"Not good enough," said Average Jones, laying aside a sheet of paperupon which was pasted a newspaper clipping. "We can't affordluxuries, Simpson."
The confidential clerk rubbed his high, pale foreheadindeterminately. "But five thousand dollars, Mr. Jones," heprotested.
"Would pay a year's office rent, you're thinking. True.Nevertheless I can't see the missing Mr. Hoff as a soundprofessional proposition."
"So you think it would be impossible to find him?"
"Now, why should I think any such absurd thing? I think, if youchoose, that he wouldn't be worth the amount, when found, to lose."
"The ad says different, Sir." Simpson raised the paper and read:
"FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS--The aforesaid sum will be paid without question to anyone furnishing information which leads to the discovery of Roderick Hoff, twenty-four years old, who left his home in Toledo, 0., on April 12. Communicate with Dr. Conrad Hoff, Toledo.
"Surely Doctor Hoff is good for the amount."
"Oh, he's good for millions, thanks to his much advertised quack'Catarrh-Killer.' The point is, from what I can discover, Mr.Roderick Hoff isn't worth retrieving at any price above one dime."
"Was the information about him that you wished, in the telegram?"asked the confidential clerk.
"Yes; all I wanted. Thanks for looking after it. Have the Toledoreporter, who sent it, forward his bill. And if the old inventorwho's been haunted by disembodied voices comes again, bring him tome."
"Yes, sir," said Simpson, going out.
Left to himself, Average Jones again ran over the dispatches,conveying the information as to the lost Toledo youth. They hadgiven a fairly complete sketch of young Hoff's life and character.At twenty-four, it appeared, Roderick Hoff had achieved a career.Emerging, by the propulsive method, from college, in the first termof his freshman year, he had taken a post-graduate course in thecigarette ward of a polite retreat for nervous wrecks. He hadsubsequently endured two breach-of-promise suits, had broken thestate automobile record for number of speed violation arrests, hadbeen buncoed, badgered, paneled, blackmailed and short-carded out ofsums varying between one hundred and ten thousand dollars; and now,in the year of grace, 19--, was the horror of the pulpit and thedelight of the press of the city which he called his home. For therest, he was a large, mild, good-humored, pulpy individual, with afixed delusion that the human organism can absorb a quart ofalcoholic miscellany per day and be none the worse for it. Themajor premise of his proposition was perfectly correct. He provedit daily. The minor premise was an error. Bets were even in theToledo clubs as to whether delirium tremens or paresis would win theevent around young Mr. Hoff's kite-shaped race-track of a brain.
With his tastes the income of twenty-five thousand dollars per annumwhich his father allowed him from the profits of "Dr. Hoff'sCatarrh-Killer," proved sadly insufficient to his needs. Hementioned this fact to his father, so Average Jones' informationran, early in April, and suggested an increase, only to be refusedwith some acerbity.
"Oh, very well," said he, "I'll go and make it myself."
The amazement inspired in Doctor Hoff's mind by this pronouncementwas augmented in the next few days by the fact that Roderick wasvery busy about town in his motor-car, and was changed to vividalarm immediately thereafter by the young man's disappearance. Toall intents and appearances, Roderick Hoff had dropped off the earthon or about April twelfth. By April fifteenth New York, Pittsburg,Chicago, Washington and other clearing-houses for the distributionof the unspent increment were apprised of the elder Hoff's fivethousand-dollar anxiety through the medium of the daily press. Thisadvertisement it was, upon the practical merits of which AverageJones and his confidential clerk had differed.
"If there were any chance of sport in it," mused Average Jones, "I'dgo in. But to follow the trail of a spurious young sport frombar-room to brothel mid from brothel to gambling hell--" He shookhis head. "Not good enough," he repeated.
Simpson's face appeared at the door. His blond forehead waswrinkled with excitement.
"Doctor Hoff is here, Mr. Jones. I told him you couldn't see him,but he wouldn't take no. Says he was recommended to you by a formerclient."
Following the word, there burst into Average Jones' private sanctuma gross old man, silk-hatted and bediamonded, whose side-whiskersbristled whitely with perturbed self-importance. In his hand was apatchy bundle.
"They tried to stop me!" he sputtered. "Me! I'm worth ten milliondollars, an' a ten-dollar-a-week office toad tries to hold me upwhen I come here myself person'ly, from Toledo to see you."
Analysis of advertising in all its forms had inspired Average Joneswith a profound contempt and dislike for the cruelest of all formsof swindling medical quackery. And this swollen, smug-facedintruder looked a particularly offensive specimen of his kind.Therefore the Ad-Visor said curtly:
"I can't take your case. Good day--"
"Not take it! Did you read the reward?"
"Yes. It is interesting as showing the patent medicine faker'stouching confidence in the power of advertising. Otherwise itdoesn't, interest me. Get some one else to find your younghopeful."
"It ain't no case of findin' now. The boy's dead." His stridentvoice quavered and broke, but rose again to a snarl. "And, by God,I'll spend a million to get the dogs that murdered him."
