. Carefully he trained his spyglass here and there over the lower mountain country at his command.

He searched the lush meadows, where red cows braved the wind and grazed and pastured horses stood disconsolately, tail-on toward the tempest. Then suddenly, about three miles distant, as he judged, a man appeared on the top of a gigantic rock that was thrust up above the foliage.

The spyglass steadied. The eye glued to it saw the man stoop and haul up on a rope. Presently he staggered before the wind, then sat down abruptly on his perch and trained a pair of binoculars on the desert.

For some little time the spyglass man watched him. Frequently he saw his lips moving, so powerful were his lenses, and saw him look downward as if speaking to some one at the base of the rocky monument. Then he crawled over the edge and disappeared.

Studiously now the observer located lone trees and other peculiar outcroppings of rock which might serve in finding the eminence on which the wind-blown figure had appeared. Then he took out a pocket compass and lined the tree with The Falcon’s rock. He reslung his glass and descended to solid ground.

“I saw Falcon the Flunky,” he announced. Then he sat down, with his back against the tree, and in a notebook tried to map the country surrounding the lookout post of the hiding couple.

This they took to Squawtooth Canby, in camp below at the edge of the mountain meadow.

For many minutes the old cowman studied it, while those in camp with him stood silent and expectant.

“Just a leetle north o’ east, eh?” said Squawtooth reflectively. “And about three miles from your tree, you say? Well, I dunno. Distances at this altitude are mighty deceivin’—especially to a man used to down below. Air’s light, ye know, an’ funny that way. I’d say six mile, if you say three.”

The electrician shrugged. This was out of his line.

“They’s so many big rocks like that un croppin’ out that it don’t tell me anything. Still, we got the direction. That’s a lot. Le’s throw the saddles on ’em, boys, and see what we c’n do in this hurricane. I’d rather fight it on the move than stick around, holdin’ to limbs and bushes to keep myself from sailin’ down on the desert.”

Ten minutes afterward fifty mounted men, spread out like a skirmish line, moved through the forest toward the crow’s nest of Falcon the Flunky.

The two in their rocky rendezvous had just completed their sixth set of communications, and about all the paper had been used.

“Now for the secret messages to Mart,” said the girl.

“I’m glad we’ve got around to that,” dryly remarked The Falcon. “I’m growing the least bit curious.”

“All right, Thomas. We’ll satisfy that curiosity of yours. Please give me the fountain pen I see sticking out of the slot in the bib of your beautiful blue overalls.”

The Falcon handed her a handsome fountain pen, heavy with chased gold.

She laughed as she examined it. “Didn’t your brother stiffs wonder where you swiped this?” she inquired.

“I almost never carried it in sight,” he explained. “But I had taken it with me when Daisy and I went to Los Angeles, of course, and had forgotten to remove it when I went to see you at Squawtooth. But for that I doubt if we’d have it with us now. I assure you, however, it’s not a magic pen.”

“Oh, yes it is! Watch it!”

She unscrewed the pen and deliberately poured the ink on the ground. Then she went to the bubbling water, stooping till the two long braids of chestnut hair hanging forward over her shoulders had to be tossed aside to keep them dry. She thoroughly cleansed all parts of the pen, and held it up in the wind to drain.

Next she picked up from their scant supplies a can of evaporated milk, in the top of which two holes had been punched. One hole she held directly over the magazine of the pen. The white milk spurted out and filled it.

She screwed the pen together once more, laid one of the messages on her knee, and began to write between the lines of the portions written by her in pencil.

“So young and sweet!” sighed The Falcon. “Isn’t it a pity!”

“You think so?” She picked up a discarded bit of paper and wrote something on it.

“Take this,” she commanded, and passed it to him. “Hold it until it’s dry. Convince yourself you can see no writing whatever. Then rake a hot stone from the camp fire and slowly heat the paper. I hope that will occupy you till I’ve finished.”

Falcon the Flunky carried out her instructions. Before he began heating the paper he could see only a faint glaze on its surface, which the casual observer would not have noticed at all. Now he pressed the paper to the hot stone, lifting it to cool it when it threatened to char; and gradually brown letters, clear and distinct, began to appear, till finally he found himself confronted by this:

Falcon the Flunky needeth a shave.

“By George!” he exclaimed. “I never knew that!”

“You should carry a pocket mirror,” murmured the girl, deep in her copying of the form letter she had written in pencil.

She finished the sixth invisible communication.

“You haven’t read to me what you are writing to Mart,” he pointed out.

She handed him the copy, and he read:

Dear Rattle-pod: You can’t imagine the fun we’re having. Too bad you are not in on it; but this will give you the chance to get in, after a fashion.

Martie boy, The Falcon is as innocent of the holdup as I am. I want you to believe it as I do, for I know. We are afraid this letter may fall into the wrong hands, and that a trap may be laid to lure us out of hiding. So we’ll pay no attention to the red-blanket signal from the big cottonwood at Squawtooth unless we get another one from you at the same time, assuring us that the other signal stands for a genuine surrender. And your signal must be a commonplace one, or some one may suspect. So if everything is all O. K. for us to come out, get on that gray colt you’ve been bragging you could break all summer, and ride him out in the open to the east of Squawtooth. I’m sure the colt will signal so we shall understand. You’ll get the rest of the idea from the penciled letters.

What I wrote about your going to see Halfaman Daisy was written only to manufacture a reason for the letter to be given to you.

Bet you my old spurs against fifty cents you pull leather before the gray has carried you a hundred feet from the corral. Lovingly,

Manzanita.
A Lady in Distress.
Go to it!

“So that will protect us,” said Manzanita, as he laughingly returned the letter. “If we see a gray colt go bucking over the desert when the blanket is hoisted, we’ll know everything’s all right. Now—to send these messages down on the desert. Get the rifle and come on.”

Perhaps two hours later Manzanita and Falcon the Flunky slipped into a grove of yucca palms, tossing and singing in the wind that stood on the edge of the desert. They had crawled from the chaparral retreat, and by a circuitous, unmarked route descended a slope of the mountains, over steep slides and bushy expanses, to this vantage point.

“We won’t dare go a step farther,” objected the man. “We don’t know who or how many may be riding the desert in search of us. To walk out there over the level, open land would be suicidal to our plans.”

“Of course. We won’t have to. We’ll now scout up the magic letter bearers, give them the messages, and send them out over the desert to deliver them. Come on back up the slope.”

He followed her. Soon she paused beside a great, dry weed almost as high as her waist. The drying by the fierce desert sun had caused the tips of the branches to draw together so that the branches were bowed and the entire plant almost as round as a big ball.

“Allow me to introduce you to our first messenger, Mr. Tumbleweed,” said the girl. “When he has been uprooted, and a message tied to one of his branches, and we’ve pitched him up in the wind, he’ll go racing across the sands as fast as some horses can run. Have you never seen them? But this is your first windstorm to experience in this fair land. Well, cattle uproot them, I suppose, and when the wind comes they go scooting over the desert, rolling and bouncing ten feet into the air at times, and often, when a gust gets under them, they reach quite a height and sail through the air in great shape. Fences catch them, and Mart and I used to have to go get them out when we were kids. Then at school here on the desert, we kids used to play they were cows, and we’d ride after ’em on broomsticks when they came racing by at recess. But don’t ask me how many years ago that was. Now up with this one!”

He laid hold of the dry, tough tumbleweed and with an effort pulled it from the ground. The girl had torn strips from a handkerchief which was no concern of his, and with one of them she tied a message to an inside branch of the weed, after having wrapped the paper about the branch.

They collected three more, which were in like manner intrusted with messages by the wind witch. Then, with one in each hand—for they were as large as tubs—they hurried back to the yucca grove.

“It’s too bad we don’t dare slip along under cover till we’re abreast Squawtooth,” she complained. “But the wind’s sort of blowing in that direction, as it is. These will go out over the desert, and with folks hunting everywhere for us some one surely will see one of the six messages in one of our weeds.

“All right. Here we go! Say something mysterious or uncanny—some sort of incantation. Anything—on the spur of the moment, you know. I’m going to throw it up. Shoot!”

“The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog!” was The Falcon’s impromptu incantation as she pitched the weed, and it sailed off exultingly on the wings of the wind.

Away it sped, now and then striking the earth, only to spring up as if it were on delicate springs and soar for hundreds of feet again. Bounding, rolling, caroming from hummock to hummock, it raced away until it was only a tiny moving speck in the distance.

“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” muttered Falcon the Flunky.

Manzanita tossed up another and another and the fourth. After the first the three sped along as if they were live things released from long imprisonment.

Three times more The Falcon was jiggered; then they collected messengers for the two remaining letters, and sent them out.

Now they began the steep climb back into the mountains. Eventually they reached the top, and had flattened themselves to crawl into the chaparral when a voice was borne to them on the wind.

“Mercy!” cried Manzanita in low tones of consternation. “They’re right on us. Crawl! Crawl!”

