“Hello, Lillian,” Channing greeted. “I’ve brought you a guest.”
“Where did you pick her up?” the girl demanded in a tone that Hope thought carried a note of resentment.
“She’s Hope Farman, Nate Farman’s niece,” said Channing. “She got lost on the desert and I happened along. I’m going to take her home an’ I’d like to leave her here for a little spell while I look around because I know she’ll be safe here.”
“Oh, she’ll be safe enough,” said Lillian, looking at Hope suspiciously.
Channing helped Hope dismount and walked with her to the cabin door. Lillian retreated, and they entered.
“This is Miss Lillian Bell, Miss Farman,” Channing introduced.
Hope held out her hand and smiled. Lillian took it, looking at her keenly, then dropped the hand and closed the door. “I was just getting breakfast,” she said. “I suppose you folks want to eat. Take off your hat an’ make yourself at home, Channing . . . you’re no stranger here.”
Channing laughed easily. “No, I reckon not, Lillian. But I can’t stay to hang on the feedbag. I’ve got to take care of the horses and then I’ve got some important business to tend to that won’t wait. But I take it Miss Farman is starved, so you better feed her.”
“I’ll fix her up if she can stand ham and eggs and my biscuits,” said the girl, staring again at Hope. “You look as if you’d been lost on the desert about a month.”
“Well now, wait a bit, Lillian,” Channing put in as Hope was about to reply. “I just told you that to ease the thing along plausible-like at the start. Miss Farman’s had quite an experience. She’s been in the mountains as well as the desert. Rode all day yesterday and today. She can tell you what she wants to about it. But I got to get going. I’ll be back later.” He stepped to the door and turned with his hand on the knob. “Lillian’s all right,” he said to Hope. “You wait here till I get back.” With that and a word of leave-taking to Lillian, he departed.
Lillian surveyed Hope for several moments and noted the coat she was holding in her hand.
“Guess it was pretty warm on the desert,” she said. “And from the looks of your face and hands, you’re not used to it. Put your coat in my bedroom, there,” she said, pointing to an open door at one end of the cabin. “And come out to the kitchen and wash up. Then you better put on some cold cream and cocoa butter. You’ll find everything on my dresser.” She smiled, showing white even teeth, and from that moment Hope liked her, but there was a peculiar, tired look in Lillian’s eyes.
She did as Lillian told her, after thanking her and explaining that she was new in the country.
“Well, you’ve had some initiation, I’ll say,” Lillian vouchsafed, going into the kitchen at the other end of the cabin.
The odor of cooking food was delicious in Hope’s nostrils. She washed and laved her face, hands, and arms, which were terribly sunburned, with the cocoa butter, after Lillian had had her bathe them in witch hazel. By the time she was through, the meal was ready.
They sat down to table in the commodious main room of the cabin. It was richly furnished, Hope noted. There was a large divan, overstuffed chairs, a player piano, a phonograph, a magnificent sideboard, littered with cut glass, and a china cabinet with every shelf full. There were original oil paintings on the walls, too, and a thick, expensive rug on the floor.
“You have a very nice place here, Miss Bell,” Hope volunteered.
“It’s about all I have got,” she said, “and don’t call me anything but Lillian. How far’d you come today?”
Hope told her and she opened her eyes wide. Then she poured the coffee. “That’s a funny place to come from,” she observed. “Nothing out that way. And the day before?”
“From Arsenic Spring,” replied Hope
Lillian put down the coffee pot. “You and Channing had some ride.”
Hope flushed. “He was very kind to me,” she said with spirit.
“Oh, that’s all right,” said the girl. “I know Channing. He’s a good sort. He’s been good to me many a time. Where’d he find you . . . where’d you folks start from, anyway?”
Hope hesitated. She did not know whether to tell or not. She had given her promise to Channing not to talk to anyone except her uncle, but he had said she could tell Lillian what she wished.
“That’s all right, dearie,” said Lillian. “You don’t have to spill anything to me. You’re welcome here as a friend of Channing’s, and I’ll look after you. Eat a good breakfast and then maybe you’ll want to get a wink of sleep. He may want to take you back to the ranch tonight.”
