by Zane Grey
Tomaso shook his head violently. “Por dios, my brother she’s fin’ out about that,” he said. “She’s don’t tell nobody, only me. She’s fin’ out them hombres what ride that theeng, they go loco for walking too much in sand and don’t get no water. Them hombres, they awful sick, they don’t know where is that thing what flies. My brother, she’s fin’ out that thing sets in Mexico, belongs Mexico. Thees countree los’. Jus’ like ship what’s los’ on ocean, my brother she’s tell from writing. My brother, she’s smart hombre. She’s keep awful quiet, tell nobody. She’s theenk sell that thing for flying.”
“Huh!” Johnny grunted. “What you telling me about it for? Your brother’d skin yuh alive if he caught you blabbing it all out to me.”
Tomaso looked a little scared and uneasy. He dropped his eyes and began poking a hole in the sand with his toe. Then he looked up very candidly into Johnny’s face.
“Me, I’m awful lonesome,” he explained. “I’m riding here and I’m see you jus’ like friend. You boy like me. You got picshurs them thing what flies. You tell me you don’t say nothing for my brother when I’m tell you that things sets over there.” He waved a dirty, brown hand to the southward. “Me, I’m trus’ you. Tha’s secret what I’m tell. You don’t tell no-body. You promise?”
“All right. I promise.” Very gravely Johnny made the sign of the cross over his heart.
Tomaso’s eyes lightened at that. More gravely than Johnny he crossed himself—forehead, lips, breast. He murmured a solemn oath in Spanish, and afterwards put out his hand to shake, American fashion. All this impressed Johnny more than had the detailed description of the thing which sat.
If he still laughed at the story, his laugh was not particularly convincing. Nor was his jibing tone when he called after Tomaso when that youth was riding away:
“Tell your brother I might buy his flying machine—if he’ll sell it cheap!”
CHAPTER FIVE
DESERT GLIMPSES
Mary V was indefatigably pursuing a new and apparently fascinating avocation, for which her mother expressed little sympathy, no enthusiasm whatever, and a grudgingly given consent. Mary V was making a collection of Desert Glimpses for educational purposes at her boarding school. She had long been urged to do so by her schoolmates and teachers, she told her mother, and now she was going to do it. It should be the very best, most complete collection any one could possibly make within riding distance of the Rolling R. Incidentally she meant to collect jackrabbit ears and rattlesnake rattles, for the purpose of thrilling the girls, but she did not tell her mother that. Neither did she tell her mother just why her quest always lay to the southward when there was plenty of desert to be glimpsed toward the north and to the east and the west. She did not even tell herself why she did that.
So Mary V, knowing well the terrific heat she would have to face in the middle of the day, ordered her horse saddled when the boys saddled their own—which was about sunrise. She did not keep it standing more than half an hour or so before she came out and mounted him. She was well equipped for her enterprise. She carried a camera, three extra rolls of film, a telescoped tripod which she tied under her right stirrup leather, a pair of high-power Busch glasses (to glimpse with, probably), two duck-covered canteens filled and dripping, a generous lunch of sandwiches and cake and sour pickles, a box-magazine .22 rifle, a knife, a tube of cold cream wrapped in a bit of cheesecloth, and a very compact yet very complete vanity case. Jostling the vanity case in her saddle pocket were two boxes of soft-nose, .22-long cartridges for the rifle. Furthermore, for special personal protection she had an extremely businesslike six-shooter which she carried in a shoulder holster under her riding shirt; a concession to her father, who had made her promise never to ride away from the ranch without it.
