Presently they mounted a ridge, and Bob Eden cried, "What do you know about that?"
There before them on the lonely desert, partly buried in the drifting sand, stood the remnant of a trolley-car. It was tilted rakishly to one side, its windows were yellow with dust, but on the front, faintly decipherable still, was the legend "Market Street."
At that familiar sight, Bob Eden felt a keen pang of nostalgia. He reined in his horse and sat staring at this symbol of the desert's triumph over the proud schemes of man. Man had thought he could conquer, he had come with his engines and his dreams, and now an old battered trolley stood alone as a warning and a threat.
"There's your setting," he said. "They drive out together and sit there on the steps, your lovers. What a background—a car that once trundled from Twin Peaks to the Ferry, standing lonely and forlorn amid the cactus plants."
"Fine," the girl answered. "I'm going to hire you to help me after this."
They rode close to the car and dismounted. The girl unlimbered her camera and held it steady. "Don't you want me in the picture?" Eden asked. "Just as a sample lover, you know."
"No samples needed," she laughed. The camera clicked. As it did so the two young people stood rooted to the desert in amazement. An old man had stepped suddenly from the interior of the car—a bent old man with a coal-black beard.
Eden's eyes sought those of the girl. "Last Wednesday night at Madden's?" he inquired in a low voice.
She nodded. "The old prospector," she replied.
The black-bearded one did not speak, but stood with a startled air on the front platform of that lost trolley under the caption "Market Street."
Chapter XIII. What Mr. Cherry Saw
Bob Eden stepped forward. "Good evening," he said. "I hope we haven't disturbed you."
Moving with some difficulty, the old man descended from the platform to the sandy floor of the desert. "How do," he said gravely, shaking hands. He also shook hands with Paula Wendell. "How do, miss. No, you didn't disturb me none. Just takin' my forty winks—I ain't so spry as I used to be."
"We happened to be passing—" Eden began.
"Ain't many pass this way," returned the old man. "Cherry's my name—William I. Cherry. Make yourselves to home. Parlor chairs is kind o' scarce, miss."
"Of course," said the girl.
"We'll stop a minute, if we may," suggested Eden.
"It's comin' on supper time," the old man replied hospitably. "How about grub? There's a can o' beans, an' a mite o' bacon—"
"Couldn't think of it," Eden told him. "You're mighty kind, but we'll be back in Seven Palms shortly." Paula Wendell sat down on the car steps, and Eden took a seat on the warm sand. The old man went to the rear of the trolley and returned with an empty soap-box. After an unsuccessful attempt to persuade Eden to accept it as a chair, he put it to that use himself.
"Pretty nice home you've picked out for yourself," Eden remarked.
"Home?" The old man surveyed the trolley-car critically. "Home, boy? I ain't had no home these thirty years. Temporary quarters, you might say."
"Been here long?" asked Eden.
"Three, four days. Rheumatism's been actin' up. But I'm movin' on tomorrey."
"Moving on? Where?"
"Why—over yonder."
"Just where is that?" Eden smiled.
"Where it's allus been. Over yonder. Somewhere else."
"Just looking, eh?"
"Jest lookin'. You've hit it. Goin' on over yonder an' jest lookin'." His tired old eyes were on the mountaintops.
"What do you expect to find?" inquired Paula Wendell.
"Struck a vein o' copper once, miss," Mr. Cherry said. "But they got her away from me. Howsomever, I'm lookin' still."
"Been on the desert a long time?" Eden asked.
"Twenty, twenty-five years. One desert or another."
"And before that?"
"Prospected in West Australia from Hannans to Hall's Creek—through the Territory into Queensland. Drove cattle from the gulf country into New South Wales. Then I worked in the stoke hole on ocean liners."
"Born in Australia, eh?" Eden suggested.
"Who—me?" Mr. Cherry shook his head. "Born in South Africa—English descent. Been all up and down the Congo an' Zambesi—all through British Central Africa."
"How in the world did you get to Australia?" Eden wondered.
"Oh, I don't know, boy. I was filibusterin' down along the South American continent fer a while, an' then I drifted into a Mexican campaign. Seems like there was somethin' I wanted in Australia—anyhow, I got there. Jest the way I got here. It was over yonder, an' I went."
Eden shook his head. "Ye gods, I'll bet you've seen a lot!"
"I guess I have, boy. Doctor over in Redlands was tellin' me t'other day—you need spectacles, he says. 'Hell, Doc,' I says, 'what fer? I've seen everything,' I says, and I come away."
Silence fell. Bob Eden wasn't exactly sure how to go about this business; he wished he had Chan at his elbow. But his duty was clear.
"You—er—you've been here for three or four days, you say?"
"'Bout that, I reckon."
"Do you happen to recall where you were last Wednesday night?"
The old man's eyes were keen enough as he glanced sharply at the boy. "What if I do?"
"I was only going to say that if you don't, I can refresh your memory. You were at Madden's ranch house, over near Eldorado."
Slowly Mr. Cherry removed his slouch hat. With gnarled bent fingers he extracted a toothpick from the band. He stuck it defiantly in his mouth. "Maybe I was. What then?"
"Well—I'd like to have a little talk with you about that night."
Cherry surveyed him closely. "You're a new one on me," he said. "An' I thought I knew every sheriff an' deputy west o' the Rockies."
"Then you'll admit something happened at Madden's that might interest a sheriff?" returned Eden quickly.
"I ain't admittin' nothin'," answered the old prospector.
"You have information regarding last Wednesday night at Madden's," Eden persisted. "Vital information. I must have it."
"Nothin' to say," replied Cherry stubbornly.
Eden took another tack. "Just what was your business at Madden's ranch?"
Mr. Cherry rolled the aged toothpick in his mouth. "No business at all. I jest dropped in. Been wanderin' the desert a long time, like I said, an' now an' ag'in I drifted in at Madden's. Me an' the old caretaker, Louie Wong, was friends. When I'd come along he'd stake me to a bit o' grub, an' a bed in the barn. Sort o' company fer him, I was. He was lonesome-like at the ranch—only a Chink, but lonesome-like, same as if he'd been white."
"A kindly old soul, Louie," suggested Eden.
"One o' the best, boy, en' that's no lie."
Eden spoke slowly. "Louie Wong has been murdered," he said.
"What's that?"
"Stabbed in