MOISTURE, A TRACE
Last fall I revisited Arizona for the first time in many years. Myultimate destination lay one hundred and twenty-eight miles south of therailroad. As I stepped off the Pullman I drew deep the crisp, thin air;I looked across immeasurable distance to tiny, brittle, gilded buttes; Iglanced up and down a ramshackle row of wooden buildings with crazywooden awnings, and I sighed contentedly. Same good old Arizona.
The Overland pulled out, flirting its tail at me contemptuously. Asmall, battered-looking car, grayed and caked with white alkali dust,glided alongside, and from under its swaying and disreputable topemerged someone I knew. Not individually. But by many campfires of thepast I had foregathered with him and his kind. Same old Arizona, Irepeated to myself.
This person bore down upon me and gently extracted my bag from my grasp.He stood about six feet three; his face was long and brown and grave;his figure was spare and strong. Atop his head he wore the sacredArizona high-crowned hat, around his neck a bright bandana; no coat, butan unbuttoned vest; skinny trousers, and boots. Save for lack of spursand _chaps_ and revolver he might have been a moving-picture cowboy.The spurs alone were lacking from the picture of a real one.
He deposited my bag in the tonneau, urged me into a front seat, andcrowded himself behind the wheel. The effect was that of a grown-up in ago-cart. This particular brand of tin car had not been built for thisparticular size of man. His knees were hunched up either side thesteering column; his huge, strong brown hands grasped most competentlythat toy-like wheel. The peak of his sombrero missed the wrinkled toponly because he sat on his spine. I reflected that he must have beendrafted into this job, and I admired his courage in undertaking todouble up like that even for a short journey.
"Roads good?" I asked the usual question as I slammed shut the door.
"Fair, suh," he replied, soberly.
"What time should we get in?" I inquired.
"Long 'bout six o'clock, suh," he informed me.
It was then eight in the morning--one hundred and twenty-eightmiles--ten hours--roads good, eh?--hum.
He touched the starter. The motor exploded with a bang. We moved.
I looked her over. On the running board were strapped two big galvanizedtanks of water. It was almost distressingly evident that the muffler hadeither been lost or thrown away. But she was hitting on all four. Iglanced at the speedometer dial. It registered the astonishing total of29,250 miles.
We swung out the end of the main street and sailed down a road thatvanished in the endless gentle slope of a "sink." Beyond the sink thebank rose again, gently, to gain the height of the eyes at some _mesas_.Well I know that sort of country. One journeyed for the whole day, andthe _mesas_ stayed where they were; and in between were successivelyvast stretches of mesquite, or alkali, or lava outcrops, or _sacatone_bottoms, each seeming, while one was in it, to fill all the worldforever, without end; and the day's changes were of mirage and theshifting colours of distant hills.
It was soon evident that my friend's ideas of driving probably coincidedwith his ideas of going up a mountain. When a mounted cowboy climbs ahill he does not believe in fussing with such nonsense as grades; hegoes straight up. Similarly, this man evidently considered that, asroads were made for travel and distance for annihilation, one shouldturn on full speed and get there. Not one hair's breadth did he deign toswerve for chuck-hole or stone; not one fractional mile per hour did hecheck for gully or ditch. We struck them head-on, bang! did they happenin our way. Then my head hit the disreputable top. In the mysteriousfashion of those who drive freight wagons my companion remainedimperturbably glued to his seat. I had neither breath nor leisure forthe country or conversation.
Thus one half hour. The speedometer dial showed the figures 29,260. Iallowed myself to think of a possible late lunch at my friend's ranch.
We slowed down. The driver advanced the hand throttle the full sweep ofthe quadrant, steered with his knees, and produced the "makings." Thefaithful little motor continued to hit on all four, but in slow andpainful succession, each explosion sounding like a pistol shot. We hadpassed already the lowest point of the "sink," and were climbing theslope on the other side. The country, as usual, looked perfectly level,but the motor knew different.
"I like to hear her shoot," said the driver, after his first cigarette."That's why I chucked the muffler. Its plumb lonesome out yere all byyourself. A hoss is different."
"Who you riding for?"
"Me? I'm riding for me. This outfit is mine."
It didn't sound reasonable; but that's what I heard.
"You mean you drive this car--as a living----"
"Correct."
"I should think you'd get cramped!" I burst out.
"Me? I'm used to it. I bet I ain't missed three days since I gother--and that's about a year ago."
He answered my questions briefly, volunteering nothing. He had never hadany trouble with the car; he had never broken a spring; he'd overhauledher once or twice; he averaged sixteen actual miles to the gallon. If Iwere to name the car I should have to write advt. after this article tokeep within the law. I resolved to get one. We chugged persistentlyalong on high gear; though I believe second would have been better.