At the word "murdered" Average Jones' clean cut, agreeable, butrather stolidly neutral face underwent a subtle transformation.Another personality looked out from the deep-set, somnolent, grayeyes; a personality resolute, forceful and quietly alert. It wasapparently belied by the hesitant drawl, which, as all who had everseen the Ad-Visor at his chosen pursuits well knew, signifiedawakened or intensified interest in the matter in hand.
"Where--er--is--the--er--body"
"I don't know. It ain't been found."
"Then how do you know he's dead?"
The other tore open the bundle he carried, and spread before AverageJones a white stained shirt with ominous brown splotches.
"It's his shirt. There's the initials. Mailed to my house and gotthere just after I left. My secretary brought it on, with the notethat come pinned to it. Here it is."
He produced a bit of coarse wrapping-paper upon which was thismessage in rough capital letters:
TWO DAGOES SHOT HIM DASSENT SAY NO
MORE FROM A FRIEND IN CINCINNATI
Average Jones examined the wrapper. It was postmarked Cincinnati.He next smoothed out the creased silk and studied minutely theblotches, which were heaviest about the left breast and shoulder.
To the surprise of Doctor Hoff, the young man's glance roved the bigdesk before him, settling with satisfaction upon a sponge-cup formoistening stamps. Applying this to one of the spots on the shirt,he rubbed the wetted portion vigorously on a sheet of paper whichlay near at hand. His lips pursed. He whistled very softly andmeditatively. He scratched his chin with a slow movement.
"Is that all?" he shot out suddenly at the older man.
"All! Ain't it enough? He's been murdered; murdered, I tell you,an' you set there an' whistle!"
Average Jones directed a dreamy smile toward a far comer of theroom.
"I don't see anything so far," he observed, "to indicate that yourson is not alive and well at this moment."
Doctor Hoff struck his fist down heavily on the desk. "What's thisyou're givin' me? Can't you read? Look at that note there, an' theblood on the shirt."
"Would you mind moderating your voice? My outside office is full ofmore or less excitable clients," said the Ad-Visor mildly."Moreover, it's not blood anyway."
"What is it, then?"
"That's beside the question. Dried blood rubs off a faint buffcolor." He picked up the sheet of paper from his desk. A deepbrownish streak showed where he had applied the moistened cloth."It's the rawest kind of a blind. Why, the idiot who sent the shirtdidn't even have the sense to fake bullet holes. Enough to make onelose all interest in the case," he added disgustedly.
Doctor Hoff began tugging at his side-whiskers. "Don't do nothinglike that," he pleaded. "Come with me to Cincinnati. If he ain'tdead they've kidnapped him for a ransom."
"Then Cincinnati is the last place on the map to look, becausethere's where they want you to think he is. But it doesn't looklike a case of ransom to me. Let's see. Was he particularly drunkthe day before he disappeared?"
"No. He was sober."
"Unusually sober, maybe?" suggested the other.
"Yes, he was. Been sober for a week. An' he was studyin', too."
"Ah! Studying what?"
"Spanish."
"Spanish, eh? Ever exhibit any interest in foreign tongues before?"
"Not enough to get him through one term in college," returned theother grimly.
"How did you know about his studying?"
"Seen the perfessor in the house."
"Some one you knew?"
"No. I asked him. Roddy was sore because I found out what he was upto."
Upon that point Average Jones meditated a moment.
"Did you see this Spanish professor again?" he inquired presently.
"Now that you speak of it, I didn't see him but the once."
"Can you leave for Toledo on to-night's train?"
"You're goin' to take the case, then?" the quack clawed nervously athis professional white whiskers. "What's your terms?" he demanded.
"That I'm to have full control and that you're to take orders andnot give them."
Doctor Hoff swallowed that with a gulp. "You're on," he saidfinally.
On the train Doctor Hoff regaled his companion with a strictlypaternal view of his son's character and pursuits as he knew them.This served, at least, to enlarge his auditor's ideas as to theaverage American father's vast and profound ignorance of the life,habits, manners and customs of that common but variable species, theOffspring. Beyond this it had little value. Average Jones gave itsauthor a few specific instructions as to minor lines of homeinvestigation, and retired to map out a tentative campaign.
His first call, on arriving at Toledo, was at the business office ofthe Daily Saw, in which he inserted the following paragraph on arepeat-until-stopped order:
WANTED--Instructor in Spanish. One with recent Experience preferred. Apply between 9 and 10 A.M. Doctor Hoff, 360 Fairfield Avenue.
Thence he climbed the stairs to the den of the city editor, to whomhe stated his errand openly, being too wise in his day andgeneration to attempt concealment or evasion with a newspaper manfrom whom he wanted information. The city editor obliginglyfurnished further details regarding "Rickey" Hoff, as he called theyoung man, which, while differing in important respects from DoctorHoff's, bore the ear-marks of superior accuracy.
"The worst of it is," said the newspaper man, "that there areelements of decency about the young cub, if he'd keep sober. Hewon't go into the old boy's business, because he hates it. Saysit's all rot and lies. He's dead right, of course. But there'snothing else for him to do, so he just fights booze. Better make afew inquiries at Silent Charley's."
