"_For God's Sake, Give Me a Drop of Water._"
I stayed in Tucson one night, and while knocking about the streets the
next day I met a young man down at the depot who introduced himself as
J. C. Allen, from some town in the East, which I have forgotten.
Allen had landed in Tucson but a few days before with about the same
intentions I had, but for some reason had taken a violent dislike to the
town, and now wanted to go to Los Angeles.
I had caught the fever of traveling pretty hard myself now, and as Allen
was a sociable sort of chap as well as a good talker, it didn't take him
long to convince me that Tucson was a poor town for us to remain in.
Then, as two young fellows will, we soon came to an understanding that
we would stick by each other through thick and thin and work our way to
Los Angeles, Cal.
Like most fellows who stay in the West long, Allen was a great bull-con
man (hot air man).
He told me they were already picking oranges around Los Angeles, and
paying pickers the highest kind of prices.
My own common sense ought to have told me that this wasn't true, and
that Allen merely wanted me to go with him for company, but I hadn't
been in the West long, and the poorest kind of bull-con dealer found in
me an easy mark.
I readily became as anxious to reach Los Angeles as Allen himself.
"How do you propose going?" I asked.
"A Mexican railroad foreman is going to ship me to Gila City, Ariz.,
to-night to do construction work, and I'll try to get him to ship you
too," he promised.
Late in the afternoon the Mexican in question showed up at the depot.
Allen took him aside and had a long talk with him, during which time the
Mexican glanced at me several times. Finally he got up and went into the
depot.
Allen now hurried over to me.
"---- the luck," he exclaimed, "what are you wearing that white collar
for?" The Mexican has gone after me a pass, but he says you look too
sporty.
"Hurry to your stopping place, quick! and get off them togs and I'll try
him again."
I had put up within a block of the depot, and in a short time I had made
the change and returned, bringing my dress suit case.
Allen had already received his pass and was anxiously waiting for me.
"Hide your dress suit case!" he whispered.
I had barely done so when the Mexican came out of the depot.
It was nearly dark now and there was a surging crowd of ladies and men
on the depot yards waiting to meet the incoming train.
Allen pushed his way through the crowd and once more directed the
Mexican's attention towards me.
The Mexican had no sooner glanced at me than he took out a pencil and
wrote something on Allen's pass. A few moments later he left the depot
and went hurrying up the street; and Allen approached me with a smile.
Upon his pass had been scrawled the two words, "And friend."
Shortly after, we were comfortably seated in a Southern Pacific
passenger coach and bound far out upon the desert to Gila City, 180
miles away.
Allen had but thirty-five cents, while I was again stranded without a
penny.
Just as day was breaking we were roused by the conductor and put down at
Gila City.
Its an unusual thing for a passenger to get on or off at Gila City.
Some of the passengers straightened up in their seats and watched us
with interest, as we slowly got our things together and left the car at
this desolate spot, located almost in the very middle of the desert.
We were yet 300 miles from Los Angeles, though Yuma, the next town, was
but twenty miles away.
Gila City contains one small store, about the size of a man's hand; two
small dwellings, and a miniature depot. The population numbers but four
or five people.
One thing is plentiful there, though--long-eared jack rabbits and
cotton tails by the thousand. This section abounds with thousands of
quail, too, and on warm days not a few rattlesnakes can be seen sunning
in the desert.
The shanty cars of the construction company stood on the side-track, and
as there was nothing else to do we went over to them.
The men were already up and the section foreman's wife was preparing
breakfast.
We told the foreman that the Mexican had sent us down from Tucson, and
were engaged by him at $1.50 per day and board.
Presently we were invited into one of the cars for breakfast.
The men seated around that table presented a picture seldom seen.
Besides Allen and myself, there were three dark-skinned Mexicans, a
half-breed Indian, the foreman, who was a Texan, and two ex-cowpunchers,
besides an Irishman and a Chinaman.
As for the breakfast itself, I have never eaten better grub anywhere,
and the cooking was splendid. Notwithstanding the motley crew around us,
both Allen and myself made a hearty meal.
The teams were soon hitched, and after proceeding down the track about a
mile the day's work commenced.
I was given a scraper team to drive, and Allen was put at pick and
shovel work.
As soon as the sun rose it quickly got hot, and by 8 o'clock it began
to sting through our clothes. At 10 o'clock the heat was so intense that
all hands quit work and went back to the shade of the shanty cars.
Neither Allen nor myself had ever worked under such a hot sun before.
Both of us came near fainting, and even when we reached the shanties,
perspiration was still running from every pore.
All work was suspended until 4 p. m. (In this part of the world, owing
to the intense heat, a day's work commences at 5 a. m. and lasts until
10 a. m. In the middle of the day you take a six hours' rest. Commencing
work again at 4 o'clock in the afternoon you work until 7 p. m., making
an eight-hour day.)