They did crawl desperately, and then came to a stop when well hidden and lay without a move, lest sounds of their progress be heard.

Now came a voice at the edge of the thicket.

“Could that rock be up there in the chaparral?” it cried.

“Where’d they get water up in there?” came another voice, from a little distance.

“Might sneak out and go down to that arroyo for it. Give the arroyo the once-over for tracks. Oughta be water there—I see ferns growin’. If she’s moist, I’ll say comb the chaparral for ’em. This is about the distance Squawtooth said the rock might be from that pine back there.”

CHAPTER XX
PREPARATIONS FOR NOON

A BIG black touring car covered with dust purred into the village of Opaco. It had come through the pass from the coast side of the range, braving the rattling sand. Two men rode in the car besides the driver. All three wore goggles and had otherwise protected themselves from the fierceness of the sand storm as much as possible.

The disguise, however, failed to hide the ruddy, veined, and rather heavy face of one of the passengers, a large, portly man in corduroy and puttees.

“Gone, by thunder!” he ejaculated as the machine came to a stop before the little depot.

“You’re right,” agreed his fellow passenger.

The large man leaned from the tonneau and aimed a thick white finger at a passing villager, as if he were a living advertisement for the automatic pistol which is aimed as easily as leveling the index digit.

“You!” he bawled. “C’m’ ’ere!”

The long, lanky desert rat jumped as if the street had grown suddenly hot under his big feet, and promptly obeyed the authoritative command.

“Has the Demarest, Spruce & Tillou outfit started over the desert in this infernal storm?” the commanding person demanded.

“Ye-yes, sir. That is—er—they went before the storm. They’re likely out there somewheres in ’er now.”

“Oh! They couldn’t have reached their camp site before the cursed thing slipped up on ’em, then?”

“No, sir. They started day before yistiddy. The storm, she broke last night. They couldn’t ’a’ made seventy mile before she come.”

“Thunderation! Didn’t any o’ you natives here have sense enough to know it was comin’ and warn ’em?”

“Oh, they was warned, mister. But the boss he only laughed and said he’d been in blowin’ countries before now. I’ll say if he ain’t, he’s——”

“Heavens! How’ll we get out to ’em?”

“Take that road there. Don’t ferget to fill all yer water bags before ye start.”

“Anybody here in town who can go along and show us the road? They tell me sand blows over it and hides it sometimes. I can’t be bothered that way. I want to make speed.”

The native scratched his head, unthinkingly loosening his tightly crammed-down hat. He sprang into the air and caught it with both hands as it started for Nevada.

“They was a fella in from the camps last night said he’d like to get back,” he found voice to say. “But he got in a poker game this mornin’ and was holdin’ three kings when the stage got ready to go. Guess he’d go along and keep ye straight. That is, if they was anything in it. Ye see, t’other fella he held three aces.”

“Trot ’im out here! Here’s a dollar for your trouble.”

The villager disappeared with alacrity, and presently the occupants of the automobile were confronted by a slim man with black hair, a silk vest, and a black, waxed mustache.

“What’s your name?”

“They call me Blacky Silk.”

“Uh! Thought I remembered that face. They must o’ been watchin’ you pretty close in that poker game. Twenty-five dollars of any particular interest to you, Blacky?”

Blacky’s eyes widened. “I could place it maybe,” he evaded.

“Then pile in here and guide us across this infernal desert, if you know the way. Come on! Come on! Don’t stand there twistin’ that French chef’s can opener. I’m good for the cash.”

“I’ll say you are, Mr. Demarest,” said Blacky drawlingly, and climbed in at the driver’s side.

“Bust ’er, Charlie!” ordered the red-faced man. “Beat this wind or I’ll fire you.”

“Yes, sir, bossman,” said Charlie, throwing in the clutch.

“Shut up! Let your motor talk!”

The powerful machine leaped forward, kicked dust in Opaco’s already dirty face, rumbled across the bridge, and growled its way through the defile. Then it raced out on the open desert, and the wind shrieked with laughter over another victim.

“Great jumpin’ Jehoshaphat!” yelled Demarest into the burning ear of his partner, Mr. Everett Spruce.

“What d’ye say?” bawled Spruce.

“I said—go to the devil; that’s what I said!” And Demarest spit out a mouthful of sand and tied his handkerchief over his nose. Spruce cupped both hands about his mouth and placed his head close to Demarest’s ear.

“I thought you said ‘liver and onions!’” he cried. Viciously, Demarest dragged his hat down to his ears, then released it, and through his hands shouted back:

“You—are—an—ass!”

To which Spruce, who had not distinguished a single word, nodded agreement and smiled complacently.

The wind roared and howled. The motor roared back at it, and the nose of the steel monster plowed on into the whirling waves of sand.

Toward noon the beleaguered motor party were fighting their way up to an immense conglomeration of vehicles, teams, and men, the living components of the mass drawn up in lee of the wagons, wheeled into position to act as a barricade against the wind. A sorrowful group they were indeed. Lips were swelled to three times their natural thickness from the sting of the alkali. Eyes were red and haggard. The teams stood with their tails between their legs, their rumps toward the wind, their heads lowered.

Now a second storm swooped down upon the blockaded caravan in the form of Philip Demarest. When every one was crestfallen and had not a volley left to shout back at this Sheridan who had raced to their revival, it was learned by the newcomers that the tank wagons of the caravan were well-nigh empty and that their commander had been innocently waiting for the storm to subside before attempting to move on to the next watering place. To conclude, twenty minutes after Demarest had ridden in the wagon train was once more fighting its way through the sand storm toward water; and now every man in the outfit had decided that it was better to forge on than to be intrenched and parleying with the relentless wind king.

Ahead of them the big car plowed on to reconnoiter. The water was ten miles from where the train had been halted, and Philip Demarest knew that the fight to reach it would be a bitter one. With all that they could take in the car they drove back to the caravan, and desert bags were replenished, thus saving what remained in the tank wagons for the laboring stock. Skinners walked so as to lighten loads to the last possible ounce. Heads down, whipped nearly off their feet occasionally, the thin-limbed mules moved slowly along, mile at a time, the wagons sometimes almost down to their hubs in the shifting sands.

Late in the afternoon the herculean task was accomplished. Worn-out men and worn-out teams rested once more, but this time at Dead Man’s Wells, with ample water for all their needs. They were still sixteen or seventeen miles from Squawtooth, and Demarest decided to drive on there in the car for the night and be ready to look over the camp site next morning.

They were just about to start when their guide, the estimable Blacky Silk, waiting beside the empty car, saw a horseman riding toward him. He had appeared miraculously, coming suddenly as he had from a heavy cloud of blowing sand.

He made directly for the camp, and Blacky Silk recognized him.

“Kid!” he called. “What th’ devil!”

The man saw him and swung his horse to the lee side of the machine.

“Say, what you doin’ here?” he demanded.

“What you doin’ here?” retorted Blacky.

“I was tryin’ to get to Opaco to see you,” the man replied. “Lord, I’m glad I drifted in here and found you! Save me over sixty miles o’ this. Blacky, somethin’s happened.”

“What?”

The man, “Kid” Strickland, from Stlingbloke, was chunky of build and pockmarked, and showed small evidences of being anything but an undesirable citizen. He told of the arrest of Halfaman Daisy and of the escape of Manzanita Canby and the Mangan-Hatton flunky.

“I knew about that bird Halfaman,” said Blacky. “I was at Opaco when they brought um in. But——”

The other dismounted, and they held close consultation. Presently Kid Strickland produced a crumpled piece of paper sack, folded carefully.

“It was wrapped right around an inside branch o’ that tumbleweed, I tell you,” he said forcibly. “It blew right into me, and I was just gonta throw it away and let the wind take it on when I see the note. Then I got a horse and started to Opaco to see you.”

“Good work!” was Blacky’s method of praising him. “Noon to-morrow, eh—or next day, or next,” he mused, after carefully reading the note again. “There won’t be anybody about Squawtooth then, I guess. They’ll all be out huntin’. I’ll say those birds’ll get their signal, Kid—what?”

Kid Strickland grinned understandingly.

“Now here’s what we gotta do, Kid: This note nor no part of it won’t go to this Winston in Los Angeles, o’ course. Nobody else’ll see any of it. We’ll just get word to the sheriff that we know for sure these birds will be comin’ outa their hidin’ place some time after noon to-morrow. And tell um if he’ll stick around he c’n get ’em. We can telephone and not let um know who’s talkin’—see? There’s a phone at Squawtooth. Maybe, while I’m there with the main squeeze, I’ll get a chance at her. We’ll be there soon; I’ll try it.”

“That’s the dope, Blacky. The wind’s blowin’ straight from the mountains, so the tumbleweed came from somewhere in that direction. I was just this side o’ the buttes when she blew into me, goin’ to Stlingbloke. So when you get to Squawtooth you c’n figger out about where they was in the mountains when they sent her out. And you c’n tell the sheriff, and have him be stickin’ around there somewhere. Savvy the burro?”

