_August 2nd. Laramie, Wyoming._
A faint sunset glow illumined the dry, brown plain as we approached the
grade west of Cheyenne. A pungent odour rose from under foot as we
trailed through the low brush, and as we approached the track, the rails
set up a low humming that steadily increased in pitch and volume. A
glaring eye appeared in the distance. I had never attempted to board a
train in rapid motion and was more or less ignorant of ladders, hand
holds and other details of car construction, and the idea of leaping on
the roaring mass that came thundering through the semidarkness appalled
me. Nearer and nearer drew the engine. The fierce glow of the furnace,
as the fireman laboured to fill the insatiable maw, gleamed red upon the
gravelled track. Black smoke rolled from the stack and hung low in the
quiet air. With laboured pants, like an exhausted leviathan, the great
machine lurched past.
Dan caught my hand and we ran beside the track. Car after car clanked
by. The hammering wheels seemed hungry for a victim. My eyes visioned
the ghastly death of an unknown man, whose life had been ground out but
a scant half hour before we had discovered the mangled remains. I saw
myself, hampered with clinging skirts and weighted with a heavy bundle,
clinging, slipping, falling between the ravening wheels, and a deadly
nausea seized me. With a half stifled cry I turned down the embankment.
Dan pulled and exhorted in vain.
“It’s no use,” I said doggedly. “I just can’t do it.”
The tail-lights of the caboose faded from view.
“Well, I’ll be darned,” said Dan. “I never knew you were a coward.”
“I don’t care if I am. It’s better than being chopped to pieces under
that train. I feel sure I should have gone under if I had made the
attempt.”
“Nonsense,” he replied. “Now we’re in a nice fix. We can’t stay here. We
can’t walk across that wilderness. And we can’t catch a freight in the
railroad yard on account of Jeff Farr. First time I ever saw you show
the white feather.”
“Just you wait till morning and we’ll see who’ll show the white feather.
I’m going to walk right into that yard, and Jeff Farr or no Jeff Farr,
I’ll board the first west-bound freight that pulls out.”
Jeff Farr, as all the hoboes know, is an officer, especially dreaded
because of his drastic methods of handling vagrants, who makes his
headquarters at Cheyenne. We had heard of him repeatedly, for his fame
had spread even beyond Omaha, and his mere name was sufficient to strike
fear in the stoutest heart.
In a disgruntled mood, we plunged into the bushes, and without
attempting to make camp, threw ourselves on the ground and slept. At
dawn we ate a cold lunch and turned back toward Cheyenne.
At the west entrance of the railroad yard, a watchman stopped us. I
pleaded our cause to such good effect that he turned his back and gazed
into space as we scurried past. Two long strings of boxcars stood as
though ready for the road, and as we approached, a brakeman clambered
from the top of the nearest and spoke to me. He had noted the behaviour
of the detective, so as soon as I explained the situation he motioned to
the second string and told us that it was a west-bound train, already
searched and passed by the detectives, and now waiting, under the guard
of our friend the watchman, for engine and crew.
Ducking across the tracks we examined the long line of cars, but each
was shut and sealed. In the middle of the train stood several gondolas,
and in lieu of nothing better, we boarded one. Crouching down, we waited
for the start with every nerve at high tension. A pair of hands grasped
the edge of the gondola. “Jeff Farr,” thought I with a shudder. A man’s
head appeared above the brim. With staring eyes, he glared at us for a
moment, then, with an inarticulate grunt, dropped to the ground. The
brakeman who had directed our movements engaged him in conversation.
Another pair of hands came over the other side of the car. Again a
vision of revolvers, handcuffs, courtroom and jail flashed through my
mind. Again a man’s head appeared.
“Well, I’ll be blowed—a woman!” he gasped, and disappeared from view.
Then a third man appeared. He evidently knew what to expect, for he
stared at us with a friendly grin.
“The boys said they was a woman up here, but I thought they was kidding
me. Say, you folks got nerve—sticking your head into the lion’s mouth
like this. Ever hear of Jeff Farr?”
“It’ll take something a whole lot worse than Jeff Farr to keep me in
this God-forsaken hole of a Cheyenne,” I replied.
“They said you had grit. Hope you get through all right,” he answered,
as a jolt announced the arrival of the engine.
“Off brakes,” whistled the engineer. With gasps of relief we saw the
buildings glide past, for we knew we were safe for the present.
At the second station out an empty box car was picked up and the crew
transferred us into that. The strict laws against riding freights caused
us to keep every opening closed. There was no ventilation, and as the
sun climbed higher, we suffered severely from thirst, for in the
excitement of departure we had neglected to fill the canteen. Shortly
after noon the train stopped and we heard voices near at hand. The door
was shoved open and a man’s head appeared.
“You can’t ride in there. Come out at once.”
We leaped to the ground.
“Clear out as fast as you know how. I don’t want to run you in, but if
anybody comes along, I’ll have to, and that may mean a month in jail.”