On the morning of the second day, Allen got pretty badly hurt. A big
bowlder, becoming dislodged from above his head, rolled down the cliff
where he was at work, and struck him a painful blow upon the back of his
hand. Already overheated from exertion in the hot sun, his injured hand
threw him into a hard chill, and he was forced to quit work.
Some of the Mexicans and others standing around began laughing as if
they thought it a great joke.
The foreman, instead of sympathizing with him, joined in the laugh. (The
entire gang had put us down as tenderfeet.)
There was no use getting mad, for these tough-looking chaps were too
many for us, and we did the next best thing.
We gave up our job and walked back to the shanties.
At 10 o'clock the men came in for dinner, when we informed the foreman
that we had thrown up our job and that he could settle with us.
"Settle nothing," said the big fellow, laughing. "You've not worked
enough to pay your fare from Tucson yet. You can get your dinner here,
and after that, meals are fifty cents apiece, if you dine in these
cars."
We walked over to the little store with the intention of investing
Allen's thirty-five cents in groceries for our dinner, but there was
nothing doing.
The man's stock consisted mostly of pop and cigars, which articles he
probably got from Los Angeles.
"How much for pop?" I asked.
"Fifteen cents a bottle," was the reply.
A barrel of ginger snaps stood in one corner of the store.
"How much a pound?" I asked, giving the cakes a wistful look.
"Twenty-five cents a pound," said the grocer.
We left the store without purchasing anything and made our way back to
the cars, forced to accept the ill-given hospitality of the section
foreman.
That afternoon a lucky thought came to me. We yet had plenty of
clothing, and why not auction it off?
In my grip was a mouth harp that I had bought in Bisbee.
Allen, who was a good harmonica player, struck up several lively airs,
and in a few minutes every man in the camp had gathered around us,
including the foreman.
Some were popping and slapping their hands in applause, and others were
dancing jigs in time to the music.
I gave Allen the signal to stop and, opening up both our grips, began
auctioneering off small pieces of goods.
Every thing put up was sold to advantage, though the smaller articles
brought the best prices.
The harmonica, which had cost me twenty-five cents, caused the liveliest
bidding, and was finally knocked down to a cowboy for eighty cents.
The foreman secured a nice comb and brush at a bargain, and was so well
pleased with the music he invited us to take supper with him, and to
play the harmonica again for him and his wife.
About nine o'clock that night a freight train stopped in Gila City,
which we boarded with our grips and easily beat to Yuma.
Yuma has a population of 7,000 Indians, Mexicans and Americans, and like
Bisbee, gambling forms a part of the revenue of the saloons.
[Illustration: I gave Allen the signal to stop, and opening up both our
grips, began auctioneering off small articles of clothing.]
Most of the houses in Yuma are built of wood or brick, though there are
a good many adobe houses occupied by the poorer classes.
Some claim Yuma is fifty feet above the sea level; others say it is one
hundred and fifty below the sea level. I don't know which of these
statements is correct, but I do know that Yuma is by far the hottest
town I was ever in. As early as half-past seven o'clock next morning the
sun began to get uncomfortably hot, and by nine o'clock both Allen and
myself were suffering from the heat.
We spent the biggest part of the day in the shade of the large Reservoir
building opposite the depot, and but a few feet from the Colorado River.
That night a Mexican living in one of the adobe houses near the railroad
yards supplied each of us with a large bottle of water for the long two
hundred and eighty mile journey across the desert, but in dodging the
brakemen while attempting to board a Los Angeles freight train, we
became separated and it was the last I ever saw of my friend Allen.
I managed to hide in a car loaded with scrap iron.
Only once did I leave this car. We reached the first division point,
Indio, Cal., about 3 o'clock in the morning.
My bottle of water had long since run dry, and I was once more beginning
to suffer the acute pangs of desert thirst. With as little noise as
possible, I slipped from the car and into the pump house (which is about
the only building of any kind that Indio contains). In fact, between
Yuma and Indio, for a distance of one hundred and fifty miles, there
isn't a single town--nothing but desert and cactus trees.
The man in the pump house filled my bottle from a hydrant, and taking a
big drink from a large tin cup, which I also filled from the hydrant, I
hurried through the darkness to the scrap iron car nearly a half mile
down the track.
I was about crawling in, when a low groan from under the car attracted
my attention.
Peering under the car, I was amazed to see a man on the rods.
"For God's sake give me a drop of water," he begged piteously.
I passed him the bottle of water, and invited him to drink half of it.
The poor fellow eagerly took a long pull at it, passing it back scarcely
half full, with a grateful "Thank you."
"I could drink five bottles like that," he said, smacking his lips.
The train now started, preventing further conversation, and I quickly
crawled back into the scrap iron car.
The next day about 11 a. m. we pulled into the yards at Los Angeles.
As soon as the train stopped in the yards I jumped out of the car and
looked for the man on the rods, but he was gone.