“You bet yer sweet life! We’ll pin it on that mysterious bird, all right. John Law is wise to him, anyway, I guess. Well, here comes the squeeze and the other two. We’ll be goin’ now. Leave it to me. See you at Stlingbloke to-morrow maybe.”

Blacky Silk tore the note into tiny bits and consigned them to the winds, then climbed into the car.

The two lying prone on the ground in the chaparral waited with bated breath for the verdict of the man who was looking into the arroyo for their footprints. They had not been down there, of course, so he would find none. Still, signs of water might lead to a search through the thicket, in which case the fugitives’ camp surely would be discovered.

“How ’bout it?” finally came the question from the man who was close at hand.

“It’s moist, all right,” came on the wind. “No tracks, though. Cows’ tracks here and there. Le’s beat it up higher along the arroyo; there’d be water higher up, I guess. Soaks in here.”

There came faint sounds of a horse moving at a walk toward the last speaker, then all was still once more but for the bluster of the angry wind.

Five minutes the hunted pair lay motionless; then, as no more unusual sounds were heard, Manzanita pulled The Falcon’s sleeve and crawled ahead of him toward the rendezvous.

“That was a close call,” she said as they seated themselves within the shelter of the rocks once more. “Half a minute earlier we’d have been caught in the open forest. They must have caught sight of you on the rock, Tom, from what they said. Close call, boy!”

She looked about her at the gaunt gray stones.

“The dear old things are like friends now,” and she smiled pensively. “My, isn’t it good to be here, safe and hidden again!”

For more than an hour she remained apprehensive; then, as nothing threatening occurred, her heart lightened once more.

“They found no tracks, and have decided it would be a waste of time to search this supposedly waterless thicket. I guess we’re safe. We won’t have to go out again, since we can see Squawtooth from the top of this rock. Unless——”

She stopped and became thoughtful.

“Unless for some reason the signaling is delayed down there and we have to go out and hunt for something to eat,” he finished for her.

“That’s our difficulty. We couldn’t carry much grub behind the saddles, and I hadn’t time to make a sensible selection. There isn’t much, as you’ve noticed. There’s quite a little bacon, but pitifully little to go with it. There’s a whole pound of coffee, and—and a few crackers, all chonked up from rubbing against a saddle—part of a loaf of bread; part of a can of milk; some salt. And I guess we ate about everything else for breakfast. You ate a terrible lot of bread, Tom.”

“I was hungry as a bear.”

“So was I,” she admitted. “We have plenty of matches.” She brightened. “Well, we’ll not borrow trouble,” she added after a pause. “If the wind goes down and we dare sneak out, we can probably pot a jack with the .25-.35. To get a buck, of course, would take a lot of hunting, unless we were exceptionally fortunate. We couldn’t risk that. There are gray squirrels down in the pines, too; but if a fellow’s hungry, one doesn’t seem overly large. We’ll see what we can do this evening, though. That’s the time to get a chaparral chicken, otherwise known as a burro’s cousin, or a jackass rabbit.”

Young love knows not the drag of time. There is so much to be told, so much to be planned, so many assurances and reassurances of undying devotion to be made, that the sun’s course from rim to rim is all too speedily accomplished, and the light of the stars and the smile of the moon must be requisitioned to render one day long enough.

Almost before they knew it dusk was at hand; then they remembered that now they were to make an attempt to replenish the larder. Then, too, they realized that the wind was abating.

Soon it blew only in occasional fierce gusts. The tired trees ceased their groaning and tossing. With sighs of relief the chaparral grew still. From a fastness came the cool, sweet call of a mountain quail.

The two slipped once more from the chaparral and cautiously worked their way down toward the desert. Just before dark they saw a big-eared jack rabbit nibbling at dry grass behind a bunch of squawtooth. Falcon the Flunky flattened himself, took slow, careful aim with the .25-.35, and pressed the trigger.

The larder had been replenished.

“You can shoot,” praised the girl as she picked up the all but beheaded jack rabbit. “I like to see ’em killed like that—instantly. I can’t stand it to see anything suffer. I was afraid you’d not have the nerve to aim at his head.”

With their prize they hurried back to concealment. Falcon the Flunky dressed the rabbit, and they hung it up for the night.

For supper they ate bacon, and crackers dipped in water and fried in the bacon grease. Then they sat looking into their tiny camp fire and took up their planning and assurances once again.

The stars came out, then the moon. All about them the forest was mysteriously silent, save for the occasional low roar of a bull bat swooping down upon some luckless insect, or the distant questioning of an owl.

“To-morrow at noon,” breathed Manzanita, “everything will be cleared up. Then out we’ll go to dear old Pa Squawtooth and tell him everything. And then——”

“Then there’s going to be a wedding,” said the man called Tom.

From close at hand came a fiendish laugh—ribald, mocking, insane.

“Only a coyote,” said Manzanita. “But wasn’t it funny that he laughed just when you said that. Do you believe in omens, Tom? Don’t ever, ever again become implicated in highway robbery unless you have a safety razor in your pocket, Tom!”

CHAPTER XXI
THE SIGNAL

A WEARY party of horsemen rode from the mountains toward Squawtooth about eleven o’clock the following morning. Squawtooth Canby, a despairing man, rode in the lead, with his son Martin at his side.

The dogs had failed to arrive because of the storm, and doubtless would have proved useless anyway. Because of the storm, too, the Indian trailers had failed; for the wind had scattered pine needles and leaves and flattened dry grass until the slightest evidences of the fugitives’ flight had been obliterated. The missing pinto mare and the roan colt, together with their saddles and bridles, were all that the search party had found.

“Ain’t that there a machine, son?” asked Squawtooth, pointing ahead as they neared the ranch.

“Maybe the sheriff’s there, pa,” Mart suggested by way of a reply.

“There’s another one,” added Squawtooth presently as a slight change of course showed the rear wheels of a second car beside the first.

Mrs. Ehrhart met the returning men, a question in her eyes.

“Nothin’, Mrs. Ehrhart,” Squawtooth answered it shortly. “We’re here for a bite, then we’ll get out ag’in. Rain in the mountains ruined pretty near all our grub. The boys’ll be in when they’ve ’tended to the stock. Just throw together what ye can find. Mart’ll help ye. Who’s here in the machines?”

Mrs. Ehrhart wiped her eyes with her blue-and-white checked apron. “One of ’em’s the sheriff’s,” she said. “And Mr. Demarest come in the big one. He’s here now. His outfit went through this mornin’.”

“Thought I saw somethin’ new movin’ up through the buttes. Martie, you get cleaned up and help Mrs. Ehrhart to feed the boys. I’ll have to go and see Mr. Demarest and the sheriff.”

He found Demarest, Spruce, and the wizened Fred Glenn, sheriff of the county, in the parlor of the old adobe.

Philip Demarest rose hastily and stepped to meet the cowman when he saw him entering.

“Canby, by George, it’s good to see you again, even if we find you in trouble. What an infernal mess! Heavens to Betsy! Any news at all?”

Squawtooth Canby gripped the main contractor’s hand and fought hard to appear cheerful and hospitable. He was introduced to Mr. Everett Spruce. He nodded briefly at the sheriff.

“Now, don’t pay any attention to Spruce and me, Canby,” urged Demarest. “We would have gone on, but your housekeeper said you’d likely be in soon. So we stayed to find out if there was any good news to report or if we could be of any help. We’ve a bunch of men and animals and supplies to put at your disposal. Just say the word, Canby. There, there, now! Cheer up; everything’ll come out all right. It always does. I’ll personally help you hang that upstart of a pot-walloper when we get him. I’ll put the noose around his infernal neck, and you pull the rope, and I’ll kick the son of a gun as he’s goin’ up! Now have your conference with the sheriff—we’ll wait and talk everything over afterward.”

“I thank ye kindly,” said Squawtooth, and motioned the sheriff to follow him to the veranda.

“Well, Fred, ye didn’t get up to us,” he began as they seated themselves.

“It snowed like the mischief on the other side o’ the range,” the sheriff explained. “’Twouldn’t ’a’ been so bad, maybe, if the wind hadn’t blowed all the snow into the gaps in the road. We was in a car with the pups an’ got stalled, o’ course. Hadta go back. Meant to put the pups on the train and bring ’em through the pass to the desert side; but we like to never made it back to Sycamore Grove even. Didn’t till late this mornin’.”

“Yes, I knew how the gaps would be, once she begun to snow,” Squawtooth exonerated him. “Dogs wouldn’t been no good, anyway, once the storm set in. Did ye take Halfaman Daisy to the county seat?”

The sheriff scraped his feet. “No,” he replied, seeming to the other to be a bit uneasy. “He’s still in the lockup at Opaco. Funny business!”

“What d’ye mean?”

