CHAPTER IV
THE DESERT HAWKS
While our little party had been making its way so arduously across the almost impenetrable waste of sand and alkali, another party equipped with tough, desert-bred horses and a knowledge, so intimate as to be uncanny, of the secret ways and trails of the sun-bitten land, had made preparations for departure.
It had been no fancy on Peggy's part when she imagined that she heard the partial details of a plot against Mr. Bell on the night during which she had lain awake in the rough hotel of Blue Creek. Had the party possessed the power of seeing through partitions of solid timber, they would have been able to behold within that room a scene transpiring which must, inevitably, have filled them with uneasiness and even alarm.
Red Bill Summers, one of the best known of the desert hawks, as the nefarious rascals who ply their highwayman's trade on the desert are sometimes called, had been one of the passengers on the train whose keenly observing eyes had surveyed the little party as they disembarked. His companion, the man with the drooping moustache was likewise invested with a somewhat sinister reputation. But probably the worst of the trio who foregathered that night at the National House was the romantic looking young man with the red sash and the silver spurs whom the others called Buck Bellew.
Mr. Bell and his expedition into the desert formed the topic of their conversation. It was evident, as they talked, that their main desire was to trap or decoy him on his way, but as they discussed plans this intention gradually changed.
"He's got kids with him, and young gals, too;" said the dark-mustached man, who seemed to be a little less ruffianly than his companions, "we don't want to do them no harm."
"Not if we can help it," rejoined Red Bill Summers, wrinkling his low forehead, "but I ain't goin' ter let them stand in our way."
"Of course not," chimed in Buck Bellew, playing with the tassels on his red sash, and jingling his silver-mounted spurs in a somewhat dandified fashion, "pretty girls, too," he added.
"Ther point's just this," struck in Red Bill, apparently paying no attention to the other's conversation, "Jim Bell's got a desert mine some place out thar yonder. This young chap he had with him, what's his name—"
"Prescott," suggested Buck Bellew.
"Ay, Prescott, that's it. Wal, this yer Prescott has invented some sort of an air ship, I read that in the papers. It's pretty clear to my mind that this air ship is going to be used in getting the gold out of the desert. That's plain enough, eh?"
"Yes, if your first idee is right. If he's got a paying mine in reality," agreed Bellew.
"Oh, I'm satisfied on that point. Jim Bell's too old a fox to go inter the desert onless he had stithin' worth going arter."
"Well, what are we going to do about it?" asked the third man with a grin, "build an aeroplane, too. For myself I'm free to confess I ain't no sky pilot and don't never expect to be one."
"This ain't a minstrel show," scowled Red Bill.
"Couldn't help laffin' though," said the black-mustached one, "talkin' uv aviators reminded me of that story of the feller who went ter see I lier doctor and git some medicine. Ther doc he says, 'I want you to take three drops in water very day.' Ther young chap fainted. When he recovered they asked him what the matter was. He says, 'I'm an aviator. Three drops in water would finish me in a week.'"
"That'll do from you," grunted Red Bill, without the trace of a smile at this little anecdote, "let's git down to bizness. Those folks leave here to-morrow. They'll go early in the morning. "We can't follow them too close without excitin' suspicion. The problem is to keep track of them without they're knowing it."
"Don't they take any servants or help?" asked Bellew after a pause.
"Yes, they do."
"You're certain?"
"I made it my business to find out. They are going to take a guide.
Have him engaged, in fact."
"Who is he?"
"Oh, a no good Mexican, a chap named Juan Baptista."
"Juan Baptista!" exclaimed Bellew slapping his leg, "that's fine.
Couldn't be better."
"You know him?"
"So well that he'll have to do anything I say."
"You can make him obey you then?"
"I know of a horse stealing case in which he was mixed up. If he won't do what we tell him to I'll threaten him with exposure."
"Good. He is sleeping in the corral with their ponies. Let's go down there now and rouse him out. Then we'll have part of the business settled."
"I'm agreeable. Come on."
As noiselessly as possible the three plotters crept from the room and tip-toed down the corridors. Following a long passage they presently emerged into a star-lit stable-yard. In that part of the west doors are not locked at night, so they could go out without bothering about a key.
"Where's the corral?" whispered Buck as they came out of the hotel.
"Right over there. See that haystack. The greaser's asleep this side of it. Right under where that saddle is hanging on the fence."
"All right. Come on."
Led by Buck Bellew, whose spurs gave out an occasional jingle, they crept across the yard. Presently they came upon a dark bundle lying huddled at the foot of the corral palings.
Bellew stirred the inanimate bundle with his foot. The spurs gave out a tinkling, musical jingle. The thing moved, stirred and finally galvanized into life. It was finally revealed as the figure of a rather ill-favored Mexican, unusually tall for one of his race who are, as a rule, squat and small.
