Читать книгу The Sandy Steele Mystery MEGAPACK®: 6 Young Adult Novels (Complete Series) - Roger Barlow - Страница 10

CHAPTER FIVE

A Light in the Window Rock

The morning after Cavanaugh’s unwelcome visit, Hall, Donovan, Salmon and the boys set out on their 150-mile drive south to the town of Window Rock. The jeep wallowed and bounced as usual over the dusty trail to Shiprock. There Ralph turned right onto US 666, pushed the accelerator toward the floor board and relaxed.

“We don’t have a Bonanza, boss,” he said, “but a loaded jeep on a good paved road is the next best thing.”

“I’d prefer a helicopter, equipped with a supercharger that could lift it over the ranges,” Hall answered. “Maybe, if Number Two comes in, we can buy a whirlybird, along with a portable drill rig truck.”

“A portable rig sure would come in handy for drilling test wells,” Ralph agreed. “Maybe we could make it come true by putting an offering on that Navajo wishing pile.” He nodded toward a mound of small brightly colored stones that stood where an Indian trail crossed the highway.

“Nuh-uh,” the oilman said sharply. “And don’t you ever try that stunt, boys. The Navajos don’t want white men thinning out their luck by putting things on their wishing piles. By the same token, never take any object from the piles that you will see scattered through the reservation. If you’re caught doing that, you’ll be in for real trouble.”

“Yep. The braves will get mad as wet hens,” Salmon said, chuckling.

“Ralph,” said Quiz, “why do you poke fun at the Navajos?”

“Well, pardner, did you ever hear a UCLA man say anything good about the Stanford football team?”

“Oh, but that’s different. It’s just school rivalry,” Sandy objected as he crossed his long legs the other way in an effort to keep his knees from banging against the dash.

“Well, you might say that the Navajos and Utes have been traditional rivals since the beginning of time. Nothing very serious, you understand. We’ve raided each other’s cattle, and taken a few scalps now and then, when a Navajo stepped on a Ute’s shadow, or vice versa. The Navajos are Athapascans, you see. They’re related to the Apaches, and think they’re the lords of creation. But Utes are Shoshoneans. We belong to one of the biggest Indian ‘families’ in North America. The state of Utah is named in our honor and there are Shoshones living as far north as Alaska. Maybe you’ve heard of Sacagawea, the Shoshone ‘Bird Woman,’ who guided the Lewis and Clark Expedition all the way to the Pacific Coast.

“The Hopis are our brothers, and the Piutes are our poor relations. The Piutes did eat fried caterpillars and roots in the old days, I guess, but that was only because they lived out in the western Utah desert where there wasn’t much else to eat. We southern Utes lived mostly on buffalo meat. We were great hunters. Our braves would creep right into the middle of a herd of buffalo and kill as many as they wanted with their long knives, without causing the animals to take fright and stampede.”

“How could they do that?” Sandy asked.

“When they went on a hunt, they dressed in buffalo hides, and made themselves smell like, walk like and even think like buffalo. The animals didn’t believe they were men.”

“Can you still do that—think like a buffalo, I mean?” Quiz gasped.

“Oh, sure. Just find me a herd of wild ones and I’ll prove it.”

“Ralph’s talents sure are being wasted on drilling for oil,” Donovan said, knocking out his pipe against the jeep’s side for emphasis.

“All very amusing,” Hall grunted. “But crooked white men have taken advantage of your sporting rivalry with the Navajo to rob both of you blind during the past century. The same thing will happen again, I warn you, if you don’t stop playing Indian and begin working at it.”

“Yes, boss,” Ralph agreed shamefacedly. “You’re absolutely right. But—I forget everything you’ve said when that Quail character starts getting under my buffalo hide!”

The car whined merrily down the road past the little towns of Newcomb and Tohatchi while Ralph sulked and Hall and Donovan talked shop which the boys couldn’t understand. They turned left on Route 68 in the middle of the hot afternoon, crossed the line from New Mexico into Arizona, and a few minutes later pulled into Window Rock.

The town, made up mostly of low, well-kept adobe and stone buildings, lay in a little valley almost surrounded by red sandstone cliffs. It had received its name, obviously, from one huge cliff that had a round hole in it big enough to fly a plane through. One of its largest buildings was occupied by the Indian Service. Another, built like a gigantic hogan, was the Navajo Tribal Council, Hall told the boys. They passed a brand-new hospital and a school and pulled up at a motel where a large number of Cadillacs and less imposing vehicles were parked.

“Looks as if everybody in the Southwest had come to bid on or sell equipment,” said Mr. Hall as he studied the array of cars and trucks. Some of the latter bore the names of well-known companies such as Gulf, Continental, Skelly and Schlumberger. Others belonged to smaller oil and uranium firms that Sandy had never heard of.

“Donovan, Ralph, and I had better go in and chew the rag with them awhile,” the oilman continued. “Why don’t you fellows look the town over until it’s time for dinner? You’d just get bored sitting around.”

