Chapter Thirty
Jim Crossley led Hope down the street to a large building that housed the post office on the first floor and numerous offices on the upper floors. They entered the post office and found Channing in a corridor on one side of the building. Hope noted at once that he appeared weary and worn. His clothes were covered with dust, and there were perspiration streaks on his face and neck. But his smile was bright and reassuring when he saw her. He walked forward to meet them.
“How did you get here so quickly?” asked Hope, extending her hand.
Channing took it in a warm pressure and shrugged. “I rode pretty hard,” he confessed. “It’s a good thing I had a good horse. I got back to the ranch the night after you left and came right on. I’m here on business, and it concerns you folks first. I had to come anyway, and I was coming with you folks. I knew your uncle was set to come in, Miss Farman.” He looked keenly at the two of them and drew some papers from his pocket. “Can you keep something to yourselves?” he asked, looking at each of them.
“This seems to be the season for secrets,” Jim Crossley commented.
“I guess we can keep silent, Mister Channing,” said Hope decisively.
“Maybe he’s here to rob the bank an’ get that hundred an’ fifty thousand,” said the little driver.
Channing halted the persiflage with a look. “This is important,” he said crisply, “and I have a good reason for not wanting it to get out at this time. I promise you it’s nothing out of the way, Miss Farman.”
“Then I guess we can promise, too,” said Hope with a smile.
Channing tapped the papers he held. “I want you two to go up to the Land Office upstairs with me and file on two desert claims,” he said seriously. “You both have your rights left, and anyway these ain’t exactly land claims. If you can trust me that far, I’d like to have you go right ahead and file without even looking at the papers. I’ll pay the fees.”
Hope gazed steadily into the gray eyes of the tall, bronzed man who was speaking. She liked those eyes, she told herself, and recovered with a start as Crossley spoke.
“It’s up to Miss Hope. If she says it’s all right, it’s OK with me. I’m follering her lead.”
Channing looked at Hope in eager anticipation of her decision. She decided almost on the instant.
“All right,” she said.
“Then we’ll be moving,” said Channing, leading the way to the stairs. They visited the office and made the filings without trouble. It was a mere matter of routine with the clerk, although he did take notice of Hope’s looks and hair and favored her with his best smile.
When they came out of the office, Channing put the papers in a long envelope and sealed it.
“I’ll let you take charge of this,” he said, drawing Hope aside. “Keep it under the same conditions as the other envelope I gave you. Open it only if something happens to me.”
She took the envelope and stowed it away. Here was absolute proof that he not only trusted her implicitly, but, after asking them not to be particular about ascertaining the full nature of the filings, he gave them to her and she could obtain the information if she wished by merely opening the envelope. It greatly strengthened her growing faith in him. “I’ll keep it,” she said, looking up at him.
It was a fact that Channing looked worried as well as tired. Evidently he had much on his mind. But he had no desire to show it. “There’s another thing, Miss Farman,” he said, looking about to make sure they were not being overheard. “I’d like for you to carry a message to your Uncle Nate. You’ll see him, of course, at supper. The chances are I won’t get to see him. I have something to attend to here.”
“I’ll be glad to tell him anything you wish,” said Hope.
“Then tell him I said to go back to the ranch and not try to do what he’s trying to do here. Tell him I said it would not do any good. Tell him it might make things worse. Tell him for me, to take my word for it, and tell him the cattle are safe.”
Hope nodded in consent. It was evident by Channing’s manner and the tone of his voice that he was in deadly earnest, and he looked into her eyes without flinching as he conveyed the message. She touched him on the arm. “Mister Channing, regardless of anything my uncle may think, or try to do, I know you are endeavoring to help us,” she said in a low voice. “I can’t see it any other way. I . . . I trust you.”
He removed his hat and smiled down at her. “That’s nice to hear, ma’am,” he said. “There’s those that wouldn’t trust me farther’n a steer can fly.”