After our Wood River experience, a word was sufficient to put us in
motion, and as we struck off across the tracks, I glanced back and saw
that we were in the town of Laramie.
This little city stands in the midst of a barren plain, ringed about by
distant mountain ranges. Trees are scarce, and what few there are
evidently belong to doting owners, so that it is difficult for
travellers of our persuasion to find shelter from the broiling sun. On
the south side of town a narrow gauge railroad meanders off across the
flat, grey plain, and near it we found a few discouraged trees in an
abandoned rhubarb field. We made camp, set up the tent and cooked a much
appreciated meal. As night came on mosquitoes swarmed about and we had
recourse to a great smudge in front of the tent. About sundown I saw a
tall, gaunt man walking slowly toward an abandoned freight car that
stood on a rusty spur of the dinky railroad. As I watched his listless
movements my professional interest was aroused, for I took him to be
some unfortunate from the east in search of health.
Next morning we went up town, Dan to hunt for work and I to buy some
much-needed provisions. Dan was lucky enough to secure immediate
employment on some construction work at the Wyoming State University,
located a short distance north of town.
I learned from a neighbour that no use was now being made of the
pie-plant that grew on the railroad property, so I helped myself to a
fine cooking. Forced to abstain from fruit and vegetables so long, the
rhubarb made an especial appeal to our palates. I also discovered a
large patch of a wild plant, which, as a child, I had often gathered for
my mother. She called it “lamb’s quarter,” and held the young and tender
shoots in high esteem for greens. I now pulled a large panful and we
found them a pleasant addition to our menu. As I worked I again saw the
invalid, and that night the poor fellow was sitting on a pile of ties
with his head in his hands when Dan came home from work. He looked so
desperately lonely and miserable that I asked Dan to go over and talk to
him and see if there was anything we could do to help. In a few minutes
Dan came back.
“The man is not sick. He’s hungry,” he said.
“Hungry!” I cried. “If that is all that ails him, he must be starving to
look as he does. Go and invite him here for supper.”
Dan returned with the ragged, pallid stranger, whose emaciated face was
almost covered by a heavy brown beard. He took a seat on an old stump
and ate what was offered him in silence. After the meal he filled the
water bucket, carried dried dung to replenish the smudge, then set off
toward the boxcar without a word.
Next morning he sat on the ties as before. Again Dan called him over,
and again he ate in silence, but on leaving he doffed his scare-crow
hat.
“Thank you very much,” he muttered.
That evening he appeared without waiting to be summoned and as he drank
his cocoa, I saw Dan choking with suppressed emotion. No sooner had the
man gone, after attending to the chores as before, when Dan burst out.
“Did you see what that chap did? He picked up the salt instead of the
sugar (we keep both in cocoa cans) and put a heaping spoonful in his
cocoa, and blessed if he didn’t drink the unspeakable mess without a
quiver.”
Next day our peculiar visitor came in rather early and stood awkwardly
about, fumbling with his hat. Then with a shy, sidelong movement, he
laid a fifty cent piece on our pine box table, and bolted away like a
scared rabbit. A half hour later he came hesitatingly back, and prompted
by Dan’s questions, explained that he had spent most of the day chopping
wood, for which work he had received the fifty cents.
We had dubbed him Larabo for want of a better name, as a convenient
abbreviation of Laramie Hobo, and that night he spent the evening beside
our fire. Emboldened by our acceptance of his pitiful offering and
encouraged by tactful questions, he told us his story.
He was born in Angel’s Camp, California, some twenty-three years ago,
and was one of those unfortunate children whose father must remain
unknown and whose mother died at his birth, leaving him to the care of
her sisters in shame. The lad grew up untrained and uneducated, despised
by the children of decent parents; and as he developed into a rugged,
raw-boned youth, took up the work of a gold miner. He was not lacking in
ambition, and saved his money with some vague idea of escaping the sins
of his parents by migrating to parts unknown and establishing himself in
some business.
At the age of twenty-one he had several hundred dollars in the savings
bank, and set out for the east to better his condition. Farm life
attracted him, so he hired out to a dairy-man. In course of a year he
became very expert and, having saved his wages carefully, in the fall of
1907 determined to start a dairy of his own. He rented a small farm,
laid in a good stock of hay and arranged to buy a herd of dairy cattle.
His idea was to make as large an initial payment as possible, giving his
note for the balance and depending on cream checks to pay off the
indebtedness.
The farmer from whom he was purchasing the cows took him to a money
lender to arrange for the loan. When Larabo came to sign he discovered
that the note ran but six months, and since winter was coming on with
the inevitable drop in cream production he doubted his ability to meet
the note when due. The banker assured him that the note could be renewed
without trouble, if necessary, and advised him that this short term note
was in his favour, since it would enable him to pay off some of the debt
in the spring and secure the remainder with a new note if desired, thus
effecting a saving in interest. Thus persuaded, Larabo signed.
