CHAPTER XXI
LUCY SEES A PROSPECT
There was so much freighting that summer that the combined outfits ofJerkline Jo Modock and Al Drummond were taxed to capacity. The newsettlers made constant demands upon them, and, though their wants werepuny in comparison with those of the camps, Jo accommodated themwhenever she could. Water had been struck at the surprisingly shallowdepth of forty-five feet in some places, and many pumping plants weretransported over the mountains. Things looked as if Twitter-or-Tweetwas about due to make his fortune, and Jo kept investing more and moreof her surplus earnings, and he was meeting his payments promptly.There was talk of Ragtown eventually being made a division point. Ifthis transpired, the railroad shops would be erected there, and thepermanent success of the town would be assured. Already a fewventuresome souls were building permanent structures whenever they werefortunate enough to get building materials hauled in.
Drummond's five-ton trucks seemed to be meeting all requirements, andhe had added to his fleet. Jo, however, remained conservative. Shehad seen rag towns spring up on railroad grades before--many ofthem--only to disappear forever with the laying of the steel. Still,she had confidence in the farming possibilities of Paloma Rancho--butshe bought no more equipment, principally, perhaps, because she couldnot get desirable jerkline skinners, and because extra equipment wouldmean more work for her, more time taken from her studies. She wascontent with a good thing so far as financial success wasconcerned--her great ambition was for an education.
Drummond, of course, was also making money; but he fell a prey to thelure of the free-and-easy life of the frontier town, and gambled anddrank perpetually. There were stories of big losses at faro, underwhich Drummond did not always bear up as a good sport should.
As for Lucy Dalles, that ambitious young woman entered with gusto intothe feverish life of Ragtown. Drummond had leased a shooting-galleryconcession from the accommodating Tweet, and had ensconced the girlbehind the rifles--or in front of them--to run the gallery.
So she confided to Hiram Hooker, when he passed along Ragtown's mainthoroughfare one night, and for the first time saw her on exhibition inthe gallery. She had partitioned off one corner of the gallery and setup a manicure and hairdressing parlor. Of mornings, when business inthe gallery was dull, she made many an extra dollar by beautifying thewomen of Ragtown.
"Yes, there's money in it," she said. "Al had the gallery stunt inmind when he brought me down, so I quit the beauty parlor where I wasworking in Frisco and got a job in a shooting gallery and learned howto run one and to keep my noodle from getting in front of a gun. Myface is my fortune, after all, Hiram boy. One look at my smile, andthe hicks come right in and pick up a rifle. I'm coinin' money, andI'm having the time of my young life. Last night a miner bet me fivedollars against a kiss he could knock over ten ducks in ten shots. Hedid it, and I paid up like a sport. It got the gang started at thegame, and in the end I grabbed off thirty bucks, and only kissed twice.Pretty soft--what? I guess you're horrified, Hiram?" She glanced athim with coquettish defiance.
"Disgusted," Hiram could truthfully have said, but he only grinned andthanked his stars for his escape.
Lucy's dark eyes flashed daggers at the broad back of Hiram Hooker ashe left her and swung along indifferently up the street. With awoman's intuition she had known in San Francisco that the big, handsomecountryman with the soft, drawling voice had fallen a victim to hercharms. Now, because of Jerkline Jo, he was utterly indifferent toher. Lucy was piqued, angry at him, angrier at Jerkline Jo. She didnot love Hiram, but she wanted him to love her, and though she did notwant him she wanted no other woman to own him.
"I'll fix you one o' these days, you big hick!" she threatened betweenclenched teeth.
Summer passed all too quickly for those who labored incessantly, andthe winter rains set in. They at once grew harder and more frequent,and then it poured as it does only in the West. Snow fell in themountains. Then the activities of Al Drummond ceased abruptly.
No wonder, for often as high as twenty teams were hooked on to theenormous wagons of Jerkline Jo, and every animal was obliged to pull tothe limit of his strength to move the terrific weight, hub-deep in theclinging mud. This did not tend to improve the road, of course, andall of Drummond's efforts to corduroy it and otherwise preserve a firmpath for his machines were unavailing. The tortoise had won the race!
Drummond had gambled away his profits, and now it was whispered aboutthat he still owed money on his trucks. Before the last of November hegave up in despair, allowed his trucks to be taken by the mortgagees,and settled down to a life of gambling on the proceeds of hisshooting-gallery concession.
One day there trudged into Ragtown a strange figure, marked by thedesert, bent and old, in the wake of six lamenting burros laden withmining supplies and tools. He gave the name of Basil Filer, and saidthat he was seeking gold. Ragtown promptly wrote him down as a crazyprospector. His eye caught the eye of Lucy Dalles, leaning over hercarpeted counter between her rifles, and when he had made camp helimped along and accosted her.