“I can’t say I just see why you are doing it, though,” said Hope with the trace of a puzzled frown. “And I know you are in danger.”
“Danger and me are not strangers,” he said with a quick smile.
“But it’s all so mystifying,” pouted Hope.
Channing laughed softly. “That’s because I have a hankering for surprises,” he told her. “And because I have to . . . to protect myself.” He looked at her gravely. “And because a bunch of people can blunder an’ spill the beans easier than just one. And because I hate being laughed at.”
“But why should anyone laugh at you?” she asked.
“Because I’m half laughing at myself,” he said vaguely. “I reckon we better separate, Miss Farman. I’m going on upstairs. Crossley is waiting for you.”
Hope delivered Channing’s message to her uncle at the supper table.
“The devil!” exclaimed Nathan Farman, dropping his knife and fork. “He was here? An’ beating it right out without seeing me? Tells me to go an’ quit doing what I’m trying to do? The sheriff’s right. That fellow is wrong, I’d bet my ranch. Sneaking around women with his messages.”
Hope knew her uncle was wrong with regard to this last, but she had given her word and she could not tell him why she and Crossley had come to meet Channing and what they had done. She bit her lip in vexation at her uncle. “You can think what you wish,” she said quietly, “but I am putting my faith and trust in Mister Channing. And remember, he said the cattle were safe.”
Nathan Farman stared at her, “You’re stuck on him,” he accused.
Hope’s face flamed, and she looked at her uncle angrily. “That is an unfair thing to say. Can’t a woman trust a man without being . . . stuck on him, as you say?”
“Maybe so,” growled out Farman, “but he’s a good-looking devil, well set up, an’ a sort of romantic cuss. You girls always fall for a man that’s supposed to have a past or be mysterious or . . .”
“Uncle! Don’t you give me credit for having any brains?”
“There, there, child, we’ll let it go at that. I reckon I was put out, sort of, an’ went too strong. I know you’ve got too much common sense to let a man like Channing get your goat . . . turn your head, I mean. I am going back to the ranch because I don’t see how we’re going to get anything done here. The sheriff didn’t promise, but maybe he’ll do something when he gets around to it. He’s a queer cuss. Let’s finish our supper an’ go see a show an’ forget about everything for a little while.”
It was all said so contritely that Hope’s smile returned. But it set her thinking. Was Channing helping them on her account alone? Did he perhaps think—but no! Never by any word or act had he shown that he entertained any feeling toward her except that of a friendly interest. True, he trusted her. But wasn’t that a natural result of their association? He had spurned the talk of desert gold. Doubtless he had other views on making money. But Hope did not believe he intended to sell the ranch. She was convinced he was trying to block Mendicott’s plans, perhaps because he had a grudge against the outlaw.
Hope went to a show with her uncle that night. It wasn’t much of a show, but neither of them cared, for they had much on their minds. Nathan Farman was thinking of the look Mendez had given him as he slipped into the resort. It was because of that look that the rancher wanted to see the Mexican. It had been a look of hatred mixed with triumph. It gave Nathan Farman pause because he could not unde
rstand what had prompted it. And he had been greatly surprised to see Mendez in Kernfield. Evidently the Mexican had friends there, for he had been unable to find a trace of him after he disappeared within the resort.
They started home next morning. All of the spare space in the wagon was filled with supplies. Nathan Farman had tried in vain to hire some ranch hands in the town. A second visit to the sheriff had found that official still noncommittal. As a result the rancher was not in good humor and most of the remainder of the day the trio rode in silence behind the grays.
It took them three days to return to Rancho del Encanto and they met few people on the road. When they arrived, they found everything quiet. Mrs. McCaffy said there had been no visitors except Channing. He had returned late the day they left for the county seat and had started after them next morning. He had gone up to inspect the dam, she said, and had brought back the information that it was shattered and the water wasted. The big ditch was dry, and there was no water in the smaller ditches of the laterals on the mesa. Channing had returned the day before and was out somewhere on his horse.
