Man of the Desert: A Western Story

by Robert J. Horton

  “What’s going on?”

  Her senses returned to normal as she heard the voice. She saw the tall form of Channing confronting Brood, who was swearing in inarticulate gutturals.

  “What were you doing with that girl?” Channing asked sternly.

  “Oh, you came back for her, eh?” sneered Brood. “You’ll get yours for this, you double-crosser!”

  Channing pushed him away with his left hand, then his right shot out, caught Brood fully on the jaw, and sent him sprawling into the dust of the street. The crowd yelled, and Hope was pushed into the front of a ring of excited spectators that quickly formed. Brood twisted on his left side in the street. Hope could see his features contorted in a fierce snarl of rage. Channing stepped back and looked around. In that instant Brood’s right hand darted to his gun. Hope cried out, but Channing had moved like a flash. There was a spurt of red at his right hip and Brood fell back. Then Channing stepped to her, took her arm, and led her hurriedly through the crowd.

  They hurried up the street without speaking, although many people nodded or spoke to Channing. He directed their course to the cabin on the hill. Hope saw a light in the cabin and realized that Lillian had returned and found her absent. Channing threw open the door and pushed her inside. He came in after her and shut the door. Lillian was standing by the table with her hat on. She evidently had just put down the lamp, as she held a cloth in her hand and the nickel base of the lamp shone as if it had been polished.

  “How’d she get out?” Channing asked angrily, addressing Lillian.

  “I don’t know, unless she walked out by her lonesome,” replied Lillian. “I left her here because I had to tell the boss I might be down late.”

  “I thought I told you to stay here,” Channing said sternly to Hope.

  “I saw Brood and another man ride into town . . .” Hope began.

  “Don’t you know it’s dangerous for you to be running around this town?” he interrupted harshly. “What do you suppose my idea was in bringing you up here?”

  “I suppose you thought I would be safe here,” Hope replied coolly, raising her head high. “When I saw Brood come into town, I thought it might mean danger to you and I . . . I went to . . . to warn you.”

  Channing’s jaw dropped. He looked at her steadily for several moments. “You . . . went out in that mob to warn me?” he stammered, incredulous.

  Hope nodded. “I knew there’d be trouble if you and Brood met, and I thought there might be a chance of his seeing you first.”

  Channing looked around with a vacant expression on his face. Then he recovered himself and frowned. “See that she doesn’t get out again,” he said to Lillian. Then he took his departure.

  Hope saw the door close after him. She stepped to the divan, dropped upon it, and burst into tears.

  Lillian stared at her, holding the cloth in her hands foolishly. “My heavens,” she muttered, as if in wonder. “Do they still make ’em that way?” She put down the cloth, went over to the divan, and gathered Hope into her arms.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Outside the cabin on the steep slope of the hill, Channing stood looking out over the lights of the town to the shadowy desert. His legs were braced well apart and his hands rested on his hips. His face was set and serious and a reminiscent light played in his eyes, clouded for a moment, then shot forth in a gleam. He turned and looked at the cabin, then he strode off down the hill. He walked down the street, keeping an eye to the left and right, and watching the other side of the street. Thus he saw the glitter of a nickeled shield before the wearer saw him. He stopped the deputy with a touch on the arm.

  “Looking for me?” he asked in an affected drawl.

  “Not right now,” was the answer. “I see you’ve been at it again.”

  The deputy, a short, thick-set man with a red face, sandy mustache, and brown eyes, moved back a pace.

  “What of it?” Channing flared. “He drew first. Plenty of people saw him. He can be thankful I didn’t bore him for keeps.”

  “Oh, he’ll get out of it all right,” said the deputy with a wry smile. “I heard he drew first. But you hit him, I understand. Well, you fellows can fight it out among yourselves. I got a hard enough job as it is. Who was the skirt?”

  “That don’t matter,” answered Channing. “There’s more to this than a skirt, Adams. Have you been called out of town anywhere lately?”

  “Not lately . . . no,” replied Adams. “Not in a month. There’s no place around here to be called to. Why . . . where would I be called?”

