Captives of the Desert. Zane Grey
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goes, I go!” declared Wilbur, a thin cutting edge to his words.
Katharine smiled inwardly.
“Of course, we’ll all go, and gladly,” said Mary quietly. “I appreciate your suggestion, Mr. Hanley. Mr. Newton never did have much zest in anticipation, but he is always glad afterward that someone has dragged him into a thing.”
Hanley declared he could arrange quarters for them easily. The girls he had just left—the Blakely girls, he called them—would share with Miss Winfield and Mrs. Newton the adobe house across the road which they had just bargained for. Wilbur could make camp with him, and the driver would shift for himself.
From Katharine’s point of view, any place was perfect that gave Mary to her for a while without Wilbur’s presence added.
“The Blakelys are kind of society,” said Hanley. “Don’t like campin’ much an’ don’t want to be alone. I promised I’d look ’em up some nice companions.”
Hanley transferred their baggage and bed-rolls at once. That done, he and Wilbur left the girls and went to search for some Indians from whom they could rent horses.
The adobe house was a barren place, just the four pink-red walls and roof, and a doorway with no door—not a stick of furniture, not a single decoration. Whoever lived there must have taken his few possessions with him before he vacated it. Hard clay hut, clean and cool, was the way Katharine described it to herself. It was at most a shelter, if shelter were necessary, though why, Katharine could not imagine, she herself preferring the stars.
“There’s nothing to do here but sit on our bed-rolls and talk,” said Mary. “Wilbur didn’t specify whether we were to wait here or not. Let’s go out to the car. He can’t be provoked at that.”
Once outside, they discovered a short, slight man in riding outfit foraging through their car, dipping into the pockets on the doors in a most dogged fashion and without stealth.
“What does he think he’s doing?” exclaimed Mary, hurrying forward.
Katharine, too surprised to answer, quickened her steps to keep pace with Mary.
As they approached, the man straightened to meet them, jerking into position much like a soldier about to salute. He was very solemn and very important for a man of such a negative type, and appeared offended rather than the offender.
“So this is your car!” he said. “I was wondering. I was looking for liquor.”
“Dreadfully sorry we can’t accommodate you,” said Mary with gentle irony.
The man’s look of injury deepened. “You misunderstand me, Madam! I am the government agent. I am trying to locate liquor. Some has already been passed on to the Indians. Liquor on the reservation is absolutely against the law, and I’m out to make a few arrests.”
Katharine, reflecting on the size of the only lawmen she knew—husky New York policemen—smiled.
“It’s no smiling matter, Madam!” the government agent continued. “It’s really very grave. You’ll pardon me if I make absolutely sure there is nothing in this car?”
He investigated again as thoroughly as before, and came up red in the face.
“We wear no coats and have no hip pockets,” said Katharine demurely.
But he ignored her with perfect dignity.
Then came a volley of questions: “Who drives this car? How many in the party? What are the names? Any hand baggage? How long do you intend to stay? Have you any cameras? If so you’ll have to turn them over until tomorrow evening. No photographing allowed on Oraibi Mesa at the Snake Dance!”
From them he stalked impressively to Curry’s car. The girls watched him, amused beyond words. How shocked the professor and the maiden ladies would have been to discover themselves looked upon as liquor suspects!
Katharine turned to see Wilbur and Hanley returning. Hanley was carrying a burlap bag from which protruded an ear of corn.
“Didn’t happen to see the government agent around, did you?” asked Wilbur.
“Yes, very much in evidence,” Mary returned. “He searched the car for liquor.”
“Been by, has he? Went right on down the line, I suppose,” supplemented Wilbur. “He’s a sketch, isn’t he?”
Hanley sidled over to Curry’s car. “Guess he’ll want some of this corn,” he said, as if to himself, and hoisted the bag over onto the floor of the car.
A minute later, as if from nowhere, Curry himself strode up. He had eyes only for the car, and to Katharine they seemed ablaze. He flung open the door, dragged out the burlap bag, and stalked over to the men.
“Hanley! That’s a skunk trick. I came ’round that adobe house in time to see you. You’ll risk my reputation instead of yours, will you? Take your dirty liquor!”
“Liquor?—why—why, it’s corn!” declared Mary, her eyes wide with astonishment.
“John Barley Corn, Mrs. Newton, the inseparable companion of Mr. Hanley and his friends.”
“That’s a lie! It’s not liquor,” stormed Hanley, reaching for the bag.
Curry drew it away. “No, not yet, Hanley. I’d better drop the bag and demonstrate to the ladies.”
“For God’s sake, don’t!” Hanley muttered. “Think of what might happen. Think of it sensibly—the ladies and everythin’.”
“You and Newton have given them a heap of consideration, haven’t you?” retorted Curry. He thrust the bag toward the heavy-set man. “I’m sorry they are forced into such company.”
With that he strode off.
Katharine glanced covertly at Mary. She sensed the humiliation her friend was suffering, saw color rise and recede in her still face. Wilbur was white with the paleness of wrath. But Hanley seemed untouched, now that he possessed the bag.
“Can you imagine anyone messin’ up such a row about another feller’s private stock?” he asked. “Everybody knows he don’t drink, and in an emergency he could have helped a feller out.”
To a man of Hanley’s intelligence quotient, that was all the defense his action required.
Mary, head high, walked past Hanley. “You better come with me, Katharine,” she said.
Wilbur grasped Mary’s wrist as she stepped past him. “Where are you going?”
“To the house,” Mary replied quietly. “I’ve quite lost my appetite. I’ll not eat anything this evening. Perhaps Katharine will join you. Call her when you’re ready.”
“But Mary, nothing’s happened,” protested Katharine. “Don’t be so upset.”
Mary sat on a bed-roll, her head tilted back against the wall, the lovely curve of her lips lost in a tight line.
“You’ve told me that Wilbur isn’t a drinking man,” said Katharine. “That’s one of the good things about him. Mr. Curry apparently doesn’t know Wilbur very well.”
“It’s the duplicity,” moaned Mary. “It’s Hanley—his influence. I’m afraid of it. Wilbur is selfish, egotistical, weak in many ways, but there used to be a sweetness, and at times even a bigness, in things sacred just to him and me. At least I thought so. But Hanley isn’t good for him. Hanley has no real regard for women. It’s superficial—play-acting. He’s the kind who thinks all women fundamentally weak because he could brutally ruin a few. He’s poisoned Wilbur’s mind to such an extent that my husband distrusts me.”
“Why does Wilbur hate Curry so?” Katharine asked bluntly. “He’s the kind of man, it seems to me, that one would choose for a friend.”
“Because of the way I first met