M A G A Z •: - Desert Magazine of the Southwest

few buzzards in the sky, and way below a
wide barren flat. You could almost hear
him shudder. I pointed out Ballarat -
just a speck at the foot of the range on the
other side of the valley. He didn't see
how people and animals could live there.
What, for instance, could those big birds
find to eat?
"I tried to wither him with a look. 'Any
old carcass is a feast to a buzzard,' I said,
and that stopped all small talk till we got
to Ballarat.
"It was late afternoon, but the sky was
already dark because of the storm clouds.
Chris Wicht came out and met us. I liked
him right away. He helped us open the
old store, and the inspector got out the
combination to the safe and started to
work. He was pretty sure of himself at
first, but after about 10 tries he became a
little upset. So was I. I didn't like the
looks of that storm coming on.
'Why don't you give it a good cussing?'
01' Chris suggested. 'That's the way
the grocer used to make it work.' The inspector
wouldn't even look at him. But he
got up and handed me the figures. He said
he guessed he didn't have the right touch.
"Well, I tried it six or seven times I
guess—until I was ready to try a charge of
dynamite if nothing else would work.
Chris was still standing there with that
funny little smile of his, so I said, 'How
about you, Chris? Can you remember the
words the grocer used?'
"Chris had never herded a burro, but he
did all right. But even that didn't work
this time.
"I was ready to start for home. But not
the inspector. He took back his figures
and started in all over again. Chris watched
him awhile and shook his head. 'I
think he needs a drink,' he said.
"I sat down and chewed my fingernails.
Finally I couldn't stand it any longer. I
asked him to look outside and see the
storm coming up. And I told him about
the water spout that hit Surprise canyon
a couple of years before and cut a 20-foot
gully where there used to be a road. I
tried to make him understand that it
doesn't just rain in this country—it pours.
And that even a Model T didn't have a
chance, and the road across the dry lake
would be just as slippery as a gravy dish
and we had 65 miles of rough desert road
before we got back to Randsburg. I must
have made an impression finally because
he said he guessed we might as well go.
"I helped him into the Ford and we
jogged out of town over the long washboard
of road that crossed the valley. I
couldn't tell whether the inspector's teeth
or the Ford chattered loudest. I was holding
the throttle open as far as was safe. But
I needn't have bothered. The car stopped
just before we got to the foot of the range.
Ballarat was at least 10 miles behind us.
"I checked the gas, the plugs, even used
Chris Wicht went broke at Ballarat grubstaking the prospectors—and now be operates
a neat little cabin resort in Surprise canyon.
my nail file on the points. It wasn't any
use.
"The inspector seemed to have lost his
voice, but he managed to whisper shakily,
'You don't suppose we'll be stranded
here?'
' 'Unless you know more about the insides
of this thing than I do, one of us
will,' I assured him.
"He slipped down in the seat. 'I never
drove a car in my life,' he said.
"I asked him how he was at walking.
He just looked out into the darkness and
shook his head. I wondered what the
post office department was thinking of—
sending a city man to Ballarat.
"There were two chocolate bars in the
car pocket. I gave him both of them and
warned him to stay put because of the
jackals in the hills. When I left him he
was shaking all over and all he could say
was, 'J ac kals!'
"Well, it was a rough hike, but Ol'
Chris welcomed me at the end of it with
a warm fire and a cozy chair. I suspect he
enjoyed the inspector's predicament. He
said he'd get a burro out to him. He sent
an old prospector and two burros. They
returned hours later with a storm-washed
inspector whose pince-nez dangled sadly
on its chain.
"The next day a man from the Tanks
on the other side of the range came over
and fixed the Ford. The road had jolted
loose all the ignition screws. I took the
inspector back to Randsburg, and that
was the last I ever saw of him. I don't believe
he ever visited our desert again. Ol'
Chris? They tell me he's still somewhere
around Ballarat. Back up in the hills with
his own claim. Look him up. He's one in
a million."
After hearing her story we wouldn't
have missed seeing Ballarat. Going over
the Slate range we knew that except for
grading, the road couldn't have been
changed much. There were the same sheer
cliffs, the same hairpin turns, even a buzzard
circling overhead, with Ballarat a
little group of patched up buildings at
MAY, 1941 11