For apparel Mary V wore a checked riding coat and breeches, together with black puttees. The suit had grown a bit shabby for Los Angeles, and Mary V’s mother believed that town cast-offs should be worn out on the ranch. Mary V did not mind. She hated the cumbersome riding skirts of the range girl proper, and much preferred the breeches. When she had put a little distance between herself and the ranch, she usually removed the coat and tied it in a roll behind the cantle. She looked then like a slim boy—or she would have, except for the hat. Mary V cherished her complexion, which Arizona sun and winds would have burned a brick red. In cool weather she wore a Stetson like the boys; but now she favored a great, straw sombrero such as you see section hands wear along the railroad track in Arizona. To keep it on her head in the winds she had resorted to tying a ribbon down over the brim from the front of the crown to the nape of her neck; and tying another ribbon from the back of the crown down under her chin. Thus doubly anchored, and skewered with two hatpins besides, the hat might be counted upon to give Mary V no trouble, but a great deal of protection. Worn with the checked riding breeches and the heavy, black puttees, it was not particularly becoming, but Mary V did not expect to meet many pairs of critical eyes. Rolling R boys were too much like home folks to bother about, having been accustomed to seeing Mary V in strange and various guises since she was a tiny tot.
Southward she rode, and as swiftly as was wise if she valued the well-being of her horse. Movies will have it that nothing short of a gallop is tolerated by riders in the West; whereas Mary V had been taught from her childhood up that she must never “run” her horse unless there was need of it. She therefore contented herself with ambling along the trail at a distance-devouring trail-trot, slowing her horse to a walk on the rising slopes and urging him a little with her spurred heels on the levels. She did not let him lag—she could not, if she covered the distance she had in her mind to cover.
Away over to the south—almost to Sinkhole Camp, in fact—was a ridge that was climbable on horseback. Not every ridge in that country was, and Mary V was not fond of walking in the sand on a hot day. The ridge commanded a far view, and was said to be a metropolis among the snakes that populated the region. Mary V had, very casually, mentioned to the boys that some day she meant to get a good picture of a snake den. She said “the girls” did not believe that snakes went in bunches and writhed amicably together in their dens. She was going to prove it to them.
A perfectly logical quest it was therefore that led her toward that ridge. You could not blame Mary V if the view from the top of it extended to Sinkhole Camp and beyond. She had not made the view, remember, nor had she advised the snakes to choose that ridge for their dens. She was not even perfectly sure that they did choose it. The boys had told her that Black Ridge was “full up” with snake dens, and she meant to see if they told the truth.
Wherefore her horse Tango laboriously carried Mary V up the ridge and kept his ears perked for the warning buzz of rattlers, and his eyes open for a feasible line retreat in case he heard one. Tango knew just as well as Mary V when they were in snake country. He had gone so far as to argue the point of climbing that ridge, but as usual Mary V’s argument was stronger than Tango’s, and he had yielded with an injured air that was quite lost upon his rider. Mary V was thinking of something else.
They reached the top without having seen a single snake. Tango seemed somewhat surprised at this, but Mary V was not. Mary V thought it was too hot even for rattlesnakes, and as for the dearth of lizards—well she supposed the snakes had eaten them all. She had let Tango stop often to breathe, and whenever he did so she had looked south, scanning as much of the lower level as she could see, which was not the proper way to go about hunting snake dens, I assure you. But at the top she permitted Tango to walk into the shade of a boulder that radiated heat like a stove but was still preferable to the blistering sunlight, and there she left him while she walked a little nearer the edge of the rimrock that topped the ridge on its southern side.
Once more she scanned the sweltering expanse of sagebrush, scant grass, many rock patches and much sand. She saw a rider moving along a shallow watercourse
, and immediately she focused her glasses upon him. She gave an ejaculation of surprise when the powerful lenses annihilated nine tenths of the distance between them. One would judge from her manner and her tone that, while she had not been surprised to see a rider, that rider’s identity was wholly unexpected.
She watched him until, having reached a certain place where a group of cottonwoods shaded the gully, he stopped and dismounted to fuss with his cinches. Mary V could not be sure whether he was merely killing time, or whether he really needed to tighten the saddle; but when another rider appeared suddenly from the eastward, she did know that the first rider showed no symptoms of surprise.
She did not know the second arrival at the cottonwoods. She could see that he was Mexican, and that was all. The two talked together with much gesturing on the part of the Mexican, and sundry affirmative nods on the part of the first rider. The Mexican frequently waved a hand toward the south—toward Sinkhole Camp, perhaps. They seemed to be in a hurry, Mary V thought. They did not tarry more than five minutes before they parted, the Mexican riding back toward the east, the first rider returning westward. He had come cautiously, at an easy pace. He went back riding at a long lope, as though time was precious to him.
