The Forbidden Trail Part 53

"I think it's perfect!" exclaimed d.i.c.k.

"Perfect if my engine works," said Roger. "But even if it doesn't, you'll still have the old Lemon and a real well. So I'll have done you no harm."

"Have you got to dismantle that condenser to move it?" asked d.i.c.k.

"Pretty thoroughly, I'm afraid. But if the Indians are any good at all--"

"If Rabbit Tail brings his pet gang," said d.i.c.k "there'll be four first cla.s.s machinists in it, trained at Carlisle. Fellows who work only when they please, but Lord, they are wonders. I saw them put up an oil engine once that had been badly smashed en route. It was a poem, I tell you."

"Heaven send them then!" exclaimed Roger. "If they put this thing over for us, I'll pay for it in cold cash as soon as I get it."

"Rabbit Tail won't take money for this deal," said Charley.

"The others will, but they won't ask for it." d.i.c.k filled his pipe, and pushed his coffee cup away with a little smile for Elsa.

"My debts are getting so large now," mused Roger, "that I can begin to take a sort of pride in them. Gustav, as d.i.c.k's home now, will you come down to the Plant in the morning?"

And at Gustav's nod Roger made his adieux and went home to bed.

Monday dawned with the usual promise of merciless heat. It seemed as if the torrid days of late summer were harder to bear than July had been.

Though there was an occasional dust storm, the air was quiet except for the little gusts of burning wind. These gusts were too transitory to carry a sand storm. But all day long, tall spirals of sand, like water spouts, whirled across the desert. One struck d.i.c.k's corral, during his absence, ripped off the roof of the tool house and overturned the watering trough. Several days later, one brought up against the condenser and after knocking off the thatch, collapsed, deluging the apparatus with sand. There was something uncanny about these gigantic figures, whirling suddenly across the desert, now viciously ripping up a cholla or a Joshua tree, now collapsing ridiculously against a rock.

It was now too, that thunderstorms were occasionally heard in the distant western ranges, though rain seemed forever denied to the desert valleys. But on the Sunday noon before Rabbit Tail's gang was to arrive, the impossible happened. Roger and Gustav were eating their monotonous lunch of corned beef and canned brown bread when a curious roar broke the desert silence. As the two men looked at each other questioningly, there was a deafening crash and a huge deluge of water smashed down on the cook tent. The sun-baked canvas was like a sieve and in a moment both men were saturated.

"A cloud burst!" exclaimed Roger, grinning fatuously at the delicious sensation of wet clothing and skin.

"Gott, vat a country!" cried Gustav.

Roger's grin disappeared. "The living tent, by Jove!" Heedless of the blinding torrent, he dashed to the tent where all the morning he had been sorting and checking drawings and notes. He stopped in the doorway appalled. Everything in the tent was dripping. Drawings, instruments, camera, open trunks and bedding were flooded. The patient work of months must be done over.

"Hang this infernal desert!" roared Roger. "This is the last straw!"

He stood glowering at the wreckage, water pouring over his head and shoulders, when, as suddenly as it had begun, the rain ceased. Roger looked out the door. Every grain of sand, every cactus spine bore a tiny rainbow. The whole desert floor was a mosaic of opals. The sky was of a blue too deep, too brilliant for the eye to endure. As Roger stood with mouth agape he was thrilled by a sensation he had not before experienced. The desert, ordinarily entirely odorless, gave forth a scent. Just for a moment a pungent perfume for which he could find no adjectives swept softly to his nostrils and was gone. Roger stood a moment longer as if transfixed. Then he smiled and turning into the tent, he began to repair the damage done.

Promptly at eight o'clock on Monday morning, Roger and d.i.c.k, at work on the Lemon, were greeted by a pleasant

"How! Boss!"

Standing by the corral in various att.i.tudes of ease, all of them smoking cigarettes, were the members of Rabbit Tail's gang. They were lean, powerful fellows, most of them young. They were dressed almost with the similarity of a uniform, black trousers, blue flannel s.h.i.+rts, girdled with a twist of bright colored silk, a bandanna twisted and tied filet wise about the head. Most of them wore their black hair waist long, but there were four men with short hair and Roger wondered if these were not the machinists of whom d.i.c.k had spoken.

"Any of you men ever drill a well?" asked Roger. Two of the older men promptly nodded. "All right, d.i.c.k, here you are. Rabbit Tail, how many burros did you bring? Thirty. By Jove, that's fine! Now three of you must start clearing this s.p.a.ce between the corral and pump house. See, I have it all pegged out. But, Rabbit Tail, I want all the mechanics down at the Plant."

