“Wonder if they are so eager to welcome settlers because they are all real-estate agents, or if the valley movement is a failure?” reflected the newcomer.
The heavy bus was plowing slowly through the dust of the street. Rickard was given ample time to note the limitations of the new town. They passed two brick stores of general merchandise; lemons and woolen goods, stockings and crackers disporting fraternally in their windows. A board sign swinging from the overhanging porch of the most pretentious building announced the post-office. From a small adobe hung a brass plate advising the stranger of the Bank of Calexico. The ’dobe pressed close to another two-storied structure of the desert type. The upper floor, supported by posts, extended over the sidewalk. Netted wire screened away the desert mosquito, and gave the overhanging gallery the grotesque appearance of a huge fencing mask. From the street could be seen rows of beds; as in hospital wards. Calexico, it was seen, slept out-of-doors.
“Desert Hotel,” bawled the darky, reining in his placid team.
“Yes, sah, I’ll look out for your bag. Got your room? The hotel’s mighty sure to be full. Not many women yit down this a-way.... All the men mostly lives right heah at the hotel.”
Rickard made a dive from a swirl of dust into the hotel. The long line he anticipated at the desk was not there. He stopped to take in a valley innovation. One end of the long counter had been converted into a soda-water bar. The high swivel stools in front of the white marbled stand, with its towering silver fixtures, were crowded with dust-parched occupants of the bus. A white-coated youth was pouring colored sirups into tall glasses; there was a clinking of ice; a sizzling of siphons.
“That’s a new one on me,” grinned Rickard, turning toward the desk where a complacent proprietor stood waiting to announce that there was but one room left.
“With bath?”
“Bath right across the hall. Only room left in the house.” The proprietor awarded him the valley stare. “Going to be here long?” He passed the last key on the rack to the darky staggering under a motley of bags and suit-cases. Rickard recognized his, and followed.
“I may get you another room to-morrow,” called the proprietor after him as he climbed the dusty stairs.
Rickard decided that the one room was not only hot and stifling, but dirty. The darky thrust his bag through the door and left the guest staring at the bed. He pulled back the covers; dust and sand of apparently a week’s accumulation lined the sheets. The red, gaily-flowered, Brussels carpet was gritty with sand. Rickard rubbed a reflective finger over the surface of the golden-oak bureau.