The Rim of the Desert

by Ada Woodruff Anderson

  Foster stood watching her in surprise. The color that the wind had failed to whip back to her cheeks burned now, two brilliant spots; raindrops, or tears, hung trembling on her lashes, and through them flamed the blue fires of her eyes.

  “So,” he said slowly, “so, Tisdale did hunt you up, after all; and, of course, you had the whole hard story from him.”

  “I heard him tell it, yes, but he left out about the—wolves.”

  “Wolves?” repeated Foster incredulously. “There were no wolves. Why, to be overtaken by a pack, single-handed, on the trail, is the worst that can happen to a man.”

  She nodded. “Mr. Banks told me. He had talked with the miners who found him. It was terrible.” A great shudder ran through her body; for a moment she pressed her fingers to her eyes, then she added with difficulty, almost in a whisper: “He was defending David.”

  “No, no! Great Scott! But see here,”—Foster laid his hand on her arm and drew her on down the path, “don't try to tell me any more. I understand. Banks shouldn't have told you. Come, remember Tisdale won through. He's safe.”

  After a silence, she said: “I doubt if you know how ill he has been.”

  “Tisdale? No, I hadn't heard.”

  “I only learned to-day; and he has been in a Washington hospital all these months. The surgeons advised amputating his hand,” she went on with a tremulous breathlessness, “but he refused. He said he would take the risk; that right hand was more than half of him, his 'better half.'“

  Involuntarily Foster smiled in recognition of that dominant note in Tisdale. “But he never seemed more physically fit than on the night I left Seattle,” he expostulated. “And there isn't a man in Alaska who understands the dangers and the precautions of frostbite better than Hollis Tisdale does.”

  “It was not frost; it was a vicious horse,” she answered. “It happened after you saw him, on that trip to Wenatchee, while he was leading the vixen over a break in the road. We were obliged to spend the night at a wretched way-house, and the hurt became infected.”

  Foster stopped. “You were obliged to spend the night?” he inquired.

  “Yes. It happened in this way. Mr. Tisdale had taken the Milwaukee line over the mountains, intending to finish the trip on horseback, to see the country, and I, you remember, was motoring through Snoqualmie Pass with the Morgansteins. His train barely missed colliding with our car. Mr. Morganstein was injured, and the others took the westbound home with him, but I decided to board the eastbound and go on by stage to Wenatchee, to see my desert tract, and return by way of the Great Northern. I found the stage service discontinued, so Mr. Tisdale secured a team instead of a saddle-horse, and we drove across.”

  “I see.” Foster smiled again. So Tisdale had capitulated on sight. “I see. You looked the tract over together, yet he hesitated with his offer.”

  She did not answer directly. They had reached the pergola, and she put out her hand groping, steadying herself through the shadows. “Mr. Tisdale believed at the beginning I was some one else,” she said then. “I was so entirely different from his conception of David Weatherbee's wife. In the end he offered to finance the project if I would see it carried through. I refused.”

  “Of course you refused,” responded Foster quickly. “It was preposterous of him to ask it of you. I can't understand it in Tisdale. He was always so broad, so fine, so head and shoulders above other men, so, well, chivalrous to women. But, meantime, while he hesitated, Banks came with his offer?”

  “Yes. While he was desperately ill in that hospital. I—I don't know what he will think of me—when he hears—” she went on with little, steadying pauses. “It is difficult to explain. So much happened on that drive to the Wenatchee valley. In the end, during an electrical storm, he saved me from a falling tree. What he asked of me was so very little, the weight of a feather, against all I owe him. Still, a woman does not allow even such a man to finance her affairs; people never would have understood. Besides, how could I have hoped, in a lifetime, to pay the loan? It was the most barren, desolate place; a deep, dry gulf shut in by a wicked mountain—you can't imagine—and I told him I never could live there, make it my home.” They were nearly through the pergola; involuntarily she stopped and, looking up at Foster, the light from a Japanese lantern illumined her small, troubled face. “But in spite of everything,” she went on, “he believes differently. To-day his first message came from Washington to remind me he had not forgotten the project. How can I—when he is so ill— how can I let him know?”

