The Forbidden Trail

Roger looked at the group of buildings across the way. "Is this all there is to Archer's Springs?"

"Sure, and it's a pretty good little old town, don't forget it. All the miners in the range south of here trade here. You'd better go across the street to the Chinaman's and get some breakfast."

Preble's claim lay twenty-five miles northeast. So did the government land where the Solar plant was to be built. Roger and Ernest discussed the matter at breakfast and decided to carry Felicia along with them on the morrow when they started for their own camp.

"And think how surprised Charley will be when you drop in on her, Felicia," suggested Ernest.

Felicia blinked back the tears and began to nibble her breakfast.

"It's a darn big desert and a darn small town," said Roger. "I wonder if Austin was right in telling us we could outfit here. Let's ask the baggage man."

The obliging baggage man pointed out the largest of the sheet-iron, adobe buildings across the way. "Best trading in a hundred miles," he said.

With Felicia dancing between them, the two made their way to Hackett's Supply House. The exterior was not promising, but within was everything the desert dwellers could need. Working from Austin's list they were soon supplied with tents, working outfit and tent boards. Hackett, a stout, slow-speaking man, was not staggered even when Roger asked him to deliver the goods.

"Expect a lot of freight in a couple of weeks, you say? All right, I'll send you up with a team and when your freight comes in you can drive it back again. You can board the horses at Preble's."

Their purchases were complete by noon, but Hackett would not let them start until morning. "No use," he said, "for tenderfeet to try camping on a short trip and it would be hard on the little girl. Get a dawn start and make the trip in one shift."

So they whiled away the afternoon by a tramp over the desert, and after supper turned Felicia over to the landlady at Delmonico's, the adobe hotel, which was clean if it was meager. They were sitting in the office, which boasted a rusty sheet-iron stove, a desk, and a hanging lamp, when a thin, middle-aged man came slowly in the door and walked hesitatingly up to Ernest.

"My name is Schmidt," he said. "I saw you at supper. Mr. Werner, he wrote me you vas coming and asked me to do vat I could for you."

Ernest and Roger shook hands delightedly.

"I come here for my health," Schmidt went on, "and maybe I help you. I vork for my board."