The boys were drifting over toward the Council Hall for a better look at the many Navajos in stiff black hats and colorful shirts who clustered around its doorway when they heard a familiar shout.

“Wait up!” Pepper March dashed across the dusty street and pounded them on their backs as if they were his best friends. “Gee, it’s good to see a white man you know.”

“You saw us only yesterday,” Sandy pointed out rather coldly.

“Oh, but that was business. Come on. I’ll buy a Coke. What have you been up to? How do you like working for an old crank? What’s biting Hall’s geologist? Boy, isn’t it hot? Did you know that I’m learning to fly Red’s Bonanza? How’s your well coining along?”

“Whoa!” cried Quiz. “Relax! We’ve been working like sin. We like Mr. Hall. His geologist is going to bite your Mr. Cavanaugh pretty soon, I’m thinking. It is exactly 110 degrees in the shade. We did not know you were learning to fly a plane. And the situation at the well is strictly our own affair.”

“Uh—” said Pepper, “you’re not sore about what happened yesterday, are you? Red was only trying to make a sale.”

“Nope. We’re not sore,” Sandy answered. “But we’re beginning to take a dim view of your boss.”

“Why, Red’s the grandest guy you ever met. Do you know what he’s got me doing?”

“There you go again, asking personal questions,” said Quiz.

“I’m helping him set up a string of light beam transceivers that will keep his camps here and at Shiprock in constant communication with his agent down at Gallup.”

“What on earth for?” Sandy almost choked on his Coke in amazement. “What’s the matter with the telephone, telegraph and short-wave radio stations that are scattered all over this territory? And how come Cavanaugh has to have a permanent camp at Window Rock, and an agent in Gallup?”

“Now who’s asking the questions?” Pepper said smugly. “Have another Coke?”

“No, but we’ll buy you one,” Quiz replied, and added with a wink at his pal, “It must be quite a job, setting up one of your stations.”

“Sure is!” The blond boy expanded at this implied praise. “It’s never been done before over such long distances, Red says. You have to focus the beam perfectly, or it’s no good. But, after you do that, nobody can eavesdrop on you unless…”

He stopped short, and jumped off the diner stool as though it had suddenly become hot. “Well, so long, fellows. I’ve got to be getting back to camp. See you around.” And he departed as abruptly as he had come.

“Now what kind of business was that?” Sandy asked as he paid the entire bill.

“Monkey business, I guess,” Quiz answered. “I think Mr. Hall ought to know about those stations, and maybe Mr. White, the Indian Agent, should be told too.” He kicked at the dust thoughtfully as they walked slowly down Window Rock’s main street.

“Hmmm. You have to get a license from the government to operate a short-wave station,” said Sandy. “But I don’t suppose you need one yet for a light-beam job. Now, just supposing that Cavanaugh wanted to—”

“Wanted to what?”

“That’s what I don’t know. But I sure would like to find out. Let’s be getting back to the motel.”

They found themselves in the middle of a tense scene when they entered the motel patio. Twenty or thirty oil and uranium men were gathered there, their chairs propped comfortably against the adobe walls, while they listened to Cavanaugh and Donovan argue the merits of the big man’s electronic explorer.

“You all know, my friends, that uranium ore can be, and has been, found with a one-tube Geiger,” Red was booming. “But that’s like throwing a lucky pass in a football game. To win the game, you need power in the line—power that will let your ball carrier cross the line again, and again, and again, the way I became an All-American by scoring those three touchdowns against California back in 1930.”

“Oh, no!” Quiz whispered as he and Sandy founds seats in a far corner. “This is where we came in last time.”

“In searching for oil, or even for uranium under a heavy overburden of rock,” Cavanaugh went on, “you need at least the simplest scintillation counter because it is sixty times as sensitive as a one-tube Geiger. Better yet is the really professional counter—as much as 600 times more sensitive than the best Geiger built. Best of all is my multiple scintillator—100 times more sensitive than the best single tube. Even you won’t disagree with that, will you, Mr. Donovan?”

“Not at all,” answered the bald man after several furious puffs on his pipe. “I only say that, in addition to the best possible electronic instrument, you need an operator who thoroughly understands radiation equipment. Also, you should have a crew of geologists and geophysicists who know how to balance radiation findings against those established by other methods.”

“Nonsense,” shouted the ex-football player. “Many of my customers have located oil-containing faults and stratigraphic traps with my detector where all other instruments had failed. You’re just old-fashioned.”

“Maybe I am,” said Donovan, “and then maybe I just don’t like to have wool pulled over my eyes, or the eyes of men I consider to be my friends.”

“I’m not pulling wool. Halos or circles of radiation can be detected on the surface of the earth around the edges of every oil deposit. That’s a proven fact.” Cavanaugh pounded on the arm of his chair with a fist as big as a ham.