All winter long he fed and tended the cattle most faithfully and they
did well, but as he had anticipated, the receipts from the creamery were
insufficient to meet the note. When he asked for the promised renewal,
the banker declared he could not do it, the times were too hard, money
was scarce, some banks had issued script. If he failed to pay the debt,
he would be sold out. The green, ignorant boy did his utmost to raise
the necessary cash, but money was tight, as the banker had said, and a
month later hay, equipment, cattle and savings were swept away.
Penniless and discouraged, he started to beat his way to the gold mines
of the west. He was brutally slugged at Cheyenne, and at Laramie was
arrested and given thirty days in jail. On his release he obtained work
as a dishwasher in a restaurant and there remained until he had saved
twenty dollars. On his way to the station to take a train for the west
he met an officer, who took his money and ran him in. The judge
remembered his face and gave him a sixty-day sentence.
During this period he brooded over his experiences and on his release
sought out the man who had arrested and robbed him and administered a
beating. He was once more arrested and clubbed and sentenced as a
habitual offender. When his term expired, the chief of police ordered
him to stay away from the business section of town under penalty of
immediate arrest, and all officers, train crews and detectives were
warned against him. Twice he walked miles along the western track and
caught a freight, only to be beaten and thrown off. He was too feeble
from abuse and confinement to cross the mountain wastes on foot, and at
last resigned himself to slow starvation in the rotting freight car. For
five weeks he had averaged but one meal a day, earned by doing odd jobs
around the outskirts of town, and his wonderful endurance had almost
reached its limit when we took him in.
Daily he has come to the camp for breakfast and supper, and has revealed
his gratitude for our attentions by many little helpful acts and a dumb
show of affection like a faithful dog.
Yesterday afternoon dense black clouds blew up while I was doing some
marketing, and before I could reach camp the most severe hailstorm of my
experience struck the town. I took shelter in the doorway of a cottage
to escape the fearful pelting, but a woman appeared and sharply bade me
be gone. I then stopped under a cow shed, but a man came from a near-by
house and threatened me with arrest. Buffeted by the slashing
hailstones, I struggled on to camp, only to find our little tent blown
flat and covered with limbs torn from the trees by the storm.
The clouds passed as quickly as they had come. The sun shone with
dazzling brilliance but little warmth; the sky resumed its wonderful
transparent blue; and in the rarefied atmosphere the distant mountain
peaks loomed clear and sharp with a deceptive aspect of proximity.
Despite the flood of golden sunshine the ground was still concealed by a
liberal coating of hailstones as night fell.
I had done all I could to make things endurable when Dan came in from
work, but he thought it best to sleep in some barn on account of the
intense cold. After seeking permission at four or five houses and
meeting with curt refusals and even threats, we returned to camp and
found Larabo feeding a rousing fire and busily scraping a spot clear of
ice. Here we set up the tent and spread our thin blankets on the ground,
while a cutting wind swept across the valley and threatened to tear our
shelter from its fastenings.
Dan’s work was finished, so as soon as we had thawed out and eaten
breakfast this morning he went to town to get a time table and see if
something could be done for poor Larabo. We have decided to take a
passenger train to the first small station west of here, so I packed our
baggage for the journey while Larabo looked on disconsolately.
Suddenly he whirled about and took to his heels and, glancing around, I
saw a well-dressed man approaching through the rhubarb field. He came
directly to me and began to talk about the recent storm. This led to
some conversation concerning the University and I told him that Dan had
been working there. His eyes fell on Larabo, who was moving restlessly
about some hundred yards away.
“You should not allow that disreputable tramp to hang around your camp,”
the stranger said. “People complain that you are harbouring hoboes and
criminals, and it is giving you a bad reputation.”
His words loosed the flood of seething indignation that had been
gathering strength with each succeeding day. I described the heartless
treatment accorded us by the townspeople; I told the story of Larabo,
and concluded with a scathing arraignment and denunciation of the Chief
of Police who permitted such outrages. As I paused for breath the
stranger broke in.
“I feel sure that the things of which you complain are mostly due to
lack of understanding,” said he. “Take this Chief of Police now. He is
really not such a bad fellow. His intentions are good. Fact is, I’m the
Chief. Some of our good people have been complaining and calling this a
tramp roost, and have asked me to have you arrested or run out of town.”
“You don’t look like the heartless brute that I had pictured, and I am
glad indeed to meet you,” I responded, “for now I feel sure that you
will take poor Larabo up town and protect him while he is earning enough
money to get away.”
With that I invited the Chief to have a seat on a stump and we talked
with mutual benefit and pleasure until Dan returned. The men were
introduced and Dan explained that he had secured work with room and
board for Larabo with a Socialist family, who would treat him kindly and
vouch for his good behaviour. All that was necessary was for the Chief
to grant permission for him to remain in town and furnish protection
from official thugs.
Larabo was summoned and came reluctantly. I bade him and the Chief
good-bye as Dan went with them to see our protégé settled in his new
quarters. When Dan gets back we, too, will bid adieu to the rhubarb
field and go our way with a satisfied feeling of work well done.