"Come in and try a string, Uncle," she begged with the little pout shehad found so effective in coercing male humanity into her lair. "Anold desert rat like you oughta hit the bull's-eye every shot."
Filer grinned and stepped up to the counter, eying the girl from underheavy, fierce eyebrows that looked as if the dust of a thousand trailshad settled in them. Lucy lowered her dark lashes and looked demure.
"B'long on the desert, girlie?" rumbled the deep voice of the oldprospector.
"Sure, Uncle."
"Uh-huh. And how old might ye be, now?"
"Nearly twenty-two."
"Uh-huh--pretty near twenty-two. That's nice. Where's yer paw andmaw?"
"They're both dead," Lucy told him, trying to appear innocent andunsophisticated as she lifted her glance to his face.
"Maybe now yer paw was a desert prospector," he suggested.
"Uh-huh." Lucy nodded her fluffy head vigorously up and down. Thiswas another childlike action which she had found pleasing tomen--especially the older men. Of course she was lying like a littlesailor; but "Uncle" seemed interested in her, and business was dulljust then. She would pretend to be all that he seemed to wish her tobe as long as she could successfully follow his conversational leads.
"What do they call you, girlie?" he asked next.
"Lucy."
"Lucy, eh? Lucy what, now?"
"Lucy Dalles."
"Dalles, huh? Dalles!" His weird old eyes, peculiarly tinted fromyears of looking into the mirage-draped distances of the desert, werestrangely reminiscent.
"Maybe that ain't your right name, though," he kept on feelingly.
"Maybe not," replied Lucy quite truthfully. After all, she had onlyher father's and her mother's word for it. For all she knew she mightbe the reincarnation of the Queen of Sheba. "Let's try a shot, Uncle,"she added, sensing deep water ahead.
Indolently he picked up a .22 rifle, and rang the bell of her mostdifficult bull's-eye target eight shots out of ten. He paid her andseemed in nowise elated over her fulsome praise, designed to keep himshooting.
He took up his long cane again. "I'll drift up the drag a ways," hesaid, "and see what's goin' on. Nothin' but desert owls lived herewhen I traveled through last--two years ago. I'll be back. Maybe I'llwant to ast ye a few p'inted questions. Will ye answer, eh?"
"Sure," she told him lightly, whacking her gum for emphasis. "Come andpour your heart out to me, Uncle--I'll listen."
Lucy had taken more of the well-filled buckskin poke that the old manhad pulled from the neck of his greasy shirt to pay her for the pastime.
She leaned out and craned her neck to watch him moving up the street,glancing through doors and openly investigating on every side.
Her intuition told her that the gray old rat had something on his mind.Lonely old soul that he was, she reasoned, he was bashful and at a losshow to conduct himself in the unfa
miliar presence of a woman. "Whenhe's all gowed up he'll talk my head off," she decided. "He's going tofortify himself now. Guess I'll have to look into this."
When the bent, plodding figure had disappeared through the entrance toGhost Falcott's Palace Dance Hall, Lucy called across the street to aboy sitting on the edge of the new board sidewalk. The boy crossed toher and she handed him a dime.
"Find Al Drummond and tell him I want to see him at once," she directed.
A little later Al Drummond presented himself. His face showed theeffects of a sleepless night, but he was already refortified withjackass brandy for the ordeals of the day, and was in nowise stupid.
They leaned on the carpeted counter, heads close together, and talkedin lowered voices.
"What this old bird has got on his chest I can't tell," Lucy explained."But I played up to him, and if he gets all gowed up he'll spill it.He's crazy as they make 'em, Al. It may not amount to anything at all,but I'm for always lookin' into such little things. You never cantell, Al. Maybe this'll be good. Anyway, he's got a leather bagthat's heavy with jack, and he won't need that when he hits the trailagain. Warm up to him and get 'im started, then steer him to me."
"Wise little kid," Al Drummond commented. "Leave it to me."
The male plotter experienced no difficulty in finding the grizzleddesert rat. He was evidently a self-starter, having brought his own,and, all alone at Ghost Falcott's bar, he was pouring raw jackassbrandy down a throat that seemed urgently in need of it. Seeing thathe was satisfactorily working out his own destruction, Drummond shotcraps to divert himself until the prospector should become mellowed toa point where it was safe to approach him.
It seemed though that the old man had an enormous capacity. An hourpassed, and, though he drank repeatedly on his high-lonesome, he seemedlittle the worse for it. Drummond patiently watched and waited. Heknew that with some newly distilled brandy does not take immediateeffect, but that drunkenness comes on suddenly when the victim leastexpects it.
The She Boss: A Western Story Page 21