"What's that?"
"Quiet little bar kept by a talkative Swede. 'Rickey' Hoff hung outthere a lot. Charley even had a room fixed up for him to lay off inwhen he was too pickled to go home."
"Would--er--young Hoff--er--perhaps keep a few--er--extra clothesthere?" asked Average Jones, seemingly struggling with a yawn.
The city editor stared. "Oh, I dare say. He used to end his spreespretty much mussed up."
"That would perhaps explain where the shirt came from," murmured theAd-Visor. "Much obliged for the suggestion. I'll just steparound."
"Silent Charley" he found ready, even eager to talk. Yes; "Rickey"Hoff had been in his place right along. Drunk? No; not evendrinking much lately. Two other gentlemen had met him there quiteoften. They sat in the back room and talked. No, neither of themwas Spanish. One was big and clean-shaven and wore a silk hat.They called him "Colonel." A swell dresser. The other man drankgin, and a lot of it. His name was Fred. He was very tanned. Oneday there had been a hot discussion over a sheet of paper that layon the table in front of the three men in the back room. "Rickey"had called a messenger boy and sent him out for a geography. "Itold you there wasn't any such thing there," the saloon-keeper heardhim say triumphantly, when the geography arrived. Then Fredreplied: "To h-ll with you and your schoolbook! I tell you I'vewaded across it." The colonel smoothed things over and it ended ina magnum of champagne being ordered.
"For which the colonel paid?" asked Average Jones.
"Why, yes, he did," assented the saloon man. "He said, 'Well, it'sa go, then. Here's luck to us!' He was a good spender, thecolonel."
"And you haven't seen any of them since, I suppose?"
"Nary a one."
On his return to the Hoff mansion the investigator found the headthereof in a state of great excitement.
"Say, I've found out something," he cried. "Roddy's gone toYurrup."
"Where did you find that out?" asked Average Jones with a smile.
"I been going through his papers like you told me. He's beenoutfitting for a trip. Bought lots of truck the last few days and Ifound the duplicate sale-checks that come in the packages. There'sstubs for a steamer rug and for a dope for seasickness and for acompass," he concluded triumphantly.
"Compass, eh?" observed Average Jones thoughtfully. "Ship's compassis good enough for most of us going to Europe. Anything else?"
"Lot of clothes."
"What kind of clothes?"
"Cheap stuff mostly. Khaki riding-pants, neglyjee shirts andsuch-like."
"Not much suggestion of Europe there. What more?"
Doctor Hoff consulted a list. "Colored glasses."
"That looks like desert travel."
"Aneroid barometer."
"Mountain climbing."
"Permanganate of potash outfit."
"Snake country," commented the other.
"Patent water-still."
Average Jones leaned forward. "How big?"
"Don't know. Cost twenty dollars."
"Little one, then. That means about three people. Taken with thecompass, it means a small-boat trip on salt water."
"Small boat nothin'!" retorted the other. "His doctor met me thismorning an' told me Roddy had sent for him and ast him a lot ofquestions about eatin' aboard ship and which way to have his berthmade up, and all that."
"A small-boat trip following a sea trip, then. What else have youfound?"
"Nothin' much. Mosquito nettin', pills, surgeon's plaster and oddsand ends of drugs."
"Let me see the drug list."
He ran his eye down the paper. Then he looked at Doctor Hoff with ahalf smile.
"You didn't notice anything peculiar about this list?"
"Don't know as I did."
"Not the--er--nitric acid, for instance?"
"Nope. What of it?"
"Mr. Hoff, your son has been caught by one of the oldest tricks inthe whole bunco list--the lost Spanish mine swindle. That acid,together with the rest of the outfit, means a gold-hunt as plain asif it were spelled out. And the Spanish professor was sent for, notto give lessons, but to translate the fake letter. Where does yourson bank?"
"Fifth National."
"Telephone there and find out how much he drew."
Doctor Hoff sat down at the 'phone. "Five hundred dollars," he saidpresently.
"Is that all?" asked the other, disappointed.
"Yes. Wait. He had six checks certified aggregating ten thousanddollars."
"Then it isn't South America or the West Indies. He'd want, aletter of credit there. Must be some part of the United States, orjust across the border. Well, we've done a good day's work, andI've got a hard evening's thinking before me. We might be able tohead off the colonel's personally conducted expedition yet, if wecould locate it."
The evening's thinking formulated itself into a telegram to AverageJones' club, the Cosmic. It was one among the many distinctions ofthe modest little club in Gramercy Park, that its, membership prettywell comprised the range of available information on any topic.Under the "favored applications clause," a person whose knowledge ofany particular subject was unique and authoritative, whether thetopic were Esperanto or fistiana, went to the head of thewaiting--list automatically and had his initiation fee remitted. Hence,Average Jones was confident of a helpful reply to his message ofinquiry, which summed up his conclusions and surmises thus far:
"Cosmic CLUB, NEW YORK CITY:
Refer following to geographical expert: Whereis large, shallow, unmapped body of salt water inUnited States, or near border, surrounded by hot,snake-infested desert and mountainous country, reputedto contain gold? Spanish associations indicated. Wiredetails and name of best guide, if obtainable.
