A TRIO OF SHOCKS
MR. JOHN GOLDEN, mining engineer at G-string, readily consented to help
Joshua Cole for the sake of his friendship with California Bill. Nor
did he ask anything for his trouble and experience, for such is the
custom among friends who live in the free and generous outlands. Bill
would have helped him build a stable or a house, had he required such
aid, and would have been offended if he had offered pay. So now he
helped Bill’s friend.
California Bill drove on to Spur after leaving the two in the vicinity
of the newly named Spyglass Mountain. Joshua and Golden spent the
entire day searching for the stakes of the recent survey and running
lines. They discovered that only a part of Spyglass Mountain was
covered by the survey, and the portion that had been included was
within the limits simply because it had been impracticable to leave it
out.
But this did not down Joshua’s ardor. The hundred and sixty acres
finally settled upon lay at the foot of the steep rise, and a great
deal of the land beyond it, on the desert side, would be in the forest
reserve. It would therefore be open to his use, and it might be,
even, that he could obtain a special permit from the forest service
to build an observatory on the mountain’s top. So California Bill had
encouraged him, anyway, and Bill knew much about the workings of the
government offices that control the forest privileges of homesteaders
and cattlemen.
So with the legal description of the desired land in his pocket, Joshua
walked to Ragtown early next morning and took the stage to Spur. That
evening he reached Los Angeles by train, and was on hand at the Federal
Building next morning when the land office was opened.
He found the land office people unwilling to aid him beyond showing him
a formidable-looking book wherein the land was listed. Unfamiliar with
such procedures, he wrestled with the big book for an hour, then gave
it up, secured an application blank, filled in the data, and passed
it to a clerk. It was taken in to the commissioner, presumably, and
presently he was called inside, where the fee was extracted from him.
He was told that he would be notified by letter whether or not his
claim would be allowed, and that if it was not allowed his money would
be returned to him. This seemed to be all that was required of him, so
he took his leave, in the dark as to whether or not his mission had
been a success.
He had money left. He remembered what it would be necessary for him to
buy in the way of materials for the building of his proposed telescope.
So in order to forestall another trip to Los Angeles, he bought a
seventy-inch piece of brass tubing, a small plano-convex lens about an
inch in diameter, a few smaller pieces of tubing, a hand magnifying
glass, and an ordinary camera tripod. And now there remained only five
dollars and some odd cents of the money that both he and California
Bill had saved from their first payday with Demarest, Spruce and
Tillou. However, he had his return ticket to Spur and enough for stage
fare back to Ragtown, but he could not buy a meal. Oh, well--hunger was
no new thing to him. He could eat when he reached camp again, to-morrow
night! He would be a poor servant of Science if he could not sacrifice
four meals in her cause.
Shortly before dark the following evening the stage topped the summit
of the mountains and rattled down the steep grade toward Stirrup Lake.
Joshua still had four miles to walk after reaching Ragtown, and he
wondered if he could persuade one of the cooks or flunkies to give him
a hand-out. The stage reached the level of the lake and made speed
around the eastern end toward Ragtown, whose lights blinked out with
subtle invitation.
Ragtown was such a mushroom growth as springs up in wilderness
localities wherever big construction is taking place. Like Wild Woman
Springs, it was composed of new pine-shacks and tents. There is always
a “rag town” close to a big railroad-building job, so called because
of its tents, but this one had not chosen a name to distinguish it,
so it was Ragtown to the thousands of laborers traveling up and
down the line. It was a riotous place, of course, the scene of many
drunken brawls and wild nights of carousal, but it was typical of the
pioneering West, sinful but picturesquely sinful.
The tent saloons and dance halls were filled to overflowing as the
stage wheeled to a stop before The Silver Dollar, in which was the
store and post office, hypocritically partitioned off with thin boards
from the bar and dance hall, with a convenient archway between. A
hundred men, perhaps, were in the one street that extended through the
town, and a dozen saddle horses were tied to a hitching rack, proving
that the Box-R cowpunchers were making the most of this spark of
civilization that had flared up over night.
Joshua climbed out of the stage, his heavy bundle under his arm. He
had no money to buy food or entertainment at Ragtown, so without a
look to right or left he started up the street, which was no more
than an inhabited portion of the long road from Spur to the railroad
grade. He saw a knot of men standing in front of The Golden Eagle,
a saloon, restaurant, gambling den, and dance hall, next door to The
Silver Dollar, and as he passed them he glanced at the object that held
their interest. Just then a spectator swung away from the group, and
Joshua saw a man seated on the beaten ground beside the road--there
was no sidewalk--and before him a black cloth was spread, on which two
skeletons five inches high danced weirdly.
It was the old game of The Whimperer, but Joshua was surprised to see
anybody trying it here. He stepped closer and through the half-light
looked at the operator’s face. The black hat was pulled down over the
man’s eyes, but there was no mistaking the evil-looking scar that
glared out from its surrounding patch of stubby beard.
The master of the skeleton dance was Joshua’s jocker, the man who had
robbed him of his dearest treasure, The Whimperer.
For a little Joshua saw red, as thoughts came to him of all the misery
that this tramp’s treachery had brought upon him. Next instant he had
dropped his bundle and was elbowing men aside as he marched to the
squatting panhandler.
“Well, Whimp,” he said in tones that trembled slightly, “where’s my
telescope?”
The skeletons ceased their dance and toppled over. For two tense
seconds the old John Yegg stared up at Joshua, his ugly mouth open.
Then he made the quickest move that Joshua had ever seen him make,
for with a squirming jump he had flipped himself to his feet and was
fleeing down the street.
