_ CHAPTER XIII. THE RETURN
Overland Red lay concealed in an arroyo at the foot of the range. He could overlook the desert without being seen. It was the afternoon of the day following Winthrop's departure.
Since discovering the dead prospector's camp and all that it meant, the tramp was doubly vigilant. He tried to believe that his anxiety was for his own safety rather than for Winthrop's. He finally gave up that idea, grumbling something about becoming "plumb soft in his feelin's since he took to associatin' with sassiety folks." However, had Winthrop been of the West and seasoned in its more rugged ways, Overland would have thought little of the young man's share in recent events. While he knew that Winthrop looked upon their venture as nothing more than a rather keenly exciting game, Overland realized also that the Easterner had played the game royally. Perhaps the fact that Winthrop's health was not of the best appealed to some hidden sentiment in the tramp's peculiar nature. In any event, Overland Red found himself strangely solicitous for his companion's return.
Far in the south a speck moved, almost imperceptibly. The tramp's keen eyes told him that this was no horseman. He rolled a cigarette and lay back in the shade of a boulder. "He's a couple of points off his course, but he can't miss the range," he reflected.
Desiring to assure himself that no horseman followed Winthrop, Overland Red made no sign that might help the other to find the trail over the range. The rim of Winthrop's hat became distinguishable; then the white lacing of his boots. Nearer, Overland saw that his face was drawn and set with lines of fatigue.
No riders appeared on the horizon. Overland stepped out from behind the rock. "Well, how did you make it?" he called.
Winthrop came forward wearily "No luck at all."
"Couldn't find it, eh?"
"I counted every tie between the tank and that little ditch under the track. The entire stretch has been relaid with new ties."
Overland whistled. Then he grinned. "You had a good healthy walk, anyhow," he observed.
"It doesn't seem to worry you much," said Winthrop.
"Nope. Now you're back, it don't. I reckon you done your dam'dest as the song says. Angels can do no less. Buck up, Billy! You 're limper'n a second-hand porous-plaster. Here, take a shot at this. That will stiffen your knees some. Did you meet up with anybody?"
"Not a soul. I thought I should freeze last night, though. I didn't imagine the desert could get so cold."
"Livin' out here on the old dry spot will either kill you or cure you. That's one reason I let you go look for them things. The harder you hit the trail, and can stand it, the quicker you'll get built up." Then Overland, realizing that his companion was worse than tired, that he was dispirited, became as wily as the proverbial serpent. His method, however, could hardly be compared with the dove's conciliatory cooing. "You sure are a bum scout," he began.
Winthrop flushed, but was silent.
"Bet a banana you didn't even leave the track and look for it."
"No, I didn't. Where could I have begun?"
Overland ignored the question. "I'm hungrier than a gorilla. Just send a wireless to them feet of your'n. We got some climbin' to do afore dark."
"I'd just as soon camp here. Go up to-morrow," said Winthrop.
"So'd I if it wasn't for bein' scared some of the hills would mosey off before I got back." And Overland set a brisk pace up the mountain, talking as he climbed. Winthrop could do nothing but listen. He was breathless.
"Or that canon," continued Overland. "She might not be there if we stayed away all night. Besides, I'm scared to leave
it alone by itself."
"Leave what?" gasped Winthrop.
"It. The find I made while you was out surveyin' the Santa Fe. I was feared you'd get nervous prosecution if I told you all to once, so I breaks it easy like."
"What was it?"
"Nothin' but a tent in the canon we're campin' in. But, Billy, when you find a tent and some minin' tools and other signs of trouble 'way up some lonesome old slot in the hills, you want to get ready for a surprise. Mebby it'll be nothin' but some old clothes and bones. Mebby it'll be them and somethin' else. I didn't find the bones, but I found the somethin' else, coarse, and fair dribblin' thick in the dirt. It's there and rich, Billy, rich!"
Overland Red turned and paused as Winthrop leaned against a rock.
"It's the--the real thing?" queried the Easterner.
"The real thing, pardner. Now what do you think of that for highbrow stuff?"
"Meaning that you stumbled on the secret?"
"If you want to say it that way, yes. Just like fallin' into a sewer and findin' a gold watch where you lit."
"Then it's all true? We've found the gold? You really believed we should, and for that matter, so did I. I can't say why. I rather felt that we should."
"I guess I'm some class when it comes to findin' the incubator that hatches them little yella babies with the come-and-find-me eyes."
Winthrop straightened his tired shoulders. "You seem to think that you're pretty clever," he said, laughing. "But in the elegant and expressive diction of the late--the late Overland Red Summers, 'I think you're a bum scout.'" And they shook hands, laughing as they turned to climb the trail.