A. JONES."
The reply was disappointing:
"Cyrus C. Allen absent from town. Will forward your wire.
"COSMIC CLUB."
Well poised as Average Jones normally was, he chafed over theensuing delay of four days, each of which gave the colonel'sexpedition just so much start upon its unknown course. The onlyrelief was a call from the Spanish instructor who answered Jones'advertisement. He was the same who had served young Hoff. As theAd-Visor surmised, his former employment had been merely thetranslation of a letter. The letter was in base Spanish, he said.He didn't remember much of it, but there was something about a lostgold mine. Yes; there was reference to a map. No; no geographicalnames were mentioned, but in several places the capital letters B.C. seemed to indicate a locality. He hadn't noted the date or thesignature. That was all he could tell.
Doctor Hoff, who had been ramping with impatience over the man'slack of definite memory, now rushed to the atlas and began to studythe maps.
"You needn't trouble," said Average Jones coolly. "You won't findit there."
"I'll find that B. C. if I have to go over every map in thegeography."
"Then you'll have to get a Spanish edition. For a guess, B. C. isBaja California, the Mexican peninsula of California."
Jones sent a supplementary wire to this effect to Cyrus C. Allen, ofthe Cosmic Club, and within a few hours received a reply from thateminent cartographer, who had been located in a remote part ofConnecticut:
"Probably Laguna Salada, not on map. Seventy miles long; four toeight wide. Between Cocopah and Sierra Gigantica ranges. Countryvery wild and arid. Can be reached by water from Yuma, or packtrain from Calexico. White, who has hunted there, says CaptainFuncke, Calexico, best guide.
"ALLEN."
Average Jones tossed this over to the father.
"As I figure it," he said, "your son's two friends had this allmapped out beforehand for him. One went west direct. He was theimbecile who stopped in Cincinnati and mailed you the bloody shirtto throw you off the scent. Meantime the colonel took Roderickaround by a sea route, probably New York and New Orleans."
"That'd explain the steamer rug and the seasickness," admittedDoctor Hoff; "but I don't know what he'd want to go that long wayfor."
"Simple enough, when you reckon with this colonel person as havingbrains in his head. He would foresee a hue and cry as soon as theyoung man disappeared. So he cooks up this trip to keep his preyout of touch with the newspapers for the few days when the news ofthe disappearance would be fresh enough to be spread abroad in theAssociated Press dispatches. From New Orleans they'd go on west bytrain."
"What I don't see is how they caught Roddy on such an old game.He's easy, but I didn't s'pose he was that easy."
"To do him justice, he isn't--quite. They put it up on him rathercleverly. In the period of waiting to hear from the geographicalexpert I've put in some fairly hard work, going over your son'seffects. And, in the room over Silent Charley's bar, I found anewspaper with this in it."
He handed to Doctor Hoff a thin clipping, marked "Daily Saw, March29":
LOST--Spanish letter and map. Of no value except to owner, Return to No. 16, this office, and receive heartfelt thanks.
"Well," said Doctor Hoff, after reading it over twice, "that don'ttell me nothing."
"No? Yet it's pretty plain. The two crooks 'planted' the letterand map on your son. Probably slipped them into a pocket of hiscoat while he was drunk. Then they inserted their little ad, waiteduntil he had time to find the letter, and casually called theadvertisement to his attention. The rest would be easy. But I'llhave something to say to my clerk, who failed to clip that ad."
"You're workin' for me, now," half blustered, half whined the oldquack. "Whatche goin' to do next.
"Pack for the night train."
"Where to?"
"Yuma or Calexico. Don't know which till I get a reply to twotelegrams. I'll need five hundred dollars expense money."
"Say, you don't want much, do ye?" snarled the quack, his avaricioussoul in revolt at the prospect of immediate outlay. "When I hire aman I expect him to pay his own expenses and send me the bill."
"Quite so," agreed the other blandly. "But, you see, you aren'thiring me. I'm doing this on spec. And I don't propose to investanything in a dubious proposition, myself. It isn't too late tocall it off, you know."
"No, I do' wanta do that," said the other with contorted face."I'll get the five hundred here for' you in an hour."
"And about the five thousand dollars reward? I think I'd betterhave a word of writing on that."
"You mean you don't trust me?" snapped the other. "I'm good forfive million dollars to-morrow in this town."
"I know you are--in writing," agreed the other equably. "That's whyI want your valued signature. You see, to be quite frank, I haven'tthe fullest confidence in gentlemen in your line of business."
"I'll have my lawyer draw up a form of contract and mail it afteryou to-morrow," promised the quack with a crafty look.
"No, you wo--" began Average Jones; but he broke off with a smile."Very well," he amended. "If things work out as I figure them, thatwill do. And," he added, dropping into his significant drawl andlooking the quack flatly in the eye, "don't you--er--bank onmy--er--not understanding your offer--and--er--you."