“Him bein’ pinched and all. I had a talk with ’im comin’ through. He said he’d just as soon stay locked up a little while longer, if it would do any good.”

“What d’ye mean?”

“Well, I never meant to have that boy arrested, Squawtooth. Ner that other fella, either. Dave Denmore took that all on ’imself the minute I’d started for the inside. Course I left Dave in authority. He didn’t know what I was workin’ on, and when the evidence that he did know about begun pilin’ up against this pair, he thought he’d take no chances, and pinched Daisy.”

“Course he did! Wouldn’t you ’a’ done the same?”

Fred Glenn shook his head. “That boy’s only a harmless nut,” he maintained. “He’s wrote the craziest stuff you ever read all over the walls o’ his cell. Somethin’ about Moses and Aaron and some more of ’em—one o’ these religious cranks, I reckon.”

“I don’t know nothin’ about that, Fred, but I know his tie was found in the mountains, and——”

“Yes, he told me about that tie. It was hisn. Owned up right pronto. Said him and t’other fella’d been in the mountains lookin’ to buy a couple spans o’ mules, belongin’ to a party in Sycamore Grove. They was up there on pasture. I telephoned to Sycamore Grove from Opaco when he’d told me that, and, sure enough, it all happened just like he said. I know the man that’s holdin’ them mules for sale.”

“And when ye left here ye didn’t suspicion him and t’other fella?”

“No,” replied Glenn. “Just the same, I knew it was his tie, ’cause I found where a tie’d been charged to him on the books o’ the Mangan-Hatton camp, and the clerk showed me a box o’ ties just like that un. But I was workin’ on another trail altogether, Squawtooth. And Dave Denmore hadn’t oughta took things in his own hands like he did. It was plumb loco to think of arrestin’ them two, when they’d just come in with a string o’ mules and things worth half o’ the sum stole from the stage. They wouldn’t ’a’ beat it and left behind that much prop’ty, would they? So why take ’em up?”

“Course I thought of all that,” admitted Squawtooth. “But everything pointed to this pair as the guilty ones, and for my part I hadn’t no time to reason things out. It was my girl I was thinkin’ of most. And so you don’t think them boys are guilty after all?”

The sheriff shook his head. “I was on another trail altogether,” he repeated. “Guess I oughta told my dep’ties more; but I got a way o’ keepin’ things to myself till I get the come-alongs on my man. I’ve found it the safest way.”

“Yes; yes—o’ course. But who was ye lookin’ up?”

“Well, us sheriffs get inside information sometimes when a bad actor drifts into our county, just like city policemen do. I already knew they was a couple o’ tough nuts at this here Stlingbloke—more’n a couple, I reckon, for that matter. But I’d been sent word about these two, and I was lookin’ ’em up and tryin’ to connect ’em with the pink tie. I had the foot measurements, you know; they was taken right where the holdup was pulled off. I’d already measured a pair o’ shoes belongin’ to this Falcon fella at Mangan-Hatton’s, and they didn’t fit either measurement. Then at Opaco to-day I measured Daisy’s shoes. Nothin’ doin’ again.

“But when I rode to Stlingbloke and on up the line, time your boy Mart was chasin’ me, I nosed it out that one o’ the other parties I was investigatin’ had rode with a water wagon over to a desert water hole west o’ the line that same day. So I thought maybe he’d get off over there, and maybe there’d be some o’ his tracks in the mud about the water. That’s why I rode over there; but I didn’t find any tracks.

“Then I decided to go on to the inside with my measurements and wire ’em to the San Francisco police, who’d first sent me word that these bad actors had drifted down here to Stlingbloke. They got their records up there.

“So I stopped at a little camp below Stlingbloke for that night, intendin’ to go up in the mountains next mornin’ and bring down the boys to have ’em ready for the arrest, then go on to the inside and send my wire. And while I was at this camp that night your boy, who’d been tryin’ to run me down, rode in and give me the cover off the cigarette papers. You know ’bout that.”

“O’ course. Somethin’ funny wrote on it, kinda like you said this Daisy’d wrote in the jail.”

“What’s that?” The sheriff was eying Squawtooth in surprise.

Squawtooth explained as best he could.

“M’m-m—who told you that, Squawtooth?”

“Why, Mart did, for one. And all your dep’ties was talkin’ about it, but nobody could remember just what it was that was written on the cover. But since I’ve heard that this fella Daisy’s always writin’ somethin’ like that everywhere he goes. Seems he’s got a Bible name, and—oh, I didn’t get it all straight. I was too worried, you see.”

“O’ course. But nothin’ like that was wrote on the cover that Mart give me. And the writin’ ain’t anything like the same as this fella done in the jail.”

“That’s funny. What was wrote on ’er, then, Fred?”

From his vest pocket Fred Glenn removed a blue pasteboard cigarette-paper cover and silently passed it to Canby.

“Keep still about it,” he cautioned.

Canby opened the cover and read:

Blacky Silk, Blacky Silk, Blacky Silk.

“Why, that’s plumb foolishness,” he decided. “What’s Blacky Silk mean?”

But before the sheriff could make reply the cowman was half out of his chair, the bit of pasteboard held before him, his eyes wide and fastened on it.

“Why, Fred!” he cried. “That—that looks like my little girl’s writin’! It sure is. Why, man alive, Manzanita wrote that!”

It required some time for Squawtooth Canby to convince the sheriff that his troubles had not deranged his mind. Even then the sheriff would not believe until the cattleman had brought from the house a packet of treasured letters, written to him by his daughter while she was in boarding school in Los Angeles. Then Glenn became convinced.

“Canby,” he said, “I’m more up a tree than ever now. Why, this here is plumb loco! Get the boy, Squawtooth, and le’s hear what he’s got to say.”

Some of the search party that had accompanied Squawtooth from the mountains were at dinner now, and Mart, with a piece of bread and butter in his hand, was dragged from the table.

On the veranda he was shown the bit of pasteboard, and under a battery of accusatory eyes he gazed at it open-mouthed.

“That wasn’t wrote on it when I give it to the sheriff!” he cried.

“Who’s writin’ is this?” demanded his father.

A moment and Mart’s jaw was sagging lower still. “Why, pa, that’s Little Apple’s writin’, ain’t it?”

“That’s what me and Glenn’s decided,” replied his father grimly. “Now, you set down here, son, and come clean. Tell the sheriff everything that happened about your bringin’ this pasteboard down and all.”

Mart obeyed, and when his narrative reached the point where he had passed the cover to his sister at dusk on the desert, and she had dropped it, the sheriff stopped him.

“Canby,” he said, “if you’ll excuse me, that girl o’ yours is a reg’lar little devil! I thought she had somethin’ up her sleeve when I run into her at Stlingbloke—the mare all lathered up and her actin’ kinda worriedlike. She slipped the kid a package when he handed her that pasteboard cover. Up until then he had the cover the boys found, but what they clawed outa the sand was one she’d fixed up for him to give to me—this one here. And she’d wrote ‘Blacky Silk’ in it three times. That’s what; that’s all’s to it! Now why? But wait! You go back to yer dinner, kid. Yer pa and me’ll thrash this thing out.”

“I don’t want no more now,” objected Mart.

“Git!” cried his father.

Mart’s appetite suddenly returned.

“Glenn, what’s the meanin’ o’ this?”

“Simple, ain’t it? Your girl knew the kid had somethin’ in that first pasteboard that would go agin’ her feller, and——”

“Don’t call ’im that!”

“Well, that’s what she calls ’im, seems. Anyway, she didn’t want it to get into my hands, so she puts up a job on the kid. I see all that clear enough. But that ain’t the funny part now. The funny part is how she come to write ‘Blacky Silk.’ What did she know ’bout Blacky Silk?”

“He’d just been pesterin’ her, accordin’ to Mart,” replied Canby. “Wait’ll I set eyes on this Jasper, Fred. I’ll horsewhip ’im outa the country. But that’s neither here ner there. Maybe she couldn’t think o’ nothin’ else to write. Or maybe, bein’ sore on this hombre, she was tryin’ to make you think he was one o’ the fellas that pulled off the holdup. ’Tain’t like her, though, to try to hand a man the worst of it just ’cause she’s sore on ’im fer sumpin else.”

“The devil of it is,” remarked the sheriff thoughtfully, “that she’s right. But how in thunder did she know! That’s ’at gets me!”

“What? He’s the man ye got yer eye on?”

“Him and his pardner, Kid Strickland—a couple o’ bad ones all around. Here was me tryin’ my best to hang it on Blacky Silk and t’other un, when here comes your boy and give me that cover with Blacky’s name on it. Then, o’ course, I had more dope—or judged I had. And that helped send me inside; I wanted to find out if the Frisco police knew anything about his handwritin’. If they did, I was gonta mail the cover to ’em. Course I thought Blacky’d wrote his name in it, like a fella might do, ye know, just loafin’ about some time. But the police up there hadn’t any record, so I didn’t send ’er.

