Chapter 10. "Perfectly Harmless Little Ole Tenderfoot"

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_ CHAPTER X. "PERFECTLY HARMLESS LITTLE OLE TENDERFOOT"

William Stanley Winthrop woke next morning with a vague impression of having lost something. He gazed indolently at the sunlight filtering through the curtains of his sleeping-room. Beyond the archway to the adjoining room of his suite, a ray of sunshine lay like living gold upon the soft, rich-hued fabric of the carpet.

"Gold!" he murmured. "Mojave Desert! Overland Red! Lost gold! No, it isn't the two hundred dollars I invested in the rascal's story, for it was worth the money. I never spent four happier hours in my life, at fifty dollars an hour. The best of it is he actually made me believe him. I think he believed himself."

Winthrop sat up in bed, yawning. "I think black coffee will be about all, this morning," he murmured, as he dressed leisurely.

He was tying a fastidiously correct bow on his tan oxford when he happened to glance out of the window. It was early, altogether too early, he reflected, to appear in the breakfast-room of the hotel. Winthrop's indefinite soliloquy melted into the rapt silence of imagination. Below on the smooth black pavement pattered two laden burros. On their packs hung dusty, weatherworn canteens, a pick and shovel, and a rifle in its soiled and frayed scabbard. The sturdy, shaggy burros followed a little, lean old man, whose flop-brimmed hat, faded shirt, and battered boots told a tale of the outlands, whispered of sun-swept immensities, of sage and cacti, sand and silence. Winthrop drew a long breath. Such an adventurer was the Overland Red he had talked with the evening previous. The tramp had mentioned a town far out on the desert. Winthrop sauntered down to the deserted office and secured a timetable.

When the east-bound express left Los Angeles the following morning, Winthrop was aboard, uncomfortably installed in the private drawing-room of a sleeper. He had cheerfully paid the double fare that he might have the entire space to himself, and he needed it. Around him, on the floor, in the seats, in the racks, and on the hooks were innumerable packages, bags, and bundles.

"Very eccentric. He must be rich," whispered the wife of a dry-goods merchant from Keokuk, as her husband pushed her ahead of him past the door of the drawing-room.

"Just plain hog!" said the dry-goods merchant. "A man that'll pay double fare to have the whole earth to himself when other folks has to be packed into a berth and suffocate! The conductor said he paid double to Chicago to get that compartment, and he's only goin' out in the desert a little ways. I'd 'a' took it myself."

"Well, we could hardly afford it, anyway," said the woman pleasantly. "We've had such a good time I don't mind sleeping in a berth, Hiram."

They crowded on and finally found their seats.

Winthrop smiled to himself. He liked the woman's voice.

He lighted a cigarette and gazed wistfully, even despairingly, at the "outfit" which surrounded him. He sighed. "Awful accumulation of plunder. Wonder what I'll do with it?"

As the train climbed the grade beyond San Bernardino, he grew restless. Flinging down his cigarette, he began unwrapping his belongings. Out came blankets, extra clothing, a rifle, canteens of several patterns, two pack-saddles, a coil of rope, a pair of high lace boots,--hobnailed, heavy, and unserviceable,--a pocket compass, a hunting-knife, a patent filter, two halters, two galvanized pails, a small, compact, silk tent, an axe, a fishing-rod, a rubber cup, a box of cigars, a bottle of brandy, several neckerchiefs, a cartridge-belt, a Colts revolver of large and aggressive caliber, cartridges, a prospector's pick, a shovel, a medicine-case, a new safety razor, a looking-glass, a clinic thermometer, and a copy of "Robinson Crusoe."

He pondered over the agglomeration of articles pensively. "He was a good salesman," he said, smiling. "I'll be either a juggler or a strong man before I'm through with these things. I think I'll begin now and re-pack. I'll make one glorious bundle of it. That's the ticket!"

Winthrop went to work, whistling cheerfully. He spread the blanket and rearranged his possessions, finally rolling them up into an uncertain bundle which he roped with the weird skill of the amateur packer. He tried to lift the bundle to the opposite seat. He decided to leave it on the floor.