Near the crest, Overland again paused. "Say, Billy, you said the 'late' Overland Red Summers. You took particular noise to make me hear that word 'late.' Have you got any objections to explainin' that there idea? I been examinin' the works of that word 'late,' and it don't tick right to me. 'Late' means 'planted,' don't it?"
"Sometimes. It may also mean behind time. Do you remember that I said, a day or two ago, that I shouldn't be surprised if the lost gold were in the very canon where we camped? I claim precedence of divination, auto-suggestion, and right of eminent domain. I shall not waive my prerogative."
"I never owned one," said Overland. "But afore I'll let you come any style over me, I'll have one made with a silk linin' and di'monds in the buttons, jest as soon as the claim gets to payin' good. Say, pardner, it's
free gold, and
coarse. I wisht Collie was here--the little cuss."
"Collie?"
"Uhuh. The kid I was tellin' you about, that I adopted back in Albuquerque. He's got a share in this here deal, by rights. He invested his eight rollers and four bits in the chances of my findin' the stuff. It was all the coin he had at the time. You see, I was campin' up on the Moonstone for a change of air, and Collie and me had a meetin' of the board of dissectors. The board votes unanimous to invest the paid-in capital in a suit of new jeans for the president, which was me. I got 'em on now. You see, I had to be dollied up to look the part so I could catch a come-on and get me grubstake."
"I see," said Winthrop, his gray eyes twinkling. "And I was the come-on?"
"Well," said Overland, scratching his head, "mebby you
was, but you ain't no more. If she pans out anything like I expect, you'll be standin' up so clost to bein' rich that if she was a bronc' you'd get kicked sure."
They rested for a few minutes, both gazing down on the evening desert. The reflected light, strong and clear, drew abrupt, keen-edged contrasts between the black, triangular shadows of the peaks and the gray of the range. Something elusive, awesome, unreal was in the air about them. The rugged mountain-side with its chaos of riven boulders, its forest of splintered rocky spires, silver cold in the twilight, its impassive bulk looming so large, yet a mere segment in the circling range, was as a day-dream of some ancient Valhalla, clothed in the mystic glory of ever-changing light, and crowned with slumbering clouds.
Winthrop sighed as he again faced the range. Overland heard and smiled. "You said it all," he muttered. "You said it all then."
"You're something of a poet, aren't you?" queried Winthrop.
"You bet! I'm some artist, too. A lady I was figurin' on acceptin' a invite to dinner with, once,--one of them rich kind that always wants to get their money's worth out of anything they do for a poor guy,--happened to come out on the back steps where I was holdin' kind of a coroner's request over a lettuce san'wich. 'My man,' she says, 'I have always been interested to know if you--er--tramps ever think of anything else but food and lodging and loafing. Nothing personal, I assure you. Merely a general interest in social conditions which you seem so well fitted to explode from experience. For instance, now, what are your favorite colors?'
"I couldn't see what that had to do with it, and I got kind of mad. A lettuce san'wich ain't encouragin' to confidence, so I up and says, 'What are me favorite colors, lady? Well, speakin' from experience, they is
ham and
eggs.'
"She took a tumble to herself and sent me out some of the best--and a bottle of Red Cross beer with it."
On up the slope they toiled, Winthrop half-forgetting his weariness in thinking of Overland's sprightly experiences with what he termed "the hard ole map--this here world."
At the summit they paused again to rest.
"That was the time," began Overland, "when I writ that there pome called 'Heart Throbs of a Hobo.' Listen!"
"Oh, my stummick is jest akein'
For a little bite of bacon,
A slice of bread, a little mug of brew.
I'm tired of seein' scenery,
Jest lead me to a beanery,
Where there's something more than only air to chew."
"The last line sounds like a sneeze," said Winthrop, laughing.
"Speakin' of sneeze," said Overland, "makes me think you ain't coughed so much lately, Billy."
"I had a pretty bad time yesterday morning," replied Winthrop.
"Well, you'll get cured and stay cured, up here," said Overland, hugely optimistic.
"Of course," rejoined Winthrop, smiling. "It's such hard work to breathe up here that I have to keep alive to attend to it."
"That's her! Them little old bellowsus of your'n 'll get exercise--not pumpin' off the effects of booze an' cigarettes, neither, but from pumpin' in clean thin air with a edge to it. Them little old germs will all get dizzy and lose their holt."
"That's getting rather deep into personalities," said Winthrop. "But I think you're correct. I could eat a whole side of bacon, raw."
And he followed Overland silently across the range and down into the cool depths of the hidden canon, where the tramp, ever watchful of the younger man's health, slipped from his coat and made Winthrop put it on, despite the latter's protest that he was hot and sweating. _