Uncomfortably pondering this reply, Doctor Hoff set about the matterof the expense money. Mean time a telegram came which settled thematter of immediate destination. It apprised Average Jones that, afortnight previous, this paragraph had appeared in the paid columnsof the Yuma Yucca:
WANTED-Small, flat-bottomed sailboat. Centerboard type preferred. Hasty, care this office.
Average Jones bought a ticket for Yuma.
Disembarking at the Yuma station three days later, Average Jonesblinked in the harsh sunlight at a small, compactly built, keen-eyedman, roughly dressed for the trail.
"I'm Captain Funcke," said the stranger. His speech was gentle,slow, even hesitant; but there was something competent and reliablein his bearing which satisfied the shrewd young reader of men'scharacters from the outset. "Your wire got me two days since and Icame right up."
"Any trace?"
"Left here two days ago."
"Three of them?"
"Yes. Flat-bottomed, narrow-beamed boat, sloop-rigged prettylight."
"Know anything of the men?"
"Only the big one. Calls himself Colonel Richford. Had a fakecopper outfit in the mountains east of Alamo."
"Where do you think they're headed for?"
"Probably the wildest country they can find, if they want to get ridof young Hoff," said the other, who had been apprised of the mainpoints of the situation. "That would likely be the Pinto range, tothe southwest of the Laguna. Richford knows that country a little.He was in there two years ago."
"They would probably want to get rid of him without obvious murder;"said Average Jones. "You see, his money is in certified checkswhich they'd have to get cashed. If some one should find his bodywith a bullet-hole in it, they'd have some explaining to do."
"Nobody'd be likely to find it. Only about two parties a year get'down there. Still, somebody might trail him. And I guess oldRichford is too foxy to do any killing when he turns the trick justas well without it."
"Suppose it's the Pintos, then. How do we get there?"
"Hard-ash breeze," returned the other succinctly. "Our rowboat isoutfitted and waiting."
"Good work!" said Jones heartily. "How far is it?"
"Sixty miles to the turn of the Laguna. There's a four-mile currentto help. They've a scant two days' start, and we'll catch up some,for their boat is heavier and their sail is no good with the wind inthis direction. If we don't catch up some," he added grimly, "Iwouldn't want to insure our young friend's life. So it's allaboard, if you're ready."
For the first time since embarking upon the strange seas ofadvertising in his quest of the Adventure of Life, Average Jones nowmet the experience of grilling physical toil. All that day and allthe night the two men swung at the oars; swung until every muscle inthe young Easterner's back had turned to live nerve-fiber, and theflesh had begun to strip from the palms of his hands. Even so, thehardy captain had done most of the work. Aided by the current, theyturned the shoulder of the Cocopah range as the dawn shone lurid inthe east, and the captain swung the boat's head to the southernshore of the lake. Meantime, between spells at the oars, AverageJones had outlined the case in full to Funcke. He could have foundno better coadjutor:
By nature and equipment every really expert hunter and tracker isa detective. The subtleties of the trail sharpen both physicaland mental sensibility. Captain Funcke was, by instinct, astudent of that continuous logic which constitutes the science ofthe chase, whether the prize of pursuit be a mountain sheep'shorns or the scholar's need of praise for the interpreting of somehalf-obliterated inscription on a pre-Hittite tomb. After longand silent cnsideration the captain gave his views.
"It isn't bunco. It's a hold-up. If Richford had wanted to stickyoung Hoff, he'd never have brought him here. There isn't 'color'enough within eighty miles to gild a cigar band. It looks to melike the scheme is this: They get him off in the mountains, out ofsight of the lake, so he'll have no landmark to go by. Then theyscare him into signing co-partnership papers, and make him turnover those certified checks to them. With the papers to show forit, they go out by Calexico and cash the checks in Los Angeles.They could put up the bluff that their partner was guarding themine while they bought machinery and outfitted. That'd be goodenough to cash certified checks by."
"Yes; that's about the way I figure it out. You spoke of Richford'sbeing able to get rid of young Hoff effectually, without actualmurder."
"All he'd have to do would be to quit the boy while he was asleep.A tenderfoot would die of thirst over there in a short time."
"Is there no water?"
"There's a tenaja they're depending on. But I doubt if they findany water there now. It's been an extra dry season."
"A tenaja?" queried the Ad-Visor.
"Rock-basin holding rainwater," explained the hunter. "There's beenno rainfall since August. If they find the tenaja empty they'll,have barely enough in the canteens they pack to get them to the nextwater, the Tenaja Poquita, around behind the mountains and acrossthe desert into the next range."
"What's the next water to that?"
"The Stream of Palms. That's a day and a half on foot."
For the space of a hundred oar-strokes Average Jones ruminated.
"Suppose--er--they didn't--er--find any water in the Tenaja Poquita,either?" he drawled.
"Then they would be up against it."
"And there's no other water in the Pintos?"
"Yes, there is," said the captain. "There's a tenaja that's so highup and so hidden that it's only known to one other man besides me,and he's an Indian. It's less than an hour from the tenaja thatRichford will take his party to. And we're sure of finding waterthere. It never dries up this early."
"Get me to young Hoff, then, Captain. You're in command from themoment we land."
