Starr, of the Desert | Page 5

her lips, coming up at a gallop with
the sun behind her, and something more; with sickness behind her and
the drudgery of eight hours in an office, and poverty and unhappiness.
And Vic--yes, Vic in overalls and a straw hat, growing up to be the
strong man he never would be in the city.
Like many another commonplace man of the towns, for all his colorless
ways and his thinning hair and his struggle against poverty, Peter was
something of a dreamer. And like all the rest of us who build our
dreams out of wishes and hopes and maybes, Peter had not a single fact
to use in his foundation. Arizona, New Mexico or Colorado--to Peter
they were but symbols of all those dear unattainable things he longed
for. And that he longed for them, not for himself but for another who
was very dear to him, only made the longing keener and more tragic.

CHAPTER TWO
IN WHICH PETER DISCOVERS A WAY OUT
We are always exclaiming over the strange way in which events link
themselves together in chains; and when the chains bind us to a certain
condition or environment, we are in the habit of blandly declaring
ourselves victims of the force of circumstances. By that rule, Peter
found himself being swept into a certain channel of thought about
which events began at once to link themselves into a chain which drew
him perforce into a certain path that he must follow. Or it may have
been his peculiar single-mindedness that forced him to follow the path;
however that may be, circumstances made it easy.

If Helen May worried about her cough and her failing energy, she did
not mention the fact again; but that was Helen May's way, and Peter
was not comforted by her apparent dismissal of the subject. So far as he
could see she was a great deal more inclined to worry over Vic, who
refused to stay in school when he could now and then earn a dollar or
two acting in "mob scenes" for some photoplay company out in
Hollywood. He did not spend the money wisely; Helen May declared
that he was better off with empty pockets.
Ordinarily Peter would have taken Vic's rebellion seriously enough to
put a stop to it. He did half promise Helen May that he would notify all
the directors he could get hold of not to employ Vic in any capacity;
even to "chase him off the studio grounds", as Helen May put it. But he
did not, because chance threw him a bit of solid material on which to
rebuild his air castle for Helen May.
He was edging his way down the long food counter, collecting his
lunch of rice pudding, milk and whole-wheat bread in a cafeteria on
Hill Street. He was late, and there was no unoccupied table to be had,
so he finally set his tray down where a haggard-featured woman clerk
had just eaten hastily her salad and pie. A brown-skinned young fellow
with country manners and a range-fostered disposition to talk with any
one who tarried within talking distance, was just unloading his tray
load of provender on the opposite side of the table. He looked across at
Peter's tray, grinned at the meager luncheon, and then looked up into
Peter's face with friendliness chasing the amusement from his eyes.
"Golly gee! There's a heap of difference in our appetites, from the looks
of our layouts," he began amiably. "I'm hungry as a she-wolf, myself.
Hope they don't make me wash the dishes when I'm through; I'm
always kinda scared of these grab-it-and-go joints. I always feel like
making a sneak when nobody's looking, for fear I'll be called back to
clean up."
Peter smiled and handed his tray to a waiter. "I wish I could eat a meal
like that," he confessed politely.
"Well, you could if you lived out more in the open. Town kinda gits a

person's appetite. Why, first time I come in here and went down the
chute past the feed troughs, why it took two trays to pack away the
grub I seen and wanted. Lookout lady on the high stool, she give me
two tickets--thought there was two of, me, I reckon. But I ain't eatin' the
way I was then. Town's kinda gittin' me like it's got the rest of you. Last
night I come pretty near makin' up my mind to go back. Little old shack
back there in the greasewood didn't look so bad, after all. Only I do
hate like sin to bach, and a fellow couldn't take a woman out there in
the desert to live, unless he had money to make her comfortable. So I'm
going to give up my homestead--if I can