The Forbidden Trail Part 21

"Yes, we were going to make the desert blossom like the rose. We were going to have the biggest alfalfa ranch in the southwest."

"Well, you've got a good start, haven't you?"

Charley shook her head and lapsed into silence again. Roger refilled his pipe and replenished the fire. The flames leaped up and turned the gray Navajo to rose color. The night wind which Roger had learned to expect about nine o'clock swooped down the chimney. The faint bark and long drawn howl of a coyote pack sounded from the valley and from behind the adobe rose a whimper that increased to a scream that was almost human.

Roger sat forward in his chair.

"Wild cats!" said Charley. "d.i.c.k and I both have shot several but we can't get rid of them."

"Look here," exclaimed Roger. "I'm going to stay here all night."

"What's the matter? Afraid to go home?"

Roger grinned. "Yes, but I'm more afraid to leave you two girls here alone."

"My good man, I've been staying here alone about every two months for four years. I'm not a bit afraid."

Roger looked at her keenly, but her deep eyes did not waver. "You may have got used to it," he said obstinately, "but I'll wager anything that when you first came you were just paralyzed with fear."

"I was indeed!" Charley shook her head as if in wonder at that early fear. "I used to barricade myself in the bedroom and slept with the little .22 at the head of the bed."

"I don't see how your brother--" began Roger.

"He _had_ to go," interrupted Charley. "Don't you try to prove that d.i.c.k isn't devoted to me, for he is. He had to see the doctor because he came out here with bad lungs. He's all cured of that now. No one could be more of a dear than d.i.c.k, when he's--well."

She spoke with such vehemence, leaning forward in her chair with such a depth of protest in her wide eyes that Roger was surprised.

"Good Lord, I wasn't criticizing d.i.c.k. I think he's a fine chap. Only I don't think a girl ought to be sleeping alone, twenty-five miles from the nearest neighbor."

"I'm safer here alone than I would be in St. Louis or Chicago,"

exclaimed Charley, leaning back in her chair with a little laugh. "Now tell me what you are going to do after your Sun Plant begins to pump water?"

"Try to get money interested in developing this and other waste countries. There are untold mineral riches in these ranges, if only there were a cheap way to get them out. Now don't get excited as Crazy Dutch did and shoot me up! By the way, he told me his name was Otto von Minden."

Charley nodded. "I believe he comes of good family. He speaks the finest kind of Berliner German. Poor old thing!"

Roger snorted. "I'll _poor_ him when I catch him! I'll have him committed to an asylum."

Charley laughed. "You'd have hard work getting that done. Asylums are rare here and every one is fond of the little German. I wish I knew as much as he does about German literature. Some day I'm going to Germany.

It must be a wonderful country."

"Did you learn German in college?"

"In High School and the University both. I'd like to have had some French too, but there were no native French teachers and I didn't fancy learning French with somebody's accent plus my own. On the other hand the German teachers and the courses they offered were fine. I feel as if I knew more about Germany than any other country outside the United States."

"So do I," replied Roger, thoughtfully.

"I think that instead of getting Crazy Dutch committed you'd better get to know him," Charley went on. "He's so well connected in Germany, in spite of his forlorn appearance, he might prove a valuable acquaintance for you."

Roger, whose wrath against Von Minden had disappeared much to his own astonishment, nodded his head, and once more silence fell between them.

It was ten o'clock when Roger next observed the inexorable hand of the alarm clock.

"I wish I'd never learned to tell time," he said as he rose reluctantly, "and I wish you'd tell me as much about yourself as I've told you about me."

"There's so little to tell," protested Charley.

"Oh, there's a great deal to tell," contradicted Roger. "The chief thing being why the desert has changed you from a chatterbox to a Sphinx."

"That you'll never know! Run along home now before the coyotes or Von Minden get you."

Roger grinned and said good night.

He was up with the birds the next morning, prepared to give a long day's work to cleaning the well and covering it. It was not yet noon when he saw a curious procession moving toward the camp along the Archer's Springs trail. It appeared to consist of a small string of burros, led by a bright red or pink umbrella.

"I thought somebody said the desert was lonesome," said Roger to himself. "Me--I run a regular wayside inn." He lighted his pipe and sat down on the well curb to wait. Gradually he discerned that the pink parasol, undulating now against the sapphire of the sky, now against the dancing yellow of a sand drift, was upheld by a woman who sat astride a tiny burro. It was ten minutes after he discovered this that the lady rode majestically into the camp and dismounted, with magnificent gesture, throwing one leg over the burro's drooping head. The three burros who were strung behind her stopped in their tracks as though half dead.

Roger rose and doffed his hat. This was the largest woman he ever had seen. She was easily three inches taller than Roger and splendidly proportioned, huge of shoulder, broad of hip, but without an ounce of fat upon her. Her face was gaunt and brown: thin lips, long thin nose, gray eyes set deep, iron gray hair straggling over her forehead from under a dusty pink sunbonnet. She wore a linen duster b.u.t.toned close to her chin.

"How do you do, sir," she said in a pleasantly modulated voice. "My name is Clarissa Foster von Minden."

"Mine is Roger Moore. Won't you come into the cook tent and let me get you some lunch?"

"Yes, thank you," looking about her with keen interest. "This is the place."

Roger, lighting the gasoline stove, looked at his caller inquiringly.

She smiled at him as she pulled off her sunbonnet and dust coat, revealing a robe of pink calico not unlike an old fas.h.i.+oned "mother hubbard."

"I am a disciple of the Yogis, Mr. Moore. I dreamed that my husband was to be found in such a camp as this and here I am."

"I suppose you're referring to Otto von Minden. Yes, he was here yesterday. He's a genial soul. He tried to shoot me."

Mrs. von Minden nodded. "That's Otto. He had those ways. I've not seen him for five years. No bacon, Mr. Moore. I never touch animal fats. Just some tea, fruit and crackers. Later, I'll unpack some olive oil which you may use when cooking for me."

Roger nearly dropped the tea kettle. His mouth fell open as he stared at his caller.

"Don't be startled, my friend," she cried. "Great things are to come to you if you obey the Voices. And I've brought my own tent and supplies."

"But your husband isn't here, madam," protested Roger. "To tell you the truth, I wouldn't have him about the place. He's just plain crazy."

"Oh, no, he's not crazy. He's had a touch of the sun, undoubtedly. But he's not crazy. He's a brilliant man. I can make him very useful to you."

Roger scratched his head and grinned. "You haven't by any chance had a touch of the sun yourself, Mrs. von Minden?"

The lady laughed. "I must seem so to an outsider. You are still on the first plane while I am on the seventh."

"I'll water the burros while the kettle boils," said Roger hastily. He provided plentifully for the poor brutes, at the same time gazing desperately toward the ranch house. He felt badly in need of advice.

As if in answer to his need he saw a tiny figure come down the trail from the corral. It was Felicia, evidently coming to the Sun Plant.