dispensing its dubious cheer. A long high counter and a soiled mirror running the length of it suggested that in other days this had been an oasis indeed.
The boy climbed on to one of the perilously high stools. At his right, too close for comfort, sat a man in overalls and jumper, with a week's growth of beard on his lean hard face. At his left, equally close but somehow not so much in the way, was a trim girl in khaki riding breeches and blouse.
A youth made up to resemble a motion-picture sheik demanded his order, and from a soiled menu he chose the Oasis Special—"steak and onions, French fries, bread and butter and coffee. Eighty cents." The sheik departed languidly.
Awaiting the special, Bob Eden glanced into the smoky mirror at the face of the girl beside him. Not so bad, even in that dim reflection. Corn yellow hair curling from under the brim of a felt hat; a complexion that no beauty parlor had originated. He held his left elbow close so that she might have more room for the business that engrossed her.
His dinner arrived, a plenteous platter of food—but no plate. He glanced at his neighbors. Evidently plates were an affectation frowned upon in the Oasis. Taking up a tarnished knife and fork, he pushed aside the underbrush of onions and came face to face with his steak.
First impressions are important, and Bob Eden knew at once that this was no meek, complacent opponent that confronted him. The steak looked back at him with an air of defiance that was amply justified by what followed. After a few moments of unsuccessful battling, he summoned the sheik. "How about a steel knife?" he inquired.
"Only got three and they're all in use," the waiter replied.
Bob Eden resumed the battle, his elbows held close, his muscles swelling. With set teeth and grim face he bore down and cut deep. There was a terrific screech as his knife skidded along the platter, and to his horror he saw the steak rise from its bed of gravy and onions and fly from him. It traveled the grimy counter for a second, then dropped on to the knees of the girl and thence to the floor.
Eden turned to meet her blue eyes filled with laughter. "Oh, I'm so sorry," he said. "I thought it was a steak, and it seems to be a lap dog."
"And I hadn't any lap," she cried. She looked down at her riding breeches. "Can you ever forgive me? I might have caught it for you. It only goes to show—women should be womanly."
"I wouldn't have you any different," Bob Eden responded gallantly. He turned to the sheik. "Bring me something a little less ferocious," he ordered.
"How about the pot roast?" asked the youth.
"Well, how about it?" Eden repeated. "Fetch it along and I'll fight another round. I claim a foul on that one. And say—bring this young woman a napkin."
"A what? A napkin. We ain't got any. I'll bring her a towel."
"Oh, no—please don't," cried the girl. "I'm all right, really."
The sheik departed.
"Somehow," she added to Eden. "I think it wiser not to introduce an Oasis towel into this affair."
"You're probably right," he nodded. "I'll pay for the damage, of course."
She was still smiling. "Nonsense. I ought to pay for the steak. It wasn't your fault. One needs long practice to eat in the crowded arena of the Oasis."
He looked at her, his interest growing every minute. "You've had long practice?" he inquired.
"Oh, yes. My work often brings me this way."
"Your—er—your work?"
"Yes. Since your steak seems to have introduced us, I may tell you I'm with the moving pictures."
Of course, thought Eden. The desert was filled with movie people these days. "Ah—have I ever seen you in the films?" he ventured.
She shrugged. "You have not—and you never will. I'm not an actress. My job's much more interesting. I'm a location finder."
Bob Eden's pot roast arrived, mercifully cut into small pieces by some blunt instrument behind the scenes. "A location finder. I ought to know what that is."
"You certainly ought to. It's just what it sounds like. I travel about hunting backgrounds. By the Vandeventer Trail to Pinon Flat, down to the Salton Sea or up to the Morongos—all the time trying to find something new, something the dear old public will mistake for Algeria, Araby, the South Seas."
"Sounds mighty interesting."
"It is, indeed. Particularly when one loves this country as I do."
"You were born here, perhaps?"
"Oh, no. I came out with dad to Doctor Whitcomb's—it's five miles from here, just beyond the Madden ranch—some years ago. When—when dad left me I had to get a job, and—but look here, I'm telling you the story of my life."
"Why not?" asked Eden. "Women and children always confide in me. I've got such a fatherly face. By the way, this coffee is terrible."
"Yes, isn't it?" she agreed. "What will you have for dessert? There are two kinds of pie—Apple, and the other's out. Make your selection."
"I've made it," he replied. "I'm taking the one that's out." He demanded his check. "Now, if you'll let me pay for your dinner—"
"Nothing of the sort," she protested.
"But after the way my steak attacked you."
"Forget it. I've an expense account, you know. If you say any more, I'll pay your check."
Ignoring the jar of toothpicks hospitably offered by a friendly cashier, Bob Eden followed her to the street. Night had fallen; the sidewalk was deserted. On the false front of a long low building with sides of corrugated tin, a sad little string of electric lights proclaimed that gaiety was afoot.
"Whither away?" Bob Eden said. "The movies?"
"Heavens, no. I remember that one. It took ten years off my young life. Tell me, what are you doing here? People confide in me, too. Stranger, you don't belong."
"No, I'm afraid I don't," Eden admitted. "It's a complicated story but I'll inflict it on you anyhow, some day. Just at present I'm looking for the editor of the Eldorado Times. I've got a letter to him in my pocket."
"Will Holley?"
"Yes. You know him?"
"Everybody knows him. Come with me. He ought to be in his office now."
They turned down First Street. Bob Eden was pleasantly conscious of the slim lithe figure walking at his side. He had never before met a girl so modestly confident, so aware of life and unafraid of it. These desert towns were delightful.
A light was burning in the newspaper office, and under it a frail figure sat hunched over a typewriter. As they entered Will Holley rose, removing a green shade from his eyes. He was a thin tall man of thirty-five or so, with prematurely gray hair and wistful eyes.
"Hello, Paula," he said.
"Hello, Will. See what I found at the Oasis Cafe."
Holley