“It isn’t that I don’t want to tell you anything,” said Hope quickly, “but I don’t know what to tell and what not to tell. He might . . . ”
“Then keep mum,” said Lillian with a wise look that made Hope flush again. “You can trust me, and the whole camp knows that.” The tone and the look that caused Hope to flush prompted her to speak.
“Mister Channing rescued me from an outlaw who took me from my uncle’s ranch,” she said quickly. “That’s how we came to be riding so . . . so far.”
Lillian put down her knife and fork. “From an outlaw? Took you from your uncle’s ranch? It wasn’t . . . it couldn’t be . . . ?”
But Hope anticipated her question and nodded.
Lillian indulged in a low whistle and stared at her. “Did he have you up at his place in the mountains?” she asked in a tone of disbelief.
Again Hope nodded, and the other girl saw she was truthful in the matter.
“Well, Channing’s the boy who could do it,” she said with conviction. “Took you out of there, huh? You know what?” She leaned toward Hope and tapped the table with her fingertips. “Channing’s the only man in these parts that Mendicott’s got any respect for, and that’s a statement.”
“Why . . . why does he respect him so?” Hope asked.
“Because he’s got just about as many friends as Mendicott has, that’s why,” answered Lillian forcefully. “And because Mendicott don’t know but what he’s just as fast and accurate with a six-gun as he is himself, that’s why.”
“Would Mendicott have a man shot down in cold blood because he found him stealing food and trying to get away?” Hope asked. She was still doubtful on this point, despite what Channing had told her.
“Would he? I’ll say he would. He’d have him drawn and quartered, if he felt like it. Listen, girlie, Mendicott’s bad . . . he’s bad! And he’s a fiend for cleverness. He’s slick as Old Nick himself. Did he treat you all right?”
“Yes,” Hope replied, “except that he was going to put me on bread and water once.”
“What for?” asked Lillian.
“Well, Lillian, to explain that, I’d have to tell just what all the trouble is about, and something . . . well, I . . .”
“Don’t tell it,” Lillian broke in. “But is that what Channing’s working on now?”
“Yes, I am quite sure that it is.”
“Then don’t tell it,” warned Lillian. “Channing wouldn’t want even me to know what he was up to. Channing’s smart, too.”
“Is Mister Channing an . . . an outlaw, too?” asked Hope breathlessly.
Lillian looked at her speculatively. “That’s a hard word, child. Channing says words are what you make ’em, and I guess he’s right so far’s that word’s concerned. There’s so many ways you can be an outlaw. Why, I guess we’re all outlaws. Oh, I’m not talking about you, but the rest of us would have a hard squeeze getting by that word. Let me tell you this. Channing’s all right. He’s square if he does pack a fast gun and a slippery rep.”
“My uncle thinks . . . thought he was just a derelict or a . . . a tramp.”
“A tramp? Ha, ha, ha. Channing a tramp? Say, if Channing’s a tramp, then I’m a great singer.”
“Mister Channing has a very good voice,” she told the other with a smile.
Lillian frowned. “Was he singing for you?” she asked.
“Oh, not fo
r me. But he was singing a little, and I couldn’t help but hear him. He was singing opera once, too.”
Lillian leaned back in her chair and looked down at her plate. “I’m the one that taught him,” she said. “I sing in the Bluebird dance hall, and I know a little opera and have lots more of it on that phonograph. I make my money singing songs for a lot of roughnecks, and in a dance hall, at that, but here I have . . . music.” She rose from her chair quickly. “We’ll do the dishes and then I’m going to fix you a bath and get you out some clean clothes. Oh, yes, I am, so don’t shake your head. I have lots of water up here. It’s in a barrel outside with a pipe that runs right into the tub. And you can wear my clothes in a pinch.”
Hope did as directed, and with the arrival of the twilight she was bathed and dressed in a fresh, clean frock, and felt much better. Lillian, too, had dressed and put on her hat.
