The Desert Fiddler

Bob Rogeen slept in the east wing of the squat adobe house. About midnight there was a vigorous and persistent shaking of the screen door.
Yes? he called, sleepily.
They have just telephoned in from the Red Butte Ranch —it was Dayton, his employer, at the door— the engine on that tractor has balked. They want a man out there by daylight to fix it.
Bob put up his arms and stretched, and replied yawningly:
Well, I guess I'm the fixer.
I guess you are, agreed the implement dealer. You know the way, don't you? Better ride the gray; and don't forget to take your gun. The boss crossed the patio to his own wing of the house.
The young fellow sat up and kicked along under the edge of the bed, feeling for his shoes.
A love—lee time to go to work, he growled, good-naturedly. Here is where the early bird catches the tractor—and the devil.
When he came out of the door a few minutes later, buttoning his corduroy coat—even in Imperial Valley, which knows no winter, one needs a coat on a March night—Rogeen stood for a moment on the step and put up his long arms again to stretch some of the deep sleep from his muscles. He was not at all enthusiastic about odd jobs at midnight; but in a moment his eyes fell on the slanting moonlight that shone mistily on the chinaberry tree in the patio ; the town on the American side was fast asleep; the wind with the smell of sagebrush stirred a clump of bamboo. The desert night had him—and when he rode away toward the Mexican line he had forgotten his gun and taken his fiddle.
He passed through Mexicali, the Mexican town, where the saloons were still open and the lights over the Red Owl, the great gambling hall, winked with glittering sleeplessness; and out upon the road by the irrigation canal, fringed with cottonwood and willows.