Average Jones
Page 3
CHAPTER III. OPEN TRAIL
"Not good enough," said Average Jones, laying aside a sheet of paperupon which was pasted a newspaper clipping. "We can't afford luxuries,Simpson."
The confidential clerk rubbed his high, pale forehead indeterminately."But five thousand dollars, Mr. Jones," he protested.
"Would pay a year's office rent, you're thinking. True. Nevertheless Ican't see the missing Mr. Hoff as a sound professional proposition."
"So you think it would be impossible to find him?"
"Now, why should I think any such absurd thing? I think, if you choose,that he wouldn't be worth the amount, when found, to lose."
"The ad says different, Sir." Simpson raised the paper and read:
"FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS--The aforesaid sum will be paid without question to anyone furnishing information which leads to the discovery of Roderick Hoff, twenty-four years old, who left his home in Toledo, 0., on April 12. Communicate with Dr. Conrad Hoff, Toledo.
"Surely Doctor Hoff is good for the amount."
"Oh, he's good for millions, thanks to his much advertised quack'Catarrh-Killer.' The point is, from what I can discover, Mr. RoderickHoff isn't worth retrieving at any price above one dime."
"Was the information about him that you wished, in the telegram?" askedthe confidential clerk.
"Yes; all I wanted. Thanks for looking after it. Have the Toledoreporter, who sent it, forward his bill. And if the old inventor who'sbeen haunted by disembodied voices comes again, bring him to me."
"Yes, sir," said Simpson, going out.
Left to himself, Average Jones again ran over the dispatches, conveyingthe information as to the lost Toledo youth. They had given a fairlycomplete sketch of young Hoff's life and character. At twenty-four,it appeared, Roderick Hoff had achieved a career. Emerging, by thepropulsive method, from college, in the first term of his freshman year,he had taken a post-graduate course in the cigarette ward of apolite retreat for nervous wrecks. He had subsequently endured twobreach-of-promise suits, had broken the state automobile record fornumber of speed violation arrests, had been buncoed, badgered, paneled,blackmailed and short-carded out of sums varying between one hundredand ten thousand dollars; and now, in the year of grace, 19--, was thehorror of the pulpit and the delight of the press of the city which hecalled his home. For the rest, he was a large, mild, good-humored, pulpyindividual, with a fixed delusion that the human organism can absorb aquart of alcoholic miscellany per day and be none the worse for it. Themajor premise of his proposition was perfectly correct. He proved itdaily. The minor premise was an error. Bets were even in the Toledoclubs as to whether delirium tremens or paresis would win the eventaround young Mr. Hoff's kite-shaped race-track of a brain.
With his tastes the income of twenty-five thousand dollars perannum which his father allowed him from the profits of "Dr. Hoff'sCatarrh-Killer," proved sadly insufficient to his needs. He mentionedthis fact to his father, so Average Jones' information ran, early inApril, and suggested an increase, only to be refused with some acerbity.
"Oh, very well," said he, "I'll go and make it myself."
The amazement inspired in Doctor Hoff's mind by this pronouncement wasaugmented in the next few days by the fact that Roderick was very busyabout town in his motor-car, and was changed to vivid alarm immediatelythereafter by the young man's disappearance. To all intents andappearances, Roderick Hoff had dropped off the earth on or about Apriltwelfth. By April fifteenth New York, Pittsburg, Chicago, Washington andother clearing-houses for the distribution of the unspent increment wereapprised of the elder Hoff's five thousand-dollar anxiety through themedium of the daily press. This advertisement it was, upon the practicalmerits of which Average Jones and his confidential clerk had differed.
"If there were any chance of sport in it," mused Average Jones, "I'd goin. But to follow the trail of a spurious young sport from bar-room tobrothel and from brothel to gambling hell--" He shook his head. "Notgood enough," he repeated.
Simpson's face appeared at the door. His blond forehead was wrinkledwith excitement.
"Doctor Hoff is here, Mr. Jones. I told him you couldn't see him, but hewouldn't take no. Says he was recommended to you by a former client."
Following the word, there burst into Average Jones' private sanctum agross old man, silk-hatted and bediamonded, whose side-whiskers bristledwhitely with perturbed self-importance. In his hand was a patchy bundle.
"They tried to stop me!" he sputtered. "Me! I'm worth ten milliondollars, an' a ten-dollar-a-week office toad tries to hold me up when Icome here myself person'ly, from Toledo to see you."
Analysis of advertising in all its forms had inspired Average Joneswith a profound contempt and dislike for the cruelest of all forms ofswindling medical quackery. And this swollen, smug-faced intruder lookeda particularly offensive specimen of his kind. Therefore the Ad-Visorsaid curtly:
"I can't take your case. Good day--"
"Not take it! Did you read the reward?"
"Yes. It is interesting as showing the patent medicine faker's touchingconfidence in the power of advertising. Otherwise it doesn't, interestme. Get some one else to find your young hopeful."
"It ain't no case of findin' now. The boy's dead." His strident voicequavered and broke, but rose again to a snarl. "And, by God, I'll spenda million to get the dogs that murdered him."