"Buenas tardes, Juan!" greeted Buck Bellew.
"Buenas tardes, senors," was the response. "But what for do you disturb me in thees way. Know that to-morrow with the rising of the sun I have to awake and saddle the beasts, and fare forth into the alkali with party of gringoes."
"That's all right. That's what we came to talk to you about, Juan," said Bellew. He bent low and pushed his face almost into the Mexican's brown and sleepy countenance.
"Do you know me!" he grated out.
"Todos Santos! Caramba! It is the Senor Bellew!"
"Not so loud Juan. There may be somebody around who would recognize that name. It is enough that you know me."
"What do you wish with me, senor?"
The Mexican's voice shook. Evidently he feared this tall, good-looking, though dissolute, young Gringo.
"You are to escort a party of gringos headed by a Senor Bell as far as Steer Wells, are you not?"
"Si senor. As I said to-morrow before the rising of the sun must I be awake. I must saddle and pack, and—"
"All right. Never mind that. I have a little bit of work for you to perform, too. If you do it well you will be rewarded. If not—"
"If not senor—?"
"If not—well don't let us dwell on unpleasant subjects. I want you to ride with these gringos. Listen to all that they say. Talk to them and learn from them all that you can."
"Of what?"
"Of their destination—of where they are going—what they are going to do when they get there, and so on. You understand?"
"Perfectly senor. But they have paid me well and promised more.
Senor Bell is a good man. He is—"
"Will you do what I tell you?"
The voice was sharp and imperious.
"Senor, I would do much for you. But this—"
The Mexican spread his hands helplessly.
"I cannot. It would be too bad a thing to do."
"Very well. I'll call Cash Dallam. Tell him who you are and how it was you who was concerned in the theft of those horses from Diablo River. You know what would happen to you then. You know—"
But the Mexican was down on his knees. His hands were raised in mute appeal. His teeth' chattered like the busy heels of a clog dancer.
"No, no, senor. Santa Maria, no, no!" he begged.
"It's entirely up to you," was the cold response. "Now will you do as I say?"
"Yes, yes. A thousand times yes, senor. Anything you say— anything."
"I thought so," rejoined Bellew grimly. He turned with a look of triumph to the two silent spectators of the scene, who nodded smilingly. The Mexican's pitiful agitation seemed only to amuse those callous hearts.
"You will travel, as I said, with these gringos," pursued Bellew, "and glean all the information you can. Then, when you have found out all about where they mean to go, and how long they mean to stay and so on, you will find an opportunity to drop out of their company."
"Si senor," quavered the man, "and then—"
"And then you will be met by us. We shall take care of you."
"But Senor Bell and the senoritas?"
"We will take care of them, too," was the grim response.
It was not till the next day, at noon, that the three desert hawks left the hotel, long after the departure of the Bell party. They rode slowly in the opposite direction to that in which the other party had gone, till they had gotten out of sight of the little town. Then, taking advantage of every dip and rise in the surface of the plain, they retraced their steps and soon were riding on the track of the Bell outfit.
"Whar wa'ar you all ther forenoon?" asked the black-mustached man of Red Bill as they rode along.
"I was doing a bit of profitable business," was the rejoinder.
"Selling something?"
"No finding something out. Boys, Jim Bell's in our power."
"In our power," laughed the other, a laugh in which Bellew chimed in. "I reckon you don't know him yet."
"Don't eh?" snarled Red Bill, stung into acrimonious retort. "I reckon your brain works just a bit too quick, Buck."
"Waal, ef you know so much, let's hear it?"
The red-sashed, silver-spurred Buck Bellew reined in closer to his companions, rowelling his little active "paint" horse as he did so, till it jumped and curvetted.
"It's just this," said Red Bill Summers, unconsciously lowering his tone although there was no one about to hear but his companions, a few, blasted-looking yuccas and, far overhead, a wheeling buzzard.
"Jim Bell ain't never filed no location of ther mine with ther guv'ment."
If he had expected to produce a sensation, he must have felt justified by the results of this announcement. Buck Bellew whistled. The black-mustached man gave a low, long-drawn-out exclamation of:
"Wo-o-o-w!"
"Thought you'd sit up and take notice," grinned their leader. "Sounds foolish-like, but it's true. I searched ther records, but it ain't on 'em."
"Maybe he's filed a claim some place else," suggested the black-mustached man.
"There you go, throwing cold water as usual," snorted Buck Bellew.
"Taint cold water. It's common, ornery hoss sense. That's what it is. Do you s'pose that any man 'ud be foolish enough to locate a rich mine an' then not file a claim to it?"
