FALCON OF SQUAWTOOTH
Falcon, of Squawtooth
_A Western Story_
BY
ARTHUR PRESTON HANKINS
Author of “The She Boss”
[Illustration]
CHELSEA HOUSE
79 Seventh Avenue New York City
Copyright, 1923
By CHELSEA HOUSE
Falcon, of Squawtooth
(Printed in the United States of America)
All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE FALCON FINDS A FRIEND 11
II. “SQUAWTOOTH” CANBY 24
III. THE DESERT 39
IV. CAMPED 55
V. VISITORS 67
VI. PREACHMENTS 88
VII. WING O’ THE CROW 98
VIII. A TRADE AND NEW RESOLUTIONS 109
IX. DUSK ON THE DESERT 124
X. GUESTS 142
XI. THE PINK NECKTIE 154
XII. BLACKY SILK 170
XIII. THE CHILDREN OF AMRAM 185
XIV. ESCAPE 198
XV. FLIGHT 210
XVI. THE RENDEZVOUS 223
XVII. THE SEARCH 231
XVIII. THE WINDSTORM 239
XIX. THE SORCERESS 252
XX. PREPARATIONS FOR NOON 263
XXI. THE SIGNAL 276
XXII. BREAKING CLOUDS FOR ONE 292
XXIII. AMBITIONS REALIZED 304
FALCON OF SQUAWTOOTH
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I
THE FALCON FINDS A FRIEND
A LONG freight train, westward bound, came to a stop in a little
California mountain town with a shriek of brakes and a hiss of air. At
once a brakeman clambered agilely down the steel ladder of a box car
in the middle of the train, and sent the side door of the car creaking
along its rusty track. He thrust his head inside and peered about
through the darkness of the interior.
Then he cried raucously:
“Come outa that, now! Make it snappy, Jack!”
In a dark corner of the box car a man arose and stepped slowly toward
the square of sunlight that represented the door. As the light of day
shone in upon him the brakeman looked him up and down, and did not seem
so displeased.
The tramp was dressed in overalls, fairly decent shoes, and a cap.
Though he was grimy and stained from hours of travel on a freight, he
was no dirtier than the brakeman and was dressed as well. His hair was
close-cropped, and no stubble of beard showed on his rather boyish
face. His eyes were dark and twinkling. His figure was straight and
strong. There was nothing hangdog about this tramp.
The brakeman’s tones were mollified as he asked:
“Where you goin’, Jack?”
“West.”
“Uh-huh. I know that. What’re you ridin’ on?”
“I’m broke.”
“Yeah? You don’t look it. You look like a workin’man.”
“I am.”
“What d’ye follow?”
“Railroad-construction work.”
“Huh! A stiff, eh?”
“Yes--a stiff.”
The “shack” was silent a little. Then seeming to have decided the point
under contemplation:
“Well, slide out. Guess it’s time for you to eat anyway. But I’ll let
you ride out the division for a dollar.”
“Sorry, but I haven’t a dollar. Thanks, though.”
“Four bits, then.”
“Simply haven’t a cent.”
“Well, then unload--and beat it!”
The tramp sat down in the door, dangled his feet, and dropped lightly
to the ground.
“So long!” he said, and strode away beside the train, his hands in his
trouser pockets.
“Humph!” snorted the brakeman, and gave the door a vicious shove that
forced a protesting scream from the track and rollers.
The little town was six thousand five hundred feet above the sea, in
the high Sierras. The breath of pines came to the vagabond’s nostrils
as he trudged along. A dynamic trout stream plunged over and around
huge boulders on its frenzied race to the blue Pacific, two hundred
miles away. The rare air of the high altitude, to which the traveler
was unaccustomed, sent the blood pounding through his veins; and
despite the beginning of hunger pangs his spirits were elated and his
step elastic as he walked on toward the village.