At the word "murdered" Average Jones' clean cut, agreeable, but ratherstolidly neutral face underwent a subtle transformation. Anotherpersonality looked out from the deep-set, somnolent, gray eyes; apersonality resolute, forceful and quietly alert. It was apparentlybelied by the hesitant drawl, which, as all who had ever seen theAd-Visor at his chosen pursuits well knew, signified awakened orintensified interest in the matter in hand.
"Where--er--is--the--er--body"
"I don't know. It ain't been found."
"Then how do you know he's dead?"
The other tore open the bundle he carried, and spread before AverageJones a white stained shirt with ominous brown splotches.
"It's his shirt. There's the initials. Mailed to my house and got therejust after I left. My secretary brought it on, with the note that comepinned to it. Here it is."
He produced a bit of coarse wrapping-paper upon which was this messagein rough capital letters:
TWO DAGOES SHOT HIM DASSENT SAY NO MORE FROM A FRIEND IN CINCINNATI. Average Jones examined the wrapper. It was postmarked Cincinnati. Henext smoothed out the creased silk and studied minutely the blotches,which were heaviest about the left breast and shoulder.
To the surprise of Doctor Hoff, the young man's glance roved the bigdesk before him, settling with satisfaction upon a sponge-cup formoistening stamps. Applying this to one of the spots on the shirt, herubbed the wetted portion vigorously on a sheet of paper which lay nearat hand. His lips pursed. He whistled very softly and meditatively. Hescratched his chin with a slow movement.
"Is that all?" he shot out suddenly at the older man.
"All! Ain't it enough? He's been murdered; murdered, I tell you, an' youset there an' whistle!"
Average Jones directed a dreamy smile toward a far comer of the room.
"I don't see anything so far," he observed, "to indicate that your sonis not alive and well at this moment."
Doctor Hoff struck his fist down heavily on the desk. "What's thisyou're givin' me? Can't you read? Look at that note there, an' the bloodon the shirt."
"Would you mind moderating your voice? My outside office is full of moreor less excitable clients," said the Ad-Visor mildly. "Moreover, it'snot blood anyway."
"What is it, then?"
"That's beside the question. Dried blood rubs off a faint buff color."He picked up the sheet of paper from his desk. A deep brownish streakshowed where he had applied the moistened cloth. "It's the rawest kindof a blind. Why, the idiot who sent the shirt didn't even have the senseto fake bullet holes. Enough to make one lose all interest in the case,"he added disgustedly.
"Then Cincinnati is the last place on the map to look, because there'swhere they want you to think he is. But it doesn't look like a case ofransom to me. Let's see. Was he particularly drunk the day before hedisappeared?"
"No. He was sober."
"Unusually sober, maybe?" suggested the other.
"Yes, he was. Been sober for a week. An' he was studyin', too."
"Ah! Studying what?"
"Spanish."
"Spanish, eh? Ever exhibit any interest in foreign tongues before?"
"Not enough to get him through one term in college," returned the othergrimly.
"How did you know about his studying?"
"Seen the perfessor in the house."
"Some one you knew?"
"No. I asked him. Roddy was sore because I found out what he was up to."
Upon that point Average Jones meditated a moment.
"Did you see this Spanish professor again?" he inquired presently.
"Now that you speak of it, I didn't see him but the once."
"Can you leave for Toledo on to-night's train?"
"You're goin' to take the case, then?" the quack clawed nervously at hisprofessional white whiskers. "What's your terms?" he demanded.
"That I'm to have full control and that you're to take orders and notgive them."
Doctor Hoff swallowed that with a gulp. "You're on," he said finally.
On the train Doctor Hoff regaled his companion with a strictly paternalview of his son's character and pursuits as he knew them. This served,at least, to enlarge his auditor's ideas as to the average Americanfather's vast and profound ignorance of the life, habits, manners andcustoms of that common but variable species, the Offspring. Beyondthis it had little value. Average Jones gave its author a few specificinstructions as to minor lines of home investigation, and retired to mapout a tentative campaign.
His first call, on arriving at Toledo, was at the business office ofthe Daily Saw, in which he inserted the following paragraph on arepeat-until-stopped order:
WANTED--Instructor in Spanish. One with recent Experience preferred. Apply between 9 and 10 A.M. Doctor Hoff, 360 Fairfield Avenue.
Thence he climbed the stairs to the den of the city editor, to whom hestated his errand openly, being too wise in his day and generation toattempt concealment or evasion with a newspaper man from whom he wantedinformation. The city editor obligingly furnished further detailsregarding "Rickey" Hoff, as he called the young man, which, whilediffering in important respects from Doctor Hoff's, bore the ear-marksof superior accuracy.
"The worst of it is," said the newspaper man, "that there are elementsof decency about the young cub, if he'd keep sober. He won't go intothe old boy's business, because he hates it. Says it's all rot and lies.He's dead right, of course. But there's nothing else for him to do, sohe just fights booze. Better make a few inquiries at Silent Charley's."
"What's that?"
