WING O’ THE CROW
HUNTER MANGAN was the senior member of the rather large firm of
contractors from which the Jeddos had taken their subjob; so Hunt’s
dignity would not permit a dash with Manzanita to the moving van. They
rode forward, then, at a sedate walk, and when she saw them coming the
young driver of the van pulled her six disconsolate mules to a stop.
Mangan lifted his broad-brimmed Stetson.
“Hello, there, Miss Jeddo!” he greeted her. “So you’re here at last.
Pretty tough pull, isn’t it?”
Wing o’ the Crow was a beauty--there was no denying that. She was
twenty-two and strong and lithe as an Indian girl. On her cheeks was
that mahogany-red coloring so attractive in decided brunettes. Her
skin was smooth and flawless as the skin of an olive, and her great
black eyes, made darker still by the long, black lashes that shadowed
them, were fascinating. Her masses of black hair showed no more
careful attention than does a wind-blown straw stack, but it lost no
picturesqueness because of this.
“My stars!” gasped Manzanita under her breath.
Wing o’ the Crow smiled bashfully at Hunter Mangan, then her big eyes
settled a curious look on his companion.
“Pa’s back at th’ tail end, Mr. Mangan,” she said. “How fur ’re we from
th’ job?”
“Oh, not more than two miles now. I want you to meet Miss Canby, Miss
Jeddo. She lives at that adobe house over there in the cottonwoods,
where we get our water. You’ll be camping on the ranch.”
Wing o’ the Crow shyly smiled at Manzanita.
“Well, I guess I’ll have to be movin’ ahead,” she said.
“Wait,” Manzanita told her. “Hunt, you ride back and see her father, if
you want to. I’m going to ride in the van, if you’ll lead my mare.”
“Good!” said Hunt. “You two get acquainted.”
Manzanita swung to the ground and handed the contractor her bridle
reins. Then she clambered up over the hub to the seat beside Wing o’
the Crow, who divided the seat pad with her.
“Hojup!” she exhorted the mules; and they leaned to the collars and
heaved the wagon into motion again.
For a little neither girl spoke, and both watched the mules as if
a great deal depended on careful attention to their efforts in the
clinging sand. Both were men’s women, and knew less about other members
of their own sex than of their opposites. Neither knew how to begin the
conversation.
Manzanita, out of the corners of her eyes, took note of the unlaced,
run-over shoes and the negligently held-up black stockings of Jeddo’s
daughter, also the cheap ring on a workworn finger, and the unstarched
gingham dress, over which had been slipped a man’s shirt, the tail
hanging to her knees. Wing o’ the Crow observed, when chance offered,
the worn leather chaps, the tampico-top boots, the flannel shirt, and
the big-roweled Mexican spurs of the daughter of Canby.
Then Manzanita thought of something brilliant.
“How long have you been coming?” she asked.
“Jest from Opaco, or all th’ way?” asked the black-haired girl.
“Both,” said Manzanita.
“We was more’n a week on the railroad,” replied Wing o’ the Crow. “An’
three days drivin’ outa that Opaco. Stock’s wore out, purty near. The
railroad trip always does ’em up.”
“Uh-huh--they don’t get any exercise, do they?”
“No.”
“Do you like building railroads?”
“I got to. I don’t know anything else. Sometimes I think I don’t like
it; but I guess I do most o’ the time, any way you look at it.”
“Your mother’s dead, isn’t she? So is mine. I was only nine when mine
died.”
“I was fifteen,” said Wing o’ the Crow. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“I’m twenty-two. Do you ride lots?”
“All the time.”
“I’d like to, but we ain’t got any decent saddle hoss. Herd cows?”
“Sometimes. Mostly just ride, though. I could get you a saddle horse,
and we could ride together and have lots of fun. Mart--that’s my kid
brother--he’d be along whenever he’s down from the mountains. Our
cows are all up there in summer. That’s where Mart is supposed to be,
building drift fence and things. He was keen enough to be with the cows
until the camps came. Now he wants to hang around them all the time. We
could shake him, though, now and then, if we wanted to be alone.”
“I couldn’t go with you,” said Jeddo’s daughter. “I gotta work.”
“All the time?”
“Yep.”
“Does your father make you?”
“Not exactly. I like to, I guess. Pa and me never have trouble. He’s
easy-goin’--too easy-goin’, some folks say. He’s good to me, though.
He’s only got one arm, and I have to do more’n I would if he wasn’t
like that, I guess. That’s why they call me Wing o’ the Crow--an’
because I’m black. But I guess you’ve heard.”
“Oh, yes--lots about you. I’ve wanted you to come. I don’t see many
girls out here. I thought it would be nice for both of us. I’m sorry
you can’t ride with me. We could go up to Little Woman Butte, and--oh,
everywhere.”
“I wisht I could, but I ain’t got the time. I got lots an’ lots to do
every day.”
“What all?”
“Cookin’ an’ washin’ dishes an’ things like that, an’ stickin’ pigs or
skinnin’ Jack an’ Ned--whatever’s to be done.”
“What is sticking pigs?”
“Settin’ slips. You know--loadin’ them little scrapers that ain’t got
wheels.”
“Is it hard?”
“Purty. ’Long about three in the afternoon, anyway. It gets you in the
back. Then I kinda got to run things--especially when pa’s cuckooed.”
“When pa’s what?”
“Cuckooed--drunk. Takes him four days to get enough, an’ five days to
get over his jag. That’s nine days I gotta be bossman.”
No words came to Manzanita now. Brought face to face suddenly with a
tragedy, so matter-of-factly introduced into the conversation, she did
not know what to say.
