The Chinese Parrot · Chapter 12 (2/2)

“And my suggestion is that we get back to business. If we don’t that horse of yours is going to eat too much Bermuda grass.”

Through the long afternoon, amid the hot yellow dunes, the windblown foothills of that sandy waste, they rode back to Seven Palms by a roundabout route. The sun was sinking, the rose-and-gold wonder of the skies reflected on snow and glistening sand, when finally they headed for the village.

“If only I could find a novel setting for the final love scene,” sighed the girl.

“Whose final love scene?”

“The cowpuncher’s and the poor little rich girl’s. So many times they’ve just wandered off into the sunset, hand in hand. Really need a little more kick in it than that.”

Eden heard a clank as of a horse’s hoofs on steel. His mount stumbled, and he reined it in sharply.

“What in Sam Hill’s that?” he asked.

“Oh⁠—that! It’s one of the half-buried rails of the old branch road⁠—a memento of a dream that never came true. Years ago they started to build a town over there under those cottonwoods, and the railroad laid down fifteen miles of track from the main line. A busy metropolis of the desert⁠—that’s what they meant it to be⁠—and there’s just one little old ruined house standing today. But that was the time of great expectations. They brought out crowds of people, and sold six hundred lots one hectic afternoon.”

“And the railroad?”

“Ran just one train⁠—and stopped. All they had was an engine and two old streetcars brought down from San Francisco. One of the cars has been demolished and the timber carried away, but the wreck of the other is still standing not far from here.”

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 tramcar. 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 tramcar 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 car, under the legend “Market Street.”