CHAPTER IVCAMPED
NIGHT had cast its black poncho over the desert when the Mangan-Hatton outfit completed its ninety-mile journey from Opaco. Up close to the chain of calico buttes that upreared from the level land as if a giant child had piled them there in play, the wagon train was halted.
It was two hours beyond their regular feeding time, and the disappointed mules brayed ceaselessly. One minute’s delay in this important matter is sufficient to cause a railroad mule to tell the world about it, and two hours of infraction of the rules brought forth a protest proportionately heartrending. The vehicles were drawn up in a hollow square, and teams were unharnessed and fed inside the barrier, which served as a corral. There was necessarily a great hubbub, for there was no moon and nobody seemed to know where anything was. Orders were bawled right and left, amended, countermanded, and disregarded. Men swore intermittently, especially when they came in contact with a nest of desert cacti, unseen in the dark, but quite able to make its presence known. Teams stamped and eagerly crunched their feed. Men fell over piles of harness and kicked things—sometimes to their regret.
A calmer crew presided over a range set up temporarily in the sand. Here was little confusion, for all had seen to it that the cooks and their flunkies were supplied with provisions and the necessary tools.
Falcon the Flunky was greatly in evidence, slicing loaf after loaf of baker’s bread by the flickering light of gasoline torches, cutting ham into what he tried to convince himself were thin slices, carrying bucket after bucket of water from the tank wagon, conveniently backed up to the scene of these culinary activities, and staking the range with greasewood roots foraged from the desert which had heaved them up. It is said of the desert that there one digs his wood and climbs for his water; which is quite true, since the roots of the greasewood make better fuel than the branches, and springs are invariably in the foothills, on higher land.
Already Falcon the Flunky was becoming familiar with his task. The outfit had camped several times since leaving Opaco, and he had learned much.
The head cook—or chef, as he is dignified by the stiffs—was an old-time camp cook, and one of the best in railroad-construction circles. “Lardo the Cook” was a hard worker and a whirlwind for speed—tall, bony-faced, and paste-skinned—and, furthermore, he was a good fellow. There was a second cook called “Baldy,” and two more flunkies called “Rambo the Bouncer” and “Strip.”
Not long after the stock had been fed and watered Falcon the Flunky, at Lardo’s command, beat upon a dishpan with his knuckles and shouted: “Come get it!” And like a pack of hungry wolves the strangers on the desert swooped down upon ham and eggs and cottage-fried potatoes, for the unaccustomed coldness of the desert night and the delay had made them ravenous.
They sat on the ground about the range and held plates and coffee cups, while Falcon the Flunky and the other two piled victuals in the plates and poured steaming coffee in the cups. Over the range the cooks worked speedily, frying more and more and more.
Hunter Mangan, with his walking boss and his bookkeeper, sat with the rest on the ground and ate as greedily as anybody. Mangan’s eyes followed Falcon the Flunky as he hustled about supplying the hungry men, always ready, always willing, silent when asking some one if he wanted anything more, patiently efficient.
“That’s quite a flunky you’ve got, Hunt,” remarked the walking boss, a big, fat, red-faced giant named Reynolds. “Now, that’s the way I like to see a man act. He savvies that these stiffs are half starved and that most of ’em have been drivin’ teams all day, while he’s been only ridin’ and lookin’ at the scenery. He can’t do enough for ’em. Where’d that bird blow from?”
“He blew into Opaco with Halfaman Daisy,” replied Hunt Mangan. “That’s all I know about him—except that he’s not a stiff.”
Reynolds chuckled in his fat, rollicking way and held out his coffee cup toward Falcon the Flunky, who reached him promptly with his big copper coffeepot.
“What else, now?” asked the flunky, when the coffee was poured. “Better have another egg. No? And how about you, Mr. Mangan?”
“That ain’t so bad,” observed Reynolds, “and he ain’t handshakin’ either. He says the same thing to the stiffs. I like the feller’s face, Hunt. He savvies a lot, that bird.”
“I’ve got my eye on him,” Hunt Mangan said; “I like to see a man put his heart into what he doesn’t consider a very good job. That’s the boy I’m going to watch. Mangan & Hatton can usually find a place for men like that.”
“I’ll say so,” Steve agreed. “Where’d Halfaman blow from, did he say?”
“Yes, I was talking with him last night. He’s been over in Nebraska on the G. & N. M. job. Said he heard we were going to have a piece out here, and he hit the road west. He thinks I swallowed it, I suppose. Why should he leave the G. & N. M. job to come out here? There are some good old contractors on that job, and he knows all of them and can get about what he wants there. But heblew, and beat it all the way out here for the love of Mangan-Hatton. Huh!”
“Then why did he come. Hunt?”
