The Honest Dealer

Chapter Two

At Baker, in the Mojave Desert, Johnny Fletcher saw the sign pointing to Death Valley. “I’ve always wanted to see Death Valley,” he said to Sam Cragg.

Sam tapped the thermometer that hung on the wall of the filling station. “Look — 112. That’s hot enough for me. There’re mountains in the east and it’s cool up there. Let’s not even talk about Death Valley.”

“But we’ll be traveling at night,” Johnny persisted. “We’ll get to Furnace Creek Inn before morning. It’s air-conditioned and we’ll stay there tomorrow, then in the evening we’ll have a nice cool drive to Reno.”

“I’d rather see Las Vegas,” Sam protested, “and we can be there in two hours.”

They wound up by tossing a coin for it, so two hours later they were chugging along the road that led into Death Valley. It was a clear moonlit evening and the road was a good one, although a bit on the lonesome side. As a matter of fact, they hadn’t seen a car since leaving Baker, shortly before seven o’clock.

With all the windows open it was still hot in the car. The sun had been down for more than an hour, but the cool evening breezes had failed to materialize.

“If you ask me,” Sam complained, “it’s getting hotter all the time.”

“Oh, it isn’t so bad,” Johnny said. He was wringing wet, but he wasn’t going to admit to Sam that he had made a mistake. “In another hour, we’ll have to shut all the windows.”

“Maybe we’re making a mistake keeping them open,” Sam said. “The wind’s getting pretty stiff, but it’s hot...”

A gust of wind hit the car and caused it to swerve a little. The road curved to the west, and in making the turn the car was broadside to the wind. Johnny had to fight to keep on the road.

“This is the goddamndest thing I ever heard,” he exclaimed. “Imagine a wind like this in a narrow valley; you’d think the mountains would break it.”

He pressed down on the gas pedal, hoping the added speed would offset the pressure of the wind, but the car was buffeted even harder.

“Roll up the windows,” he snapped to Sam, and put up the one on his own side.

It didn’t help. They seemed to be driving into the teeth of a cyclone. Johnny raised his foot from the gas; the wind rocked the car even more. He tried second gear and the front wheels left the pavement and he had to fight to get them back on the slab.

“Our water’s boiling over,” Sam said, ominously.

Johnny stopped the car. The motor heaved and groaned and the water boiled and hissed as it ran over. Sam looked at Johnny.

“Don’t say it,” Johnny snarled.

“I wasn’t sayin’ a word. But you can’t keep me from thinking.”

“The wind’ll let up in a little while. It’s got to let up.”

But he was thinking of the gas station operator in Baker, when they had tossed the coin and announced their intention of driving north into Death Valley.

“At night?” the man had said.

Johnny opened the door on his side and it was torn from his hand. He stepped out to the pavement and had to cling to the car to keep from being knocked over by the wind.

“You’d think this wind was coming out of an oven,” he yelled at Sam.

In that he was right. The winds were coming from the oven that was Death Valley. They were Nature’s equilibrium — Nature’s eternal and perfect balance of the elements. During the day the temperature rose in Death Valley to 135 degrees, to 140 and even to 150. At night the cooller upper air, high as the sky and wide as the desert, bore down relentlessly to drive away the day’s torrid heat.

During July and August, when man cannot live in Death Valley — except in an air-conditioned place like Furnace Creek Inn — the winds blew every night. They started in the early evening and howled through Death Valley into the Mojave. They reached hurricane force, the velocity as much as 70 miles an hour, and the temperature as high as 120 degrees.

Johnny Fletcher and Sam Cragg had barely touched the edge of the winds. The further they drove into Death Valley, the stronger would become the winds, and they would blow far past midnight.

Johnny must have sensed something of the sort as he stood on the pavement beside the car.

He suddenly got in and pulled the door shut. “We’re going back to Baker,” he announced.

“Let’s go,” Sam cried.

Johnny started the motor and made a quick U-turn on the pavement. Then he braked the car and pointed through the windshield. “Look...!”

Sam followed Johnny’s pointing finger. “It’s a man walking...”

“Staggering,” Johnny corrected.

“We’re not picking up anyone out here...”

“He’s fallen!”

Johnny shut off the ignition and forced open the car door. The wind bent him double as he struggled around the front of the car to the desert on the right of the pavement.

The man was down on the sand, but as Johnny approached he managed to get up to his knees. There he remained, shivering in the furnace-like blasts.

Johnny reached his side. “Can I give you a lift, old-timer?”

The man did not seem to hear Johnny. His head bent lower and lower and suddenly he collapsed on his face. Johnny exclaimed softly and stooped to touch the man, but Sam’s brawny hands reached past him and turned the man over.

Sam cried out in astonishment, “He’s all bloody!”

“Wa-water...!” croaked the man on the ground.

Johnny winced. “We haven’t got any.” Then he added bitterly, “Fine desert travelers we are!”

“I can carry him to the car,” Sam offered.

“Yeah,” said Johnny. “Nearest place is Baker; we can get you there in about two hours...”

The man’s mouth quivered. “Two hours...” He shook his head feebly. “I’ll never last that long. I... I’ve been... shot...”

Johnny had already guessed that. “Who did it?”

The man made a helpless gesture with his right hand. “It doesn’t matter. I’m done for and I know it.” He groaned. “But if I could only have a drink of water...”

“There’s water in our radiator,” Johnny said, “but it’s boiling hot.”

Sam leaned over and took the man’s shoulders in his massive hands. “Ain’t there somethin’ we can do for you, pardner?”

The man’s strength was going fast. He made an effort to thrust his right hand into his side coat pocket. “Yes,” he gasped, “send these to Nick in Las Vegas. Nick...” A bubble of blood appeared suddenly on his lips. It burst and the man went limp.

“He’s dead!” exclaimed Sam.

Johnny nodded soberly. Gingerly he reached past Sam and picked up the dead man’s right hand. He opened the fingers and a playing card fell into the sand. He picked it up and opened the box.

“It’s just a pack of cards,” he said, and as an object fell into his hand, “and a poker chip.”

“Is that what he wanted us to send to Nick?”

Johnny drew a deep breath and reached into the man’s coat pocket. It was empty. He searched the other pockets and found an almost empty sack of tobacco, cigarette papers and a half-used pad of matches. And that was all.