The Treasure Trail: A Romance of the Land of Gold and Sunshine. Ryan Marah Ellis
three hours a journey into the unknown far East of the Americano was beyond his imaginings. He shrugged his shoulders, tossed his hands outwards in despair, and turned toward the barns.
Conrad looked after him in irritation, and then smiled at Rhodes. He had a rather ingratiating smile, and it the first time he had betrayed it to Kit.
“These explosive Latins,” he said derisively. “I think I can make him reasonable, and you go forward with your own preparations.”
He followed Herrara, leaving Kit staring after them wondering. His glance then rested on the automobile, and he noted that it had not merely come out of the garage for the usual work of the day. It had been traveling somewhere, for the wheels were crusted with mud–mud not there at sunset yesterday. And in that section of Pima there was no water to make mud nearer than Poso Verde, and it was over there Miguel Herrara had been hurt!
He had only three hours, and no time to investigate. There were rumors of smuggling all along the line over there, and strange conferences between Mexican statesmen and sellers of Connecticut hardware of an explosive nature. He recalled having heard that Singleton was from Connecticut, or was it Massachusetts? Anyway, it was over there at the eastern edge of the country somewhere, and it was also where plots and counter plots were pretty thick concerning ammunition; also they were more complicated on the Mexican border. He wondered if Singleton was as simple as he looked, for he certainly was paying wages to a mixed lot. Also it was a cinch to run any desirable contraband from Granados across to La Partida and from there hellwards.
He wondered if Singleton knew? But Singleton had a capable business manager, while he, Rhodes, was only a range boss with the understanding that he adjust himself to any work a white man might qualify for.
The mere fact that once he had sat at the family table might not, in Singleton’s eyes, warrant him in criticizing an approved manager, or directing suspicion towards him. He might speak to Pike, but he realized that Pike was not taken very seriously; only welcomed because Billie liked him, and because an American ranch usually had the open door for the old timers of his caliber.
Also Pike had told him plainly that he must not be expected to mix up in the Mexican game for any reason whatsoever.
“I reckon it’s up to us, Pardner,” he decided, as he called directions to the different men loading the wagons with oats and barley for the stock on the trail. There were three mule teams ready for the railroad junction where the cars were waiting on the siding, or would be by night.
Some of the men were getting the mules straightened out in the harness while others were roping horses in the corral. It would take most of the home outfit to lead and drive them to the railroad, which meant one lonely and brief period of hilarity at the only joint where “bootleg” whiskey could be secured by the knowing, and a “movie” theater could add to other simple entertainments for the gentle Juans of the ranges. Neither Conrad nor Herrara were visible, and he presumed the latter was making arrangements for the sudden and unexpected departure from his family, but he knew he had not attempted to ride home for a farewell greeting, because his horse still stood near Conrad’s automobile where he had first overheard that curious conversation between the two men.
After a leisurely breakfast Pike was meandering towards the stock yard on his mule with the intent to trail along to the Junction with the boys. Rhodes, catching sight of him, looked hopefully but unsuccessfully for Singleton. The minutes were slipping by, and no definite instructions had been given him concerning the three car loads of horses. Did Conrad mean to leave every detail until the last moment and make difficulties for the new man? Was that the way he got rid of the Americans he didn’t want? He recalled the prophecy of Billie that he would not hold his job. Well, he would show her!
With memories of the white and gold vision of the previous night, and the guitar in the sala, and the moonlight touching all to enchantment, he had fully decided that he would not only hold the job, but on some future day he would be business manager. And he’d find that lost mine or know the reason why, and he would–
For after all Kit Rhodes was only twenty-three and all of life ahead of him for dreams! He was wondering what he could fetch back from the East that would be acceptable to a witchy elf of a butterfly girl who already had, to his simple estimate, all the requisites of a princess royal.
Juanito came loping past, and Rhodes asked for his father.
“I am myself looking for him,” said the boy. “He has there on his horse all the things for Tio Miguel, but Miguel not coming, and I wonder who goes? Maybe it will be me. What you think?” he asked hopefully.
Kit did not answer, for Juanito’s mention of the articles for Miguel brought from home by Tomas, and still fastened to the back of the saddle, drew his attention to the articles tied there–some clothing badly wrapped, a pair of black shoes tied together with brown strings, and under them, yet plainly visible, a canvas water bag.
There was nothing unusual in a water bag or a canteen tied back of any saddle in the dry lands, it was the sensible thing to do, but Kit found himself staring at this particular water bag stupidly, remembering where he had seen it last. It had been only partly full then, but now it was plump and round as if water-filled; yet one glance told him it was not wet, and moreover, he had noted the day before a hole in the side tied up in a hard knot by twine, and there was the knot!
Yet it might be a stock of pinole, parched corn, as evidence of Miguel’s forethought against privation on the long eastern trail. He could think of several reasonable things to account for an old water bag tied to a Mexican’s saddle, but reason did not prevent his glance turning to it again and again.
The fear in Narcisco’s eyes came back to him, and his attempt to cover his harmless playthings at the coming of the unexpected American. He wondered–
“Say, Bub, I’ve got ten dollars to invest in some little trinket for Billie boy, and I want you to put it down in your jeans and invest it in whatever it will cover,” said Captain Pike at his elbow, clinking the silver coin meditatively. “You’ll have time to see plenty attractive things for the money there in the streets of New York, or Baltimore, or whichever of the dock towns you’ll be heading for.”
Rhodes accepted the coin, absently frowning.
“That’s one of the dark secrets not yet divulged by this curious management,” he growled. “I’m to go, or so I was told, but have been given no instructions. Where’s Singleton?”
“Just rounded up for breakfast.”
“Is he coming down here to the corrals?”
“Not that I could notice. Pedro got in from the Junction with last Sunday’s papers, and he and Billie have the picture sheets spread around, having a weekly feast.”
Kit strode over to his mount, and then halted, glancing towards the house a half mile away, and then at the telephone poles along the wide lane.
“Say, there’s a telephone somewhere down here at the works, connecting with the hacienda, isn’t there?”
“Sure, in that hallway between the two adobes where the bunk house ends and offices begin.”
Kit started briskly towards the long bunk house, and then turned to Pike.
“Do me a favor, Captain. Stay right there till I get back, and don’t let anyone take that Herrara horse away, or his load!”
“All right, but load!–why, the spotted rat hasn’t got a load for a jack rabbit, load!” and Pike sniffed disdain at the little knobs of baggage dangling from the rawhide strings. He didn’t think the subdued animal needed watching–still, if Kit said so–
At the same time Kit was calling the house, and hearing in reply a soft whistle of the meadow lark, and then a girl’s laugh.
“Your music is good to listen to, Lark-child,” he called back, “and your ears are perfectly good at telling who’s who, but this is a strictly business day, and it is Mr. Singleton I need to speak with.”
“Still holding your job, or asking for your time?” came the mocking voice.
“You bet I’m holding