The Desert Fiddler

  CHAPTER XXVII

  As the sun, like a burnished lid to some hotter caldron, slid downbehind the yellow sandhills that rimmed the desert, Imogene Chandlerfelt as though she must scream. She would have made some wild outcryof relief if it had not been for her father, who still sat in thedoorway of the shack, as he had all day, gray and bent like a dusty,wilted mullein stalk.

  It had been a terrible day--the hottest of the summer. And for a weeknow the irrigation ditches had been dry. To-day the cotton leaves hadwilted; and the girl had looked away from the fields all afternoon. Ittortured her to see those rich green plants choking for water.

  The sun gone, and a little relief from the heat, she began to preparesupper.

  "Shut off the water? Why all the cotton in the valleywill be withered in a day."]

  As she stirred flour for biscuits, Imogene was blaming herself for everbringing her father here. But it had looked so like the greatopportunity to escape from the fetters of dry rot and poverty. So nearwere they to success, with the rising prices this crop would make thema small fortune--five thousand, perhaps seven or eight thousand dollarsclear--if only it had water. But to see it burn day by day, and allbecause of the greed of Reedy Jenkins! She had sent her father withthe tribute of sixteen hundred dollars to Jenkins, but he had refusedit. He could not turn on the water for so small a ranch. She knew hewas trying to force Bob Rogeen through her to submit to the robbery.

  Imogene and her father were dully eating their supper when Bob'smachine stopped at the ranch. But the moment the light from theswinging lantern over the table fell on his face, she knew it washopeless, and her mind leaped from her own trouble to his.

  "It all comes down to this"--they had not discussed the fight until thelittle professor had gone to bed--"my backing must mean more to theMexican officials than Reedy Jenkins'. If I could only get Washingtonto give the consul power to act, then we could apply pressure.But"--he shrugged his shoulders fatalistically and looked moodily up atthe glittering stars--"you see how hopeless that is."

  She gave a jump that almost scared him, and grabbed his arm. Her facewas so close to his he could see the excitement in her eyes eventhrough the dusk.

  "I can help; it can be done!"

  She was electrically alive now. "Daddy was a classmate of thePresident's and was an instructor under him before we came West. Hethinks a lot of daddy, but daddy would never use his friendship withthe President to get a job. He's got to use it now--for you--for allof us! Write a personal telegram to the President--the sort that willget immediate action--and I'll make daddy sign it."

  Bob was fairly white with excitement, and his hand shook as they satdown at the board table under the lantern and carefully composed thattelegram. This was their one last hope, and it must get action.

  "There, that will do it," Imogene nodded sagely. They were sittingside by side, their heads close together, studying the final draft ofthe appeal. The night wind blew a strand of her hair against his face,and for a moment he forgot the desert, forgot the fight, forgot thetelegram, and saw only her. Then he shook himself free from the spell.He must save the girl and himself before he dared speak.

  Imogene roused up her father, and had him sign the message. And anhour later by a combination of bribes, threats, and pleadings Bob got asleepy operator to reopen the telegraph office and speed the message toWashington.

  At five o'clock the next day the reply came. Bob signed for it, andhis fingers shook as he tore it open.

  DEAR THEO:

  State Department instructing consul by wire to take any actionnecessary to protect American ranchers.

  W.

  By eleven o'clock that night he got a message from the consul; andthirty minutes later Bob was speeding toward Tia Juana, a hundred andfifty miles west, to see the Mexican governor.