Mary V watched until she saw him emerge out of that hollow and duck into another which led toward the northwest and, if he followed it, would bring him out near the head of Dry Gulch, which was several miles nearer the Rolling R home ranch than was the ridge where she stood. When he had gone, she turned again to see where the Mexican was going. The Mexican, she discovered, was going east as fast as his horse could carry him without dropping dead in that heat; and he, also, was keeping to the hollows.
“Here’s a pretty howdy-do!” said Mary V to the palpitating atmosphere. “I’m just going to tell dad about Tex sneaking away down here to meet Mexicans and things on the sly! I never did like that Tex. I don’t like his eyes. You can’t see into them at all. I’ll bet they’re framing up something on Johnny Jewel—they were pointing right toward his camp. There’s no telling what they’re up to! I’m going right and tell dad—”
But she couldn’t. Mary V knew she couldn’t. In the first place, her dad would ask her what she was doing on Black Ridge, which was far beyond her permitted range of activities. Her dad would foolishly maintain that she could glimpse all the desert necessary without going that far from the ranch. In the second place, he would probably tell her that he was paying Tex to ride the range and, if he met a Mexican, it was his business to send that same Mexican back where he came from. In the third place, he would think she was riding over there for a reason which was untrue and very, very unjust. And he wouldn’t fire Tex, because Tex was a good “hand” and hands were hard to find. He would simply make her promise to stay at home.
“He’d say it was perfectly all right for Tex—and perfectly all wrong for me. Dad’s tremendously pin-headed where I am concerned. So I suppose I’ll just have to say nothing, and ride all that long way in the hot sun to make sure that horrid Johnny Jewel is not being murdered or something. It doesn’t, of course, concern me personally at all—but dad is so short-handed this summer. And he actually threatened that he couldn’t afford me a new car this winter if wages go up or horses go down, or anything happens that doesn’t just please him. And I suppose Johnny Jewel has his uses, in the general scheme of dad’s business, so even if he is a mean, conceited little shrimp personally, I’ll have to go and make sure he isn’t killed, because it would be just like dad to call that bad luck, and grouch around and not get me the car.”
Mary V had barely reached this goal of personal unconcern for anything but her own private interests, when Tango began to manifest certain violent symptoms of having seen or heard something very disagreeable. Mary V had to take some long, boyish steps in order to snatch his reins before he bolted and left her afoot, which would have been a real calamity. But she caught him, scolded him shrewishly and slapped his cheek until he backed from her wall-eyed, and then she mounted him and went clattering down off the ridge without having seen any snake dens at all. Doubtless the boys had lied to her, as usual.
To Sinkhole Camp was a long way, much longer than it had looked from the top of Black Ridge. Mary V, her face red with heat, hurried on and on, wishing over and over that she had never started at all, but lacking the resolution to turn back. Yet she was considered a very resolute young woman by those who knew her most intimately.
Perversely she blamed Johnny Jewel for putting her to all this trouble and discomfort, and for interrupting her in her work of getting Desert Glimpses. She repeatedly told herself that he would not even have the common human instinct to feel grateful toward her for riding away down there to see if he were murdered.
She was right in that conjecture, at least. When she rode up to the squat adobe cabin, somewhere near noon, she found Johnny Jewel stretched morosely on his back, staring up at the low roof and thinking the gloomiest thoughts which a lonesome young man of twenty-one or two may conjure from a fit of the blues. That he was not murdered or even menaced with any danger seemed to Mary V a personal grievance against herself after that terrifically hot ride.
Johnny turned a gloomy glance upon her when she walked in and sat down limply on the one chair in the cabin; but he did not show any keen pleasure in her presence, nor any gratitude.
“Well! You’re still alive, then!” she said rather crossly.
“I guess I am. Why?” Johnny, his meditations disturbed by her coming, rose languidly and sat upon the side of his bunk, slouched forward with his arms resting across his strong young legs and his glance inclined to the floor.