Over the grade and on the level of the desert the train gathered speed. The shimmering spaces revolved slowly, to meet the rushing track ahead. Hour after hour sat Winthrop, reading and occasionally glancing out across the desert. His was the wildest of wild-goose chases. A stranger had told him of a mysterious ledge of gold somewhere out on the desert, and the stranger had named a desert town--the town toward which Winthrop was journeying. Would the eccentric Overland Red be there? Winthrop hoped so. He wanted to believe that this Ulysses of the outlands had spoken truth. He imagined vividly Overland Red's surprise when one William Stanley Winthrop, late of New York, should appear, equipped to the chin and eager to participate in the hunt for the lost gold. Then again, the prospector might not care to be burdened with the companionship of a tenderfoot. Still, the uncertainty of his welcome lent zest to Winthrop's enterprise. He closed the door of his drawing-room and wound through a mahogany maze toward the dining-car.

* * * * *

Next morning, as the train slowed down for the desert town, Winthrop was in the vestibule, peering out anxiously. It did not occur to him that Overland Red knew nothing of his coming, or that the other would be waiting on the station platform if he did. The tramp had not the faintest desire to make himself conspicuous. Some of Winthrop's enthusiasm had evaporated during the hot night in the sleeper.

"Thank you very much," called the lady from Keokuk, Iowa.

"Don't mention it," said Winthrop, disembarking behind the porter with his "plunder." Then, as the Pullman slid away, Winthrop deliberately and gracefully threw a kiss to the dry-goods merchant's wife. "Nice little woman," he reflected. "Too nice to associate with that grampus. Well, I hope they'll enjoy the rest of the trip in the drawing-room. I'm glad I was able to arrange it."

He watched the train crawl down the track. He wondered how long he would be able to distinguish the pattern of the brasswork on the observation car-rail.

Out of the empty distance came the click, clink, clank of hammers and shovels as the section-men, a mile down the track, stepped into work behind the train.

"Prospectin'?" queried a lank individual, slouching up to Winthrop.

"A little," said Winthrop. "It's pretty dry work."

"Uhuh. It's goin' to be hot about noon."

"I suppose so. Will you kindly give me a hand with this monstrosity," said Winthrop, indicating the pack. "The agent seems to be busy."

"Sure! She ain't roped very tight."

Which proved to be true. The bundle, with a kind of animate indifference, slowly sagged, opened, and things began to trickle from it in its journey across the platform. Among the things was the bottle of brandy. The lank individual picked this up tenderly and set it to one side. Winthrop noticed his solicitude, and smiled.

"We can rope 'em up again," said the lank one, suddenly becoming enthusiastic. "My name's Jim Hicks. I'm constable here."

"I see. Well, I'm William Winthrop, from Los Angeles. I'm a naturalist. Will you accept a cigar?"

"Thanks. You want to pack this here bottle, too?"

"Not right away. Whew! It is getting hot."

"Goin' up to the hotel?" queried the constable.

Winthrop glanced along the street. The hotel did not look inviting. "I don't know. I'd like to get in the shade somewhere."

"There's old Fernando's 'dobe down the track under them pepper trees. He's a friend of mine. He ain't to home to-day. Mebby you'd like to set down there and wait for your friend."

"My friend?"

"Why, ain't you waitin' for anybody? You ain't goin' to tackle that bug-huntin' trip alone, be you? It's dangerous out there for a tenderfoot. Now I have took folks out, and brought 'em back all right,--gone as far as them hills over there, and that's a good jag from here,--and I only charge four dollars a day and grub."

"I thought you said you were constable?"

"So I be. Takin' parties across the desert is on the side. How far you figurin' on goin'?"

"I haven't made up my mind yet. Say we go down as far as the adobe you spoke about, as a beginning. Perhaps we can arrange terms."

"I'm on, pard," said the constable.

* * * * *

Under the pepper trees shading Fernando's adobe sat Winthrop and the constable. The brandy-bottle was half empty and a box of cigars was open beside it on the bench. The afternoon shadows were lengthening. The constable had been discursive, voluminous, in his entertaining. Time was as nothing. He borrowed generously of to-morrow and even the next day. He became suddenly quite fond of this quiet, gentlemanly chap opposite him, who said little, but seemed to be a prince of good fellows.

