Part 5 (2/2)
”Thank you,” she repeated hastily. ”And you may be sure I shall look for your orchard when I reach Wenatchee. The fruit on the trees must be beautiful.”
”It is. It's worth the drive up from Wenatchee just to see Hesperides Vale, and that special Eden of mine is the core. You couldn't miss it; about ten miles up and right on the river road.”
”I shall find it,” she nodded brightly. ”I am going that way to see a wild tract in a certain pocket of the valley. I wonder”--she started and turned a little to give him her direct look--”if by any possibility it could be brought under your Peshastin ditch?”
He shook his head. ”Hardly. I wouldn't count on it. Most of those pockets back in the benches are too high. Some of them are cut off by ridges from one to six thousand feet. Maybe your agent will talk of pumping water from the ca.n.a.l, but don't you bite. It means an expensive electric plant and several miles of private flume. And perhaps he will show you how easy it's going to be to tap the new High Line that's building down the Wenatchee and on to the plateau across the Columbia thirty miles. But it's a big proposition to finance; in places they'll have to bore through granite cliffs; and if the day ever comes when it's finished far enough to benefit your tract, I doubt the water would reach your upper levels. And say, what is the use of letting him talk you into buying a roof garden when, for one or two hundred dollars an acre, you can still get in on the ground floor?”
She did not answer. Her eyes were turned again to the desert, and a sudden weariness clouded her face. In that moment she seemed older, and the strong light brought out two lines delicately traced at the corners of her beautiful mouth that had not been apparent before.
”But, say,” the young man went on eagerly, ”let me tell you a little more about the Vale. It's sheltered in there. The mountains wall it in, and you don't get the fierce winds off the Columbia desert. The snow never drifts; it lies flat as a carpet all winter. And we don't have late frosts; never have to stay up all night watching smudge pots to keep the trees warm. And those steep slopes catch the early spring sun and cast it off like big reflectors; things start to grow before winter is gone. And I don't know what makes it so, but the soil on those low Wenatchee benches is a little different from any other. It looks like the Almighty made his hot beds there, all smooth and level, and just forgot to turn the water on. And take a project like the Peshastin, run by a strong company with plenty of capital; the man along the ca.n.a.l only has to pay his water rate, so much an irrigated acre; nothing towards the plant, nothing for flume construction and repairs. And, say, I don't want to bore you, I don't want to influence you too far, but I hate to see a woman--a lady--throw her money away right in sight of a sure proposition; even if you can't go into improved orchards, any Hesperides investment is safe. It means at least double the price to you within two years. I've bonded forty acres more of wild land joining my tract, and I shall plant thirty of it in the fall.
The last ten will be cleared and reserved for speculation. The piece comes within a stone's throw of the Great Northern's tracks. There's a siding there now, and when the Vale comes into full bearing, they are bound to make it a s.h.i.+pping station. Then I'm going to plat that strip into town lots and put it on the market.” He paused while her glance, returning from the desert, met his in a veiled side-look, and the flush of the bellflower again tinged his cheek. ”I mean,” he added, ”I'd be mighty glad to let you in.”
The blue sparkles played under her lashes. ”Thank you, it sounds like riches, but--”
She stopped, leaving the excuse unsaid. The station master had turned his face suddenly towards the Columbia; he was not listening to her. Then, presently, the sound that had caught his alert ear reached her own faintly. Somewhere out in the solitudes a train had whistled. ”The westbound freight!” she exclaimed softly. ”Isn't it the westbound freight?”
He nodded. ”She's signalling Beverley. They'll call me in a minute.” And he started around to the office door.
She rose and followed to the corner to look for Tisdale. Midway the road doubled a knoll and was lost, to reappear, a paler streak, on the gray slope where the ranch house stood; and it was there, at the turn, she first noticed a cloud of dust. It advanced rapidly, but for a while she was not able to determine whether it enveloped a rider or a man on foot; she was certain there was no led horse. Then a gust of wind parted the cloud an instant, and the sparkle suffused her whole face. He was returning as she had hoped, afoot.
She stood watching the moving cloud; the man's bulk began to detach from it and gathered shape. Between pauses, the click of the telegraph reached her, then suddenly the shriek of the whistle cut the stillness. The train must have crossed the Columbia and was winding up through the dunes. She went along the platform and picked up her hat, which she had left on the suitcase with her coat. While she pinned it on and tied her veil over it, the freight signalled twice. It was so close she caught the echo of the thundering trucks from some rocky cut. When the call sounded a third time, it brought an answer from the silk special, far off in the direction of Ellensburg. She lifted her coat and turned again to watch Tisdale. He had quickened his pace, but a shade of suspense subdued the light in her face.
Since the whistle of the special, the telegraph instrument had remained silent, and presently she heard the station master's step behind her.
”Well,” he said, ”it's Nip and Tuck, sure. But say, he can sprint some.
Does it easy, too, like one of those cross-country fellows out of a college team. I'd back him against the freight.”
”If he misses it,” and the suspense crept into her voice, ”I must go without him, and I suppose I can be sure of a hotel at Ellensburg?”
”You'll find fair accommodations at Kitt.i.tas. But he isn't going to miss the freight, and it will be hours saved to you if Lighter lets you have the colts.”
She lifted her coat, and he held it while she slipped her arms in the sleeves. ”I've 'most forgotten how to do this,” he said; ”it's so long since I've seen a girl--or a lady. I'm afraid I've bored you a lot, but you don't know how I've enjoyed it. It's been an epoch seeing you in this wilderness.”
”It's been very interesting to me, I'm sure,” she replied gravely. ”I've learned so much. I wonder if, should I come this way again, I would find all this desert blossoming?”
”I shouldn't be surprised; settlement's bound to follow a new railroad.
But say, look into Hesperides Vale while you are at Wenatchee, and if my proposition seems good to you at one hundred dollars an acre, and that is what I'm paying, drop me a line. My name is Bailey. Henderson Bailey, Post-Office, Wenatchee, after the end of the month.”
He waited with expectation in his frank brown eyes, but the girl stood obliviously watching Tisdale. He reached the platform and stopped, breathing deep and full, while he shook the dust from his hat. ”I am sorry, madam,” he said, ”but their only saddle-horse pulled his rope-stake this morning and went off with the wild herd. You will have to take this freight back to Kitt.i.tas.”
”How disappointing!” she exclaimed. ”And you were forced to tramp back directly through this heat and dust.”
”This is the lightest soil I ever stepped on”--he glanced down over his powdered leggings and shoes; the humor broke gently in his face--”and there's just one kind deeper,--the Alaska tundra.”
With this he hurried by her to the office. Presently the freight whistled the siding, and Bailey picked up the baggage and went down to make arrangements with the trainmen. The girl followed, and when Tisdale came back, she stood framed in the doorway of the waiting caboose, while a brakeman dusted a chair, which he placed adroitly facing outside, so that she might forget the unmade bunks and greasy stove. ”It isn't much on accommodations,” he said conciliatingly, ”but you can have it all to yourselves; as far as you go, it's your private car.”
The other train thundered into the station and past; the freight began to move, and Tisdale swung himself aboard. Then the station master, remembering the apples at the last moment, ran with the basket, crowned still by the Rome Beauty for which he had refused five dollars, and dropped it as a parting tribute at her feet.
”Thank you! Thank you for everything!” Her soft voice fluted back to Bailey, and she leaned forward a little, raising her hand with a parting salute. ”Good-by!”
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