It was broad day when the keel pushed softly into the muddy bottomof a long, shallow arm of the lake. Captain Funcke rose, stretchedthe kinks out of his back, and jumped ashore.
"You say I'm in command?" he inquired.
"Absolute."
"Then you roll up under that mesquite and fall asleep. I'm going tocast about for their trail."
To the worn-out oarsman, it seemed only a few moments later that aninsistent grip on his shoulder aroused him. But the overhead sun,whose direct rays were fairly boiling the sweat out of him, harshlycorrected this impression.
"I've found their boat," said Captain Funcke. "The trail heads forthe Pintos. They're traveling heavy. I don't believe they'retwenty-four hours ahead of us."
Average Jones stumbled to his feet. "I'm ready," he said.
"It's a case of travel light." The hunter handed over a small bag offood and a large canteen full of water. He himself packed a muchlarger load, including two canteens and a powerful field-glass.Taking a shotgun from the boat, he shouldered it, and set out at along, easy stride.
To Average Jones the memory of that day has never been wholly clear.Sodden with weariness, dazzled and muddled by the savage sun-glare,he followed, with eyes fixed, the rhythmically, monotonously movingfeet of his leader, through an interminable desert of soft, cloggingsand; a desert which dropped away into parched arroyos, and rose toscorched mesas whereon fierce cacti thrust at him with thorns andspikes; a desert dead and mummified in the dreadful heat; a lifelessInferno wherein moved neither beast, bird nor insect. He remembers,dimly, lying as he fell, when the indefatigable captain called ahalt, and being wakened in the chill breeze of evening, to see awall of mountains blocking the advance. Food brought him to hisnormal self again, and in the crisp air of night he set his face tothe task of climbing. Severe as this was upon his unaccustomedmuscles, the firm rocks were still a welcome relief after theracking looseness of sand that interminably sank away from foothold.At midnight the wearied pursuers dropped down from a high plateau toa narrow arroyo. Here again was sand. Fortunately, this time, forin it footprints stood out clear, illuminated by the whitemoonlight. They led direct to a side barranca. There the pursuersfound the camp. It was deserted.
Like a hound on the trail, Captain Funcke cast about him.
"Here's where they came in. No--yes--this is it. Confound thecross-tracks! . . Here one of them cuts across the ridge to thetenaja for water.
"Wait! . . . What's this? Coyote trail? Yes, but . . . Trailbrushed over, by thunder! They didn't do it carefully enough . . .Straight for the rocky mesa. . . . That's it! They made theirsneak while Hoff was asleep, probably covering trail behind them,and struck out for the inside desert route to the Tenaja Poquita."He took a quick look about the camp and picked up an empty canteen."Of course, they wouldn't leave him any water."
"Then he's gone to hunt it," suggested Average Jones. "Which way?"
"You can't tell which way a tenderfoot will go," said the hunterphilosophically. "If he had any savvy at all he'd follow the oldbeaten track around by the arroyo to the water-hole. We'll try it."
On the way, Average Jones noticed his companion stop frequently toexamine the sand for something which he evidently didn't find.
"These are fresh footsteps we're following, aren't they?" he asked.
"Yes. It isn't that. He went this way all right. But the tenaja'sgone dry."
"How can you tell that?"
"No fresh sign of animals going this way. Must have been dry forweeks. Our mining friends have taken what little water there wasand left young Hoff to die of thirst," said the other grimly."Well, that explains the empty canteen all right."
He turned and renewed his quick progress, leaping from boulder toboulder, between narrowing walls of gray-white rock. Just asAverage Jones was spent and almost ready to collapse the leaderchecked.
"Hark!" he whispered.
Above the beating of the blood in his ears, Jones heard anirregular, insistent scuffing sound. He crouched in silence whilethe captain crept up to a ledge and cautiously peered over, thenwent forward in response to the other's urgent beckoning. Theylooked down into a rock-basin of wild and curious beauty. To thisday Average Jones remembers the luminous grace and splendor of aMatilija poppy, which, rooted between two boulders, swayed gently inthe white moonlight above a figure of dread. The figure, naked fromthe waist up, huddled upon the hard-baked mud, digging madly at theearth. A sharp exclamation broke from Average Jones. The diggerhalf-rose, turned, collapsed to his knees, and pointed with bleedingfingers to his open mouth, in which the tongue showed black andswollen.
They went down to him.
An hour later, "Rickey" Hoff was sleeping the sleep of utterexhaustion in camp. Average Jones felt amply qualified to join him.But it was not in the Ad-Visor's character to quit an enterprisebefore it was wholly completed. So long as the two bandits were ontheir way to cash the young spendthrift's checks--Jones had heardfrom the victim a brief account of the extortion--success was notfully won.
"We've got to get that money back," he said to Captain Funcke withconviction.
The hunter made no reply in words. He merely leaned his shotgunagainst his thigh, reached around beneath his coat and produced aforty-five caliber revolver. This he held out toward Jones.