  “I dunno,” Channing returned. “But you might be called somewhere. How long will it be before Brood can get around to his devilment again?”

  “Two, three weeks . . . maybe a month,” replied Adams. “Going to be waiting for him?”

  “I’m not going to be hot-footing it out of the country because I’m scared of him,” said Channing with a light laugh. “See you again.”

  “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if you did,” the deputy muttered in an undertone as Channing moved away. He stared after him until he was lost in the crowd.

  Channing kept on down the street, continuing to be just as alert as when he had started out. At the lower end of the street he stopped before a small building and peered in through the window. There was no one in the front room, but he could see a light in a rear room. He knocked sharply at the door.

  A man came out, holding a lamp over his head. He made sure of the identity of his visitor before he unlocked the door and opened it.

  “What you got now, Channing?” he queried in a squeaky voice as he stepped back. He was an old man, white of hair and mustache, with watery blue eyes.

  “Haven’t got a thing, Pap,” said Channing cheerily. “Fact is, I want something.”

  “Well, I haven’t got much,” the other quavered as he shut the door. “You been hittin’ the stud too hard?”

  “You never saw me hard up yet, Pap,” Channing answered laughingly. “And you never heard of me going clean broke at stud . . . not clean broke, Pap. I don’t want to borrow any money. Maybe we better slip in the back room to talk, eh, Pap?”

  “If you want to . . . yes. I guess it’ll be all right.”

  They moved into the rear room that was an assay workshop. Channing shut the door leading to the front room and dropped into a chair. The old assayer sat down at a table where he was eating his supper.

  “Well, what is it, boy?” he asked, looking at Channing shrewdly.

  Channing leaned forward. “Say, Pap, do I look like a danged fool?”

  The old man did not appear surprised. He seemed to ponder the question in all seriousness, studying his visitor the while. “Not right offhand, you don’t,” he said finally, “but you never can tell. What you been up to now? You still in with that hell hound . . . ?”

  Channing interrupted him by holding up a hand. “That wasn’t a fair question, nohow, Pap. It doesn’t give you a lead as to what I’m driving at and it wouldn’t do you any good if it did. Pap, I want some information.”

  “I’ve been in these hills a long time, young man.”

  “These ain’t hills,” Channing scoffed. “They’re just humus in the desert. Say, Pap, is the Yellow Daisy petering out?”

  The old man put down his knife and fork and wiped his hands on a bandanna handkerchief he had in his lap. He looked at Channing intently. “Whatever give you that idear?” he asked.

  “A question doesn’t answer a question ’cept on rare occasions, Pap. Is the glory hole losing her glory?”

  “I thought you wanted to consult me professionally,” said the assayer with a scowl.

  “I do,” said Channing with a nod.

  “I can’t discuss properties except with their owners or officials connected with them,” said the assayer. “You ought to know that.”

  “I do. I own two shares of stock in the Yellow Daisy. Won ’em in a game with Turner. You know I know the big guns, Turner and Wescott, pretty well. Two shares aren’t wort
h so much, but they ought to get this information for me. Aren’t I entitled to know, Pap?”

  “Two shares is pretty thin ice to stand on in a case like this,” was the reply. “You know what it would start to have the news that the Yellow Daisy was giving in get around?”

  “I know, Pap,” said Channing with a smile, “but it isn’t going to get around. Not from me, anyway. Listen, Pap, I want this here information for my own sweet self and nobody else. I won’t tell a soul. You know me, Pap, and you know there’s one thing I don’t do. I don’t lie.”

  “It’s not ethics,” grumbled the assayer. “You shouldn’t put me up against it like this just because I’m assaying the samples from up there. I like you, all right, but . . . what do you want this information for?”

  “May never have the least use for it,” said Channing. “I know pretty well how things stand . . . Turner and Wescott hinted some to me . . . but I’ve got to be sure. And when I’m sure, I’m going to ask you to do me another big favor, Pap. I’ll have to keep my word to make sure you’ll do me this other favor, don’t you see? And I’ve done you a turn or two in the past.”