  Foster had had his hour; and, at this final moment, he sounded those hitherto unplumbed depths. “It will be all right,” he said steadily; “wait until you see what Lucky Banks does. You can trust him not to stand in Tisdale's way. And don't think I underrate Hollis Tisdale. He is a man in a thousand. No one knows that better than I. And that's why I am going to hold him to his record.”

  CHAPTER XXII. “AS MAN TO MAN”

  In January, when Mrs. Feversham returned to Washington, her brother accompanied her as far as Wenatchee. He went prepared to offer Banks as high as five thousand dollars for his option.

  At that time the Weatherbee tract was blanketed in snow. It never drifted, because Cerberus shut out the prevailing wind like a mighty door; even the bench and the high ridge beyond lifted above the levels of the vale smooth as upper floors. Previous to that rare precipitation, gangs of men, put to work on both quarter sections, had removed the sage-brush and planted trees, and the new orchard traced a delicate pattern on the white carpet in rows and squares. Banks had hurried the concrete lining of the basin walls, and when it became necessary to suspend construction on the flumes, he saw with satisfaction that the reservoir would husband the melting snows and so supply temporary irrigation in the early spring. All the lumber estimates had been included in his orders for building material in the autumn, and already the house on the bench showed a tiled roof above its mission walls, while down the gap and midway up the side slope of Cerberus rose the shingled gables of Annabel's home.

  To facilitate the handling of freight, the railroad company had laid a siding at the nearest point in Hesperides Vale; then, for the convenience of the workmen, the daily local made regular stops, and the little station bore the name of Weatherbee. Later, at the beginning of the year, it had become a post-office, and the Federal building included a general store. Also, at that time, the girders of a new brick block rose on the adjoining lots, and a sign secured to the basement wall announced: “This strictly modern building will be completed about June first. For office and floor space see Henderson Bailey.”

  The financier, who had motored up the valley in a rented car, noted these indications of an embryo town with interest.

  “Who is Henderson Bailey?” he asked.

  And the chauffeur answered with surprise: “Don't you know Bailey? Why, he's the man that got in on the ground floor. He owns the heart of Hesperides Vale. That was his apple orchard we passed, you remember, a few minutes ago. But the man who is backing him on that brick block is Lucky Banks of Alaska. They are pulling together, nip and tuck, for Weatherbee.”

  “Nip—and Tuck,” repeated Morganstein thoughtfully. “That reminds me of a young team of bays I considered buying last fall, over at North Yakima. Rather well named, if you knew 'em. But they were a little too gay for Seattle hills and the lady I expected would drive 'em. George, though, they made a handsome showing. A dealer named Lighter owned 'em, and they won the blue ribbon for three-year-olds at Yakima and Spokane.”

  “I know them,” replied the chauffeur. “They are owned here in the valley now; and Lucky Banks' wife is driving them. You can meet her most any day speeling down to the Columbia to see her goats.”

  “Goats?” queried Frederic.

  “Yes, sir. Didn't you know she used to keep a flock of Angoras up here? It was her land before she was married. But when Banks turned up with his pile and started the orchards, the goats had to go. It wouldn't have taken them a week to chew up every stic
k he planted. So she hired a man to winter them down on the Columbia, where she could keep an eye on them. Strange,” the chauffeur went on musingly, “what a difference clothes make in a woman. Nobody noticed her much, only we thought she was kind of touched, when she was herding those billies by herself up that pocket, but the minute Banks came, she blossomed out; made us all sit up and take notice. Yes, sir, she's sure some style. To see her in her up-to-date motoring-coat, veil to match, cape gloves, and up behind that team, you'd think the Empress of India had the road.”