“Now, looky here: How’d your girl know Blacky Silk helped stick up the stage, Canby?”

Canby shook his head in mystification.

“Then tell me this: Who telephoned me yesterday afternoon that maybe a little after noon to-day your girl and that feller—would come from hidin’?”

“What’s that? You got a message like that?”

“I sure did. Over long distance from Squawtooth.”

“Didn’t ye get the name?”

“O’ course. Brown. Who’s Brown?”

“Dunno ’im.”

“Sounds phony to me. Who’d phone from here except you folks?”

“Most anybody in this country. Squawtooth’s headquarters for this neck o’ the woods.”

“Would your housekeeper know?”

“Likely; we’ll see.”

Squawtooth Canby stepped inside, and returned presently with the redeyed Mrs. Ehrhart. The sheriff questioned her.

“Why, Mr. Demarest and Mr. Spruce was here two or three times yesterday,” she said. “And once there was two more men with ’em. Then several folks was here throughout the day. It’s always that way. This is pretty near a hotel, you know, Mr. Glenn.”

“Anybody phone?”

“Yes—two or three times. But I was in the kitchen mostly. I never paid any attention.”

“But ye’d have to O. K. a long-distance call, wouldn’t ye, ma’am?”

“Yes.”

“And afterward find out the charge and collect from whoever was callin’?”

“Yes—I do that with strangers. But folks about here they just ask the operator at Opaco how much it is, and then come in the kitchen and hand it to me. And when they tell the operator their name she don’t ask me to O. K. it always. She knows everybody about here.”

“Anybody pay you for a long-distance call yesterday, ma’am?”

“No, sir; no one.”

“Uh-huh. Guess I’ll call up the Opaco operator and see what she’s got to say about this here Brown call.”

The sheriff returned presently from the telephone.

“She says the call was from Harry Brown, bookkeeper for Mangan-Hatton. It was charged to Squawtooth Ranch.”

“Mr. Brown’s the bookkeeper at Mangan-Hatton’s,” Mrs. Ehrhart told him. “But he wasn’t here yesterday. If he was, he come right in and phoned, and I didn’t see him. He phones every day or so, but he always knocks and comes and pays me for the call.”

“Uh-huh—I see. Any strangers here?”

“Only the two men with Mr. Demarest and Mr. Spruce.”

“What’d they look like, ma’am?”

“Well, one of ’em was Mr. Demarest’s driver. He was——”

“The other un, please, ma’am?”

“A slim, black-lookin’ fella with a little pointed black mustache. He——”

“That’s plenty, ma’am; thank ye kindly. We won’t trouble ye any more.”

Canby looked into the eyes of the wizen-faced sheriff after Mrs. Ehrhart had returned to her arduous duties.

“That’s Blacky Silk,” said Glenn. “Ye see, knowin’ we’re after this feller o’ yer girl’s—er—this feller, I mean—he’s doin’ all he can to help us arrest ’im, to throw suspicion offen ’imself and The Kid. But how in thunder does he know them two are comin’ out to-day?”

“Guess I ain’t gettin’ head ner tail of none of it,” complained the cattleman.

The sheriff consulted his watch. “It’s fifteen minutes after noon now,” he said. “If the boys are through eatin’ maybe ye’d better snatch a bite and get out with ’em, to meet your girl an’ this feller if they do show up. You’ll want to see ’em, o’ course, even though the boy ain’t guilty o’ the holdup. Can’t tell ye where’bouts to look, ’cept that whoever telephoned said they’d be comin’ outa the mountains and makin’ for Squawtooth. That was Blacky. What’s the big idea I don’t savvy—or how he knows they’re comin’. But I got nothin’ to do with them. I’ll get the dep’ties, and we’ll go for Mr. Blacky and The Kid. Them’s the hombres I want, ’cause Frisco wired me, just before I come out here, that the measurements I sent ’em are the same as Blacky’s. That’s why I left that Moses-an’-Aaron boy in jail at Opaco, so long’s he didn’t seem to mind. That would make this other pair feel safe, ye see, and they wouldn’t be thinkin’ o’ makin’ their get-away. I’ll find ’em at Stlingbloke, I guess. Can I get a hoss?”

The two men arose and were about to part when Ed Chazzy, in chaps and spurs, came around the house and stepped on the veranda.

“What was the signal for Squawtooth?” he asked.

“What signal?” Squawtooth shot back.

“Why, a red blanket—looked like she was—was wavin’ from the big cottonwood in the corral as I was ridin’ across from the mountains.”

“I don’t know anything about any signal. What ye talkin’ about? How long ago?”

“Twenty minutes maybe. It was way up high in the tree—a big red square cloth o’ some kind.”

“Le’s look into this,” said the sheriff quickly. “Everybody was at the table, wasn’t they, Squawtooth? Couldn’t ’a’ been none o’ them.”

They hurried out to the stable and the corrals, and searched all about, but found no one. Men were resting in the yard when they returned, and others were on the back veranda. Every man was questioned, but all professed ignorance of any sort of signal.

“Ed,” said Squawtooth to his vaquero, “you’re cock-eyed.”

Ed shook his head. “I seen it plain,” he defended. “Thought maybe the strays had been found and roped and that that was a signal callin’ folks in, that I hadn’t heard anything about.”

“Well, I’m goin’ to Stlingbloke,” announced the sheriff. “Signals ain’t worryin’ me. I want Blacky Silk and The Kid. See ye later, Canby.”

CHAPTER XXII
BREAKING CLOUDS FOR ONE

ON top of the gigantic rock in the chaparral fastness sat Manzanita Canby and Falcon the Flunky. Overhead the sun was creeping slowly toward the zenith. From time to time the girl lifted the binoculars from her lap and trained them on Squawtooth. Each time, as she lowered them, she sighed.

“They’ve not found any of our messages,” she said, “or else things wouldn’t be so quiet down there, with noon almost here. All of the men that just rode in from the mountains have gone into the house—to eat, I suppose. If they were going to signal at noon, wouldn’t they be standing around to see if anything would happen?”

“I should think their curiosity might be aroused to that extent,” replied her companion. “All in the house, eh?”

“Every last one of them.” She was once more holding the glasses to her eyes. “I might have known there wasn’t a chance in a million of any one finding a tumbleweed with a message in it. But I thought that, with men scouring the country all about, somebody surely would stumble onto one of them and be curious enough to find out what had been tied to a thing like that. There are two automobiles at the ranch. The sheriff’s, I suppose.”

“Don’t be discouraged yet,” he comforted her. “Maybe they’ve sent my letter to Los Angeles, and have not yet got a satisfactory answer. In which case they wouldn’t signal until to-morrow at noon—or next day, if the answer was still delayed. Perk up, dear! You had a great scheme—too great to fail.”

“There goes a lone rider toward Squawtooth—from the mountains, I guess. Looked like Ed Chazzy’s caballo. Yes, that’s the cream he rides. That’s Ed, too. I—oh, there! There! They’re signaling! Look!”

“You’re right. I can see a fleck of red against the cottonwood with my naked eye. You keep the glasses.”

She glued the binoculars to her eyes and watched.

“Sure enough! There’s a man up in the tree with a red blanket, or something. And—yes!—there’s another fellow standing at the foot. Everything’s all right. But say—I guess we’re not so notorious as we thought. Can you imagine all of the rest of them in there at dinner? Cool! Well, I guess we’ll have to really hold up the stage, or do something, to wake them up. I thought perhaps we were making a hit!”

“How about Mart?” he asked.

“Goodness! I’d almost forgotten him. Why, there’s no sign of him at all. Something is wrong, Tom. The kid would never, never fail us. If the signal were genuine, the instant it had been raised old Podhead would be on that bronc and riding him to a fare-you-well. It’s wrong—all wrong! A trick! I see it all now. Oh, I didn’t think such a thing of Pa Squawtooth! He’s refused to give Rattle-pod my half of the letter, and of course the kid has had no chance to read the milk message. Oh, Pa Squawtooth! I’ll never forgive you! And the coarseness of their work, Tom. Even though they’re trying to fake us, they ought to have sense enough to all stand out there and look on. They don’t know enough to try and make the proceeding appear natural. That alone might scare us off, even if we didn’t know the signal is a trap.”

“Not so fast,” said The Falcon. “It has just occurred to me that perhaps your father has offered a reward to the man who brings us in.”

“It would be just like him.”

“In that case—can’t you see?”

“Of course I can. The man who found the message might be selfish enough to think nothing of justice or our predicament, and would keep his discovery to himself and try to lure us out so that he—and a few pals maybe—could nab us and claim the reward. Even though we might be able to prove your innocence, and to show that eventually we would have come out anyway, pa would be in duty bound to pay what he’d offered. He’d do it, too. Oh, I never thought of such a situation! That’s just it. Somebody’s signaling unbeknown to pa and the rest, in at dinner.”

“Still no Mart, eh?”