"Good thing to have," conceded the other. "But--well, no; not inthis case. They got the booty with a show of legality, since Hoffsigned the copartnership agreement and turned over the checks. Itwas under duress and threats, it's true, but who's to prove that,they being two to one, and this being Mexico? No; they're withinthe law, and I've a notion that we can get the swag back by straightsale and barter. Provided, always, we can catch them in time."
"They'll want to make pretty good time to the Tenaja Poquita,"pointed out the captain. "They're shy on water."
"On wind, too. They've traveled hard, and they can't be in the pinkof condition. According to Hoff, they deserted him while he wastaking a nap, about four o'clock in the afternoon. It's a fair betthey'd camp for the night, as you say it's an eight hour hike to thetenaja."
"Eight, the way they'd go."
"Then--er--there's a--er--shorter way?" drawled Average Jones,removing some sand from a wrinkle in his scarified and soiledtrousers as carefully as if that were the one immediate andimportant consideration in life.
"Yes. Across the Padre Cliffs. It cuts off about four hours, andit takes us almost to the secret tenaja I spoke of. We can fill upthere. But it's not what you'd call safe, even in daylight."
"But to a hunter, wouldn't it be well worth the risk for a recordpair of horns--even if they were only tin horns?" queried AverageJones suggestively.
Captain Funcke relaxed into a grin. He nodded.
"What'll we do with him?" he asked, jerking his head toward thesleeper.
"Leave him water, food and a note. Now, about this Tenaja Poquitawe're headed for. How much water do you think there is in it?"
"If there's a hundred gallons it's doing well, this dry season."
Average Jones got painfully to his feet. Looking carefully over thescattered camp outfit, he selected from it a collapsible pail.Captain Funcke glanced at it with curiosity, but characteristicallyforebore to ask any questions. He himself shouldered the largestcanteen.
"This'll be enough for both until we reach the supply," he said."Don't need so much water at night."
But the tenderfoot hung upon his own shoulder, not only the smallestof their three canteens, but also the empty one which they had foundin the camp. Their own third tin, almost full, they left besideHoff, with a note.
"I've a notion," said Jones, "that I'll need all these receptaclesfor water in my own peculiar business."
"All right," assented the other patiently. He took one of them andthe pail from Jones and skillfully disposed them on his own back."Ready? Hike, then."
Two hours of the roughest kind of climbing brought them to alandslide. These sudden shiftings of the slopes are a frequentfeature of travel in the Lower California mountains, oftenobliterating trails and costing the wayfarer painful and periloussearch for a new path. On the Padre Cliffs, however, had occurredthat rare phenomenon, a benevolent avalanche, piling up a safe andfeasible embankment around the angle of an impracticable precipice,and thus saving an hour of the most ticklish going of the journey.Thanks to this dispensation, the two men reached the Tenaja Poquitabefore dawn. Scouting ahead, the captain reported no fresh trailexcept coyotes and mule deer, and not more than seventy-five gallonsof water in the basin. Of this they both drank deeply. Then afterthey had filled all the canteens, Average Jones unfolded his schemeto the captain.
"If any one caught us at it," commented that experienced hunter,"we'd be shot without warning. However, the water would beevaporated in a few days anyhow, and I'll post notices at the nextwatercamps. I'm with you."
Taking turn and turn about with the pail, they bailed out therock-basin, scattering the water upon the greedy sand. What littlemoisture remained in the sticky mud at the bottom they blotted upwith more sand. They then rolled in boulders. Average Jones lookeddown into the hollow with satisfaction, and moved his full canteensinto a grotto.
"This company," he said, "is now open for business."
At eight o'clock there was a clatter of boots upon the rocks and twomen came staggering up the defile. Colonel Richford and his partnerdid not look to be in good repair. The colonel's face was drawn andsun-blotched. His companion, the "Fred" of Silent Charley's bar,was bloated and shaken with liquor. Both panted with the hard, dry,open-lipped breath of the first stage of thirst-exhaustion. Thecolonel, who was in the lead, checked and started upon discoveringastride of a rock a pleasant visaged young man of a familiarAmerican type, whose appearance was in nowise remarkable except asto locality. With a grunt that might have been greeting, but wasmore probably surprise, the newcomer passed the seated man. CaptainFuncke he did not see at all. That astute hunter had dropped behinda boulder.
At the brink of the tenaja the colonel stopped dead. Then with anoutburst of flaming language, he leaped in, burrowing among therocks.
"Dry!" he yelled, lifting a furious and appalled face to hiscompanion.
Fred stood staring from Average Jones to his three canteens. Therewas a murderous look on his sinister face.
"Got water?" he growled.
"Yes," replied the young man.
"Here, Colonel," said Fred. "Here's drink for us."
"For sale," added Average Jones calmly.
"People don't buy water in this country."
"You're not people," returned Average Jones cheerfully. "You're acorporation; a soulless corporation. The North Pinto Gold MiningCompany."
"What's that!" cried the colonel thickly.
His hand flew back to his belt. Then it dropped, limp at his side,for he was gazing into the two barrels of a shotgun, which,materializing over a rock, were pointing accurately anddisconcertingly at the pit of his stomach. From behind the gunCaptain Funcke's quiet voice remarked:
"I wouldn't, Colonel. As for you," he added, turning to the otherwayfarer, who carried a rifle, "you want to remember that a shotgunhas two barrels, usually both loaded."
