Falcon, of Squawtooth

by Arthur Preston Hankins

“But let me work up to that gradually. I must explain about the tie and the pasteboard cover.

“We went inside to Los Angeles, then made it by train to Sycamore Grove, directly opposite here on the other side of the range, as you know. There we got track of a bunch of mules that were on pasture up in the mountains. From the description, they seemed to be about what we were after. The owner, however, was absent and the sale was in the hands of a friend of his—with no commission guaranteed him, I imagine. Anyway, he could not, or would not, take us up into the mountains to show us the stock. But he told us about where we might find them, if we wanted to make the trip ourselves.

“We had bought everything else in Los Angeles, and ordered it shipped to Opaco by train. We wanted the four mules that this man described. So when we learned that they were on this side of the range we decided to cross over from Sycamore Grove, see the mules, take them if we liked them, and come on down to the desert camps on this side, settling with the owner later—and later, also, go to Opaco for our shipment, having described a complete circle in our travels.

“In an automobile stage we went up into the mountains from the other side to a resort. There we bought a few provisions, and, being old hobos, did not require much of a camp outfit. We set off afoot across the range to see the mules on this side. We got lost, of course, and to this moment have never set eyes on those four long ears. We did camp several times, and almost froze in the high altitude at night. Daisy did use his beautiful pink tie to haul up water from an underground creek. But there seemed no other way to get at it, and the tie was already wrinkled. For my part, I didn’t miss it at all. As to the cover from Halfaman’s book of cigarettes, I imagine he threw it away at some time or other, the papers being exhausted. But of course I can’t recall such a trivial incident as that. The writing is his, though, and I’m not surprised to see it where it is. If there’s anything between here and northern California on which he hasn’t written his begatting sentiments, there was a great oversight somewhere.

“We had run out of grub, so gave up the hunt. We knew where the desert was, of course, and headed ourselves this way. Once down on the level we caught an automobile bound for Opaco, and decided to go on in and get our shipment, so as not to fail in our proposed surprise and triumphal entry for the benefit of Wing o’ the Crow. We bargained for a ride, went to Opaco—passing directly through Squawtooth, by the way—got our outfit, drove out, and—bingo!—you know the rest. At Opaco for the first time we heard of the robbery.”

“And is that positively all there is to it?”

“Positively all. Do you believe it?”

“Of course,” she told him simply.

“I’d rather have you say that than all the jurymen and judges in the State,” he said. “I live on loyalty. It’s my religion. As Halfaman would say, you’ve made an awful hit with me. And through all the happy years that you and I are to spend together, dear girl, I want loyalty to be our watchword. It’s a beautiful thing—loyalty.”

“I guess the Canbys have their share of it,” she said. “I’ve been told we carry it too far. But we’ll take a chance. Loyalty begets loyalty sometimes. It pays in the end. And now for the big question and its answer. Then I have a confession to make.”