"Quiet little bar kept by a talkative Swede. 'Rickey' Hoff hung outthere a lot. Charley even had a room fixed up for him to lay off in whenhe was too pickled to go home."
"Would--er--young Hoff--er--perhaps keep a few--er--extra clothesthere?" asked Average Jones, seemingly struggling with a yawn.
The city editor stared. "Oh, I dare say. He used to end his spreespretty much mussed up."
"That would perhaps explain where the shirt came from," murmured theAd-Visor. "Much obliged for the suggestion. I'll just step around."
"Silent Charley" he found ready, even eager to talk. Yes; "Rickey" Hoffhad been in his place right along. Drunk? No; not even drinking muchlately. Two other gentlemen had met him there quite often. They sat inthe back room and talked. No, neither of them was Spanish. One was bigand clean-shaven and wore a silk hat. They called him "Colonel." A swelldresser. The other man drank gin, and a lot of it. His name was Fred. Hewas very tanned. One day there had been a hot discussion over a sheet ofpaper that lay on the table in front of the three men in the back room."Rickey" had called a messenger boy and sent him out for a geography. "Itold you there wasn't any such thing there," the saloon-keeper heardhim say triumphantly, when the geography arrived. Then Fred replied: "Toh-ll with you and your schoolbook! I tell you I've waded across it." Thecolonel smoothed things over and it ended in a magnum of champagne beingordered.
"For which the colonel paid?" asked Average Jones.
"Why, yes, he did," assented the saloon man. "He said, 'Well, it's a go,then. Here's luck to us!' He was a good spender, the colonel."
"And you haven't seen any of them since, I suppose?"
"Nary a one."
On his return to the Hoff mansion the investigator found the headthereof in a state of great excitement.
"Say, I've found out something," he cried. "Roddy's gone to Yurrup."
"Where did you find that out?" asked Average Jones with a smile.
"I been going through his papers like you told me. He's been outfittingfor a trip. Bought lots of truck the last few days and I found theduplicate sale-checks that come in the packages. There's stubs fora steamer rug and for a dope for seasickness and for a compass," heconcluded triumphantly.
"Compass, eh?" observed Average Jones thoughtfully. "Ship's compass isgood enough for most of us going to Europe. Anything else?"
"Lot of clothes."
"What kind of clothes?"
"Cheap stuff mostly. Khaki riding-pants, neglyjee shirts and such-like."
"Not much suggestion of Europe there. What more?"
Doctor Hoff consulted a list. "Colored glasses."
"That looks like desert travel."
"Aneroid barometer."
"Mountain climbing."
"Permanganate of potash outfit."
"Snake country," commented the other.
"Patent water-still."
Average Jones leaned forward. "How big?"
"Don't know. Cost twenty dollars."
"Little one, then. That means about three people. Taken with thecompass, it means a small-boat trip on salt water."
"Small boat nothin'!" retorted the other. "His doctor met me thismorning an' told me Roddy had sent for him and ast him a lot ofquestions about eatin' aboard ship and which way to have his berth madeup, and all that."
"A small-boat trip following a sea trip, then. What else have youfound?"
"Nothin' much. Mosquito nettin', pills, surgeon's plaster and odds andends of drugs."
"Let me see the drug list."
He ran his eye down the paper. Then he looked at Doctor Hoff with a halfsmile.
"You didn't notice anything peculiar about this list?"
"Don't know as I did."
"Not the--er--nitric acid, for instance?"
"Nope. What of it?"
"Mr. Hoff, your son has been caught by one of the oldest tricks in thewhole bunco list--the lost Spanish mine swindle. That acid, togetherwith the rest of the outfit, means a gold-hunt as plain as if itwere spelled out. And the Spanish professor was sent for, not to givelessons, but to translate the fake letter. Where does your son bank?"
"Fifth National."
"Telephone there and find out how much he drew."
Doctor Hoff sat down at the 'phone. "Five hundred dollars," he saidpresently.
"Is that all?" asked the other, disappointed.
"Yes. Wait. He had six checks certified aggregating ten thousanddollars."
"Then it isn't South America or the West Indies. He'd want, a letter ofcredit there. Must be some part of the United States, or just acrossthe border. Well, we've done a good day's work, and I've got a hardevening's thinking before me. We might be able to head off the colonel'spersonally conducted expedition yet, if we could locate it."
The evening's thinking formulated itself into a telegram to AverageJones' club, the Cosmic. It was one among the many distinctions of themodest l
ittle club in Gramercy Park, that its membership pretty wellcomprised the range of available information on any topic. Underthe "favored applications clause," a person whose knowledge of anyparticular subject was unique and authoritative, whether the topicwere Esperanto or fistiana, went to the head of the waiting--listautomatically and had his initiation fee remitted. Hence, Average Joneswas confident of a helpful reply to his message of inquiry, which summedup his conclusions and surmises thus far:
"Cosmic CLUB, NEW YORK CITY:
Refer following to geographical expert: Where is large, shallow,unmapped body of salt water in United States, or near border, surroundedby hot, snake-infested desert and mountainous country, reputed tocontain gold? Spanish associations indicated. Wire details and name ofbest guide, if obtainable.