“Is it?” Donovan asked gently. “Jakosky, who is an authority on exploration geophysics, says, and I quote his exact words: ‘Atomic exploration is still in its infancy.’ Let me tell you a story:

“Back in the early days of the oil business, a number of people made fortunes by charging big fees to locate petroleum deposits with the help of split willow wands. They’d walk around with the split ends of the wands between their hands until, they said, some mysterious force pulled the big end downward until it pointed to oil. A man who helped Colonel Drake promote his original oil well at Titusville, Pennsylvania, back in 1859, actually located several profitable fields with the ‘help’ of a spiritualist medium.”

“He could hardly have failed,” one of the onlookers spoke up. “In those days, oil was literally bursting out of the ground along many Pennsylvania creek beds.”

“That’s right, Tom,” Donovan agreed. “Oil was everywhere, so those dowsers, or ‘creekologists’ as they often were called, did very well until the search for oil moved west where deposits were scarcer and much deeper underground.

“Around 1913, geologists had to be called in to do the exploration. They’ve been responsible for finding practically all the fields discovered since then. But the creekologists didn’t give up easily. They built pseudo-scientific gadgets called doodlebugs and equipped them with lots of fancy dials and flashing lights. One doodlebug even had a phonograph in it. As it was carried across a field, a ghostly voice would be heard saying, ‘Your sainted Aunt Minnie bids me tell you to drill right here and you will bring in a second Spindletop.’”

“You can’t call me a crook!” Cavanaugh, his face scarlet with rage, lunged to his feet and advanced on his tormentor.

“I’m not calling you a crook—yet.” Donovan stood up too, knocked out his pipe and put it into his pants pocket. “If you would just stop making all of those wild-eyed claims for your detector, though, you would make out better out here.”

As Cavanaugh continued to advance he added mildly, “I suppose I ought to warn you that I studied judo when I was in college.”

“Excuse me for interrupting your fun, gentlemen,” a quiet voice broke in. “Is there anyone here named Quincy Taylor? An urgent telegram for him was just relayed down from Farmington.” Kenneth White, the Indian Agent, stood in the motel doorway holding a yellow envelope.

Nobody answered for a moment, but Cavanaugh took the opportunity to stomp out of the room while Donovan sat down quietly and started stoking his pipe.

“Hey, Quiz!” Sandy exploded at last. “Don’t you recognize your own name? It’s for you!”

His friend blushed with embarrassment as he accepted the wire, but his round face turned pale as he read it.

“Mr. Hall,” he choked at last. “It’s from Dad. He slipped and broke his leg in two places. I’m to come home immediately and run the restaurant while he’s laid up. Gee whiz!” He bit his lips to keep back the tears.

“That’s tough, Quiz.” The oilman came over and slipped a fatherly arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Your father will be all right soon, I’m sure, but we certainly will miss you up at the well. Now the problem is to get you back to Farmington quick so you can catch the midnight bus. I’ll send your things on, soon as we get back.”

“One of my trucks is returning to Farmington after supper,” spoke up the oilman named Tom. “You can go in that.”

“Thanks,” gulped Quiz.

The ban about talking at mealtime was broken that night. All the oil and uranium men were agreed that Cavanaugh was a bad-mannered blusterer, but they differed sharply about the value of his electronic detector.

“He has made several good uranium strikes with the thing,” a bearded prospector insisted, “though what good they’re going to do him I can’t imagine, with the government not buying except from established mills. But don’t sell Red Cavanaugh short. He has made millions out of electronics, they say. He knows electronics. He’s a smart operator. You keep an eye on the bids he makes tomorrow and you’ll see what I mean.”

“Well, I’m not throwing my seismograph away for a while yet,” Tom retorted. “I’ll put my money on Don’s opinion any day.”

The boys tried to follow the conversation, but Quiz’s heart was not in it, and he only picked at his food. Finally he excused himself and headed for the dining-room door with Sandy after him.

“It’s a tough break,” he said half an hour later while he and his pal stood at the edge of town and stared upward at that amazing natural bridge called the Window Rock.

“It sure is,” Sandy agreed glumly. “Maybe you can come back, though.”

“Not a chance. Dad will be laid up most of the summer, and he can’t afford to hire a manager, the way things are. There’s nothing I can—Hey! Look!” He grabbed Sandy’s arm and pointed. “See that point of light twinkling ’way up on top of the Window Rock? That isn’t a star, is it?”

“Nuh-uh!” Sandy watched the faint flicker a thousand feet above them. “That must be where Cavanaugh has pitched his camp. He’s sending a message of some kind over light beam. If it were a heliograph transmitting in Morse code I could read it. But that’s a modulated beam… Say, we’d better be moseying back to the motel. Must be about time for your truck to leave.”

“Sandy,” Quiz said half an hour later after they had shaken hands solemnly, “I’m going to do everything I can, when I get home, to do some detective work on Cavanaugh. If anything turns up, I’ll let you know quick.”

“Do that, Quiz.” Sandy swallowed and his voice broke. “Be seeing you.”

Quiz climbed slowly into the cab of the big tool truck. As it roared off into the starlit desert night he kept waving a forlorn farewell.