  “You saved my life on the desert, dang you!” the old man blurted out. “An’ there’s where you’ve got me.”

  “Is she petering out, Pap?”

  “She’s getting a little thin,” the old man confessed, lowering his voice.

  “She’s gutted!” exclaimed Channing as the assayer held up a hand. “How long will she last, Pap?”

  “Two, three months, maybe. An’ they might run into something new.”

  “Not on the record of all glory holes, Pap,” said Channing. “When a glory hole loses her glory, she’s gone. Now, Pap, when she’s gone for certain, you send word to me. Remember that. They’ll be no harm in sending word to me because everybody else is going to know it. Only I want to know it as soon as anybody else, understand?”

  The assayer nodded with a twinkle in his eye. “Little before wouldn’t hurt, I take it. Where’ll you be?”

  “At Nate Farman’s Rancho del Encanto across the desert west of here,” replied Channing. “Don’t forget the place and don’t forget to send word. I’ll pay the man that brings it. You won’t forget?”

  “I can still remember occasionally,” grunted the old man. “You’ll be there sure? What you doing over there?”

  “Pap,” said Channing, rising with a short laugh, “it’s a big country . . . all full of cactus.”

  The assayer followed him into the other room and let him out with another admonition not to let a word of what he had learned about the Yellow Daisy leak out. Channing promised faithfully and shook the old man’s hand.

  Channing walked back up the street thoughtfully. He looked into the various resorts as he proceeded, and entered some. In this way he came finally to the Bluebird and here he entered, also. He moved casually about among the tables where patrons were gambling, and then scanned the faces of the men at the bar, reflected in the mirror. He caught a glimpse of a man at the lower end and strolled over to him.

  “Hello, Morton.”

  The man he addressed swung around with a startled look. He was lean, unshaven, dressed in cowpuncher garb.

  “I was wondering if I could have a word with you,” said Channing easily. “Out back here where it’s quiet, say.”

  “I know why,” answered the other in a surly tone. “I ain’t lookin’ for you.”

  “But you were,” drawled out Channing. “You were looking for me this morning out at Ghost Wash. I reckon we better have that little talk, Morton.”

  The other’s face paled. “What do you want to talk to me about?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Does it make any difference?” demanded Channing coldly.

  “It might. I don’t aim to take any chances after you plugging Brood.”

  “It was his own fault, Morton. You aren’t likely to get hurt if you keep hold of your ball of yarn and don’t try to play with the cat. Are you coming?”

  The man hesitated, but after a long look at Channing he put down his glass and walked with him across the dance floor to a rear door that led out on a little porch with a railing around it and steps leading to the ground.

  Channing sat on the railing, swinging a leg. “Morton, how did you three happen along out there at Ghost Wash?”

  “Brood knew how you got out,” was the sullen reply. “We went around by the trail and picked up your tracks. All we did was foller ’em. Brood’s a good trailer.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Channing admitted. “Was that man I shot badly hurt?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Too bad. He didn’t leave me any way out whatsoever. You can’t shoot a man in the arm or some other soft spot when he’s bobbing around on a horse. You’re lucky to hit him at all. I knew that was Brood in the wash. When you figure on going back?”

  “Dunno. Never, maybe. Mendicott’ll be pretty sore.”

  “You better start back tonight,” said Channing slowly.

  “Eh? I will not.”

  Channing’s right hand moved with incredible swiftness, and the starlight glinted on the dull metal of his gun. “I want to send a message to Mendicott,” he said in the same low voice. “I want you to get it to him as fast as you can. I want you to light out for up there tonight. Understand?”

  “You . . . you got the message wrote?” asked the other nervously.

  “No. I’m going to tell it to you. You just tell Mendicott that I was in Bandburg, that I took Miss Farman out, and that I’m going to the Farman Ranch to stay. Understand? I’ll repeat it.” He repeated the message carefully several times and had the other repeat it after him. “Now,” he said, getting off the railing, “you know what to do. You can tell Mendicott I shot that man and Brood. You can tell him anything you please. But you get there and you deliver that message. Understand? Do as I say and hurry up about it.”