“Oh, nothing.” Mary V took off her hat, but she was too fagged to fan herself with it. Her one emotion, at that moment, was an overwhelming regret that she had come. If Johnny Jewel had the nerve to think that she wanted to see him—
“You must love the sun,” Johnny observed apathetically. “Lizards, even, have got sense enough to stay in the shade such weather as this.” He rumpled his hair to let the faint breeze in to his scalp, and looked at her. “You’re red as a pickled beet at a picnic,” he told her ungraciously.
Mary V pulled together her lagging wits, marshaled her fighting forces, and flaunted a war banner in the shape of a smile that was demure.
“Well, one must expect to make some sacrifices when one is working in a good cause,” she replied amiably, and paused.
“Yeh?” Johnny’s eyes lost a little of their dullness. It is possible that he recognized that war banner of hers. “One didn’t expect to see one down here—on a good cause.”
“No? Well, you do see one, nevertheless. One is at work on an exhibit for one’s school, you see. Each of us girls was assigned a subject for vacation work. Mine is ‘Desert Glimpses’—a collection of pictures, curios and so on, representing points of interest in the desert country. I’ve a horned toad at home, and a blue-tailed lizard, and some pictures of jack rabbits, with their ears attached to the frame, and quite a few rattlesnake rattles. So today,” she smiled again at him, “I rode down here to take a picture of you!”
“Thanks,” said Johnny, apparently unmoved. “I didn’t know I was a point of interest in your eyes; but seeing I am, I’m willing the girls should have a picture of me framed. If you’ll go out and sit in the shade of the shack while I shave and doll up a little, you may take a picture. And I’ll autograph it for you. Five years from now,” he went on complacently, “you’re going to brag about having it in your possession. One of those I-knew-him-when kind of brags. And if you’ll bring the girls around some time when I’m pulling off an exhibition flight, I’ll let ’em shake hands with me.”
“Well, of all the conceit!” By that one futile phrase Mary V owned herself defeated in the first charge. “Of all—”
“Conceit? Nothing like that! When you thought it was a good cause to ride all these miles on the hottest day of the year
, just to get my picture—” Johnny smirked at her in a perfectly maddening way. He knew it was maddening to Mary V, for he had meant it to be so.
“I did not!” Mary V’s face could not be any redder than the heat had made it, but even so one could see the rise in her mental temperature.
“You said you did.”
“Well—I merely want your picture to put with my collection of donkeys! You—”
“You said points of interest,” Johnny reminded her. He had lost all his moroseness in the interest of the conversation. He had forgotten what a tonic his word-battles with Mary V could furnish. “You better stick to it, because it will sure pan out that way. You’ll hate to admit, five years from now, that you once took me for a donkey. Besides, you can’t have my ears to pin to the frame; I’ll need ’em to listen to all the nice things some real girls will be saying to me when I’ve just made an exhibition flight.”
“Exhibition flight—of your imagination!” fleered Mary V, curling her lip at him. “And I won’t need your ears to prove you’re a donkey, so don’t worry about that.”
Johnny Jewel stood up, lifted his arms high above his head to stretch his healthy young muscles, pulled his face all askew in a yawn, rumpled his hair again and reached for his papers and tobacco. He knew that Mary V never noticed or cared if a fellow smoked; she was too thoroughly range-bred for that affectation.
“Good golly! Things must sure be dull at the ranch, if you had to ride twenty miles on a day like this to pick a fight with me,” he observed, leisurely singling one leaf out of his book of papers. “Left your horse to bake in the sun, too, I suppose, while you practice the art of persiflage on me.”
He finished rolling his cigarette, languidly helped himself to a match from a box on the wide window ledge near him, and sauntered to the door—with a slanting, downward glance at Mary V as he passed her. A little smile lurked at the corners of his lips now that his face was not visible to her. Mary V was studying her wrist watch as though it was vital that she knew the time down to the last second. He judged that she had no retort ready for him, so he picked up his hat and went out into the glaring sunlight.