"'S this way," said the constable, leaning forward and waving his cigar. "You're fren' of mine--sure thing. 'S af'ernoon now, but I was plumb fooled this mornin'. Y' know i's af'ernoon now. Thought you was the guy I'm lookin' for. H'overlan' Red--bum--tram'. Wire from Loshangeles to upperan' him if he shows up here. See?"

"You're not quite clear to me," replied Winthrop. "But never mind about apprehending any one. Let's talk about this glorious prospect of sand, silence, and solitude. I feel like a fallen angel. Never mind about arresting anybody. Life is too short. Let's talk of roses."

"Roshes! Huh!" sniggered the constable. "You're kin' of sof, ain't you? Roshes nothin'! I'm goin' talk 'bout business. It's business, my business to talk 'bout it, see? 'T ain't your business. You c'n lissen, an' when I get through, then you c'n talk roshes."

"But what is your business?" asked Winthrop, with an indifference that he did not feel.

"S-s-s-h-h! I'm cons'able. Tha's on the quiet. Thousand dollars rewar' f'r th' appr'enshun of 'Verlan' Red. Thought you was him--hic--hee! hee!"

"Please don't laugh like that. It hurts my feelings," said Winthrop. "It is bad enough to be taken for a--er--tramp."

"Nobody's feelin's--pologishe. 'Course you ain' him! You're jus' a li'l' ole ten'erfoot--perfec'ly harmless li'l' ole ten'erfoot."

"Thanks. May I ask you to have another?"

"Nope. 'Nough's 'nough. 'S time f'r dinner."

"Nearly. Well, if you flatly refuse to drink my health, I'll have to drink it alone, and that's rather egotistical, isn't it?"

"Never. B' Gosh! You're sport. Funny li'l' ole ten'erfoot--perf'ly harmless. Sure, I'll drink all th' health you got, 'n then go home--dinner."

"One will be sufficient, I think," said Winthrop.

"Sufficen' wha'?" And the constable leered cunningly.

"To drown all pangs. Well, here's pleasant dreams."

Far down the line came the faint thrill of wheels and the distant, clear-cut blast of a locomotive. The local freight from Los Angeles was whistling for the "block."

Winthrop glanced at his watch, then at the constable. "What train is that?" asked the Easterner.

The constable's eyelids drooped, then opened languidly. "Railro' train, 'f course." And he slid forward to his elbow and thence to the bench. Presently he snored.

Winthrop strolled toward the approaching train. "Pretty stiff session," he commented. "Now if happy chance should bring Overland Red on this freight, with his burro and outfit; I'll have one reason to offer for wanting to go with him. I've probably saved him some annoyance, indirectly, but rather effectively, I think."

The great oil-burning locomotive roared in, casting heat-waves that smelled of steam, iron, and mechanical energy. The hot air sickened Winthrop.

A car was cut out and shunted to a siding. Then the engine, pausing to drink a gargantuan draught at the tank, simmered away in the dusk, clanking across the switch-points. A figure leaped from the freight-car to the ground. Then out came a burro and several bundles. The figure strode to the station and filled two canteens. Winthrop walked toward the burro. When he of the burro and canteens returned, he found Winthrop stroking the little animal's nose.

"What the--! How the--! Who lost you out here?" asked Overland.

Winthrop spoke rapidly and to the point. "Express this morning. Lonesome again. Thought I'd make a change. My outfit is over at the station. Don't say 'No' before you hear me. You're going to need me--tenderfeet and all."

"But you can't--"

"Wait. The local constable has a wire from the Los Angeles police to look out for you. Perhaps you got this far because you're traveling in a freight-car. No doubt all the passenger trains have been watched all along the line. The constable has been my--er--my guest since morning. He is asleep now. I had to do it. He told me, after either the sixth or seventh glass, I forget which, that he was looking for you. Come on over to the station and inspect my outfit, please. I think we had better vanish."

Overland breathed once, deeply. "Lead me to it!" he exclaimed. "You got my number. I guess you're some lame chicken, eh? No? I'll never call you a tenderfoot as long as I live. Shake!"

The inspection of the outfit was brief. "Take the Colts and the cartridges, and the blankets and the rope. T' hell with the rest." _

Read next: Chapter 11. Desert Law

Read previous: Chapter 9. A Celestial Enterprise

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