"Heard of sich things been done," commented Red Bill. "Maybe he ain't over and above anxious fer anyone ter go in alongside of him afore he's had a chanct ter take up some more land. Maybe—"
"Waal, no use guessing at sich things," rejoined Buck; "fer my part I guess Red is right. Jim Bell ain't had the hoss sense te file a claim. And if he ain't—"
"That makes it all the easier fer us. Wonder ef thet feller Juan is learning much?"
Bill Summers was the speaker.
"He's sharp as a steel trap," volunteered Bellew, "when he wants to be."
"I guess arter that dressing down you giv' him las' night he'll want to be, all right," opined the black-mustached man.
"Guess so," grinned Buck; "if he ain't, it'll be the worse fer him."
As he spoke they topped a little rise. Over in front of them, and on all sides—the desert, vast, illimitable, untrod of man, lay, a desolate expanse of nothingness.
Far, far off could be seen a tiny blue cloud, resting on the horizon—the desert range.
"Thar's whar Jim Bell's mine is, I'll bet a hoss and saddle," said
Bellew reining in his horse and pointing to the distant azure mass.
"Guess you'd win," nodded Red Bill Summers, "and," he added, his keen eyes narrowing to slits he gazed straight ahead, "and thar, I reckon, is Jim Bell himself and his party."
They followed the direction of his gaze. Far off across the glittering ocean of sand and alkali a yellowish cloud—almost vaporish, arose. It seemed to be a sort of water spout on land. It drifted lazily upward. The experienced desert hawks knew it for what it was. The dust cloud raised by a company of travelers.
As their glances rested on it intently, not one of the three figures toping the crest of the little rise, spoke.
Their tired horses, too, stood absolutely still. Men and animals might have been petrified figures, carved out of the desolation about them. There was a something impressive about them as they stood there in the midst of the desert glare. Silent, hawk-like, and intent. Their very poses seemed to convey a sense of menace—of danger.
Suddenly they wheeled and turned, and their mounts, as the spurs struck their damp sides, broke into a lope. As they galloped, Red Bill burst into a song. A lugubrious, melancholy thing, like most of the songs of the plainsmen.
"Bury me out on lone prair-ee
Out where the snakes and the coyotes be;
Drop not a tear on my sage brush grave
Out on the lone prair-e-e-e-e-e!"
Then the others struck in, their ponies' hoofs making an accompaniment to the gruesome words:
"The sands will shift in the desert wind;
My bones will rot in the alkali kind;
I'll be happier there than ever I be
In my grave, on the lone prair-e-e-e-e-e!"
It began to sound like a dirge, but still the leader of the hawks of the desert kept it up. He bellowed it out now in a harsh, shrill voice. It rasped uncomfortably, like rusty iron grating on rusty iron.
"Maybe upon the judgment day;
When all sinners their debt must pay;
They'll find me and bind me and judge poor me;
All in my grave, on the lone prair-e-e-e-e-e-e!"
As the last words of this dismal chant rang out, an echo seemed to be flung back at the singer from behind a neighboring ridge, upon which the lone yuccas stood upright, like, so many figures of formed bits of humanity.
"Ye-e-e-e-e-e-e!"
It came in a long drawn out wail that fairly seemed to make the desert ring with its gruesome echoes. All at once it was taken up from another point. Then another echoed it back. It seemed to be proceeding from a dozen quarters of the compass at once.
Strong nerved as all three of the riders were, it appeared to make a strange impression on them.
"What in the name of Kit Carson wuz that?" demanded Red Bill drawing rein.
"Dunno. It sounded like someone havin' fun with that ther cheerful little song of yourn," said the black-mustached man.
"That's what it did. I'd like to find the varmint. I'd make some fun fer him."
The man scowled savagely. His nerves had been unpleasantly shaken by the wild, unearthly cries.
"It didn't sound human," he said at length; "tell you what, let's jes' look aroun' and see if we kin find any trace of who done it."
Buck Bellew said nothing but he grinned to himself. Plainly something amused him hugely.
"All right;" he said, "we'll look."
They rode about among the desert dips and gullies for some time, but they could discover no trace of any agency that could have produced the weird cries. Both Red Bill and the black-mustached man were plainly nonplussed.
"This beats all," opined Summers. "I don't even see a track any place."
"Nor don't I," rejoined his companion seriously. Both were superstitious men, a failing apparently not shared by Bellew, who stood regarding them, seated easily sideways in his saddle, with an amused look.
"Hey Bellew, why don't you come an' look. You alters wuz a good tracker?" demanded Red Bill looking up suddenly.
"Not fer me, thanks," was the easy response, "ef you want to hunt spooks—"
"Who said it wuz a spook or any such pack uv nonsense?" glared back
Summers.
"I didn't," declared the black-mustached man with great positiveness.
"No more did I," angrily sputtered Red Bill "thar ain't no such things nohow."