The old Indian nodded, then said, "Where's Charley? You tell her come out here."

"She's up at the house," said d.i.c.k. "There she is, on the porch with the squaw. Oh, Charley! Come here!"

Charley came rapidly down the trail. Old Rabbit Tail shook hands with her solemnly. "Here is the gang. Old Rabbit Tail keep promise, see? I tell all these men why we come. See? They glad do this for white squaw good to Injuns. You say 'How' to them."

Charley's fine eyes deepened with unshed tears. "I am so grateful to all of you!" she exclaimed. "I want to shake hands with each of you," and she went down the line, the strangers among the Indians looking at her with frank curiosity and interest.

This little ceremony having been completed to Rabbit Tail's obvious satisfaction, the old chief set his men at the tasks designated at the Ranch and then with the rest of the gang and the string of burros, he followed Roger down to the Plant.

That was a mad week. The Indians showed a willingness to work that Roger had never seen equaled by white men. They were as curious about the Sun Plant as children and deeply interested in Roger's explanation of it.

Their general intelligence Roger found to be high above that of the average gang of whites. He never before had had the thrill of working with a crowd of mechanics who combined skill, intelligence and interest to this degree. The four machinists proved to be all that d.i.c.k had said and more. In all his life, Roger had never had so deeply satisfying a seven days. This, in spite of the fact that he worked like his men from daylight until dark, stopping only to eat the bountiful meals that the girls, with the Indian women, prepared at the ranch. This, in spite of ferocious heat and almost insuperable mechanical difficulties owing to the lack of lifting and trucking facilities.

For the first four days of the week, d.i.c.k was quite despondent about the water problem. But on Friday afternoon, as Roger was superintending the reerection of the condenser, he heard a wild shout and beheld d.i.c.k and his four helpers laughing and slapping each other's backs, knee deep all of them in a stream that gushed into the ditch from the new well.

"My luck has turned!" roared d.i.c.k. "My luck has turned! Look at it! Look at it! It will water fifty acres. I'll bet there won't be an inch of water left in the range. Wow!" and he plunged full length into the little crystal stream, his helpers following suit with a shout.

It was the signal for a general recess. And the men, including Roger, took a ducking and returned to work steaming but unspeakably rejuvenated. The sudden appearance of the water seemed to Roger like a happy omen for the whole endeavor and it would have been difficult to tell who was the most enthusiastic for the rest of the day, Roger or d.i.c.k.

Rabbit Tail's week was a full seven days. At five o'clock Sunday afternoon, the absorber was finished. The old tool shed stood remade, roughly to be sure, but securely, into an engine house. The condenser was half finished, the engine was standing in its new home, dismantled in parts but quite ready for Roger to adjust when the new parts should arrive.

When the old iron triangle called supper, Rabbit Tail sauntered up to Roger.

"Good job, Boss, huh?"

"Fine! The best ever! Rabbit Tail, the country is missing some wonderful mechanics and engineers in not getting you Indians interested in civilization."

The old chief grinned and shrugged his shoulders. "To-night, we go," he said.

"Let me keep Jo and the other three machinists," pleaded Roger. "I'm sure they'll be interested in finis.h.i.+ng the condenser for me."

"Ask 'em," grunted Rabbit Tail.

"Come along," said Roger and he strode over to the bench where the four Indians were fitting together the condenser pipe. They looked up and grinned affably at Roger.

"Rabbit Tail says you fellows may stay and help me finish this condenser, if you will. I know I can find the money to pay you for it.

How about it?"

Jo, the spokesman, was a tall thin Indian, with a fine brow and intelligent eyes.

"No, I guess we'll go on back to camp, Mr. Moore," he said.

"But I thought you were interested in what I am trying to put over,"

exclaimed Roger.

"So we are. It's always interesting to learn what you whites are trying to do. You work so fearfully hard that we Indians are always curious to find out the idea back of the work. But as for helping you do the work--well, it's like this, you folks are always mighty interested in what we Indians do--making blankets or pottery or building hogans or making ceremonial altars. But I don't notice any of you really wanting to help us."

Roger cast a bewildered look about him but the other bronzed faces betokened full acquiescence with Jo's words.

"But why did you learn your trades so well?" he asked, finally.

"Interested in the idea--and it helps us compete with the whites, when necessary!"

"Then you really don't care about my finis.h.i.+ng the plant?"

"Why should we?" returned Jo.