“Remember when he was with us on the T. P. in Texas?”
“Yes.”
“And remember who was subbing off us on the south—camped right next to us?”
“Sure—Jeddo the Crow. Oh, I get you now! Jeddo’ll be on this job soon, hey? And with him will be Wing o’ the Crow! So that’s the big idea. You can’t hold Halfaman when Jeddo gets out here.”
“I thought I might if I give him a snap team,” said Hunt. “Jeddo the Crow will probably camp right next door to us. Halfaman can have a good job, and not be a mile away from the girl at that. I’d like to hold him. He’s a bear with a team.”
“Good man, all right. Popular with the rest o’ the stiffs, too. And that means a lot. How ’bout that black-haired little kid of Jeddo’s, Hunt? Is she a regular shanty queen of the old school?”
“No, Steve. She’s mighty pretty, too. And work! She’s as good as a man. If that fellow Jeddo had any pep and would cut the booze he’d make good. But he’s a thorough gypo man—doesn’t care, I guess. Just loves the life and is content to drag along with a few old skates and a collection of junk for tools. But Wing o’ the Crow is different. She takes after her mother, I suppose. Mrs. Jeddowas a pretty nice little woman, mild and ladylike and uncomplaining. Say, it wouldn’t be a bad idea for all concerned if Halfaman could horn in there. He and that girl would move dirt.”
“Uh-huh,” agreed Steve.
Soon the camp was rolled in blankets after the meal, and only the flunkies worked under the gasoline torches. Later they, too, lay on the hard ground, looking up at the desert stars, speculating on their future in this wilderness before they dropped asleep.
The mules and horses crunched their alfalfa hay, or rested their weary bodies in the white sand. The night wind of the desert blew softly through the chevaux-de-frise of the yuccas, which moaned dismally. Over on the summit of a rocky butte a coyote laughed at his mate, who laughed derisively back from another eminence. Falcon the Flunky lay under a wagon, wrapped in a quilt, his head on his rolled-up coat. If there was a mystery in the line of Falcon the Flunky it was now in the background of his mind; for he was dreaming that Lardo the Cook had ordered him to slice a thousand hams, with no slice a hair’s breadth thicker than the rest. The task kept him rather busy.
At six o’clock the following morning Webster Canby and his brood of five were at breakfast. Besides Mart and Manzanita, the brood for the present consisted of “Crip” Richey and “Limpy” Pardoe—gentlemen of the saddle—and Mrs. Ehrhart,the housekeeper. The cows were on summer pasture at this time of year, up on the mountain meadows, and the remainder of the vaqueros were with them at the camp called Piñon—Ed Chazzy, “Lucky” Gilfoyle, Splicer Kurtz, and “Toddlebike” Todd. Pardoe and Richey belonged up there, and were at the home ranch for only twenty-four hours. Mart Canby, too, belonged up there; but for the present Mart was interested in the new railroad camps and had decided, with the consent of a lenient father, to “get an eyeful” before returning to the altitudes. Miss Manzanita Canby was always anywhere she wished to be at any time she wished, so long as the pinto could get her there in conformance with these wishes.
“Did you see ’em, Manzy?” Mart asked his sister, who had just taken her seat at the foot of the table, for Mrs. Ehrhart occupied the head.
“Yes,” Manzanita replied. “And goodness knows they all but cover the desert! Did you ever see so many wagons and horses and mules and things?”
“By the way, Crip,” said Squawtooth to one of the vaqueros, “you want to have Ed kill a couple o’ steers and get ’em down to Mr. Mangan by to-night. I don’t know how often he’ll want beef after that, and I guess he don’t know himself just yet. But find out if you can when you deliver this, and try and not disappoint ’em.”
Manzanita winked at Mart. “That’s right, PaSquawtooth,” she cut in. “Take care of ’em the best you know how. We don’t have such close neighbors often.Muy bueno!”
Squawtooth gravely stroked his long beard and eyed his beloved daughter speculatively.
“Still sore about us havin’ a railroad?” he asked.
“Us? That’s about right, Pa Squawtooth! Oh, I don’t know. I guess not. Mart says he and I are going to have lots of fun at the camps.”
“Oh, is that so! Well, Mr. Mart will be foggin’ it for Piñon when he’s had what fun his dad thinks is good for him. There’s drift fence needs buildin’ up there, ain’t they, Limpy?”
Limpy could not answer immediately, for Mrs. Ehrhart’s biscuits were large, and Limpy was of that school of epicureans who hold that half a biscuit constitutes a bite, regardless of the biscuit’s over-all dimensions. But he could nod—and did so, glancing guiltily at Manzanita, for he knew she was not of his school. Anyway, her little mouth, which always looked as if she had just kissed that brilliant desert flower called Indian paint brush, would have excluded her from the half-a-biscuit-at-a-bite cult.