  “Just what I said first time I saw her,” Morganstein chuckled thickly. “Or I guess it was the Queen of Sheba I called her. Happened to be grand-opera night, and she wore a necklace made of some of Banks' nuggets. George, she could carry 'em; had the throat and shoulders. It isn't the clothes that make the difference, my boy; it's the trick of wearing 'em. I know a slim little thoroughbred, who puts on a plain gray silk like it was cloth of gold. You'd think she was walking tiptoe to keep it off this darned old earth. Lord, I'd like to see her in the real stuff. George, I'll do it, soon's we're married,” and he laughed deeply at the notion. “I'll order a cloth of gold gown direct from Paris, and I'll set a diamond tiara on her proud little head. Bet it don't out-sparkle her eyes. Lord, Lord, she'll make 'em all stare.”

  The chauffeur gave the financier a measuring glance from the corner of his eye, but he puckered his lips discreetly to cover a grin, and with his head still cocked sidewise, looked off to the lifting front of Cerberus, whistling softly Queen Among the Heather. But the tune ceased abruptly and, straightening like an unstrung bow, he swerved the machine out of the thoroughfare and brought it to a stop.

  It was not the Empress of India who held the road, but little Banks in his red car. Slackening speed, he shouted back above the noise of the exhaust: “Hello! Is that you, Mr. Morganstein? I guess likely you're looking for me. But I can't stop. I've got to catch the local for Wenatchee; the eastbound don't make our station, and I'm booked for a little run through to Washington, D.C.”

  “That so?” answered Morganstein thoughtfully. “I came over just to look at this orchard of yours. See here, wait a minute.” He unbuttoned his heavy coat and, finding a pocket, drew out a time-card. “You will have a couple of hours to waste in Wenatchee between trains. Give me half an hour, long enough to show me a bird's-eye view of the project—that's all I want in this snow and I guarantee to put you in Wenatchee on time for your eastbound. The road is in good shape; driver knows his car.”

  Banks left his roadster and came over to the larger car. “I'll risk it since you've broke trail,” he said, taking the vacant seat behind. “But I knew if I took chances with snow, in this contrary buzz-wagon of mine, she'd likely skid off the first mean curve.”

  Morganstein, laughing, changed his seat for the one beside the prospector. “It's like this, dry and firm as a floor, straight through to Wenatchee. These are great roads you have in this valley; wish we had 'em on the other side the range.”

  “I sent a scraper up from the station ahead of me,” said Banks. “And, driver, we may as well run up the switchback to the house. It's level there, with room to turn. And it will give you the chance to see the whole layout below,” he went on, explaining to Morganstein. “The property on this side the mountain belongs to my wife, but we ain't living here yet; we are stopping with folks down by the station. Likely we'll move, soon's I get back from my trip. That is, if the boys get busy. Seem's if I have to keep after some of them all the time. To-day it's the lathers. I've got to stop, going through Weatherbee, to tell my wife to have an eye on them. They get paid by the bundle, and they told me this morning lathe would run short before they was through. I knew I had ordered an extra hundred on the architect's figgers, but I didn't say anything. Just prospected 'round and came back unexpected, and caught one of them red-handed. He was tucking a bunch between the ceiling and the upper floor, without even cutting the string. I made them rip off the lathe, and there they were stored thick, a full bundle to 'bout every three they'd nailed on.”

  “That's the way,” commented Morganstein, “every man of 'em will do you, if he sees a chance. Mrs. Banks will have to keep both eyes open, if you are leaving it to her. But it will be compensation to her, I guess, driving those bays over from the station every day. Handsomest team in Washington. I'll bet,” and he turned his narrow eyes suddenly on Banks, “Lighter held you up for all they were worth.”

  “The team belongs to Hollis Tisdale,” answered Banks. “He bought them at Kittitas last fall and drove them through. They were in the valley when I came, and he asked me to look after them while he was east. My wife exercises them. She understands horses, my, yes. One of those colts had a mean trick of snapping at you if you touched the bit, but she cured him complete. And she took such a shine to that team I thought likely they'd do for a Christmas present. Tisdale told me in the fall if I had a good chance, to sell, so I wrote and made him an offer. But his answer never came till last night. A nurse at the hospital in Washington wrote for him; he had been laid up with a case of blood-poison all winter, and it started from a nip that blame' colt gave him on the trip from Kittitas. He refused my price because, seeing's the team wasn't safe for a full-sized man to drive, it went against his conscience to let them go to a lady.”