A. JONES."
The reply was disappointing:
"Cyrus C. Allen absent from town. Will forward your wire.
"COSMIC CLUB."
Well poised as Average Jones normally was, he chafed over the ensuingdelay of four days, each of which gave the colonel's expedition just somuch start upon its unknown course. The only relief was a call from theSpanish instructor who answered Jones' advertisement. He was thesame who had served young Hoff. As the Ad-Visor surmised, his formeremployment had been merely the translation of a letter. The letter wasin base Spanish, he said. He didn't remember much of it, but there wassomething about a lost gold mine. Yes; there was reference to a map. No;no geographical names were mentioned, but in several places the capitalletters B. C. seemed to indicate a locality. He hadn't noted the date orthe signature. That was all he could tell.
Doctor Hoff, who had been ramping with impatience over the man's lack ofdefinite memory, now rushed to the atlas and began to study the maps.
"You needn't trouble," said Average Jones coolly. "You won't find itthere."
"I'll find that B. C. if I have to go over every map in the geography."
"Then you'll have to get a Spanish edition. For a guess, B. C. is BajaCalifornia, the Mexican peninsula of California."
Jones sent a supplementary wire to this effect to Cyrus C. Allen, of theCosmic Club, and within a few hours received a reply from that eminentcartographer, who had been located in a remote part of Connecticut:
"Probably Laguna Salada, not on map. Seventy miles long; four to eightwide. Between Cocopah and Sierra Gigantica ranges. Country very wild andarid. Can be reached by water from Yuma, or pack train from Calexico.White, who has hunted there, says Captain Funcke, Calexico, best guide.
"ALLEN."
Average Jones tossed this over to the father.
"As I figure it," he said, "your son's two friends had this all mappedout beforehand for him. One went west direct. He was the imbecile whostopped in Cincinnati and mailed you the bloody shirt to throw you offthe scent. Meantime the colonel took Roderick around by a sea route,probably New York and New Orleans."
"That'd explain the steamer rug and the seasickness," admitted DoctorHoff; "but I don't know what he'd want to go that long way for."
"Simple enough, when you reckon with this colonel person as havingbrains in his head. He would foresee a hue and cry as soon as the youngman disappeared. So he cooks up this trip to keep his prey out of touchwith the newspapers for the few days when the news of the disappearancewould be fresh enough to be spread abroad in the Associated Pressdispatches. From New Orleans they'd go on west by train."
"What I don't see is how they caught Roddy on such an old game. He'seasy, but I didn't s'pose he was that easy."
"To do him justice, he isn't--quite. They put it up on him rathercleverly. In the period of waiting to hear from the geographical expertI've put in some fairly hard work, going over your son's effects. And,in the room over Silent Charley's bar, I found a newspaper with this init."
He handed to Doctor Hoff a thin clipping, marked "Daily Saw, March 29":
LOST--Spanish letter and map. Of no value except to owner, Return to No. 16, this office, and receive heartfelt thanks.
"Well," said Doctor Hoff, after reading it over twice, "that don't tellme nothing."
"No? Yet it's pretty plain. The two crooks 'planted' the letter and mapon your son. Probably slipped them into a pocket of his coat while hewas drunk. Then they inserted their little ad, waited until he hadtime to find the letter, and casually called the advertisement to hisattention. The rest would be easy. But I'll have something to say to myclerk, who failed to clip that ad."
"You're workin' for me, now," half blustered, half whined the old quack."Whatche goin' to do next?"
"Pack for the night train."
"Where to?"
"Yuma or Calexico. Don't know which till I get a reply to two telegrams.I'll need five hundred dollars expense money."
"Say, you don't want much, do ye?" snarled the quack, his avaricioussoul in revolt at the prospect of immediate outlay. "When I hire a man Iexpect him to pay his own expenses and send me the bill."
"Quite so," agreed the other blandly. "But, you see, you aren't hiringme. I'm doing this on spec. And I don't propose to invest anything ina dubious proposition, myself. It isn't too late to call it off, youknow."
"No, I do' wanta do that," said the other with contorted face. "I'll getthe five hundred here for' you in an hour."
"And about the five thousand dollars reward? I think I'd better have aword of writing on that."
"You mean you don't trust me?" snapped the other. "I'm good for fivemillion dollars to-morrow in this town."
"I know you are--in writing," agreed the other equably. "That's why Iwant your valued signature. You see, to be quite frank, I haven't thefullest confidence in gentlemen in your line of business."
"I'll have my lawyer draw up a form of contract and mail it after youto-morrow," promised the quack with a crafty look.
"No, you wo--" began Average Jones; but he broke off with a smile. "Verywell," he amended. "If things work out as I figure them, that will do.And," he added, dropping into his significant drawl and lookingthe quack flatly in the eye, "don't you--er--bank on my--er--notunderstanding your offer--and--er--you."