“I don’t like to build drift fence, pa,” Mart told his father. “Can’t I go on herd when I go back, and let some one that likes to build drift fence do it?”
By this time Limpy had proved the efficacy of his school, and was able to remark:
“They ain’t no such animal.”
At which Manzanita laughed—whereupon Limpy and his dining chair were transported to the edge of a silver-tipped cloud, which is a giddy perch indeed.
“What are you going to do to-day, Mart?” asked the girl.
“Go over to Mangan’s camp, o’ course, and see the stiffs.”
“What do you know about stiffs, I’d like to know!”
“I’d like to know what he knows about them mulies and their calves that drifted down toward Caldron Cañon,” dryly put in Squawtooth.
“I got ’em,” Mart proclaimed. “I headed ’em onto the Canterbury grade and drifted ’em up as far as Shirttail Bend.”
“Wonderful! And they told ye they’d go on back up to Piñon then, did they?”
“Aw, they will! You know they will, pa. They always do that.”
“Nice cows, son—dootiful cows. Like my son and daughter. Well, if they don’t you can throw the diamond hitch on Mono and get in yer little saddle and stay out till they do. An’ in the meantime, I reckon the stiffs can take care of ’emselves.”
“All right! That’s a go. You le’ me stickaround here till I see what’s to be seen, an’ if Crip or Limpy says them cows ain’t back when they bring down Mangan’s meat, I’ll go shoot ’em back.”
“I’d sayMr.Mangan, if I was you, son,” complacently corrected his father.
“Mr. Mangan,” dutifully parroted Mart. He had learned that to correct himself when corrected by his so-called betters was to forestall unpleasant argument.
“When are you going over to the railroad camp,muchacho?” Mart’s sister wanted to know.
“Just as soon as I eat this biscuit and Mis’ Ehrhart clears her throat like she does when she thinks everybody’s et enough.”
Everybody laughed at this.
“You little nut!” cried Manzanita, and, throwing her arms about her wriggling brother, kissed him on his blistered nose.
Limpy thoughtfully studied his own nose and no doubt wished that it were blistered. Crip looked at the bottom of his coffee cup and sighed.
“Well, clear your throat, Mrs. Ehrhart!” cried the girl. “Everybody’s through. I’m going with Mart.”
“Who said you was?”
“Were,hermano.”
“Were.”
“Idid. Can’t I, pa?”
“Certainly, Nita. Mr. Mangan’ll be more than glad to have you. He told me as much.”
Limpy decided to kill Mangan on sight, if his look meant anything.
“Tell Mr. Mangan I’ll be over pretty soon,” said Squawtooth.
They rose from the table together.
“Now don’t bother Mr. Mangan, Mart,” cautioned his father.
“Huh! How ’bout Manzanita?” retorted Mart. Whereupon Manzanita punished him by pinching his arm.
“Your sister’s older than you, Mart, and she’s a lady,” said Squawtooth Canby.
“Huh! I don’t want no ladies in mine if she’s one,” said Mart.
“If I thought you meant that,” said his dad, “there wouldn’t be enough quirts on the rancho to last out what I’d do to you. But seein’ you’re a Canby, I reckon you just slipped a little. Go on now before the both of you get my goat.”
“Not till I’ve kissed you where your mouth ought to be!” cried his daughter, parting his heavy mustache and planting a kiss on his lips.
Then Manzanita and Mart raced from the old one-story adobe to the stables to saddle up. They raced in the saddling, mounted, and raced to the corral gate, and out of the yard to the desert, where they continued to race over the yellowstretches toward the big dirty-white tents that were rising one by one against the background of the calico buttes.
Although nineteen and sixteen respectively, these children of the desert were not so sophisticated as are young persons of the same age born and reared in cities, and they acted like sixteen and thirteen, which they were perhaps in worldly experience. It seemed to their doting, gray-headed father that neither ever would grow up. And he did not know that he wished it to occur too soon, in Mart’s case, anyway. But Manzanita was growing altogether too pretty and susceptible to be allowed to dance with cow-punchers and penniless prospectors much longer, for Squawtooth knew the way of a man and a maid, and the girl showed a marked preference for the chapped and ragged-shirted man of the plains. She was of age and her own mistress—and girls married young in the cattle country.
“I’m going to do it to-day, Martie!” came his sister’s shout on the morning wind. “I’m going to snub Mangan and make friends with the dirtiest flunky in the bunch! You watch, old kid!”
“Mr.Mangan!” shrilly corrected Mart from behind, for his snip-nosed bay was no match for Manzanita’s pinto mare.