The Argosy, Vol. 82 No. 2 — page 130: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

O12 find the borax men without water to drink or to supply their radiator. And with a dead machine the rest would be easy. For hours the crafty old Indian watched and listened. After a while the low voiced talk grew intermittent. Then one by one the men yawned, wrapped themselves in their blankets and fell asleep. They stood no guard. They even had no dog. They felt secure. There was to be no hold-up, no bloodshed, no shooting. They had simply planned to “find” a cache of gold somewhere on the trail to Borax Flats. When the deep and regular breathing told Winnemuka’s listening ears that the men were asleep he began crawling on his belly toward their wagon, which was north of the river bank. There was a breeze from the north which prevented his scent reaching the mules tethered just beyond the vehicle. Noiselessly he left the willows and crawled through the bunch grass toward the wagon. All the wily cunning of uncounted Indian generations came to his aid; all the patience, all the Indian’s genius for con- cealment was put to use. A cat or a shadow could not have been more noiseless. He reached the wagon. He listened. The men were sleeping the sleep of good di- gestions, if not clear consciences. Like an apparation the Indian rose to his feet. With fingers of velvet he loosened and low- ered the wagon’s end gate. There were three five-gallon oil cans there, filled with water. One by one Win- nemuka lifted those heavy cans and low- ered them to the ground. Then, first two, one in either hand, and then the other, he spirited them to the willows, down into the dry graveled river-bed, then across to the rear end of of Bert Stovel’s grocery store on the south bank. Stovel kept his can and barrels of coal oil and gasoline there, in a little shed. Win- nemuka substituted the three cans of river water for three similar cans of kerosene. La- boriously he carried the cans of oil back across the dry river-bed, up the bank, through the willows and across the stretch of bunch grass. Silently he replaced them in the wagon and refastened the end gate. Then he folded his tents, like the Arabs, and silently. stole away. He may have chuckled to himself, but it is highly unlikely. It probably never en- tered Winnemuka’s mind that he had done THE ARGOSY. anything to laugh about. Besides Winne- muka was never known to laugh. He was too unbendingly dignified to laugh. The next morning Winnemuka watched the plotters cook their breakfast, eat it, then hitch up their mules and drive joyfully away with their ballast of coal oil in the rear of the wagon. ‘They had canteens and other small receptacles full of water in the front to meet immediate needs. The cans in the rear were the reserve, not to be drawn until the journey was well along. After the tough trio were out of sight Winnemuka got busy. He suddenly re- membered an appointment in the desert. So, with a few explanatory grunts to his squaws and brats over on the main street of Barstow, he mounted a pony and left them to continue selling their woven bask- ets and other trinkets to the tourists on the daily trains and took himself off into the sage brush. He carried, slung across his animal, be- sides his blanket, a generous. assortment of empty army canteens, with a few strips of sun-dried meat and a little water for himself and pony. The men of the pay automobile would badly need water when they discovered the empty bags, and Win- nemuka knew where there was a spring over near a southern spur of the Panamint range. In fact he knew where there were two springs; one on either side of a bald ridge. One spring was sweet and pure, the other was alkali and very bad. He would reach the sweet water, fill his canteens, then turn back and meet the car before the heat and thirst had taken their toll of life. Maybe by that time his meaning would pierce the drivers’ thick skulls. Clad, as always, in his army coat and his dignity, and wearing the hat that might have befitted a doctor of divinity, Winne- muka trotted across the graveled bed of the Mojave and bent his course straight north toward Death Valley. His long, sun-seared legs hanging almost to the ground across the back of the little Indian pony, his can- teens dangling and rattling, he looked neither to right nor left, but straight toward the hills for which he was making. He deigned not even to glance toward the motor-car. He probably despised the two men, even though he was arranging to save their lives. But wasn’t Borax Brown his friend? He left the Mojave behind him, an ir- regular, winding line of green willows, with COPMICLOOKS (C@