“Listen, girlie, I’m going downtown for a while. I don’t have to go to work till nine, if I don’t want to, and I won’t want to tonight. You stick around, and if Channing comes before I get back, tell him I dropped in at the Bluebird to tell ’em I’d be late. Don’t worry. There won’t nobody come snooping around here. They know better.”
When Lillian had gone, Hope sat before the open door of the cabin and looked down on the town. She could see the main street plainly and the crowds of roughly dressed men fascinated her. She was seeing a gold camp in the raw, she thought to herself with a thrill.
The twilight was drawing its blue veil over the desert when she saw two men ride into the upper end of the street. One of them she recognized instantly. It was Brood. Whether they were two of the three men who had been pursuing Channing and herself, or not, didn’t matter so much as the fact that Brood was in town. If he saw Channing—if he saw Channing before Channing saw him . . .
Hope rose and paced the room. She knew Channing should be warned. Very likely he wouldn’t want Brood to see him. And—what was more probable—it might be that Channing’s life was in danger from Brood. She knew Brood hated Channing. She believed he was the man who had entered the wash. He had been shooting at them, then. He might shoot on sight.
The more she thought of it, the more nervous Hope became. She wished Lillian would return. The twilight was gathering fast. Brood was in town and Channing had to be warned. She repeated this over and over again.
Finally she slipped on a coat and hat of Lillian’s, closed the cabin door, and stole down toward the street.
Chapter Seventeen
It was nearly dark when Hope gained the street. The thoroughfare was thronged with a motley crew of miners, prospectors, promoters, gamblers, teamsters, engineers, and other men in the rough that go to make up the population of a successful gold camp in its early stages of development. It was lighted only by the beams that shone from the windows of stores, cafés, assay offices, and resorts. The mixture of sound was indescribable—a babble of voices, bursts of loud laughter, shouts and yells and jeers; the rumble of heavy ore wagons, cracking of drivers’ whips, curses and cries; the jangling of pianos and screeching of phonographs, and the barking of dogs. There was movement everywhere. Dust from the street clouded the air. Men swore and spat and talked of gold. Everywhere one could hear it—this talk of gold.
“My assay shows fifteen hun’erd to the ton to start.”
“Rich as the Yellow Daisy or I’m a lizard.”
Men stood in groups listening to accounts of fresh finds, with the narrator always keeping the exact location veiled. Burros wandered into the street, scurrying before the horses of the ore wagons. There were frequent commotions when men fought and others crowded around to cheer and shout profane advice. It was all a reversion to the primitive.
Hope, swallowed and jostled by the milling, moving throngs, had not the slightest idea where to find Channing. The street, comparatively quiet in the late afternoon when they had arrived, now was a veritable maëlstrom of perspiring, swearing masculinity. She was tempted to turn back. Her mission seemed so futile. But her conviction that Brood’s presence in the town portended trouble for her champion spurred her on and bolstered up her failing courage. Wasn’t Channing there on her account? Wasn’t he, even then, engaged on a mission that had to do with the interests of her uncle and herself? She suspected he had gone to see the notary to learn if he had been summoned to Rancho del Encanto. He might be in the notary’s office at that minute. But where was she to find the notary? Channing and Brood might meet any minute. Her imagination—made more vivid by the events of the past few days—pictured all sorts of dire consequences if this meeting came about. She saw a man attired in corduroy and high boots who looked reliable. He was standing at the edge of one of the short stretches of sidewalk. She approached him as bravely as possible.
“Could you tell me where I can find the notary?”
He looked at her in surprise, then touched his hat. “Right down the street in the little white office this side of the hotel,” he answered politely.
She thanked him and moved away. As she proceeded down the street, she kept a strict look-out for either Channing or Brood. She wanted to see the former, but she did not want Brood to see her. She suddenly realized that she herself was in danger. What could she expect if Brood were to see her? Recapture and return to the rendezvous of the outlaws? Very probable. She became more wary.