  The man hastily went down the steps and faded into the shadows.

  Channing walked back through the Bluebird and out to the street. He turned down the street and walked nearly to its lower end where there was a livery barn. He went in and gave an order to the barn man. As he came out, a rider galloped into the space before the barn. Channing whistled softly as he caught sight of the man’s face in the starlight. It was the little driver from Rancho del Encanto—Jim Crossley.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hope’s torrent of tears gradually subsided as Lillian Bell held her and stared at the shaded lamp on the table. The older girl no longer seemed puzzled; there was a knowing look in her eyes, a dawning wonder and a hint of bitter resentment. But she patted Hope on the shoulder and spoke to her soothingly.

  “You’ve got a good cry coming to you, girlie, so have it out. I wish I could do the same. But it wouldn’t do me any good. It’ll do you good, though, so don’t you care.”

  Hope raised her head finally and dried her eyes. She smiled at the other girl. “I couldn’t help it,” she said slowly. “He seemed so . . . so angry. And he’s really done a lot for me . . . for us. I should have known he could take care of himself and stayed here.”

  Lillian rose and went into her bedroom. When she returned, she was without her hat. She sat down in a chair opposite Hope and coolly lighted a cigarette.

  “You don’t know much about men, do you, honey?”

  Hope flushed and looked at her dubiously.

  “I mean men like the kind we’ve got out here,” Lillian explained. “They’re a queer bunch . . . the best of ’em. Some of ’em are plain scum and ain’t worth considering. But the good ones have to be handled. Tell me what happened tonight.”

  Bit by bit Hope recounted her experience, omitting nothing, from the time she had left the cabin until she returned.

  “Channing just naturally bored Brood to keep him out of the way,” said Lillian. “Don’t worry; he hasn’t killed him. Channing would have to have it in for a man pretty bad to shoot him for keeps. But Brood’s been meddling, I can see that. It don’t pa
y to meddle in Channing’s affairs.”

  “You know him very well?” asked Hope.

  “Tolerably well. I got a funny job here, girlie. I sing at the Bluebird and I’ve got a pretty fair voice, if I do say it. It draws trade and packs the joint every night. I dance with the men, too, and get a percentage on what they buy. I make good money. That’s why I’m here. But sometimes they get a little bold. Channing’s sort of been my friend. He’s sent several of those hombres on their way to new diggings to protect me. We’re sort of . . . sort of . . . friends.”

  Hope saw a wistful look in the older girl’s eyes. It was impossible not to understand that look. It betrayed Lillian’s secret as much as so many words would have disclosed it. She loved Channing.

  “I can’t understand him,” Hope said to relieve the silence, although she spoke the truth.

  “You couldn’t be expected to,” said Lillian in something of a superior tone. “Channing’s desert, that’s what he is. He’s as mum as a niggerhead cactus, usually. You can’t tell what’s going on in his mind. There’s usually something up, though, when he starts to sing. Shows he’s thinkin’ hard about something, and he’s liable to be mad. I’d hate to be a man and have Channing come after me with a gun . . . singing!”

  “He trusts you absolutely,” Hope observed.

  “Why not?” said Lillian with a flash of her eyes. “I’m like a bank. I know lots and say nothing. I’ve done Channing a turn or two myself.” She nodded as if in triumph.

  Then Hope wondered if this girl resented the fact that Channing was helping her? Did she feel a subtle pang of jealousy? It was all absurd. But was it all so absurd? Hope could readily see how Lillian would certainly fall in love with Channing. This would be the case not alone because of Channing’s personal appeal, his good looks and splendid physique, his air of mystery, and his quiet ways, but because he had befriended her where others had sought to annoy her. And it seemed to Hope that Lillian was the kind of girl that should naturally attract Channing, who had lived so long in the raw. She didn’t want Lillian to think that she was in any way interested in Channing other than as her benefactor. “I guess Channing appreciates what you’ve done for him, Lillian,” she said. “I know he likes you.”