Part 21 (2/2)
”Some one has turned the water out,” she said, rising wearily. ”Will we be obliged to hire a watchman to camp by our water tank? This is serious, boys. The unwritten law of the desert would condemn whoever did this to a lariat and a yucca palm. Still, we don't know who did it. It's too dark to find tracks or to learn anything about it. It's seventeen miles to the Washburn-Stokes outfit--the nearest water ahead.
Or it's eight miles back to the lake in the mountains. What's best to do?”
They turned the problem over and over, and finally decided unanimously that to send the tank with six horses back to the lake, to be refilled, was the wiser plan. Hiram volunteered for the trip, and Schultz volunteered to go with him. At once the two set off behind six of Hiram's lamenting animals for the long night trip, eating a hasty lunch as they traveled.
Dawn was breaking when they returned with a full tank, and were greeted by the braying of the mules and the expectant nickering of the horses, who smelled the water from afar.
Jo ordered a rest until ten o'clock, to counteract the suffering that the thirsty animals had undergone and to rest Hiram's six after the performance of their double task.
These setbacks made them late in their arrival at the scene of coming toil, but gradually the distant b.u.t.tes grew plainer as they moved on steadily toward them over the crunching sands, so hot and barren.
Hiram Hooker was riding with Jerkline Jo as they approached the b.u.t.tes.
She was hammering away on her typewriter, while Hiram was deep in a mathematical problem, his tongue out and gripped by his teeth. The clicking of the typewriter ceased suddenly, and Jo asked:
”Isn't that a tent over there near the b.u.t.tes, Wild Cat?”
Hiram looked up and s.h.i.+elded his eyes, straining his vision over the rolling white backs of Jo's team into the yellow vastness beyond.
”Looks like it,” he said.
”We'll not have to arrange for a watchman then. Demarest has sent a man, I guess. Get out my binoculars, please, and see what you can make out.”
Hiram took the strong gla.s.ses from their case, and, steadying himself against a side of the freight rack, trained them on the distant speck of white that represented a lonely tent.
At once the tent seemed to jump across the desert to a point a short distance ahead of them. Hiram's lips parted and a snort of surprise escaped him.
Before the front of the tent, on a pole planted there, was a big sign composed of black letters against a white background. And this is what Hiram Hooker read:
The Homesteader's Promised Land of Milk and Honey
OFFICE OF THE PALOMA RANCHO INVESTMENT COMPANY
Orr Tweet, President. Walk In
CHAPTER XVIII
GREATER RAGTOWN
Indeed he was an important-looking individual who greeted the freight outfit of Jerkline Jo when it came to a weary halt at the foot of the desert b.u.t.tes. He wore a new olive-drab suit, composed of Norfolk jacket and bellows breeches, an imposing Columbia-shape Stetson, and s.h.i.+ny new russet-leather puttees. From one corner of his mouth, aligned with his twisted nose, protruded long, expensive-looking cigar.
This was Twitter-or-Tweet Orr Tweet.
Hat removed, bowing like a j.a.panese, he approached the astonished skinners and offered his hand to Jerkline Jo.
”Madam,” he said, ”permit me to extend to you Ragtown's most cordial welcome. And you, gentlemen, are included, of course. When you have the time, Miss Modock, I should like the pleasure of your presence in the office of the Paloma Rancho Investment Company. If I may offer a suggestion, too, it might be well to deposit Mr. Demarest's freight close to my office, so that I can look out for it until the arrival of the outfit. Hooker, come with your employer if you can conveniently do so.”
So saying, Mr. Tweet recrowned himself with his new Stetson, turned, and strolled impressively toward his tent, disappearing between its lazily flapping portals.
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