The Desert Fiddler, Page 2

  CHAPTER II

  Bob was out in front of the hardware store dressed in a woollen shirtand overalls, and bareheaded, setting up a cotton planter, when an oldgentleman in a linen duster, who had been pacing restlessly up and downthe walk like a distant relative waiting for the funeral procession tostart, stopped on the sidewalk to watch him work. Whether it was theyoung man's appearance, his whistling at his work or merely the way heused his hands that attracted the old gentleman was not certain. Butafter a moment he remarked in a crabbedly friendly tone:

  "Young man, you know your business."

  "The other fellow's business, you mean," replied Bob without looking upfrom the bolt he was adjusting. "It is not mine, you know." Bob hadbeen repeating during the last two days the remark of the hillbilly--"I'm a willin' cuss, but I ain't got no brains." He had begunto wonder if he was not in the same wagon. He had always thought hehad brains, but here he was at twenty-eight no better off than the hillbilly. Perhaps not as well, for Noah Ezekiel Foster was getting moreper month for riding one tractor than Bob was for selling twenty.

  The old gentleman made a noise in his throat that corresponded to achuckle in a less belligerent man.

  "Do you sell farm machinery over there?" The store faced the line; andhe nodded toward the Mexican side.

  "Yes," answered Bob.

  "Know the country pretty well?"

  "Yes." The young man rose up with the wrench in his hand, and lookedfor the first time into the gray-blue eyes under the bushy iron-graybrows. "The country is the same as it is on this side. The peoplesomewhat different."

  "Any good chances to invest money over there?" asked the old gentleman.

  "I suppose so." Bob stopped to pick up another nut and started toscrew it on. "I'm not bothered much hunting for investments. But Ireckon there is a chance for a man with money anywhere."

  "To spend it," added the other fellow, sharply. "Any place will do fora fool and his money to part. But, young man, it is easier to earnmoney with brains than it is to keep it without them."

  Bob's eyes looking past the old gentleman saw a youngish woman dressedin widow's weeds--very expensive weeds--coming rapidly down the walkfrom the hotel, and knew she was coming for the old man. As she camenearer, Bob saw she had tawny yellow hair, with slate-coloured eyes anda pious mouth. Her carriage was very erect, very ladylike, andpatently she was from the East.

  "Oh, Uncle," she gurgled and, as the old gentleman turned, with alittle burst of enthusiasm she threw her arms about his neck.

  "When did you get in, Evy?" The old gentleman managed to disengage thearms without giving the appearance of heartlessness. His voice wascrabbed, but sounded as though it might be from the length of the vocalcords rather than the shortness of disposition.

  "Last night." There was an aggrieved touch of self-denying complaintin the tone. "And the little hotel is perfectly wretched. I had sucha horrid room--and I felt so conspicuous alone. The landlady told meyou had been there looking for me this morning before I was up. I'm soglad to see you, Uncle; just as soon as I heard of poor Aunt Ellen'sdeath I felt that I must come and look after you at any sacrifice."There was a slight pause in which the old gentleman did not venture aremark. "But, Uncle"--there was accusation in the tone--"why did youever come out to this awful country? The dust was simply awful--Ithink some of my clothes are ruined."

  "The old horse is across the street." The uncle turned and startedtoward a very high-powered, expensive car.

  "Who was that old chap?" Bob asked of Dayton, who came up frombreakfast just as the car drove off.

  "That's Jim Crill--Texas oil fields. Staying at El Centro and lookingfor a place to drop his money, I hear. But I wonder who's the lady? Isaw her get off the train with Reedy Jenkins yesterday evening."

  "A dear relative," remarked Bob with a grin, "come to take care of himsince his wife died--and he struck oil."

  After a moment--the planter finished--Bob asked casually:

  "Does Benson own the Red Butte Ranch?"

  "No," answered the implement dealer, "it belongs to the Dan Ryan tract.Dan is one of the very few Americans who has a real title to land onthe Mexican side. When Benson leased it two years ago it was merelysand hummocks and mesquite, like the rest of the desert. Spent a lotof money levelling it and getting it ready to water. He lives at LosAngeles, and is one of those fellows who try to farm with money insteadof brains and elbow grease. Lost a lot on last year's crop, and now hewants to get rid of his lease."

  Bob had been thinking of that ranch most of the time since he fixed thetractor. He loved the soil, and surely a man could get real returnsfrom a field like that.

  "I wonder," he remarked without meeting his employer's eyes, "if hewould sublease it?"

  "Don't know," replied Dayton; "Reedy Jenkins is trying to buy thelease."

  "Then," thought Bob as his employer went into the store, "Jenkins oughtto offer a market for farm machinery. I'll go up and see him."

  On his way to Jenkins' office Bob's mind was busy with his own personalproblems. He had been struggling with his ambitions a long time andnever could quite figure why he did not get on faster. He had thoughta great deal the last few days about Jim Crill, the old man with bushyeyebrows--and oil wells. Two or three things the gruff old chap hadsaid stuck in Bob's mind. He had begun to wonder if it was not just aseasy for a fellow to make a bad investment of his brains and muscles asit was with his money. "That's it," he said almost aloud at a definiteconclusion; "I haven't been making a good investment of myself. Iwonder if I could sublease that Red Butte Ranch?"

  The more he thought of it, the more anxious he was to get hold ofsomething he could manage himself. Of course, the idea of farming afive-thousand-acre ranch without capital was merely a pipe dream; butstill, if Benson was losing money and wanted to get loose from hislease--it might be possible.

  Reedy Jenkins' office was upstairs and on a back street. It had anoutside stairway, one of those affairs that cling to an outer brickwall and end in a little iron platform. The only sign on the door was:

  REEDY JENKINS, Cotton.

  It did not explain whether Mr. Jenkins raised cotton, bought it, soldit, ginned it, or merely thought about it. The office was so locatedthat in a morally crusading town, where caution was necessary, it wouldhave suggested nocturnal poker. But as it was not necessary for apoker game in Calexico to be so modestly retiring, Reedy's choice of anoffice must be attributed solely to his love of quiet and unostentation.

  As Bob turned up the side street, two people were coming down the ironstairway--one a dry, thin man who looked as though he might be therelict of some dead language, wearing a stiff hat and a black alpacacoat; the other, a girl of more than medium height, who took the narrowsteps with a sort of spring without even touching the iron rail withher hand, and her eyes were looking out across the town.

  "I beg your pardon," Bob met them at the foot of the stairs, "but canyou tell me if Mr. Jenkins is in?"

  It was the girl who turned to answer, and at one look Bob saw she wasmore than interesting--soft light hair, inquisitive eyes, an intuitivemouth--nothing dry or attenuated about her.

  "Yes," she replied, with a slight twist of the mouth, "Mr. Jenkins isin. Have you a lease to sell?"

  "No."

  "Then go on up," she said, and turned across the street following thespindle-legged man who was unhitching two horses.

  "Blooming sunflowers!" exclaimed Bob, his heart taking a quick twist asshe walked away, "as sure as I'm a foot high, that's the girl who stoodin the doorway that night."

  As Bob entered the office Jenkins sat tipped back in a swivel chair,his left arm resting on his desk, the right free as though it had beengesturing. Reedy had rather large eyes, a plump, smooth face that wastwo shades redder than pink and one shade pinker than red. He alwayslooked as though he had just shaved, and a long wisp of very black hairdangled diagonally across the corner of his forehead, such as one oftensees on the storm-
tossed head of an impassioned orator who is talkingfor the audience and working for himself.

  "Sit down." He waved Bob to a chair. "I've been wanting to have atalk with you--got a proposition for you."