“Prepare to ride in the chair car,” Rosemary called after him warningly.  “Even a tourist sleeper is going to be too luxurious for us; we’re going to squeeze nickels till they just squeal!”

Luck held the door open while he smiled approvingly at her.  “That’ll be playing the game right from the start. Adios, folks.”

CHAPTER TEN

UNEXPECTED GUESTS FOR APPLEHEAD

Applehead Forrman was worried over his cat, Compadre, which is Spanish for comrade or something of that sort.  It was a blue cat and it was a big cat, and it had a bellicose disposition, and Applehead was anxious because it had lately declared war on a neighboring coyote and had not come out of the battle unscathed.  Applehead had heard the disturbance and had gone out with a rifle and dispersed the coyote, but not until Compadre had lost half of his tail and a good deal of his self-assurance.  Since that night, almost a week ago, Compadre had been a changed cat.  He had sought dark corners and had yowled when the best friend he had in the world tried to coax him out to his meals.  Applehead was very patient and very sympathetic, and hunted small game with which to tempt the invalid’s appetite.

On this day he had a fat prairie dog which he had shot, and he was carrying it around by a hind leg looking for Compadre and calling “Kitty, kitty, kitty,” in the most seductive tones of which his desert-harshened vocal chords were capable.  He looked under the squat adobe cabin which held all the odds and ends that had accumulated about the place, and which he called the “ketch-all.”  He went over and looked under the water tank where there was shade and coolness.  He went to the stable, and from there he returned to the adobe house, squat like the “ketch-all” but larger.  There was a hole alongside the fireplace chimney at the end next the hill, and sometimes when Compadre was especially disenchanted with his world, he went into the hole and nursed his grievances in dark seclusion under the house.

Applehead got down upon all fours and called “Kitty, kitty, kitty,” with his face close to the hole.  It was past noon, and Compadre had not had anything to eat since the night before, when he had lapped up half a saucer of canned milk and had apathetically licked a slice of bacon.  Applehead put his ear to the hole and imagined he heard a faint meow from a far corner.  He pushed the prairie dog into the aperture and called “Kitty-kitty-kitty” again coaxingly.

He was so absorbed in his anxious quest that he did not hear the chuckle of two wagons coming up through the sand to the corral.  He did not even hear the footsteps of men approaching the house.  He did not hear anything at all except a dismal yowl now and then from the darkness.  He contorted his long person that he might peer into the gloom.  He pushed the prairie dog in as far as he could reach.  “Come, kitty-kitty-kitty!” he coaxed.