  “He was right,” said Morganstein. “George, that was a lucky escape. I was within an ace of buying that team myself. But I put down Tisdale's sickness to frostbite; often goes that way with a man in the north.”

  “Sure; it does.” Banks paused, while his glance fell to the empty fingers of his right glove. “But that colt, Nip, gets the credit this time. It happened while Hollis was trying to lead him over a break in the road. He said it didn't amount to anything, the night I saw him before he left Seattle, but he had the hand bandaged, and I'd ought to have known it was giving him trouble.”

  Morganstein pondered a silent moment, then said slowly, “Kittitas is close enough to be a suburb of Ellensburg, and that's where the Wenatchee stage meets the Milwaukee Puget Sound train. Friend of mine made the trip about that time; didn't say anything of a break in the road.”

  “There's just one road through,” answered Banks, “and that's the one they used for hauling from the Northern Pacific line while this railroad was building. Likely there was a stage then, but it ain't running now.”

  Frederic pondered again, then a gleam of intelligence flashed in his eyes. “Did Tisdale make that trip from Kittitas alone?” he asked.

  Banks shook his head. “He didn't mention any passengers. Likely it was having to drive himself, after his hand was hurt, that did the mischief. Anyhow, he's had a close call; fought it out sooner than let the doctors take his hand; and he never let one of us boys know. That was just the way with Dave Weatherbee; they was a team. But I'm going to look him up, now, soon's I can. He had to get that nurse to write for him. Likely there ain't a man around to tend to his business; he might be all out of money.”

  “I guess, with the Aurora mine to back him, you needn't worry.”

  The little man shook his head. “It will take more security than the Aurora to open a bank account in Washington, D.C. I ain't saying anything against Dave Weatherbee's strike,” he added quickly, “but, when you talk Alaska to those fellows off there in the east, they get cold feet.”

  Morganstein looked off, chuckling his appreciation. They had arrived at the final curve; on one side, rising from the narrow shoulder, stood Annabel's new home, while on the other the mountain sloped abruptly to Weatherbee's vale. Banks pointed out the peach orchard on the bench at the top of the pocket; the rim of masonry, pushing through the snow, that marked the reservoir; the apple tract below.

  “I see,” said Frederic, “and this mountain we are on must be the one Mrs. Weatherbee noticed, looking down from that bench. Reminded her of some kind of a beast!”

  Banks nodded. “It looked like a cross between a cougar and a husky in the fall. One place you catch sight of two heads. But she'll be tamer
in the spring, when things begin to grow. There's more peaches, set in narrow terraces where the road cross-cuts down there, and all these small hummocks under the snow are grapes. It's warm on this south slope and sheltered from the frosts; the vines took right ahold; and, with fillers of strawberries hurrying on the green, Dave's wife won't know the mountain by summer, my, no.”

  “Presume,” said the financier abruptly, “you expect to supply both tracts with water from those springs?”

  “My, no. This quarter section belongs to my wife, and it's up to me to make the water connections safe for her. I can do it.” Banks set his lips grimly, and his voice shrilled a higher key. “Yes, sir, even if I have to tunnel through from the Wenatchee. But I think likely I'll tap the new High Line and rig a flume with one of these new-style electric pumps. And my idea would be to hollow out a nice little reservoir, with maybe a fountain, right here on this shoulder alongside the house, and let a sluice and spillways follow the road down. There'd be water handy then, and to spare, in case Dave's springs happen to pinch out.”

  Morganstein's glance moved slowly over the sections of road cross-cutting the mountain below, and on up the vale to the distant bench. Presently he said: “What are you building over there? A barn, or is it a winery for your grapes?”

  “It's neither,” answered Banks with sharp emphasis. “It's a regular, first-class house. Dave Weatherbee was counting on striking it rich in Alaska when he drew the plans. The architect calls it California-Spanish style. The rooms are built around a court, and we are piping for the fountain now.”

  Frederic grew thoughtful. Clearly an offer of five thousand dollars for Lucky Banks' option on the Weatherbee tract was inadequate. After a moment he said: “What is it going to cost you?”