The Argosy, Vol. 82 No. 2 — page 131: what you’re looking at

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

A GOOD the railroad beyond it. The little strag- gling, sun-bleached town soon faded into the gray landscape. He reached the first line of low hills north of the river, crossed it and kept on north, a slow-moving atom in an ocean of gray and pale green. The Indian was not only inured to the climate and other conditions of this savage land, but he knew its topography as well as teacher knows her multiplication table. Straight ahead of him, seventy-five miles away, lay Death Valley, with the Armagosy and Kingston ranges on the east, the Pana- mint and Slate ranges to the west and Borax Flats, the destination of the pay ma- chine, still farther west. At various points in the gray distance Winnemuka could lo- cate Granite Peak, Owl’s Head, Pyramid Peak, “Skiddoo” and Black Crater. The motor-car’s trail would be between Black Crater and the southern end of the Panamint range. And the springs that Winnemuka knew of—the good and the _ bad—were also in this vicinity. All day the old chief’s pony trotted toward Black Crater, never hurrying, never slacking; winding about among the grease- wood and giant cactus, but moving ever toward the goal of sweet water. When the desert night fell the pony and his rider each drank some water sparingly, then ate a little—the one nibbling the greasewood, the other gnawing the dried meat—and then the rider rolled himself in his blanket and slept. The next morning Winnemuka pushed on and about mid-afternoon reached the spring of good water at the eastern foot of Black Crater. He knew the automobile was al- ready on its way, and he planned to fill his canteens and put back the next morning so as to meet it before the lack of water had become desperate. The would-be robbers had probably discovered their plight in time to turn about and get back to Barstow and water before their fix became desperate. Whether they had or not was none of Win- nemuka’s concern. But the trio had not turned back, and their failure to do so did concern Winne- muka, after all. For, a few miles on his return trip the next forenoon, the rescuer sighted the men he had so far outwitted. They had pushed on instead of turning back, and no doubt had forgotten their dreams of somebody’s else gold in their fevered thirst for water. Winnemuka drew his pony’s rein and ‘the buckboard. INDIAN. 313 considered what to do. He had been seen and must face the three, since he was un- armed and there were long-ranged rifles in But the renegades were still several miles away, and there was time to spring off his pony and cache all his water canteens but one partially filled one— just enough water to prevent suspicion and at the same time leave the enemy good and dry. For the rest the Lord would guide him. An hour later Winnemuka, virtuously surprised and much concerned and eloquent with his gruntings and gestures, met the buckboard. Men and mules were suffering terribly with thirst. The coal oil had proved a poor substitute for real water. Lips were parched, tongues were begin- ning to swell and Dago Joe was growing de- lirious. There was a rush for Winnemuka’s canteen and the burning desert air grew even more heated as the men cursed each other and snatched it from each other’s lips. But, though wofully inadequate, the little store of water renewed life and then the Indian was peremptorily ordered to guide them to more. What? An Indian not know where to find water? Deus! He would guide them to water or the coyotes would pick his bones. And Manuel Lopez reached into the buckboard for the rifle. So Winnemuka led the rascally outfit to water. But not to the good water. He piloted them over the bald spur at the foot of Black Crater to the alkali spring on the western side. He knew his life would prob- ably pay for it. But wasn’t Borax Brown his friend? They reached the black, brackish water and, unable to resist the temptation, the white men threw themselves on their stom- achs and drank. much, only any at all of that villainous liquid would have been too much. Then they vomited it up and were deathly sick. When they had all but brought up the very linings of their stomachs they were almost too weak to stand. But they were wot too weak to curse old Winnemuka in a plenteous variety of languages, and finally Dago Joe proposed that they fill the Indi- . an’s hide full of lead and sink his carcass . in the hell’s brew he had brought them to. The suggestion called for no debate and the aged chieftain’s arms were quickly bound behind his back and his long legs CORMMICLOOOKS Of course they drank too | (C@)