Stepping forward, Average Jones "lifted" the financier's weapon.Then he deprived Fred of his rifle amid a surprisingly brilliantoutburst of verbal pyrotechnics.
"Now we can talk business comfortably," he observed.
"I can't talk at all pretty quick if I don't git a moistener," saidFred piteously.
Pouring out a scant cupful of water into his hat, Average Joneshanded it over. "Drink slowly," he advised. "You've got about ahundred dollars' worth there at present quotations."
Colonel Richford's head went up with a jerk.
"Hundred dollars' worth!" he croaked, his eyes fiery with suspicion."Are you going to hold up two men dying of thirst?"
"There's been only one man in danger of that death around here. Hisname is Hoff."
The redoubtable colonel gasped, and leaned back against a rock.
"You'll be relieved to learn that he's safe. Now, to answer yourquestion: No, I don't propose to hold up two men for anything. Ipropose to deal with the president and treasurer of the North PintoGold Mining Company. As a practical mining man you will appreciatethe absolute necessity of water in your operations. The nearestavailable supply is some ten hours distant. Before you could reachit I fear that--er--your company would--er--have gone out ofexistence. Therefore I am fortunate in being able to offer you asmall supply which I will put on the market at the low rate of tenthousand dollars. I may add that--er--certified checks will--er--beaccepted."
For two hours the colonel, with the occasional objurgatoryassistance of his partner, talked, begged argued, threatened, andeven wept. By the end of that time his tongue was making soundslike a muffled castanet, and his resolution was scorched out of him.
"You've got us," he croaked. "Here's your checks. Give me thewater."
"In proper and legal form, please," said Average Jones.
He produced a contract and a fountain-pen. The contract was dulysigned and witnessed. It provided for the transfer of the water, inconsideration of one revolver and ten thousand dollars in checks.These checks were endorsed over to A. V. R. E. Jones, whereupon heturned over the pail of water and the largest canteen to the parchedminers. Then, sorting out the checks, he pocketed two aggregatingfive thousand dollars, tore up three, and holding the other in hishand, turned to Captain Funcke.
"Will five hundred dollars pay you for keeping young Hoff down herea couple of months and making the beginning of a man of him?" heasked.
"Yes, and more," replied the captain.
"It's a go," said Average Jones. "I'd like to make the jobcomplete."
Then, courteously bidding the North Pinto Gold Mining Companyfarewell, the two water-dealers clambered up the rocks anddisappeared beyond the abrupt sky-line.
Once again Doctor Conrad Hoff sat in the private office of AverageJones, Ad-Visor. The young man was thinner, browner and harder offiber than the Jones of two weeks previous. Doctor Hoff looked himover with shrewd eyes.
"Say, your trip ain't done you no harm, has it?" he exclaimed with aboisterous and false good nature. "You look like' a fightin'-cock.Hope the boy comes out as good. You say he's all right?"
"You've got his letter, in which he says so himself. That's enoughproof, isn't it?"
"Oh, I've got the letter all right. An' it's enough as far as itgoes. But it ain't proof; not the kind of proof a man pays outreward money on," he added, cunningly. "You say you left Roddy downthere with that Funcke feller, hey?"
"Yes. It'll make a man of him, if anything will. I threw that inas an extra."
"Yes; but what about them two crooks that goldbricked him? What'sbecome of them?"
"On their way to Alaska or Bolivia or Corea, or anywhere else, forall I know--or care," said Average Jones indifferently.
"Is that so?" The quack's voice had taken on a sneering intonation."You come back here with your job not half done, with the guiltyfellers loose an' runnin', an' you expect me to pay over, the fivethousand dollars to you. Huh!"
"No, I--er--don't expect--er--anything of the sort," said AverageJones slowly.
Doctor Hoff's little, restless eyes puckered at the corners. He waspuzzled. What did the young fellow mean?
"Don't, eh?" he said, groping in his mind for a solution.
"No. You forgot to send me that promised form of agreement, didn'tyou? Thought you'd fooled me, perhaps. Well, I wouldn't be sofoolish as to expect anything in the way of fair and honorabledealing when I contract to do up a mining swindler for the benefitof the only meaner creature on God's earth--a patent medicinepoisoner. So I took precautions."
"Say, be careful of what you say, young man," blustered the quack.
"I am--quite particular. And, before you leave, wouldn't you liketo hear about the five thousand dollars I got for my little job?"
Doctor Hoff blinked rapidly.
"What didje say?" he finally inquired.
"Five--er--thousand--er--dollars."
"You got it?"
"In the bank."
"Where dje get it?"
"From you, through your son's check, duly certified."
Doctor Hoff blinked more rapidly and moistened his lips with aneffortful tongue.
"H-h-how dje work it?" he asked in a die-away voice.
"By a forced sale of water rights to the North Pinto Gold MiningCompany, dissolved, in which Mr. Roderick Hoff was vice-presidentand silent partner," replied Average Jones with an amiable smile, ashe opened the door significantly.