Joshua pursued, his youthful heart afire with the lust to mete out
punishment for a great wrong done him. The Whimperer darted between two
tents as Joshua closed in on him, then whipped to the left and was out
of sight when Joshua reached the rear. But ahead a tent swayed back
and forth, as if some one had entered it violently and collided with
one of the poles. Toward it Joshua darted, flung back the flaps, and
looked inside.
There came a guttural howl, and The Whimperer threw himself flat on the
hard earth and wriggled under the rear wall of the tent. But Joshua
did not pursue him. He stood stock-still in the entrance, gazing in
unbelief at a man who sat at a rude table, on which was a lighted
candle in a beer bottle, and stared back at him, half risen from his
chair, motionless.
And this man was Felix Wolfgang, lean and sandy-haired and freckled as
the egg of a guinea hen--Number Twenty-three forty-four in the House of
Refuge.
Joshua was the first to recover from the shock. His tense muscles
relaxed and his surprise found voice.
“Say, am I off my nut, or are you Number Twenty-three forty-four? It’s
one of the two--that’s certain.”
Slim Wolfgang settled back into his seat and a sickly smile played on
his lips.
“Youse ain’t nuts, I guess,” he croaked half moodily. “I’m Slim
Wolfgang, all right--Number Twenty-three forty-four. An’ youse’re ole
Tony. I’d know youse any place. How’s ever’t’ing, Tony?”
“What in the dickens are you doing here?” Joshua took several steps
into the tent, but did not offer his hand when he reached Wolfgang’s
side.
“An’ I might ast de same of youse, ol’-timer,” Wolfgang retorted,
rolling a cigarette and letting it drip from his lower lip when lighted.
“That’s quickly told. I’m working as a hammerman for Demarest, Spruce
and Tillou.”
“Well, I’m runnin’ a stud game in De Golden Eagle,” Slim stated in his
husky tones. “An’ I just drifted in here because I hoid dere was good
pickin’s among de construction stiffs. I been runnin’ stud layouts fer
sev’ral years out West.”
Joshua pondered over this. Slim’s explanation seemed logical enough;
and, but for the fact that The Whimperer had scurried through that
tent, Joshua would have considered this one of those strange chance
meetings that occur in the lives of men who travel far from home.
“But that tramp,” he questioned--“how does it come that he ducked
through here when I chased him? Do you know him?”
“Who--dat geed-up guy? Yes, I seen um about here a little since I come.
Dat was yesterday. But I don’t exactly know um. Was youse chasin’ um,
Tony? Wot for? He comes bulgin’ in here an’ pretty near knocked de
old rag flat. I’m buckin’ solitaire--see?” Slim indicated a spread of
playing cards on the table. “An’ before I c’n get outa me chair to fin’
out wot’s doin’, youse show up an’ dat yegg frogs it unner de back wall
o’ de tent an’ beats it. Wot’s it all about, Tony?”
Joshua did not answer the question. It struck him as the strangest
coincidence imaginable that, away out here in Ragtown, six thousand
feet above the sea, he should meet the man who had robbed him in the
Middle West and chase him through the tent of his old enemy in the
House of Refuge.
“And you say you don’t actually know this fellow?”
“Naw--jes’ seen um hangin’ aroun’. He’s a stiff--dey folly big
construction, don’t dey? Maybe de likes o’ dis plug don’t woik much,
but dey hang aroun’ an’ help de busy little bees spend dere payday. I
don’t know nuttin’ about um. W’y’re youse astin’ me?”
This dialogue was bringing Joshua no information whatever, and it had
caused him to lose track of The Whimperer, who by now was without
doubt securely hidden. Joshua turned about and started for the entrance
to the tent.
“Ain’t sore, are youse, Fifty-six thirty-five?”--from Slim.
Joshua turned at the door. “No, not at all,” he replied, regarding
Wolfgang studiously. “In fact, I made a fool out of myself by chasing
The Whimperer, and now I’m going home and forget it. Good-night.”
“I see youse don’ wanta renew de old acquaintance, Tony,” said
Wolfgang, “so we’ll let ’er go at dat. But if youse feel like a little
stud any time, drop into De Golden Eagle. Me game’s clean, an’ if youse
win youse’ll get away wid it. I ain’t got no hard feelin’s, Fifty-six
thirty-five. Wot we did as kids don’ count f’r nuttin’ now. We was bot’
nutty den, I guess.”
“Call me Tony, if you want to,” Joshua offered, “but cut out the
Fifty-six thirty-five, will you, please?”
“Don’ like to remember, eh, Tony?”
“It’s just as well not to.”
“I guess youse’re right at dat. Maybe youse don’ want dese plugs aroun’
here to savvy dat youse was in de House o’ Refuge.”
“There’s no call to advertise it,” Joshua told him. “I was committed
unjustly, and--”
“Dat’s wot dey all said, Tony.”
“Well, anyway, it’s more convenient to say ‘Tony’ than ‘Fifty-six
thirty-five.’ Good-night.”
“S’long, Tony. Don’ forget de number.”
The tent flaps fell behind Joshua, and he hurried back to the street to
recover his abandoned bundle.
He found it kicked to one side against the front of The Silver Dollar,
shouldered it, and set off through the night toward camp, utterly
amazed at what had taken place.
But a new shock awaited him there. One of the cook’s flunkies, whom
he persuaded to go to the cook tent and set out some cold food for
him, told him while he ate that Shanty Madge’s boss-powderman, Jawbone
Mahoney, had gone on the job intoxicated and had fired a big shot, with
the result that the wet, crumbly top of the big hill was sliding into
the tunnel and that all efforts at stopping it had been of no avail.
Shanty Madge, the old-time stiffs were gossiping, was ruined.