Presently we stopped and gave her a drink. She was boiling like a littletea kettle, and she was pretty thirsty.
"They all do it," said Bill. Of course his name was Bill. "Especiallythe big he-ones. High altitude. Going slow with your throttle wide open.You're all right if you got plenty water. If not, why then ketch a cowand use the milk. Only go slow or you'll git all clogged up withbutter."
We clambered aboard and proceeded. That distant dreamful _mesa_ haddrawn very near. It was scandalous. The aloof desert whose terror, whosebeauty, whose wonder, whose allure was the awe of infinite space thatcould be traversed only in toil and humbleness, had been contracted by athing that now said 29,265.
"At this rate we'll get there before six o'clock," I remarked,hopefully.
"Oh, this is County Highway!" said Bill.
As we crawled along, still on high gear--that tin car certainly pulledstrongly--a horseman emerged from a fold in the hills. He was riding asweat-covered, mettlesome black with a rolling eye. His own eye wasbitter, and likewise the other features of his face. After trying invain to get the frantic animal within twenty feet of our _mitrailleuse,_he gave it up.
"Got anything for me?" he shrieked at Bill.
Bill leisurely turned off the switch, draped his long legs over the sideof the car, and produced his makings.
"Nothing, Jim. Expaicting of anything?"
"Sent for a new grass rope. How's feed down Mogallon way?"
"Fair. That a bronco you're riding?"
"Just backed him three days ago."
"Amount to anything?"
"That," said Jim, with an extraordinary bitterness, "is already a gaitedhoss. He has fo' gaits now."
"Four gaits," repeated Bill, incredulously. "I'm in the stink wagonbusiness. I ain't aiming to buy no hosses. What four gaits you claimhe's got?"
"Start, stumble, fall down _and_ git up," said Jim.
Shortly after this joyous _rencontre_ we topped the rise, and, lookingback, could realize the grade we had been ascending.
The road led white and straight as an arrow to dwindle in perspective toa mere thread. The little car leaped forward on the invisible downgrade. Again I anchored myself to one of the top supports. A long, rangyfowl happened into the road just ahead of us, but immediately floppedclumsily, half afoot, half a-wing, to one side in the brush, like astampeded hen.
"Road runner," said Bill, with a short laugh. "Remember how they used torack along in front of a hoss for miles, keeping just ahead, lettin' outa link when you spurred up? Aggravatin' fowl! They got over tryin' tokeep ahead of gasoline."
In the white alkaline road lay one lone, pyramidal rock. It was aboutthe size of one's two fists and all its edges and corners were sharp.Probably twenty miles of clear space lay on either flank of that rock.Nev
ertheless, our right front wheel hit it square in the middle. The carleaped straight up, the rock popped sidewise, and the tire went off witha mighty bang. Bill put on the brakes, deliberately uncoiled himself,and descended.
"Seems like tires don't last no time at all in this country," heremarked, sadly. He walked around the car and began to examine the fourwrecks he carried as spares. After some inspection of their respectivemerits, he selected one. "I just somehow kain't git over the notion sheought to sidestep them little rocks and holes of her own accord," heexclaimed. "A hoss is a plumb, narrow-minded critter, but he knowsenough for that."
While he changed the tire--which incidentally involved patching one ofhalf a dozen over-worn tubes--I looked her over more in detail. Thecustomary frame, strut rods, and torsion rods had been supplemented bythe most extraordinary criss-cross of angle-iron braces it has ever beenmy fortune to behold. They ran from anywhere to everywhere beneath thatcar. I began to comprehend her cohesiveness.
"Jim Coles, blacksmith at the O T, puts them braces in all our cars,"explained Bill. "He's got her down to a system."
The repair finished and the radiator refilled we resumed the journey. Itwas now just eleven o'clock. The odometer reading was 29,276. Thetemperature was well up toward 100 degrees. But beneath the disreputabletop, and while in motion, the heat was not noticeable. Nevertheless, thebrief stop had brought back poignantly certain old days--choking dust,thirst, the heat of a heavy sun, the long day that led one nowhere----
The noon mirages were taking shape, throwing stately and slow their vastillusions across the horizon. Lakes glimmered; distant ranges took onthe forms of phantasm, rising higher, flattening, reaching across spacethe arches of their spans, rendering unreal a world of beauty and dread.That in the old days was the deliberate fashion the desert had ofsearing men's souls with her majesty. Slowly, slowly, the changesmelted one into the other; massively, deliberately the face of the worldwas altered; so that at last the poor plodding human being, hot, dry,blinded, thirsty, felt himself a nothing in the presence of eternities.Well I knew that old spell of the desert. But now! Honestly, after a fewminutes I began to feel sorry for the poor old desert! Its spells didn'twork for the simple reason that _we didn't give it time!_ We chargeddown on its phantom lakes and disproved them and forgot them. We brokeright in on the dignified and deliberate scene shifting of mountains and_mesas_, showed them up for the brittle, dry hills they were, and leftthem behind. It was pitiful! It was as though a revered tragedian shouldovernight find that his vogue had departed; that he was no longergetting over; that an irreverent upstart, breaking in on his mostsonorous periods, was getting laughs with slang. We had lots of water;the dust we left behind; it wasn't even hot in the wind of our going!
In the shallow crease of hills a shimmer of white soon changed toevident houses. We drew into a straggling desert town.
It was typical--thirty miles from the railroad, a distributing point forthe cattle country. Four broad buildings with peeled, sunburned faces, awooden house or so, and a dozen flat-roofed adobe huts hung pleasinglywith long strips of red peppers. Of course one of the wooden buildingswas labelled General Store; and another, smaller, contained a barbershop and postoffice combined. The third was barred and unoccupied. Thefourth had been a livery stable but was now a garage. Six saddle horsesand six Fords stood outside the General Store, which was a fairdivision.
Bill slowed down.
"Have a drink," I observed, hospitably.
"Arizona's a dry state," Bill reminded me; but nevertheless stopped anduncoiled. That unbelievable phenomenon had escaped my memory. In the olddays I used to shut my eyes and project my soul into what I imagined wasthe future. I saw Arizona, embottled, dying in the last-wet ditch, whileall the rest of the world, even including Milwaukee, bore down on hercarrying the banners of Prohibition. So much for prophecy. I voiced athought.
"There must be an awful lot of old timers died this spring. You can'tcut them off short and hope to save them."
Bill grunted.
We entered the store. It smelled good, as such stores always do--soap,leather, ground coffee, bacon, cheese--all sorts of things. On the rightran a counter and shelves of dry goods and clothing; on the leftgroceries, cigars, and provisions generally. Down the middle saddles,ropes, spurs, pack outfits, harness, hardware. In the rear a glasscubby-hole with a desk inside. All that was customary, right and proper.But I noticed also a glass case with spark plugs and accessories; a rackfull of tires; and a barrel of lubricating oil. I did not notice anybody polish. By the front door stood a paper-basket whose purport Iunderstood not at all.
Bill led me at once past two or three lounging cow persons to thecubbyhole, where arose a typical old timer.
"Mr. White, meet Mr. Billings," he said.
The old timer grasped me firmly by the right hand and held tight whilehe demanded, as usual, "What name?" We informed him together. He allowedhe was pleased. I allowed the same.
"I want to buy a yard of calico," said Bill.
The old timer reached beneath the counter and produced a strip of cloth.It was already cut, and looked to be about a yard long. Also it showedthe marks of loving but brutal and soiled hands.
"Wrap it up?" inquired Mr. Billings.
"Nope," said Bill, and handed out three silver dollars. Evidently calicowas high in these parts. We turned away.
"By the way, Bill," Mr. Billings called after us, "I got a littlepresent here for you. Some friends sent her in to me the other day. Letme know what you think of it."
We turned. Mr. Billings held in his hand a sealed quart bottle with afamiliar and famous label.
"Why, that's kind of you," said Bill, gravely. He took the profferedbottle, turned it upside down, glanced at the bottom, and handed itback. "But I don't believe I'd wish for none of that particular breed.It never did agree with my stummick."
Without a flicker of the eye the storekeeper produced a second sealedbottle, identical in appearance and label with the first.
"Try it," he urged. "Here's one from a different case. Some of theseyere vintages is better than others."
"So I've noticed," replied Bill, dryly. He glanced at the bottom andslipped it into his pocket.
We went out. As we passed the door Bill, unobserved, dropped into theheretofore unexplained waste-basket the yard of calico he had justpurchased.
"Don't believe I like the pattern for my boudoir," he told me, gravely.
We clambered aboard and shot our derisive exhaust at the diminishingtown.
"Thought Arizona was a dry state," I suggested.
"She is. You cain't sell a drop. But you can keep stuff for personaluse. There ain't nothing more personal than givin' it away to yourfriends."
"The price of calico is high down here."
"And goin' up," agreed Bill, gloomily. He drove ten miles in silencewhile I, knowing my type, waited.
"That old Billings ought to be drug out and buried," he remarked atlast. "We rode together on the Chiracahua range. He ought to know betterthan to try to put it onto me."
"???" said I.
"You saw that first bottle? Just plain forty-rod dog poison--and mepayin' three good round dollars!"
"For calico," I reminded.
"Shore. That's why he done it. He had me--if I hadn't called him."
"But that first bottle was identically the same as the one you have inyour pocket," I stated.
"Shore?"
"Why, yes--at least--that is, the bottle and label were the same, and Iparticularly noticed the cork seal looked intact."
"It was," agreed Bill. "That cap hasn't never been disturbed. You'reright."
"Then what objection----"
"It's one of them wonders of modern science that spoils the simple lifenext to Nature's heart," said Bill, unexpectedly. "You hitch a bighollow needle onto an electric light current. When she gets hot enoughyou punch a hole with her in the bottom of the bottle. Then you throwthe switch and let the needle cool off. When she's cool you pour out thereal th
ing for your own use--mebbe. Then you stick in yourforty-cent-a-gallon squirrel poison. Heat up your needle again. Draw herout very slow so the glass will close up behind her. Simple, neat,effective, honest enough for down here. Cork still there, seal stillthere, label still there. Bottle still there, except for a little bit ofa wart-lookin' bubble in the bottom."
It was now in the noon hour. Knowing cowboys of old I expected no lunch.We racketed along, and our dust tried to catch us, and sleepy,accustomed jack rabbits made two perfunctory hops as we turned on themthe battery of our exhaust.
We dipped down into a carved bottomland, several miles wide, filled withminarets, peaks, vermilion towers, and strange striped labyrinths ofmany colours above which the sky showed an unbelievable blue. The trunksof colossal trees lay about in numbers. Apparently they had all beencross-cut in sections like those sawed for shake bolts, for each wasmany times clearly divided. The sections, however, lay all in place; sothe trunks of the trees were as they had fallen. About the ground werescattered fragments of rock of all sizes, like lava, but of all thecolours of the giddiest parrots. The tiniest piece had at least all thetints of the spectrum; and the biggest seemed to go the littlest severalbetter. They looked to me like beautiful jewels. Bill cast at them acontemptuous glance.
"Every towerist I take in yere makes me stop while he sags down the carwith this junk," he said. Whenever I say "Bill said" or "I said," Iimply that we shrieked, for always through that great, still country wehustled enveloped in a profanity of explosions, creaks, rattles, andhums. Just now though, on a level, we travelled at a low gear."Petrified wood," Bill added.
I swallowed guiltily the request I was about to proffer.
The malpais defined itself. We came to a wide, dry wash filled withwhite sand. Bill brought the little car to a stop.
Well I know that sort of sand! You plunge rashly into it on low gear;you buzz bravely for possibly fifty feet; you slow down, slow down; yourdriving wheels begin to spin--that finishes you. Every revolution digs adeeper hole. It is useless to apply power. If you are wise you throw outyour clutch the instant she stalls, and thus save digging yourself inunnecessarily. But if you are really wise you don't get in that fix atall. The next stage is that wherein you thrust beneath the hind wheelscertain expedients such as robes, coats, and so forth. The wheels, whenset in motion, hurl these trivialities yards to the rear. The car thensettles down with a shrug. About the time the axle is actually restingon the sand you proceed to serious digging, cutting brush, and layingcauseways. Some sand you can get out of by these methods, but not dry,stream-bed sand in the Southwest. Finally you reach; the state of truewisdom. Either you sit peacefully in the tonneau and smoke until someonecomes along; or, if you are doubtful of that miracle, you walk to thenearest team and rope. And never, never, never are you caught again! Adetour of fifty miles is nothing after that!
While Bill manipulated the makings, I examined the prospects. This wasthat kind of a wash; no doubt of it!
"How far is the nearest crossing?" I asked, returning.
"About eight feet," said he.
My mind, panic-stricken, flew to several things--that bottle (I regretthat I failed to record that by test its contents had proved genuine),the cornered rock we had so blithely charged, other evidences of Bill'scasual nature. My heart sank.
"You ain't going to tackle that wash!" I cried.
"I shore am," said Bill.
I examined Bill. He meant it.
"How far to the nearest ranch?"
"'Bout ten mile."
I went and sat on a rock. It was one of those rainbow remnants of abygone past; but my interest in curios had waned.
Bill dove into the grimy mysteries of under the back seat and producedtwo blocks of wood six or eight inches square and two strong straps withbuckles. He inserted a block between the frame of the car and the rearaxle; then he ran a strap around the rear spring and cinched on it untilthe car body, the block, and the axle made one solid mass. In otherwords, the spring action was entirely eliminated. He did the same thingon the other side.
"Climb in," said he.
We went into low and slid down the steep clay bank into the waitingsand. To me it was like a plunge into ice water. Bill stepped on her. Weploughed out into trouble. The steering wheel bucked and jerked vainlyagainst Bill's huge hands; we swayed like a moving-picture comic; but weforged steadily ahead. Not once did we falter. Our wheels grippedcontinuously. When we pulled out on the other bank I exhaled as thoughI, too, had lost my muffler. I believe I had held my breath the wholeway across. Bill removed the blocks and gave her more water. Still inlow we climbed out of the malpais.
It was now after two o'clock. We registered 29,328. I was getting humbleminded. Six o'clock looked good enough to me now.
One thing was greatly encouraging. As we rose again to the main level ofthe country I recognized over the horizon a certain humped mountain.Often in the "good old days" I had approached this mountain from thesouth. Beneath its flanks lay my friend's ranch, our destination. Fivehours earlier in my experience its distance would have appalled me; butmy standards had changed. Nevertheless, it seemed far enough away. I wasgetting physically tired. There is a heap of exercise in manyoccupations, such as digging sewers and chopping wood and shopping witha woman; but driving in small Arizona motor cars need give none of theseoccupations any odds. And of late years I have been accustoming myselfto three meals a day.
For this reason there seems no excuse for detailing the next threehours. From three o'clock until sunset the mirages slowly fade away intothe many-tinted veils of evening. I know that because I've seen it; butnever would I know it whilst an inmate of a gasoline madhouse. Wecarried our own egg-shaped aura constantly with us, on the invisiblewalls of which the subtle and austere influences of the desert beat invain. That aura was composed of speed, bumps, dust, profane noise, andan extreme and exotic busyness. It might be that in a docile, tame,expensive automobile, garnished with a sane and biddable driver, onemight see the desert as it is. I don't know whether such a combinationexists. But me--I couldn't get into the Officers' Training Camp becauseof my advanced years: I may be an old fogy, but I cherish a sneakingidea that perhaps you have to buy some of these things at the cost ofthe aforementioned thirst, heat, weariness, and the slow passing of longdays. Still, an Assyrian brick in the British Museum is inscribed by afather to his son away at school with a lament over the passing of the"good old days!"
At any rate, we drew into Spring Creek at five o'clock, shooting atevery jump. My friend's ranch was only six miles farther. This was homefor Bill, and we were soon surrounded by many acquaintances. He hadletters and packages for many of them; and detailed many items of localnews. To us shortly came a cowboy who had evidently bought all thecalico he could carry. This person was also long and lean and brown;hard bitten; bedecked with worn brown leather _chaps_, and wearing agun. The latter he unbuckled and cast from him with great scorn.
"And I don't need no gun to do it, neither!" he stated, as thoughconcluding a long conversation.
"Shore not, Slim," agreed one of the group, promptly annexing theartillery. "What is it?"
"Kill that ---- ---- ---- Beck," said Slim, owlishly. "I can do it; andI can do it with my bare hands, b' God!"
He walked sturdily enough in the direction of the General Store acrossthe dusty square. No one paid any further attention to his movements.The man who had picked up the gun belt buckled it around his own waist.Bill refilled the ever-thirsty radiator, peered at his gasoline gauge,leisurely turned down a few grease cups. Ten minutes passed. We wereabout ready to start.
Back across the square drifted a strange figure. With difficulty werecognized it as the erstwhile Slim. He had no hat. His hair stuck outin all directions. One eye was puffing shut, blood oozed from a cut inhis forehead and dripped from his damaged nose. One shirt sleeve hadbeen half torn from its parent at the shoulder. But, most curious ofall, Slim's face was evenly marked by a perpendicular series of long,red scratches as though he
had been dragged from stem to stern along aparticularly abrasive gravel walk. Slim seemed quite calm.
His approach was made in a somewhat strained silence. At length therespoke a dry, sardonic voice.
"Well," said it, "did you kill Beck?"
"Naw!" replied Slim's remains disgustedly, "the son of a gun wouldn'tfight!"
We reached my friend's ranch just about dusk. He met me at the yardgate.
"Well!" he said, heartily. "I'm glad you're here! Not much like the olddays, is it?"
I agreed with him.
"Journey out is dull and uninteresting now. But compared to the way weused to do it, it is a cinch. Just sit still and roll along."
I disagreed with him--mentally.
"The old order has changed," said he.
"Yes," I agreed, "now it's one yard of calico."
THE RANCH
The Killer Page 30