“No sign of him. And there the signal goes down.”

Fully two minutes passed before she spoke again.

“There go two men away from Squawtooth over the desert,” she finally reported. “I’ll bet they set that signal, though I can’t make sure. Barns and things were in the way. Ed’s nearing Squawtooth, walking his cream.”

A little later: “Ed has reached the house and turned his horse into a corral.”

Then: “The two who left the ranch in the other direction are running toward a couple of horses, some distance from Squawtooth. I saw the horses there, but thought they were loose and cropping bunch grass. Now I see they’re saddled.

“They’re on ’em! Galloping like the dickens toward the buttes! Here come Ed and pa and—yes, I think it’s the sheriff. They’re in the corrals looking around. Seems almost as if they were looking up into the cottonwood. I’ve got it! You were right! Ed saw the signal, and asked what it meant when he got there. And pa and the sheriff couldn’t answer him, and have gone out to investigate. There go those two men, galloping like mad! That’s funny! If they meant to get us when we came out, why are they running directly away?

“There goes Pa Squawtooth and the rest of them back to the house. Now they’ve gone out of sight around the house. Oh, dear! And the grub’s almost gone! And that jack was the grandfather of all the rabbits in these mountains! Oh, I could just baw-awl!”

Then Falcon the Flunky took the glass and looked.

“I guess that’s the sheriff riding with three others in the direction taken by those two who galloped off,” was his first report. “They’re not hurrying, though. And now the others are getting their horses out of the corral. Here they come straight toward us—all in a bunch. M’m-m! I’d say everybody’s crazy down there!”

A sniffle.

“Cheer up! Cheer up! So long as they’re hunting over the desert there’s the chance of another of your messages being found. We’ll sit here and watch while they’re in sight. Maybe we can find out what they’re up to.”

“If we d-don’t we’re likely to starve,” the girl said sobbingly, wretched over the defeat of her clever plans.

The tents of the Jeddos that had been swept down by the wind were up again. Jeddo the Crow had slept throughout the greater part of the storm, and when conscious again had been in no condition to return to his camp from Stlingbloke to help repair the damage. Consequently he managed to get drunk again and forgot it.

On the slender shoulders of Wing o’ the Crow, then, had descended in violence one catastrophe after another. Her father was incapacitated, and she was in charge of the work as well as cook and dishwasher for the outfit. Halfaman had been arrested on suspicion of highway robbery and the killing of a man. On her hands he had left extra stock to be cared for, with no one to do it or to work them and make them earn their keep. Her friend, Manzanita, and The Falcon were fugitives in the mountains. Then the storm had swooped down and devastated the camp. And Wing o’ the Crow was only a girl of twenty-two.

Nevertheless the tents were up again, and everything was put to rights. Out on the job the few men at her command were following the teams, with the most dependable one among them acting as foreman. Stolidly the girl cooked for them, fed and watered the extra teams, and then went out to help with the dirt moving, dully wondering if ever there would be an end to her calamities.

Then the tide of her fortunes suddenly began to change.

To this wonderful little black-eyed girl at noon came Fred Glenn, sheriff, with three deputies, on horseback.

“You Miss Crow, ma’am?” he asked kindly.

“Miss Jeddo,” she corrected, standing in the door of the cook tent, for she was cleaning up after the noonday meal.

“Yes—that’s right. I got it wrong. Here’s a note for ye, ma’am.”

“Who from?”

“Daisy.”

The envelope was dirty and not addressed. She tore it across the end and removed a dirtier piece of paper. She read:

Wing o’ the Crow,

Care Jeddo Daisy and Jeddo contracters beloved—

Each little itum is jake wingo and I will be back in no time Ask the Sheriff if that aint so. Then we will knock them in the colar together hey wingo. You and me and some more old stifs. Im sending you some stifs—put them on those new teems and feed them wel.

Phinehas Daisy Vise President
Your Devoted Phinehas

She looked up at the wizened little sheriff. “Is it Jake?” she asked.

“Yes,” the sheriff returned. “He’ll be out soon; maybe to-morrow.”

She lowered her long black lashes. “Much obliged,” she said.

The sheriff flipped a finger at his hat brim, and rode on up the line.

An hour later Wing o’ the Crow was out in the borrow pit, driving a slip team, dully watching a six-horse freighter making it in from Opaco, when seven men came walking down the line. They stopped and surveyed the work, then one approached her.

“Hello, Wing o’ the Crow,” he ventured, grinning.

“Hello,” she returned.

“D’youse know me?”

“I don’t think I do.”

“I seen youse lots o’ times. I been on jobs wid youse in Kansas an’ Colorado.”

“Oh!”

“How’s chances?”

“Chances fer what?”

“To go to woik. Dere’s seven of us. We rambled out wid Demarest, Spruce & Tillou’s outfit. In Opaco I see old Halfaman Daisy in de hoosegow, an’ he says he’s gonta be out in a day er so, and dat dere was a mistake, and everyt’ing like that—see? He could come right now if he wanted to. De door of his cell was unlocked. He’s nuts! And he says he’s got some new teams, an’ he said fer me to get some o’ de plugs and go to woik fer youse folks. Said he was pardners wid youse an’ Jeddo de Crow now; and he wanted me to get some reg’lar stiffs an’ help youse out. I know Halfaman dese many years, an’ I says I’ll take a shot at ’er. Dere’s six o’ my pals wid me—all good plugs—all skinners.”

“Not stiffs! Reg’lar stiffs?”

“Yeah—sure. Ol’-timers. Dey all savvy Halfaman. He’s one good scout. A plug likes to see a stiff like Halfaman get started wid an outfit of his own, so we said we’d help um out a little.”

“Well, my goodness! Stiffs never work for us. Look at the bunch o’ hicks we got! Sure you’re not kiddin’ me?”

“Lead us to Jack an’ Ned. An’ Halfaman says fer youse to let me boss de job till he gets here and fer youse to go read yer hist’ry in de camp wagon and leave outside t’ings to me. I’m Schmitty—Paprika Schmitty.”

“Paprika Schmitty!” she cried. “Why—why you’ve been bossman for big outfits! I know about you. You ain’t got any business here.”

“Lead us to Jack an’ Ned,” Schmitty persisted.

Ten minutes later seven of the ten young mule teams were heaving into the collars, each team with an apparently lounging stiff in rear of it. In the snap of one’s finger almost results were being doubled, and with a light heart Wing o’ the Crow ran to the cook tent and plunged into a rearrangement of her plans for the evening meal.

Late that evening a deputy of Sheriff Glenn rode into Squawtooth on a tired horse.

Blacky Silk and Kid Strickland had seen the little posse riding toward Stlingbloke and had grown suspicious. They had promptly mounted fresh horses and escaped in the direction of Death Valley. The sheriff and the other two deputies were trailing them as best they could, and the rider to Squawtooth had come to notify Barstow and Dagget to be on the lookout for the escapes.

Shortly before this Squawtooth and his party, not so large now as at first, had returned from the day’s fruitless search. Demarest and Spruce had driven on to their new camp, but the former had promised to drop in at the ranch in his frequent comings and goings back and forth to see if he could be of any service.

Squawtooth was discouraged. Now that the sheriff had assured him of Falcon the Flunky’s innocence, he was ready to make almost any concession to get back his daughter. But no opportunity had been offered him. His great fear was that the two had managed to get entirely out of the country, perhaps by crossing the mountains over obscure trails to the coast side, and that by now they were married. Try though he did, he somehow could not believe the young man to be one who would harm his daughter. No, whatever he might be, he was not that kind. Not long before this, under the stress of his great tribulation, the cattle king had been ready to accuse the flunky of any crime. But his brain had been overheated then, and he had not been responsible. Now he was reasoning calmly, and finally decided that, if it proved to be the price of getting his daughter back, he even would consent to a marriage, no matter if his ambitious plans for her were entirely smashed. He loved her more than all the wealth in the world. Nothing else really mattered. Yes, he would sacrifice everything, pride, money, prestige, to be able to hold her in his arms again and know that she was safe. What a fool he had been!

Next morning they continued the search, but now the party was composed only of such Squawtooth vaqueros as could be spared from working the cows, and a few neighbors whose own business was not pressing—fifteen in all, counting the cattleman and Mart.

All day the search was continued, over country which had virtually been combed before. But night came again, and the searchers knew no more than when they had set out in the morning. And Mrs. Ehrhart reported that no word had come from towns on the inside, whose authorities had been asked to look out for the missing pair.

Webster Canby went to bed to a sleepless night, but was in the saddle again at the head of his men at six o’clock.

CHAPTER XXIII
AMBITIONS REALIZED

UP in their chaparral cloister the runaways sat disconsolate over the camp fire. Another noon had come and gone, and this time no signal whatever had fluttered in the tall cottonwood down at Squawtooth. Manzanita fried the last of the bacon and poured cold water into the coffee to settle it.