Uncomfortably pondering this reply, Doctor Hoff set about the matter ofthe expense money. Mean time a telegram came which settled the matterof immediate destination. It apprised Average Jones that, a fortnightprevious, this paragraph had appeared in the paid columns of the YumaYucca:
WANTED-Small, flat-bottomed sailboat. Centerboard type preferred. Hasty, care this office.
Average Jones bought a ticket for Yuma.
Disembarking at the Yuma station three days later, Average Jones blinkedin the harsh sunlight at a small, compactly built, keen-eyed man,roughly dressed for the trail.
"I'm Captain Funcke," said the stranger. His speech was gentle, slow,even hesitant; but there was something competent and reliable in hisbearing which satisfied the shrewd young reader of men's characters fromthe outset. "Your wire got me two days since and I came right up."
"Any trace?"
"Left here two days ago."
"Three of them?"
"Yes. Flat-bottomed, narrow-beamed boat, sloop-rigged pretty light."
"Know anything of the men?"
"Only the big one. Calls himself Colonel Richford. Had a fake copperoutfit in the mountains east of Alamo."
"Where do you think they're headed for?"
"Probably the wildest country they can find, if they want to get rid ofyoung Hoff," said the other, who had been apprised of the main points ofthe situation. "That would likely be the Pinto range, to the southwestof the Laguna. Richford knows that country a little. He was in there twoyears ago."
"They would probably want to get rid of him without obvious murder;"said Average Jones. "You see, his money is in certified checks whichthey'd have to get cashed. If some one should find his body with abullet-hole in it, they'd have some explaining to do."
"Nobody'd be likely to find it. Only about two parties a year get' downthere. Still, somebody might trail him. And I g
uess old Richford is toofoxy to do any killing when he turns the trick just as well without it."
"Suppose it's the Pintos, then. How do we get there?"
"Hard-ash breeze," returned the other succinctly. "Our rowboat isoutfitted and waiting."
"Good work!" said Jones heartily. "How far is it?"
"Sixty miles to the turn of the Laguna. There's a four-mile currentto help. They've a scant two days' start, and we'll catch up some, fortheir boat is heavier and their sail is no good with the wind in thisdirection. If we don't catch up some," he added grimly, "I wouldn't wantto insure our young friend's life. So it's all aboard, if you're ready."
For the first time since embarking upon the strange seas of advertisingin his quest of the Adventure of Life, Average Jones now met theexperience of grilling physical toil. All that day and all the nightthe two men swung at the oars; swung until every muscle in the youngEasterner's back had turned to live nerve-fiber, and the flesh had begunto strip from the palms of his hands. Even so, the hardy captain haddone most of the work. Aided by the current, they turned the shoulder ofthe Cocopah range as the dawn shone lurid in the east, and the captainswung the boat's head to the southern shore of the lake. Meantime,between spells at the oars, Average Jones had outlined the case in fullto Funcke. He could have found no better coadjutor:
By nature and equipment every really expert hunter and tracker is adetective. The subtleties of the trail sharpen both physical andmental sensibility. Captain Funcke was, by instinct, a student of thatcontinuous logic which constitutes the science of the chase, whether theprize of pursuit be a mountain sheep's horns or the scholar's need ofpraise for the interpreting of some half-obliterated inscription on apre-Hittite tomb. After long and silent consideration the captain gavehis views.
"It isn't bunco. It's a hold-up. If Richford had wanted to stick youngHoff, he'd never have brought him here. There isn't 'color' enoughwithin eighty miles to gild a cigar band. It looks to me like the schemeis this: They get him off in the mountains, out of sight of the lake,so he'll have no landmark to go by. Then they scare him into signingco-partnership papers, and make him turn over those certified checks tothem. With the papers to show for it, they go out by Calexico andcash the checks in Los Angeles. They could put up the bluff that theirpartner was guarding the mine while they bought machinery and outfitted.That'd be good enough to cash certified checks by."
"Yes; that's about the way I figure it out. You spoke of Richford'sbeing able to get rid of young Hoff effectually, without actual murder."
"All he'd have to do would be to quit the boy while he was asleep. Atenderfoot would die of thirst over there in a short time."
"Is there no water?"
"There's a tenaja they're depending on. But I doubt if they find anywater there now. It's been an extra dry season."
"A tenaja?" queried the Ad-Visor.
"Rock-basin holding rainwater," explained the hunter. "There's beenno rainfall since August. If they find the tenaja empty they'll, havebarely enough in the canteens they pack to get them to the next water,the Tenaja Poquita, around behind the mountains and across the desertinto the next range."
"What's the next water to that?"
"The Stream of Palms. That's a day and a half on foot."
For the space of a hundred oar-strokes Average Jones ruminated.
"Suppose--er--they didn't--er--find any water in the Tenaja Poquita,either?" he drawled.
"Then they would be up against it."
"And there's no other water in the Pintos?"
"Yes, there is," said the captain. "There's a tenaja that's so high upand so hidden that it's only known to one other man besides me, and he'san Indian. It's less than an hour from the tenaja that Richford willtake his party to. And we're sure of finding water there. It never driesup this early."
"Get me to young Hoff, then, Captain. You're in command from the momentwe land."