She saw the hotel ahead. It was one of the few buildings two stories high. And she had no trouble finding the little white office. But it was dark and locked! Hope turned away at a loss as to what to do next. It was next to impossible to continue on the street, and she could only hope to meet Channing there by the merest chance. Her chance of meeting Brood was equally as good. She looked into a resort or two, through the windows and doors, and realized it would be rank folly to go inside any of them and ask for him. Then she bethought herself of Lillian Bell and the things she had told her. The girl had said she sang at the Bluebird dance hall. She looked around. It shouldn’t be difficult to find the place; it must be large if it had singers. She decided to walk up the other side of the street and look for it.
Curiously enough, Hope did not stop to consider that there was anything unusual in her search, or in being the guest of the girl, Lillian. Her gentle sensibilities had been somewhat numbed by her experiences. The little white house in Connecticut, with its green shutters, its flowers and trees and stone fence, seemed far away. Her life there seemed some subtle dream of a vague past. The change in environment was working a change in her trend of reasoning. She felt like a different girl—an individual with whom she was none too well acquainted. These things ran in her mind at random as she proceeded to cross the street and walk up the other side. She had not gone half the way back when she saw a big sign over a wide sidewalk bearing the word composing the name of the dance hall for which she was looking. But when she reached it she found it was not only a dance hall but a drinking and gambling resort as well. The bar and tables where games of chance were in progress were in the front of the building, which was packed with male patrons, and the dance floor evidently was in the rear. She couldn’t see it, but she could hear strains of music coming from beyond where the crowd was congregated.
She hesitated before the wide open door. Should she go in and ask for Lillian? What if Lillian were not there? It was even probable that the girl had attended to her business and gone back to the cabin on the hill. It was possible Channing had gone back, too. As Hope stood at one side of the door, hesitating about going in and considering the other angles of the matter, a fight suddenly started inside. She stared breathlessly as she saw two men strike out, others push back and quickly form a ring about the combatants, shutting off her view. The place was in an uproar, and she started away. To go in there after what she had seen was impossible. She would return to the cabin, and, if she found no one there. She would wait. It was all she could do. She did not understand the ways of this wild camp, or how to act with men she might meet.
She felt a hand on her left arm and in anothe
r instant was whirled about. “I thought so,” came a thick voice she recognized instantly with a sinking of the heart. It was Brood. “Takin’ in the sights?” he demanded with a leer. “Just lookin’ around?”
“Get away from me!” she commanded, desperate with fear and the desire to get back to the cabin on the hill. “Let go of my arm, do you hear me? I’ll appeal to these men on the street if you don’t.”
“Lot of good that would do you,” said Brood with an evil smile. “Where’s your man? Run away an’ left you? That wasn’t very nice.”
Hope’s eyes blazed with anger. She sensed in that moment of rage how men could sometimes kill in the wink of an eye, without premeditation. “You are a vile beast!” she cried. “You are worse than a beast. Are you going to let me go? If you don’t, I’ll not try to conceal who you are or what you are.”
“You’re not goin’ till we have a little talk,” he said, his face darkening. “An’ it won’t do you any good to get frisky here. There are friends of our bunch right here close. You might as well take it easy, or I’ll hustle you back where you came from without waiting to talk.” He did not release his hold on her arm.
Hope was thinking fast, her face set and white. “Can’t we talk without you pinching my arm?” she asked in as steady a voice as she could muster.
“Oh, that’s all right . . . but don’t try to get away,” he said, releasing his hold. “We’ll just walk around behind the Bluebird where we can talk in private.”
He motioned to a narrow, dark space between the big resort and the building next to it. Hope looked and knew instantly that everything would be lost if she went with him. He would surely overpower her, take her somewhere, and hide her until he figured he could safely return her to Mendicott. She took two steps toward the opening between the buildings, then she turned in a flash and ran up the street. But it was too crowded for running. She hadn’t gone five yards before the grip was on her arm again and her progress halted. She heard Brood laugh and tried to cry out. The lights from the windows and the forms about her swam. Her free hand went to her throat. Then Brood’s grasp was loosened.
Man of the Desert: A Western Story Page 11