“It’s bacon straight,” she announced with an attempt at a laugh. “Next meal it’ll be coffee straight. We dare not even go out to pot a rabbit now, with them hunting as close as they are. If we were to shoot they’d locate us in no time at all. With them mounted and us afoot, we’d never get away.”

Falcon the Flunky nibbled at a strip of bacon that had refused to crisp, then dropped it. It was the last remnant of the side, and it was rancid and fat.

Presently Manzanita did the same with her portion.

“It’s simply unfit to eat,” she said mournfully. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat bacon again after this. Ugh! I hate it! Honestly, I’d rather go hungry.”

The Falcon set down his coffee cup. “Dearest,” he said, “we’ve got to get out of here. I’m innocent; I refuse longer to subject you to such needless discomfort. It’s getting serious.”

“We can’t get out,” she protested. “We could never make it across the range; it’s fifty miles, I guess.”

“We’ll go to Squawtooth, and I’ll give myself up.”

“You won’t! I won’t let you. Besides, I refuse to give up. The Canbys always finish whatever they start. I’ll get a signal of complete surrender, or we’ll stay right here and starve.”

“Oh, no, we’ll not!” he assured her.

“But we will. I say we will! You wouldn’t desert me and go alone, Tom?”

“Hardly.”

“Then if I refuse to budge, how are you going to accomplish it?”

“I’ll carry you.”

“Huh! Just try it!”

“Are we going to quarrel, dear?”

Her hazel eyes filled suddenly, and then his arms went around her.

“Oh, don’t pay any attention to me!” she said tearfully. “I’m so hu-hungry I’m all nerves. What shall we do, Tom? What on earth can we do?”

“There, there!” and he attempted to sooth her. “We’ll not talk any more about it now. It’s nearly noon. Let’s be getting up on the rock to watch the ranch. Maybe we’ll get the signal to-day. If not—well, then we’ll talk over the situation and try to do whatever is wisest.”

A few minutes later they were on their masthead rock, where the girl sat and trained the binoculars on Squawtooth.

“Quiet as a church,” she gloomily reported. “Can’t see a moving thing—not even a cat. But that big car is there again. Wait a minute! There go a bunch of men riding toward the ranch. Say, they’re riding, too! Look at ’em go! What’s up?”

Falcon the Flunky took the glasses.

Sure enough, perhaps a dozen horsemen were galloping swiftly toward the old adobe. They raced up to the corrals, and one of them threw himself from the saddle and ran toward the house.

“Something’s up,” he decided, his hand shaking just a little. “I wouldn’t wonder if—— Here, you take the glasses. This is your war.”

She squirmed to one knee and placed her elbow on the other, steadying the binoculars on the ranch.

“They’re holding a conference,” she detailed. “Now they’re all trooping into the house.”

For five minutes then she was silent, and he sat gazing in admiration at her trim, tense little figure.

“They’re coming out!” finally. Then suddenly she burst forth:

“Tom! Tom! There’s a man climbing the cottonwood! The others are all at the foot of it, looking up. Oh, I believe—I almost know! Tom, there’s something red! It’s tied to the fellow that’s climbing. Now—he’s up! Out on a branch! There! Look! See it? The red blanket again—and—— Oh! Oh! Oh! There goes the podhead on the gray colt. It’s all right! All right! The double signal. Good old Rattle-pod! Look at that gray cold buck! He’s tying himself in a bow knot! The corkscrew! And look at the old kid ride ’im! Hi-yi! Ride ’im, cowboy! Stay with ’im, old kid!” She was on her feet now, jumping up and down, till her companion reached for her, fearing she might tumble off the rock in her excitement. She doubled up with laughter and slapped her chaps; then she glued her eyes to the glasses once more, but could not keep her feet still.

“Ride ’im, Mart!” she screamed piercingly. “Ride ’im, boy! Don’t pull leather! Ride ’im, hermano! Fan ’im, Rattle-pod!”

She ceased suddenly, lowered the glasses, and looked seriously into her companion’s eyes, her own wet with glad tears.

“It’s all over,” she said in a tired little voice. “They’ve surrendered, and the kid turned a double flip-flap in the air and landed sitting up. Oh, Tom! It’s all over! We’re going home!”

She half closed her eyes. Hunger and excitement had worn her out. Her knees crumpled under her. With a bound he caught her as she began to sink, and with a long sigh she dropped her head on his shoulder and became a dead weight in his arms.

“Toddlebike” Todd, gentleman of the saddle, had been the one to find the tumbleweed caught on a greasewood bush, with a piece of yellow paper wound about an inside branch and tied there with a strip of white cloth. Of an investigating nature, Toddlebike had swung his cow horse close to the greasewood, leaned his fat body from the saddle, and picked up the weed. A moment and he was firing his six-shooter in air and waving his Stetson frantically.

Soon an eager company was gathered around him, and Squawtooth Canby was reading the messages aloud.

His blue eyes filled as he finished, and his voice was husky as he spoke.

“She’s all over, boys,” he said. “It’s pretty near noon now. We’ll cut dust to the house and send the signal. Don’t need to write or phone this Winston. Anything goes now. I want my girl.”

They galloped swiftly toward Squawtooth, Mart at his father’s side, begging to see the note. At last Squawtooth handed it to him. Mart said nothing more until they had reached the ranch, then he remarked:

“Pa, they’s a secret message on that fer me.”

“What’re ye talkin’ about, son?”

Mart grew greatly embarrassed, with so many grown men staring at him.

“They’s a secret message,” he maintained. “Me and Little Apple used ta send lots of ’em to each other. We wrote with milk. That little jigger in the corner says for me to heat the paper and bring out the secret message, pa.”

From the house came Demarest and Hunter Mangan, and Demarest overheard the last of Mart’s remarks.

“Let ’im heat it, Canby,” he advised. “He knows what he’s talkin’ about. You never can tell what these kids’ll be up to. Secret message, eh? Say, this is gonta be good!”

Accordingly the curious party followed Mart into the kitchen, where, not oblivious to his new importance and always aided and abetted by the youthful-hearted main contractor, the young vaquero made use of Mrs. Ehrhart’s range.

After a few minutes’ heating letters and words in reddish-brown began to appear between the lines of Manzanita’s portion of the communication. Squawtooth thoughtfully stroked his long beard and eyed his young son with new and speculative interest.

When the message was complete Mart read it aloud.

“You see,” he said, “if I hadn’t read this they wouldn’t be smoked outa their hole, ’cause Nita says they won’t pay no attention to the red blanket unless I ride the gray colt out east o’ the house.”

“Canby, you’re the victim of desperate characters!” cried Demarest, laughing. “There’s intrigue and plotting going on all around you. Somebody sent a red signal yesterday, didn’t they? The girl and this flunky saw it, no doubt, but they didn’t show up, did they? This young pirate is right! There’s no tellin’ what him and that young savage you call your daughter have been puttin’ over on all these years! I’ll have to take you back to Minneapolis with me when I go and wise you up a little. You’re too slow. Put the boy on the colt and hoist your flag of surrender. I want to see the kid ride the bucker, anyway.”

“How about sending word to Winston?” Mangan put in.

“No need to do that now,” Demarest answered for Squawtooth. “Ain’t he forgiven ’em? Said he had. And the sheriff says the pot-walloper ain’t guilty. This fella’d never had the crust to refer you to Winston, Canby, if he wasn’t all right. But how in thunder comes it that he knows Winston—one o’ the biggest engineers railroadin’?”

The rollicking Mr. Demarest wheeled on Mangan. “What’s the idea, Mr. Mangan?” he said quizzically. “You fellows been pulling off somethin’ funny out here, so that the company sent an engineer to spy on you? By golly, I believe it!”

“I thought much the same thing,” admitted Hunt. “I don’t know. There’s nothing crooked in any camp’s work, so far as I know. I’m as much mystified over this Falcon the Flunky as any of you. One thing I believe, though—he’s all man.”

“Piffle!” retorted Demarest. “Canby and I are goin’ to kick ’im into the middle o’ next week when the girl’s safe. But hurry up, you folks; it’s almost noon. Don’t stand here spillin’ words. Darndest country I ever saw! Everybody sits around and waits for the wind to stop blowin’ or somethin’ like that.”

The signal was soon hoisted in the cottonwood, and, to the huge delight of the big contractor, Mart rode the unbroken colt over the desert. Demarest roared and shouted, and his face turned from red to purple as he laughed in his enjoyment of the sport. Even Squawtooth Canby fell a prey to his jovial spirits and laughed with the others. Then Mart rose gracefully from the saddle in the shape of a shelf bracket, and in the interest of the cause alighted unhurt in a bunch of greasewood, while the colt went on bucking over the desert in an effort to pitch off the saddle, too. Mart nonchalantly picked himself up, took a chew of squawtooth, and limped back to the spectators, to become the possessor of a five-dollar bill donated by the effervescent Mr. Demarest to prove his appreciation of the entertainment.