Before he reached even its outskirts he saw five men--tramps like
himself, no doubt--in camp beside the rushing stream. The odor of
cooking came to his sensitive nostrils. He had only to climb down a
twenty-foot fill, crawl through the right-of-way fence, and try his
luck. He had fed dozens of fellow wanderers, while his money lasted,
since he had left the State of Kansas. He had been penniless, now,
only since the day before. He realized that he might not be welcome in
this hobo camp, for he had long since learned that the so-called tramp
fraternity is a figment of the imagination. But the mountain air had
made him desperately hungry--his money had fed many of the class down
there in camp--it was time for at least a part of his bread cast upon
the waters to drift into an eddy and start floating back.
He scrambled down, forked himself between the strands of barbed wire,
and boldly approached the source of those savory odors.
That this was a permanent hobo camp was evident from the many blackened
cans that lay about, the cold ashes of ancient camp fires, and the
carvings on the trees that shaded the rendezvous.
One man stooped over the fire and stirred a large can of boiling
Mexican beans. Another was cutting into slices a loaf of bread with
his pocketknife, hacking to the center on one side, then turning the
loaf to complete the cuts, by reason of the shortness of the blade.
Three others lounged on the ground, smoked and whittled, and eyed the
newcomer with disapproval.
“How are you, fellows?” the “buttinsky” said, smiling and seating
himself on a moss-covered stone.
No one replied, but the man who was cutting the bread looked up and
grinned.
He was about the newcomer’s age, and had a clean, lean face with
distinct freckles on it and on his neck. His hair was sandy and kinky,
and a comb and brush would have made no change whatever in its wiry
appearance. His eyes were blue and friendly.
The stranger at once sensed that this man was of a different type from
his four companions. Though a tramp, there were about him no marks of
the confirmed John Yegg. The others were old-timers of the oldest known
school.
“Going to have a little feed, eh?” innocently remarked the new arrival.
“I smelled those beans cooking a hundred yards away.”
The old-timers looked from one to another in blank amazement. “Can you
beat it?” was the question their looks expressed. Then with a great
sigh as of resignation to the demands of a stern duty, one of them rose
and fumbled in a pocket of his grease-salvaged vest.
He extracted a dirty match, looked it over with owl-like wisdom, and,
stepping around the fire, silently passed it to the newcomer.
At least four pairs of cold eyes watched this pantomime. The man who
had been offered the match took it mechanically, and looked up into the
donor’s face.
“Seems to me I get you,” he said, a trifle embarrassed. “I’ve heard of
a tramp’s being given the match in a camp where he’s not wanted. It’s a
subtle suggestion, I believe, for him to go elsewhere and build a camp
fire of his own, isn’t it?”
“Ol’-timer,” the donor of the match said sneeringly, “youse’re right.
Dat means ‘Beat it!’--and dis means ‘Beat it quick!’--see?”
He lifted a clenched fist for the other’s inspection.
“Oh, I get you,” the unwelcome visitor replied, rising from the stone.
“I’ll beat it, of course. But don’t labor under the delusion that what
you’ve just held up has anything to do with it.”
He turned, thrust his hands into his pockets again, and started back
toward the right of way.
“Wait a minnit, Jack!”
The ejected one turned. It was the bread slicer who had spoken.
“C’mon back here an’ dig in on the bread an’ beans, ol’-timer,” he
invited. “You’re as welcome as the flowers in May. I happen to know,
for the simple reason that I’m the Jasper that bungled up for the pinks
and the punk myself. I’m entertainin’ to-day.”
The man who had passed the match turned on him with a snarl.
“Wot’s de idear, ‘Halfaman’? Do youse want every farmer on de line to
come buttin’ in on yer scoffin’s? Youse gi’me a pain, Jack!”
“Aw, go get in yer kennel and gnaw yer bone, ‘Blister’!” retorted the
bread-and-beans magnate. “You ole fuzzy tails get my goat. You wouldn’t
give a man a crumb o’ tobacco; but I notice you’re always the first one
to butt in yerself when anybody else has scoffin’s. I buys them pinks
and I buys this punk; and all that any o’ you stiffs furnished for this
little picnic was the salt ‘Monk o’ the Rum’ swiped from the grocer
while I was gettin’ the beans. I’ll do the sayin’ who’s to scoff in
this camp. C’mon back here, ol’-timer, and dig in!”
“Sinful Blister,” which was the weird moniker of the dissenter,
slouched back to his seat on the ground, muttering discontentedly.
The other John Yeggs shrugged indifferently, in full sympathy with
the Blister, but diplomatically acceding to the wishes of him who had
bought the beans.
The now invited guest returned, and the cook poured out the beans into
smaller tin cans and silently passed one to him. The one designated as
Halfaman thrust two slices of bread into the other’s hands, and into
other cans poured black coffee.
For a space the six ate in silence, the stranger from time to time
glancing at his benefactor as if he wished to thank him, but could not
find the words.
“Where you headin’ for, Jack?” Halfaman presently asked, his freckled
cheeks shuttling over jaw-bones that oversaw the mastication of huge
portions of food.
“West,” was the short reply.
“What d’ye follow when ye’re followin’?”
“I’m hunting construction work.”
“Dirt or rock?”
“Either.”
“That’s me; I’m a stiff. Was you beatin’ it down to the desert?
There’s a big job openin’ up down there.”
“Yes, I heard about that. The Gold Belt Cut-off, eh?”
“That’s her, I’m makin’ it down there. I know lots o’ contractors
that’ll have jobs on the road.”
The other ate in silence for a space, as if thinking deeply. “I don’t
know but I’ll try to get down there, too,” he said presently. “I wasn’t
exactly headed for any particular place.”
“She oughta be a good job. There’s good men’ll be down there. First
thing I c’n ketch goin’ west takes me.”
“Do--do you mind if I go along with you?” hesitatingly asked the other.
“I should say not! I don’t like ramblin’ alone. Never did. I get
to talkin’ to meself. Sure--we’ll make it out together. What’s yer
moniker, Jack?”
Again the stranger hesitated. Then a little red crept into his face as
he replied: “They call me ‘The Falcon.’”
One of the John Yeggs snorted softly and winked at a companion. It was
quite plain to him that the speaker knew little about hobos’ monikers
and such things.
“Been followin’ construction work long?” asked Halfaman.
“Virtually all my life,” returned the other.
At this another of the listeners sighed wearily, and whispered to one
near him:
“Get dat, will youse? Been follyin’ de big camps all his life! C’n
youse beat it? I’m bettin’ he never seen a railroad camp--hey? No
foolin’!”
His friend nodded with a grimace that showed agreement.
When he had finished eating, the new friend of The Falcon rose, and,
lying flat, took a long drink from the cold mountain stream.
“Well,” he announced, “I’m beatin’ ’er up to the tracks. C’mon, if
you’re goin’ with me, Jack. There’s a westbound freight due before so
very long, if the switchman didn’t lie--and he didn’t look like he had
brains enough to lie.”
“Much obliged for de scoffin’s, Halfaman,” volunteered one of the
tramps as The Falcon followed the freckled youth through the fence.
“Keep the change!” called Halfaman. “But next time I’m settin’ up the
eats, le’ me do the invitin’.”
There was no answer; and the two struggled up the hill, and walked
along the track toward a water tank to hide and wait the coming of the
next westbound freight.
They reached the tank and sat down on the ground behind it, resting
their backs against the pedestals. Halfaman removed a greasy cap with a
broken visor, and laid it in his lap, allowing the cool mountain breeze
to play with the kinks of his sandy hair. He had a way of talking out
of one corner of his good-natured and rather wide mouth which amused
the reticent Falcon.
“You ain’t been on the road long, have you, kid?” he said kindly.
“Why do you say that?”
“You might just as well be wearin’ a card on yer breast, like a blind
man does, tellin’ the world about it,” said Halfaman. “Le’ me tell you
sumpin. You don’t wanta go buttin’ into hobo camps like you did back
there. Them old Jaspers hate themselves. They got no use fer the likes
o’ you.”
“But you’re not like them.”
“I should say I ain’t! I’m a construction stiff. They’re just stiff.