It was broad day when the keel pushed softly into the muddy bottom of along, shallow arm of the lake. Captain Funcke rose, stretched the kinksout of his back, and jumped ashore.
"You say I'm in command?" he inquired.
"Absolute."
"Then you roll up under that mesquite and fall asleep. I'm going to castabout for their trail."
To the worn-out oarsman, it seemed only a few moments later that aninsistent grip on his shoulder aroused him. But the overhead sun, whosedirect rays were fairly boiling the sweat out of him, harshly correctedthis impression.
"I've found their boat," said Captain Funcke. "The trail heads for thePintos. They're traveling heavy. I don't believe they're twenty-fourhours ahead of us."
Average Jones stumbled to his feet. "I'm ready," he said.
"It's a case of travel light." The hunter handed over a small bag offood and a large canteen full of water. He himself packed a much largerload, including two canteens and a powerful field-glass. Taking ashotgun from the boat, he shouldered it, and set out at a long, easystride.
To Average Jones the memory of that day has never been wholly clear.Sodden with weariness, dazzled and muddled by the savage sun-glare, hefollowed, with eyes fixed, the rhythmically, monotonously moving feetof his leader, through an interminable desert of soft, clogging sand;a desert which dropped away into parched arroyos, and rose to scorchedmesas whereon fierce cacti thrust at him with thorns and spikes; adesert dead and mummified in the dreadful heat; a lifeless Infernowherein moved neither beast, bird nor insect. He remembers, dimly, lyingas he fell, when the indefatigable captain called a halt, and beingwakened in the chill breeze of evening, to see a wall of mountainsblocking the advance. Food brought him to his normal self again, and inthe crisp air of night he set his face to the task of climbing. Severeas this was upon his unaccustomed muscles, the firm rocks were stilla welcome relief after the racking looseness of sand that interminablysank away from foothold. At midnight the wearied pursuers droppeddown from a high plateau to a narrow arroyo. Here again was sand.Fortunately, this time, for in it footprints stood out clear,illuminated by the white moonlight. They led direct to a side barranca.There the pursuers found the camp. It was deserted.
Like a hound on the trail, Captain Funcke cast about him.
"Here's where they came in. No--yes--this is it. Confound thecross-tracks!.. Here one of them cuts across the ridge to the tenaja forwater.
"Wait!... What's this? Coyote trail? Yes, but... Trail brushed over, bythunder! They didn't do it carefully enough... Straight for the rockymesa.... That's it! They made their sneak while Hoff was asleep,probably covering trail behind them, and struck out for the insidedesert route to the Tenaja Poquita." He took a quick look about the campand picked up an empty canteen. "Of course, they wouldn't leave him anywater."
"Then he's gone to hunt it," suggested Average Jones. "Which way?"
"You can't tell which way a tenderfoot will go," said the hunterphilosophically. "If he had any savvy at all he'd follow the old beatentrack around by the arroyo to the water-hole. We'll try it."
On the way, Average Jones noticed his companion stop frequently toexamine the sand for something which he evidently didn't find.
"These are fresh footsteps we're following, aren't they?" he asked.
"Yes. It isn't that. He went this way all right. But the tenaja's gonedry."
"How can you tell that?"
"No fresh sign of animals going this way. Must have been dry for weeks.Our mining friends have taken what little water there was and left youngHoff to die of thirst," said the other grimly. "Well, that explains theempty canteen all right."
He turned and renewed his quick progress, leaping from boulder toboulder, between narrowing walls of gray-white rock. Just as AverageJones was spent and almost ready to collapse the leader checked.
"Hark!" he whispered.
Above the beating of the blood in his ears, Jones heard an irregular,insistent scuffing sound. He crouched in silence while the captain creptup to a ledge and cautiously peered over, then went forward in responseto the other's urge
nt beckoning. They looked down into a rock-basinof wild and curious beauty. To this day Average Jones remembers theluminous grace and splendor of a Matilija poppy, which, rooted betweentwo boulders, swayed gently in the white moonlight above a figure ofdread. The figure, naked from the waist up, huddled upon the hard-bakedmud, digging madly at the earth. A sharp exclamation broke from AverageJones. The digger half-rose, turned, collapsed to his knees, and pointedwith bleeding fingers to his open mouth, in which the tongue showedblack and swollen.
They went down to him.
An hour later, "Rickey" Hoff was sleeping the sleep of utter exhaustionin camp. Average Jones felt amply qualified to join him. But it was notin the Ad-Visor's character to quit an enterprise before it was whollycompleted. So long as the two bandits were on their way to cash theyoung spendthrift's checks--Jones had heard from the victim a briefaccount of the extortion--success was not fully won.
"We've got to get that money back," he said to Captain Funcke withconviction.
The hunter made no reply in words. He merely leaned his shotgun againsthis thigh, reached around beneath his coat and produced a forty-fivecaliber revolver. This he held out toward Jones.
"Good thing to have," conceded the other. "But--well, no; not in thiscase. They got the booty with a show of legality, since Hoff signed thecopartnership agreement and turned over the checks. It was under duressand threats, it's true, but who's to prove that, they being two to one,and this being Mexico? No; they're within the law, and I've a notionthat we can get the swag back by straight sale and barter. Provided,always, we can catch them in time."