Then all afternoon some one remained aloft in the tall cottonwood to announce the first glimpse of the returning fugitives. Demarest and Mangan stayed and tried to cheer the anxious cattleman, but hour after hour went by with no favorable report from the treetop.

Then, as evening drew near, and just as the two contractors were about to take their leave in disappointment, the lookout shouted down:

“Here they come!”

At once all was excitement. Men sprang into the saddles and loped off in the direction indicated by the watcher; but before any of them had progressed very far a big black car rushed past them, caroming from hummock to hummock with alarming recklessness, with Mangan, Squawtooth Canby, and Mart in the rolling tonneau, and Demarest seated beside his driver.

“I see ’em!” Demarest crowed at last “Let ’er out, can’t you, Charlie? Here they come! The girl’s wavin’ her hat. She’s runnin’ ahead to meet us! Let ’er out, Charlie! ’Sall right, Canby. Everybody right side up, and—— Let ’er out, can’t you, Charlie! ’Fraid o’ breakin’ her?”

A minute more and the big car slowed and came to a stop, and Squawtooth Canby leaped from the tonneau, and, with tears streaming down his rugged face, smothered his daughter in his arms.

For a long time neither of them spoke. Both sobbed and hugged each other, and then the girl looked up with pleading, tear-dimmed eyes, begging forgiveness. Finally Manzanita left her father’s arms and clasped the grinning Mart. She turned then toward the rest.

Philip Demarest was standing with his short, fat legs wide apart, nodding his head up and down at Falcon the Flunky, who was approaching him with a hand outstretched and a glad smile on his lips.

“Tom Demarest!” cried old Demarest “You infernal—— Great heavens to Betsy!”

“I thought I knew that black car,” said Falcon the Flunky in his quiet way. “How’s everything, dad?”

Then Manzanita danced from Mart and charged down upon Demarest, throwing herself upon him and clasping her arms about his neck.

“Hello, main squeeze!” she cried. “Kiss me! I’m going to be your daughter-in-law!”

Squawtooth Canby pulled his long whiskers till his mouth hung open, and Mart remarked: “Huh!”

“There’s so little to explain,” said Demarest as the happy party trooped to the wide veranda at Squawtooth. “If I’d dreamed—why didn’t I think of it! You see, this young sprout is going to be our general manager. He’d just finished his engineering course, and before he took hold of the work he got it into his head that he had no business managing big camps till he knew the inside lives of the men that would be workin’ under him.

“‘Well, son,’ I says, ‘there’s only one way to know that, and that’s to hop to it. Take a month—two months—six months, if you like—and live the life with ’em from A to Z. ’Tain’t a bad idea, either,’ I says. You see, folks, I come up from the grade myself. I wasn’t exactly what we call a stiff, but I’d done everything from skinnin’ mules and bein’ powder monkey to paymaster before I had an outfit of my own. So I thought it would do the boy a world o’ good to get a little democracy into him after college, and before he took hold. And, by golly, if he didn’t hit the trail like a regular stiff—went broke a-purpose, and all that, and ended up flunkyin’ in a camp out West. ’Sall right; I approve. There’s nothin’ dishonorable in service. We oughta all learn that. Service is what makes the wheels go round. We all want it, but mighty few of us have learned to give it. But you oughta written, Tom; you oughta let us know where you were.”

“I wanted to go the limit, you see,” explained his son. “I was in touch with Winston. He’d have let you know if things weren’t all right with me. I didn’t want to merely play stiff; I wanted to be a stiff—a floating laborer with no money, no home, no friends to aid him. I wanted to learn all of the ins and outs of their peculiar life. I understand stiffs now. I’ve worked with them—studied them—served them. They’ve helped me. I’ll make a better general manager than if I’d taken hold fresh from college.”

“I’ll say you will!” proudly replied his father, and it was easy to see that Philip Demarest thought this boy of his one of the wonders of the world.

“Besides,” added the son, with an odd little touch of satisfaction, “they’ll tell you at Mangan-Hatton’s that I am a mighty good flunky. Eh, Mr. Mangan? Give me my job back, won’t you?”

There was little time for more conversation then, for the reclaimed derelicts were ravenously hungry, and happy, flustered Mrs. Ehrhart called them to the table in the midst of the merrymaking.

While they were at the table a telephone message came from the sheriff to the effect that Blacky Silk and Kid Strickland had been captured close to Dagget and had cleared up the mystery of the first red-blanket signal.

“I must see old Halfaman Daisy,” said Tom Demarest as they rose from the table. “He’s out of jail, of course?”

“Oh, yes!” Mart piped up. “He come in yistiddy.”

“He came in, Martie,” primly corrected Manzanita.

For once Mart rebelled. “I wisht you’d stayed up there in the mountains, Nita!” he complained. “Then I could talk like I wanta. But if ye hurry up and get married maybe I’ll get some peace, anyway.”

Manzanita’s face turned scarlet, and to hide her confusion she accused:

“You pulled leather to-day!”

“I didn’t no such thing! Did I, Mr. Demarest? Didn’t I stick till the gray ditched me? I never pulled, Nita. Honest. Ast anybody!”

It was not yet dark when Tom Demarest and his bride-to-be walked over the desert toward the old camp of Jeddo the Crow with Hunter Mangan, returning to his camp.

As they came to the parting of the ways Mangan, who had been noticeably silent, halted and extended both hands to the happy couple.

“Congratulations,” he said. “I wish you both all success and happiness.”

He dropped their hands and turned away into the desert, and the black, cold night soon had swallowed his solitary figure.

“Hard hit,” Tom Demarest muttered to himself.

As the two walked on and neared the stable tent of the Jeddo camp unnoticed, they heard a familiar voice within singing softly, and stopped to listen.

“I’m the ramblin’ kid; I’m the ramblin’ kind—
Deck or brake beams, rods or blind.
I rides in front or I rides behind,

And the bo that rambles ’round me’s got to ride the wind!

On pay day—oh, ba-bay!

On pay day I’m the ramblin’ kind!

“The sons also of Aaron; Nadab and Abihu, Eleazar and Ithamar! So ole Falcon he’s outa the mountains! Get over there, Ned—I mean Amram! Hejupah, Moses! Oh, boy—Jeddo, Daisy, and Hejupah, Moses! Oh, boy—Jeddo, Daisy & Jeddo, contractors. Good night! Side-step a little, will you, Ned Ithamar? And Wing o’ the Crow loves her Phinehas. The world moves on.

“A Jersey gaycat makes the break
He’ll beat me West and no mistake.
He died in Cleveland eatin’ cake,

And his ghost was crossin’ Kansas when I reached Salt Lake!

It was pay day—oh, ba-bay!

It was pay day when I reached Salt Lake!”

“Halfaman,” came Wing o’ the Crow’s voice, “quit fussin’ with them ole mules and come in to supper. Ever’thing’s gettin’ cold.”

“Why, hello there, Miss Wing o’ the Crow Jeddo! How’s every inconsequential odd and end? Comin’ right now, Apple Blossoms! Say, by the way, I got somethin’ to tell you.”

“What?”

“Slip us a little kiss. I thank you kindly, ma’am. It was one large day when the railroad hit Squawtooth. Was it? The answer is yes. Get yer head outa that feed box, Abihu!”

Falcon the Flunky slipped his arm about Manzanita’s waist, and together they started back over the darkening desert toward Squawtooth, a twinkling light in the blackness.

“They don’t need us; we’ll not disturb them to-night,” said the general manager of Demarest, Spruce & Tillou. “The begatter is right—good old pal! It was one large day when the railroad hit Squawtooth.”

THE END.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

Incorrect page numbers in the Table of Contents have been corrected.

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Table of Contents

- FALCON OF SQUAWTOOTH
- CONTENTS
- CHAPTER I THE FALCON FINDS A FRIEND
- CHAPTER II “SQUAWTOOTH” CANBY
- CHAPTER III THE DESERT
- CHAPTER IV CAMPED
- CHAPTER V VISITORS
- CHAPTER VI PREACHMENTS
- CHAPTER VII WING O’ THE CROW
- CHAPTER VIII A TRADE AND NEW RESOLUTIONS
- CHAPTER IX DUSK ON THE DESERT
- CHAPTER X GUESTS
- CHAPTER XI THE PINK NECKTIE
- CHAPTER XII BLACKY SILK
- CHAPTER XIII THE CHILDREN OF AMRAM
- CHAPTER XIV ESCAPE
- CHAPTER XV FLIGHT
- CHAPTER XVI THE RENDEZVOUS
- CHAPTER XVII THE SEARCH
- CHAPTER XVIII THE WINDSTORM
- CHAPTER XIX THE SORCERESS
- CHAPTER XX PREPARATIONS FOR NOON
- CHAPTER XXI THE SIGNAL
- CHAPTER XXII BREAKING CLOUDS FOR ONE
- CHAPTER XXIII AMBITIONS REALIZED
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE