As Tompkins climbed down the rock-strewn cañon toward the thorny growth which hid the flivver from sight, he came to a decision upon his course of action, forcing himself to determine upon a caution which was distasteful and yet necessary.
“Hasta mañana!” he resolved. “Until tomorrow, at least, I must remain Percival and so forth Tompkins—and then I’ll become Pat Ramsay once more, and get into action. The damned murderers! I wonder how many men have gone the way of poor Alec? I wonder how many people have been decoyed into this spiderweb to lose everything they had? Alec must have gone investigating, must have discovered the headquarters of this gang—and so they finished him. He’s probably lying somewhere up that cañon now. Well, time enough to look him up; just now I’ve got to watch my step mighty close.”
He was now assailed by the problem of locating Sagebrush, since he could not well run off with the car and leave his companion to rusticate in the desert solitudes. As he came in sight of the patch of piñon and cactus which enshrined the flivver, he caught no sign of the desert rat. He knew that he could recall Sagebrush with a smoke, but this he did not desire to do unless necessary.
When he drew near the clump, he perceived Hassayamp’s flivver on the other side, with strips of canvas flung over the tires to protect them. An unusual object beneath this car attracted his attention, and upon closer approach he discovered it to be no other than Sagebrush. He gave a hail, and the old desert rat crawled out into the sunlight.
An exclamation broke from Tompkins, and he hurried forward. The left arm of Sagebrush was out of its shirt-sleeve and roughly bandaged, and the bandage was dark with blood.
“What happened?” he demanded. “How’d you hurt yourself, old-timer?”. Sagebrush clawed at his whiskers and flung the inquirer a pained look.
“You got it plumb wrong, Perfesser,” he observed. “I aint been meanderin’ around these parts for fifteen year or more ’thout leamin’ how not to hurt myself. I aint no pilgrim, by gosh!”
“My humble apologies,” said Tompkins dryly. “May I ask, then, who hurt you?” Sagebrush grinned.
“Another of these yere smart gents who think that ’cause a man’s a prospector and don’t wear galluses, he’s a babe in arms. I aint right certain as to this feller’s name, but when I was over to Mohave six months ago, I seen a picture of him in the sheriff’s office. Name was Joe Mendoza, or some such cholo name.”
The speaker enjoyed hugely the bewilderment of Tompkins.
“You don’t mean you had a scrap, Sagebrush?”
“Nope.” Sagebrush expectorated, wiped his lips and grinned. “I was peckin’ away at a ledge in a cañon a couple mile east of yere, when durned if that feller Mesquite Harrison didn’t come ridin’ down the cañon on a hoss! Yessir! Right on top o’ me, ’fore I seen him, too. He started throwin’ lead, and I covered up, and ’fore I could git into action, the coyote was gone. Then along come another feller that I hadn’t seen, this yere cholo, and durned if he didn’t pick on me too. But I was ready for him, you betcha! I gives him jest one crack from ol’ Betsy,”—here Sagebrush patted his waistband significantly,—“and he flops. I walks over to him and seen he looked like this cholo Mendoza, and then I come back yere and set down to rest a spell.”
“Killed him?” asked Tompkins curtly.
“Hope so. He was some dead when I left him, anyhow, but you never can tell ’bout them marihuana-eaters. I knowed a cholo over to Mormon Wells, oncet, that et marihuana and smoked it likewise. Fin’ly one night he got plumb filled up on it, and jumped into the corral and begun to slash the hosses with his knife. Sheriff and two other fellers sat on the bars and pumped lead into him for as much as five minutes, but he didn’t quit till he’d slashed every hoss there; then he quit. Sheriff allowed he’d been dead with the first shot, but the marihuana had kep’ him goin’, same’s a rattler keeps a-twitchin’ till sundown after he’s dead. That there hop is powerful stuff, Perfesser.”
Tompkins stood staring at the desert rat for a moment. Then:
“The whole gang will be after you now, wont they?”
Sagebrush gave him a queer look. “How come you know so durned much, Perfesser?”
“That’s what I’m here to know,” snapped Tompkins suddenly. “Remember my asking you about a boulder with piñon trees growing out of it? Well, that place is up yonder in Pinecate Cañon. My name isn’t Tompkins at all. It’s Pat Ramsay. Last year my brother Alec came over here to spend a year in the desert and clear up his lungs. He bought a place and vanished—clear vanished, and couldn’t be traced. The last heard of him was from Stovepipe Springs. He wrote me about a place he had bought, describing that boulder. I found this up the cañon in a pack-rat’s nest. Look it over while I get the car ready.”
He gave the cigarette case to the staring desert rat, then turned and went back to his own car. When he got this out of the brush, he removed most of the load and hid it securely among the trees. This done, he returned to Sagebrush, who was sitting on the running-board of Hassayamp’s car examining the deed.
“Anything I can do for your arm?” he asked.
“Nope. Bone aint hurt. Say, Perfesser, you’ve sure struck me all of a heap! Still, I knowed you wasn’t the danged fool you looked.”
“Thanks.” Tompkins laughed curtly. “Now, Sagebrush, I’m going to town, speak easy to everyone, and slide back here. First I want to investigate that Hourglass Cañon, wherever it is—”
“I know where it is,” said Sagebrush, scratching his wealth of whiskers.
“All right. Where do you come in on the program? Want to be left out?”
Sagebrush produced his pipe and sucked at it. At length he made slow answer.
“Perfesser, there’s some folks around here jest pining to be left alone, and most gen’ally they gets left alone. That cholo Mendoza was one such, and killin’ him aint botherin’ me none. Most likely you’ve discounted Sidewinder Crowfoot?”
“My guess is that he’s the head of the whole gang.”
“Reckon ye aint far off. Now, so long as I aint bothered, I aint troublin’ nobody. My motter is never to bother a rattler what’s a gent and sounds his rattles—but if he acts like a sidewinder, then bash his head, and do it pronto! Yestiddy you asks if I’ll help keep this yere female from gettin’ skun, and I says no. I still aint int’rested nohow. But two of that danged crowd have set in on me with a cold deck this mornin’, and I’m plumb riled. Yessir, I’m riled!”
Sagebrush stood up. His bent figure straightened a trifle, and a sudden savage expression showed in his eyes, half masked behind the hairy growth of whiskers. In a flash all his dirt and squalor, all his unkempt and sun-bleached appearance, was gone in the eyes of Tompkins; he saw there a desert man who cared nothing for externals, but who could cope daily with the bitterest and most fearful forces of nature—and who was now ready to turn his inward strength against men. The drab and plodding desert rat suddenly showed, for one flashing moment, what unsuspected depths of character lay within him; and a rush of anger unbarred the floodgates of his reticence.
“Yessir, I’m riled! I’ve seen them goin’s-on and said nothin’. I’ve seen them outlaws rulin’ the roost around yere and said nothin’. ’Twan’t no skin off’m my nose. I hadn’t no call to butt in. I’ve seen folks come in yere right happy, and seen ’em go out skun and mis’able and busted. I’ve seen one feller after another come in yere with the law two jumps behind him, and he goes over to Hourglass Cañon and lives happy. No law reaches in yere; nobody dast to interfere; and nobody knows about it anyhow. Stovepipe Springs, dad blame it, is jest a blind! If any law-off’cer comes pirootin’ around, he gits steered plumb careful and goes away ’thout learnin’ nothin’. But now, by gosh, I’m riled! Yessir. Perfesser, I’m with ye six ways from Sunday. Them skunks have sold us chips in this yere game, and by gosh I’ll play them chips till hell freezes over! Name your ante, Perfesser, and let’s go.”
Sagebrush relaxed. He stuck his pipe in his pocket, brought out his plug and bit off a large section. Tompkins, taking the cigarette case and pocketing it, nodded.
“Good. I’m going to get a rifle in town and come back tomorrow morning without anyone suspecting what I have in mind. Then I’ll be Pat Ramsay once more. Want to go to town with me?”
“Reckon not,” said Sagebrush reflectively. “Mesquite was headin’ for town, and him and me would sure collide. That might spoil your hand. And say! I remember that brother o’ yours. I seen him with Mesquite one time. He looked a heap like you do ’thout them spec’s and all.” Tompkins produced his pocket flask, opened it and held it out.
“Here’s to our luck, Sagebrush! Good hunting!”
With a grunt of delight, Sagebrush lifted the flask and absorbed his share of the contents; Tompkins finished it off, undisturbed by any thought of rock scorpions, eyed the empty glass container, and with a laugh tossed it into the clump of trees.
“Then I’m off. I’ll be back in the morning. Have to send that deed to be recorded. Anything you want from town?”
Sagebrush wiped his lips and nodded.
“Yep. There’s jest one feller there ye can trust—Haywire Johnson, up to the hotel. Register that deed and send by him and tell him to shet up about it. Otherwise, that durned Hassayamp will poke his nose into it. Then tell Haywire to give you that there gun he’s keepin’ for me. I don’t aim to carry more’n one gun these days, not havin’ much use for it, and Haywire has been keepin’ my other one. I’ll mosey up this yere cañon and have breakfast ready for ye in the mornin’. Git out early.”
With another nod, Tompkins climbed into his car, started the engine, and started away. He knew well enough that Sagebrush would carefully avoid meeting Hassayamp and Miss Gilman.
What most stirred in his mind, however, as he headed for town, was that mention of his brother and Mesquite Harrison—and Mesquite was now in town. Taken in conjunction with Crowfoot’s recommendation, here was a chance not to be missed.
“I’ll sure interview Mr. Harrison and give him the time of his life before I’m done with him!” thought Tompkins, and he glanced at the sun. “Hm! I can get to town and clean up everything before supper. Then I’ll want to see Miss Gilman. She must be persuaded to get out of here at once. Hm! Queer how old Sagebrush showed up. To all appearance, he’s a comic-supplement character; put him on a city street and he’d gather a crowd—but how many of that crowd would last a week with him on the Mohave? These smart Alecs back East who think Europe is better than America and who part their hair the way the Prince of Wales does it, and who look on everyone west of Newark, N. J. with supreme contempt—wouldn’t I like to see ’em get out in the desert with old Sagebrush, though! They’d find out what sort of man it was who made this country what she is.”
It did not occur to him that in undertaking to play a lone hand against the Hourglass Cañon gang, he was likewise carrying out certain traditions of Americanism.