It was suppertime before Channing returned. He listened while Nathan Farman told him what had happened in town. Farman also mentioned seeing Mendez, but Channing paid scant attention.
“I could have told you all that before you went, but I didn’t know you were going so soon,” said Channing. “I expected to be back before you started. When I got back and heard you’d left for Kernfield, I trailed right after you. I expected to go in with you when you went. I had my reasons for wanting to go.” He directed a significant look at Hope, and the girl remembered the filing of the papers,
“The sheriff doesn’t seem to hold you in any too good a light,” said the rancher. “I mean he didn’t exactly give you a recommendation, an’ he hinted I’d made a mistake in trusting you at all.”
“A county official isn’t any too well supplied with brains,” drawled Channing in reply.
Even the rancher himself smiled at this sally, although it was not altogether an endorsement of Channing’s viewpoint.
“I’m going to tell you this much,” said Channing to Farman. “Mendicott doesn’t want this ranch for cattle or anything of the kind. He wants it for the water rights. I happen to know that.”
“What does he want with the waters right if it ain’t for cattle?” asked Farman in astonishment.
“That’s what would make you laugh if I told you,” replied Channing. “And I’m not sure yet, anyway. In a short time I ought to know.”
They were interrupted by Jim Crossley, who entered the house with an envelope. He held it out to Channing. “A man just rode in from the desert, an’ said this was for you.”
Channing took the envelope eagerly and tore it open. He drew forth a sheet of paper and read to himself: The glory hole loses its glory tomorrow, Pap. He smiled almost affectionately at the others in the room. “I’m riding tonight,” he said cheerfully, “but I’m not saying where.”
An hour later they heard the pound of his horse’s hoofs as he galloped across the mesa toward the desert beyond the east ridge.
Chapter Thirty-One
Channing sent his big bay flying down the east side of the ridge, turned a point into the south, and cut into the trackless desert. His mount struck into a swinging lope and the smooth-moving muscles and tossing head showed it could maintain this pace for miles and miles over the hard, sun-baked earth. The twilight shroud over the land was deepening into the soft velvet of the night. Already the stars were blossoming overhead, although there still remained faint glimmers of pink on the tips of the lava hills. The intense heat of the inferno was rapidly being tempered by a light breeze from the west where the black ramparts of the mountains traced their shadowy outlines against the sunset’s fading sheen.
Night came suddenly—completely—an intense, brooding darkness, with the stars low-hung. There were no friendly lights of campfires or house windows, no sounds save the low murmur of the vagrant wind in sage and greasewood and the regular hoof beats. Yet Channing seemed strangely exultant. As he rode—a perfect figure in the saddle, easily and naturally—he sang. His horse threw back its ears as his fine tenor voice caressed the breeze in smooth-flowing cadences.
Hour after hour he rode until he reached the water hole where they had stopped on their return to the ranch from Bandburg. Here he halted, watered and rested his horse and himself, and smoked a cigarette. Then he was in the saddle again and on into the desert, across washes ghostly white in the starlight, over ridges capped with granite, up into the tumbled miniature hills, and at last down into the town of Bandburg, with its dim lights, its early-morning hilarity that constituted the dregs of the night’s revelry, and its Yellow Daisy Mine—ravaged of its treasure.
He put up his horse in the livery barn at the lower end of the street. Next he proceeded directly to the Bluebird resort. He found only a handful of men in the place as it was nearly dawn, and the music and dancing had ceased. He ate some breakfast at the lunch counter and sat in at a game of stud poker to pass the time until daylight. There were only two games running, which was unusual even at that hour. He noticed, too, that the players did not appear as enthusiastic as usual. He wondered if the news he had received was generally known.
After an hour of play he left the table. It was broad day, and the camp was stirring. He made his way to the little assay office at the lower end of town and knocked on the door. He had to knock several times, but finally he was rewarded by seeing the assayer.
“What you got . . . banker’s hours, Pap?” asked Channing cheerily as he entered. “Here it’s morning and getting late, and you’re still hibernating.”