"I dunno," said the black-mustached man seriously. "I do recollec' hearing my old grandmother, back East, tell about a ghost what she seen once. Want ter hear about it?"
No one replied, and taking silence for consent, he went on.
"Grandmother was married to a decent old chap that was a teamster. He used to haul farm stuff to the city in the day and it was often pretty late afore he got out again. Well, on his way he had to pass a cemetery, a buryin' ground you know, and I tell you he didn't like it. It sort of got on his nerves to think that some night one of them dead folks lying there all so quiet might arise from ther graves.
"It seems as how it allers haunted him ter think that some night as he wuz drivin' by that ther buryin' ground—"
"Yer said that once before," snapped Summers looking nervously about him, "get on with your story."
"Well I am, ain't I?"
"Not fast enough."
"Waal this is a ghost story and ghosts don't move fast."
"Ho! ho!" laughed Bellew hollowly.
"As I was sayin', grandpop didn't like the idee of some night seeing a tall form, all in white, come gliding down among them tombstones, and raising its hand cry to him in a solemn voice—"
"Wow."
The shout came from Summers. He had suddenly felt something light on his shoulder. Thence it had crawled to neck and laid clammy feet upon him. It was an immense dragon fly, but he had evidently mistaken it for something else, to judge by the start and exclamation he had given.
"Ain't gittin' on yer nerves, be I?" asked the black-mustached man innocently.
"No, no. Get on with your fool story for goodness sake."
"You wuz a sayin' thet your fool grandpop wuz supposin' that ef something said to him as he wuz-oh, go on and tell it yourself!"
"All right. Well then grandpop was jes' a thinkin' how awful it 'ud be ef anything like that ever did happen. He'd come home and talk to grandma'am at nights about it. I tell you his nerves was powerful upsot. Suthin' like yours."
"Like mine, you long-legged lizard!"
"I mean like yours might hev bin ef you'd bin in my grandpop's place, Red."
"Oh, all right. Perceed. What nex'?"
"Waal, one night jes what he'd bin a dreadin' did come ter pass. He was goin' by ther graveyard when he hearn the awfulest screech you ever hearn—"
"Yow-e-ow-ee-ow-ow!"
Red Bill Summers started and turned pale. It was a repetition of the cry that had interrupted his song. Without wasting time on ceremonies, he dug his spurs into his horse and dashed off. The narrator of the ghost story, as badly scared as his companion, followed him at post haste. Ther Bellew laughing heartily, turned and followed them. But at a more leisurely speed. From time to time, as he pursued the flying forms, his big frame shook with mirth. Somebody once said that a man who gives a hearty laugh was not all bad. If this is true, there must have been considerable good in Buck Bellew.
After about a mile of riding he overtook the other two.
"What's the hurry?" he inquired easily.
"Nuthin', nuthin'," said Summers, still a bit shaky, "my pony scairt at suthin, I reckon, and jes' naturally dashed off. I had a hard job te pull the cayuse in."
"Same hyar, same hyar," said the black-mustached man.
"Rot!" laughed Bellew. "In my opinion, you're both a pair of cowards. Don't pull your gun on me, Summers. You wouldn't fire at me, and you know it."
Summers sullenly put up his gun.
"Say, what's ther matter with you, Buck?" he asked grumpily.
"What's the matter with you two, you mean? Why, you dashed off like a girl in a red sweater with a bull on her heels."
"I tole you ther ponies ran away," said Summers, shifting his little eyes. Somehow he couldn't look Bellew in the face.
"Yes, and I guess what made 'em run was suthin' like this—"
A quizzical look stole over Bellew's lean, handsome features. All at once the air became filled with the same mysterious sounds that had so alarmed Summers and the other man.
"Ye-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-ow-w-w-w-w-w-e-e-eeeee!"
"Buck! You consarned old ventriloconquest!" shouted Summers, vastly relieved as Bellew burst into a roar of hearty laughter.
"Forgot I used to be ventriloquist with a medicine show, eh?" chuckled Bellew, rolling about in his saddle. "Come in handy sometimes, don't it?"
"Waal, next time yer goin' ter practice, jes' let us know in advance."
Summers' face held rather a sheepish grin as he spoke. The black-mustached man looked even more foolish.
"Make a good signal, wouldn't it?" asked Bellew presently.
"Yes. By the way, reckon you could imitate a coyote, Buck?"
"Easy. Listen!"
A perfect imitation of a coyote's yapping, hyena-like cry rang out.
"Great. Maybe we can use that sometime."
How soon that cry was to be used, and to what disastrous effect on our little party of adventurers, we shall see as our story progresses. But the next time Buck Bellew gave that thrilling, spine-tightening cry, was to be under far different circumstances, and with far different results—results fraught with great importance to our young adventurers.