"They'll want to make pretty good time to the Tenaja Poquita," pointedout the captain. "They're shy on water."
"On wind, too. They've traveled hard, and they can't be in the pink ofcondition. According to Hoff, they deserted him while he was taking anap, about four o'clock in the afternoon. It's a fair bet they'd campfor the night, as you say it's an eight hour hike to the tenaja."
"Eight, the way they'd go."
"Then--er--there's a--er--shorter way?" drawled Average Jones, removingsome sand from a wrinkle in his scarified and soiled trousers ascarefully as if that were the one immediate and important considerationin life.
"Yes. Across the Padre Cliffs. It cuts off about four hours, and ittakes us almost to the secret tenaja I spoke of. We can fill up there.But it's not what you'd call safe, even in daylight."
"But to a hunter, wouldn't it be well worth the risk for a record pairof horns--even if they were only tin horns?" queried Average Jonessuggestively.
Captain Funcke relaxed into a grin. He nodded.
"What'll we do with him?" he asked, jerking his head toward the sleeper.
"Leave him water, food and a note. Now, about this Tenaja Poquita we'reheaded for. How much water do you think there is in it?"
"If there's a hundred gallons it's doing well, this dry season."
Average Jones got painfully to his feet. Looking carefully over thescattered camp outfit, he selected from it a collapsible pail. CaptainFuncke glanced at it with curiosity, but characteristically forebore toask any questions. He himself shouldered the largest canteen.
"This'll be enough for both until we reach the supply," he said. "Don'tneed so much water at night."
But the tenderfoot hung upon his own shoulder, not only the smallest oftheir three canteens, but also the empty one which they had found in thecamp. Their own third tin, almost full, they left beside Hoff, with anote.
"I've a notion," said Jones, "that I'll need all these receptacles forwater in my own peculiar business."
"All right," assented the other patiently. He took one of them and thepail from Jones and skillfully disposed them on his own back. "Ready?Hike, then."
Two hours of the roughest kind of climbing brought them to a landslide.These sudden shiftings of the slopes are a frequent feature of travelin the Lower California mountains, often obliterating trails and costingthe wayfarer painful and perilous search for a new path. On the PadreCliffs, however, had occurred that rare phenomenon, a benevolentavalanche, piling up a safe and feasible embankment around the angle ofan impracticable precipice, and thus saving an hour of the most ticklishgoing of the journey. Thanks to this dispensation, the two men reachedthe Tenaja Poquita before dawn. Scouting ahead, the captain reported nofresh trail except coyotes and mule deer, and not more than seventy-fivegallons of water in the basin. Of this they both drank deeply. Thenafter they had filled all the canteens, Average Jones unfolded hisscheme to the captain.
"If any one caught us at it," commented that experienced hunter, "we'dbe shot without warning. However, the water would be evaporated in afew days anyhow, and I'll post notices at the next watercamps. I'm withyou."
Taking turn and turn about with the pail, they bailed out therock-basin, scattering the water upon the greedy sand. What littlemoisture remained in the sticky mud at the bottom they blotted up withmore sand. They then rolled in boulders. Average Jones looked down intothe hollow with satisfaction, and moved his full canteens into a grotto.
"This company," he said, "is now open for business."
At eight o'clock there was a clatter of boots upon the rocks and two mencame staggering up the defile. Colonel Richford and his partner didnot look to be in good repair. The colonel's face was drawn andsun-blotched. His companion, the "Fred" of Silent Charley's bar,was bloated and shaken with liquor. Both panted with the hard, dry,open-lipped breath of the first stage of thirst-exhaustion. The colonel,who was in the lead, checked and started upon discovering astride ofa rock a pleasant visaged young man of a familiar American type, whoseappearance was in nowise remarkable except as to locality. With a gruntthat might have been greeting, but was more probably surprise, thenewcomer passed the seated man. Captain Funcke he did not see at all.That astute hunter had dropped behind a boulder.
At the brink of the tenaja the colonel stopped dead. Then with anoutburst of flaming language, he leaped in, burrowing among the rocks.
"Dry!" he yelled, lifting a furious and appalled face to his companion.
Fred stood staring from Average Jones to his three canteens. There was amurderous look on his sinister face.
"Got water?" he growled.
"Yes," replied the young man.
"Here, Colonel," said Fred. "Here's drink for us."
"For sale," added Average Jones calmly.
"People don't buy water in this country."
"You're not people," returned Average Jones cheerfully. "You're acorporation; a soulless corporation. The North Pinto Gold MiningCompany."
"What's that!" cried the colonel thickly.
His hand flew back to his belt. Then it dropped, limp at his side, forhe was gazing into the two barrels of a shotgun, which, materializingover a rock, were pointing accurately and disconcertingly at the pit ofhis stomach. From behind the gun Captain Funcke's quiet voice remarked:
"I wouldn't, Colonel. As for you," he added, turning to the otherwayfarer, who carried a rifle, "you want to remember that a shotgun hastwo barrels, usually both loaded."
