Cactus and Rattlers - H. Bedford-Jones

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that, yes."

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

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

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

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

      CHICKEN RANCHERS

      Come To Chuckwalla County!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      "A mere acquaintance," said Tompkins. "I met him at Palmdale, on the other side of the Mohave, while I was engaged in a study of the curious flora over there. Poor fellow, I felt sorry for him! He had lost one eye, and was afflicted with tuberculosis, and was at the age of sixty-five with not a cent in the world. He mentioned that he thought of coming in this direction to locate, having been here some twenty years ago during the mining boom."

      "Oh!" said Sidewinder, with a relieved air. "Then it aint the same one. The one who went through here last year was a right young feller, red-haired and active. If I was you, Perfesser, I'd get loose of that Sagebrush. He aint only a desert rat, and folks tell mighty queer stories about him. All desert rats are queer in the head, you know."

      "Why—er—that's very good of you, indeed!" said Tompkins gratefully. "Still, I have engaged the man, perhaps heedlessly, and must keep my promises for a certain time. I suppose, if I were to deposit my money and valuables with you, I'd be in no danger!"

      "Right good plan," said Sidewinder. "Step into the bank, and we'll arrange it."

      Tompkins obediently retraced his steps, and when he displayed his two certified checks and his roll of loose bills, the banker became almost affable. Tompkins, meantime, was quite conscious that he was being closely studied, and did not hesitate to shove out all his chips and play the game of innocence. He agreed at once that the best scheme was to deposit all his money in care of Mr. Crowfoot, taking the latter's receipt for it, and his air of eager gratitude was pleasant to behold.

      "Whom would you recommend as a guide?" he inquired, when the transaction was completed. "After a trip with the person I have engaged, I might find it advisable to take another cicerone."

      "Right good idea," said Mr. Crowfoot. "Hassayamp's a good man—I tell you! There's a feller will be in town next week. I'll speak to him about it. Harrison, his name is—Mesquite Harrison."

      A slight pallor crossed the face of Tompkins, but he responded gratefully:

      "By all means. Kindly engage him for me. I shall expect to use him at once, and thank you again for your kindness in the matter."

      "Don't mention it," said Sidewinder, and grinned to himself when his caller had departed. There was no longer any doubt that the Professor was what Hassayamp proclaimed him—a natural-born fool, like all bug-hunters. No one else would have handed over his money so readily.

      TOMPKINS walked back to the hotel, and on the doorstep of his own cell found Sagebrush awaiting him. Inside, with the door closed, the desert rat chuckled.

      "I reckon Hassayamp is right uppity over losin' the chance to guide ye, Perfesser," he announced. "But you done jest right. Hassayamp don't know nothin' about the desert."

      "No?" Tompkins lighted his pipe. "He lives here, doesn't he?"

      "Sho! He's like José Garcia; let a vinegaroon git on him, and he throws a fit. No sir, Hassayamp jest plumb aint a desert man. He knows a sight o' locations. Him and Sidewinder have

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