CAMPED
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 he blew, 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. Jeddo was 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, Pa Squawtooth,” 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 stick around 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 say _Mr._ 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._”
“_I_ did. 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 yellow stretches 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.