The old man blinked at him as he led the way into the rear room—a combination workshop, sleeping, and living room. “You get my note, eh?” he said, with a yawn.
“Last night. Left the messenger at the ranch to get fed and some sleep and came right on. She’s done, is she, Pap?”
“The Yellow Daisy is gutted for keeps,” said the assayer. There was a note of regret in his voice. “It’ll be a long time before they stick a pick into another glory hole like that was.”
“When are they going to quit?” asked Channing.
“This morning. The day shift’ll be turned back.”
“That’ll make everybody feel good,” said Channing, rubbing his hands.
“You act like you was glad of it,” said the assayer in a tone of resentment.
“Oh, these gold grubbers!” exclaimed Channing. “Most of ’em think the desert hasn’t got anything in it but gold. I’ll tell you, Pap, gold is a small item compared with what’s under the roots of the greasewood hereabouts. No, I’m not glad the Yellow Daisy’s petered out. But as long as it had to peter out, I’m glad it happened just when it did. It’s going to throw a lot of ’em out of work, eh?”
“It’s going to kill the camp,” said the old assayer sadly.
“So far as I know there aren’t any of ’em got much saved up, have they?” asked Channing.
“You don’t have to ask me that,” replied the other with a scowl.
“No, I don’t,” Channing agreed. “I know. And I know where it went to. I had a hint this was coming soon because I was talking to Turner and Wescott over to Kernfield the other day. This mine has made ’em a lot of money, but they’re willing to make more, I take it. Are they here?”
“Both of ’em,” the old man answered with a nod. “I reckon they’d sell their holdings in the Yellow Daisy pretty cheap this morning.”
“Means the end of the mine,” said Channing. “They sank a shaft sixty feet or so below the floor of the hole, I understand, and got no promise. They’re through.”
“You seem to know a lot about it,” the assayer commented. “What makes you so interested?”
“That’s something else again,” said Channing, rising. “Well, Pap, I’m going out and let you get the rest of your sleep.”
Channing spent two hours circulating about the town.
He stopped for a few cheerful words with every man he met who he knew. He talked longer with those who were evidently friends. And before 8:00 he went to the office of the Yellow Daisy Company, where he found the principal owners of the mine, Turner and Wescott. He was closeted with them for nearly half an hour, and, when he came out, he was smiling grimly. Then he walked slowly up and down the one main street of the camp.
It was 8:30 when the men began to come back from the Yellow Daisy. The day shift, which had reported for work at 8:00, streamed down the worn trail from the glory hole, the line of men appearing from below like a long, twisting, brown snake against the yellow flank of the hill. Many members of the night shift, which had quit work at 4:00 that morning, were still about, and they stared in wonder at the returning procession of miners and muckers. They hurried to meet them. Then the general word went out: “The Yellow Daisy is done.” Back and forth they whispered it, shouted it, repeated it with incredulous and amazed expressions on their faces. “The Yellow Daisy is done.”
The rapidity and thoroughness with which the news was passed until it had permeated every business place, resort, cabin, and tent in the camp was marvelous. Soon the main street was thronged. The bright desert sun glinted on scores of lunch pails, for the day shift was too startled to think of going home or changing clothes or anything save the message conveyed to them by Turner, part owner and manager of the mine. He had explained that it was unexpected—this sudden failing of pay dirt. The assays had shown the operations profitable until a week before. They had kept on working in the hope that the ground would show promise again, but it had failed. The great glory hole of the Yellow Daisy was divested of its gold. A shutdown was the only alternative. And the principal owners, Turner and Wescott, were leaving town at once.
Slowly it dawned upon the men that it was all true, and then they began telling themselves that it had to come, that they had expected it, that such a treasure hole could not last forever. They flocked to the resorts in droves; lunch pails littered the dirt street and were kicked about; men sought to drown their worry as to the future in the fiery liquor that was sold across the bars.
Man of the Desert: A Western Story Page 20