Stepping forward, Average Jones "lifted" the financier's weapon. Thenhe deprived Fred of his rifle amid a surprisingly brilliant outburst ofverbal pyrotechnics.
"Now we can talk business comfortably," he observed.
"I can't talk at all pretty quick if I don't git a moistener," said Fredpiteously.
Pouring out a scant cupful of water into his hat, Average Jones handedit over. "Drink slowly," he advised. "You've got about a hundreddollars' worth there at present quotations."
Colonel Richford's head went up with a jerk.
"Hundred dollars' worth!" he croaked, his eyes fiery with suspicion."Are you going to hold up two men dying of thirst?"
"There's been only one man in danger of that death around here. His nameis Hoff."
The redoubtable colonel gasped, and leaned back against a rock.
"You'll be relieved to learn that he's safe. Now, to answer yourquestion: No, I don't propose to hold up two men
for anything. I proposeto deal with the president and treasurer of the North Pinto Gold MiningCompany. As a practical mining man you will appreciate the absolutenecessity of water in your operations. The nearest available supply issome ten hours distant. Before you could reach it I fear that--er--yourcompany would--er--have gone out of existence. Therefore I am fortunatein being able to offer you a small supply which I will put on the marketat the low rate of ten thousand dollars. I may add that--er--certifiedchecks will--er--be accepted."
For two hours the colonel, with the occasional objurgatory assistanceof his partner, talked, begged argued, threatened, and even wept. By theend of that time his tongue was making sounds like a muffled castanet,and his resolution was scorched out of him.
"You've got us," he croaked. "Here's your checks. Give me the water."
"In proper and legal form, please," said Average Jones.
He produced a contract and a fountain-pen. The contract was dulysigned and witnessed. It provided for the transfer of the water, inconsideration of one revolver and ten thousand dollars in checks. Thesechecks were endorsed over to A. V. R. E. Jones, whereupon he turned overthe pail of water and the largest canteen to the parched miners. Then,sorting out the checks, he pocketed two aggregating five thousanddollars, tore up three, and holding the other in his hand, turned toCaptain Funcke.
"Will five hundred dollars pay you for keeping young Hoff down here acouple of months and making the beginning of a man of him?" he asked.
"Yes, and more," replied the captain.
"It's a go," said Average Jones. "I'd like to make the job complete."
Then, courteously bidding the North Pinto Gold Mining Company farewell,the two water-dealers clambered up the rocks and disappeared beyond theabrupt sky-line.
Once again Doctor Conrad Hoff sat in the private office of AverageJones, Ad-Visor. The young man was thinner, browner and harder of fiberthan the Jones of two weeks previous. Doctor Hoff looked him over withshrewd eyes.
"Say, your trip ain't done you no harm, has it?" he exclaimed with aboisterous and false good nature. "You look like' a fightin'-cock. Hopethe boy comes out as good. You say he's all right?"
"You've got his letter, in which he says so himself. That's enoughproof, isn't it?"
"Oh, I've got the letter all right. An' it's enough as far as it goes.But it ain't proof; not the kind of proof a man pays out reward moneyon," he added, cunningly. "You say you left Roddy down there with thatFuncke feller, hey?"
"Yes. It'll make a man of him, if anything will. I threw that in as anextra."
"Yes; but what about them two crooks that goldbricked him? What's becomeof them?"
"On their way to Alaska or Bolivia or Corea, or anywhere else, for all Iknow--or care," said Average Jones indifferently.
"Is that so?" The quack's voice had taken on a sneering intonation."You come back here with your job not half done, with the guilty fellersloose an' runnin', an' you expect me to pay over, the five thousanddollars to you. Huh!"
"No, I--er--don't expect--er--anything of the sort," said Average Jonesslowly.
Doctor Hoff's little, restless eyes puckered at the corners. He waspuzzled. What did the young fellow mean?
"Don't, eh?" he said, groping in his mind for a solution.
"No. You forgot to send me that promised form of agreement, didn't you?Thought you'd fooled me, perhaps. Well, I wouldn't be so foolish as toexpect anything in the way of fair and honorable dealing when I contractto do up a mining swindler for the benefit of the only meaner creatureon God's earth--a patent medicine poisoner. So I took precautions."
"Say, be careful of what you say, young man," blustered the quack.
"I am--quite particular. And, before you leave, wouldn't you like tohear about the five thousand dollars I got for my little job?"
Doctor Hoff blinked rapidly.
"What didje say?" he finally inquired.
"Five--er--thousand--er--dollars."
"You got it?"
"In the bank."
"Where dje get it?"
"From you, through your son's check, duly certified."
Doctor Hoff blinked more rapidly and moistened his lips with aneffortful tongue.
"H-h-how dje work it?" he asked in a die-away voice.
"By a forced sale of water rights to the North Pinto Gold MiningCompany, dissolved, in which Mr. Roderick Hoff was vice-president andsilent partner," replied Average Jones with an amiable smile, as heopened the door significantly.