I’m a tramp, but I work. They don’t unless they have to--see? I was
buyin’ some pinks and punk to cook up for myself--see?--and they butts
in on me and gets me for a feed. I never turn a stiff down if I got
anything, so I told ’em to come on an’ bust ’emselves. I know two of
’em--‘Sinful Blister’ and ‘Monk o’ the Rum.’ The other two’s pals o’
theirs. I’ll feed anybody--gaycat, yegg, bindle-stiff, skinner, mucker,
or dyno. But I want ’em to feed me when I’m broke, too. I got no use
for the likes o’ them back there. I’m a decent tramp--get me?”
“Yes,” replied The Falcon. “I try to be that myself. That’s why I
approached the camp. I thought maybe I’d be treated like I’ve treated
dozens of others since I started West.”
“And wasn’t you?”
“Yes--by you. And I’ll not forget it. Stay by me--if you like me--and
you’ll never regret what you did for me to-day.”
The other studied him openly. “I don’t quite get your number,” he
stated. “Your hands ain’t the hands of a workin’ stiff, and you talk
kinda like you knew how. You say you been followin’ construction camps
all yer life?”
“That’s what I said.”
“But you was lyin’.”
“Well, the way you say that, I can’t resent it, of course. Anyway, I
call myself a railroad stiff. Accept it as truth, or don’t--it makes
little difference to me. I may be raw--I guess I am--but you stick with
me and I’ll pay you for that dinner.”
“Don’t do it till I ask for it,” retorted the other, cupping a hand
back of one of his prominent ears and listening up the track.
He arose and went to the two lines of steel, sprawling flat and holding
an ear to a rail.
“I hear her singin’ to me,” he announced, returning. “She’ll be here in
a minnit. Now that moniker of yours.” He stood before the tank looking
at the many carvings thereon. “I don’t see it here, f’r instance. Get
up an’ I’ll show you mine. Cut ’er there three years ago, when I was
ramblin’ east, ridin’ through the snowsheds, stretched out on the backs
of a car o’ sheep to keep warm. Some bed if it don’t lay down under
you!”
The Falcon had risen and stood looking up to where the other pointed.
In neat carving, on one of the wooden pedestals, he saw:
HALFAWAY DAISY
1917, BOUND EAST
PHINEHAS BEGAT ABISHUA
“That’s an odd name,” remarked The Falcon. “And the quotation?”
“Well, by golly, it ain’t any odder’n my real one, ol’-timer! Daisy’s
me right name; and as if that wasn’t funny enough the old folks slipped
me a Bible name--Phinehas. Phinehas Daisy--c’n you beat it? I’m one o’
the begatters.”
“What’s that?” asked The Falcon, the lips of his grave mouth twitching
in amusement.
“Ain’t you never read the Bible?”
“Not as much as I ought, perhaps.”
“Well, the begatters, as I call ’em are in the Bible. I learned that
part by heart till it got down to me. It goes like this: ‘And the
children of Amram; Aaron, and Moses, and Miriam. The sons also of
Aaron; Nadab and Abihu, Eleazar and Ithamar. Eleazar begat Phinehas.
Phinehas begat Abishua.’ Didn’t you ever read that?”
“Yes, I suppose so. Rather dry in there, I thought.”
“Well, I’m Phinehas. I’m one o’ the begatters--see? But the bos they
call me Halfaman. That’s pretty raw, too. See how they got it on me? I
gotta be square all the time, or folks will think I’m only half a man
because they call me that. I used to have a pal, and his right name was
Holman Rose. Wasn’t that funny?--Rose and Daisy! Sometimes they called
us ‘The Bouquet.’ And then, seein’ his name was Holman, they called me
Halfaman. Maybe they’re right, but I never refused a guy a feed when
I had it. Here she comes, Falcon. Now you do just what I tell you to,
and we’ll make ’er out easy, and ride ’er clean to the desert--if we’re
lucky. Believe me, ole Falcon, I’m a ramblin’ yegg when I get started!”