“How long have you been a gypo queen?” she asked presently, still
thinking of that naïve reference to Jeddo the Crow’s shortcomings.
“Born in a gypo camp.”
“Have you been to school?”
“No. Ma used to teach me, but she died. I c’n read an’ write an’ figger
a little. I’m keen about learnin’ things. I read a lot when I ain’t
too tired. You see, we’re poor. Somehow we jest about break even on
every job we tackle. Pa’d like me to quit th’ road an’ go to school
somewheres, but him with his one arm, he couldn’t get along. You been
to school a lot, ain’t you? I know by th’ way you say ‘ing’ at th’ end
o’ words. Do you read lots?”
“Not so very much,” Manzanita confessed. “I’m usually pretty busy.”
“Doin’ what?”
“Well--now--riding, mostly.”
Manzanita could not read the message of the inscrutable black eyes now
turned upon her. Somehow, though, she felt uncomfortable, and hastened
to ask:
“Do you live in this van?”
“Yes, I do. I sleep in here. We back it up to th’ cook tent. Hejupah,
ole Ned! Ain’t this here sand fierce? Guess I’ll let ’em blow a mite.”
She pulled in gradually on the six lines, and the mules stood heaving.
“I guess I ought to walk,” observed Manzanita.
“Oh, your weight don’t add nothin’ much. They’ll be all right when we
get outa this sand an’ hit that dry lake over there. Do you like this
country?”
“I love it! Don’t you think it’s pretty?”
“Purty dry an’ purty sandy. How’s Mangan-Hatton gettin’ on with their
job?”
“Why, all right, I suppose.”
“Got a cut an’ a fill in rock, ain’t they?”
“I--I think so.”
“This sand’ll make a mighty poor roadbed. Guess they’ll be lots o’
borrowin’ for th’ crown.”
“Ye-yes, I should imagine so.”
“Mangan-Hatton got any Holligans in the rock?”
“I--I never noticed any. This is just common rock, I guess.”
“Common rock! What’s that got to do with Holligans?”
“I thought perhaps Holligans were fissures of some sort.”
“No, they ain’t much on fishin’, I guess. Unless they’re ginnies. Most
of ’em are Greeks or Austrians, though. Mostly Mangan-Hatton works
stiffs. Any ragtowns on th’ job?”
“One--quite close. Stlingbloke, they call it.”
“Purty raw?”
“I--I suppose so.”
“How close to where we’re gonta camp will it be?”
“About four miles off, I should think.”
“Huh! Jest our luck! They’s always a ragtown right near us, it
seems. An’ poor pa he jest can’t keep away from booze. An’ when he’s
pifflercated then I gotta keep jumpin’.”
“He isn’t mean to you, is he?” asked Manzanita, in an awed little voice.
“Oh, no. I wouldn’t stand for that. I’m of age. He jest can’t do
nothin’ but lay ’round an’ groan--so I gotta cook an’ be bossman, too.
He_jup_ah, Ned! _He_jup, Jack!”
“It seems that every mule on railroad work is named either Ned or
Jack,” remarked Manzanita, anxious to change the topic.
“Them’s jest railroad names,” explained Wing o’ the Crow. “Railroaders
always call tassel tails Ned an’ Jack. D’ye know any o’ th’ stiffs yet?”
“Oh, yes--lots of them.”
“Who all’s at Mangan-Hatton’s? Any ole-timers, did you hear?”
“You bet. I know all the old-timers’ names. There’s Lardo the Cook and
Laflin the Goblin, Tombstone, Totaljohn, and Demijohn, Gus the Finn,
Bung the B-B--I think that’s just too funny!--Davie the Child,--and,
let’s see--Grimes o’ the Coffins, Raddle the Swamper, Dippy-Dip, The
Parasite, Lobbygow, Markle, and Spot o’ the Outcasts. Laflin the Goblin
is a strange creature. They say his name will be put up at the next
hobo convention for king of the tramps. Isn’t that too ridiculous?”
“What d’ye mean, redickilous?”
“Why, tramps having a king.”
Wing o’ the Crow was thoughtful. “I guess maybe it is,” she admitted
at length. “I never thought about it. I know purty near all them
stiffs--knew most of ’em all my life. I wish we could get stiffs--they
work so much better, somehow. But stiffs won’t stay in a gypo camp
long, if they stop there at all. We get hicks--farmers, and bindle
stiffs. They don’t know no better.”
“Why won’t the stiffs work for you?”
“Well, we can’t feed like th’ big bugs do. An’ we can’t afford to
furnish blankets. All our men are bindle stiffs--not regular stiffs,
you know--but th’ fellas that carry bundles on their backs--their own
beddin’. Then our stock is old and rundown, an’ stiffs want good stock
to work with. If I was like a gypo queen’s supposed to be I reckon
I’m good lookin’ enough to hold the stiffs. But I ain’t like that. I
wouldn’t kid any man along to get ’im to stick in our camp. I’m a lady,
if I do skin Jack an’ Ned an’ pull a lot o’ rough stuff. Did you tell
me all th’ stiffs’ names that’s at Mangan-Hatton’s?”
“There’s--now--Falcon the Flunky.”
“Never heard o’ him. Who’s skinnin’ th’ plow teams on th’ dirt work?”
“I don’t believe I can tell you that. I haven’t paid a great deal of
attention to the work.”
“Don’t know who’s on snap, either?”
“Yes, I believe I do know one snap skinner. I was going to tell you
his name. Halfaman Daisy. Know him?”
Again there was silence. Then, “I know ’im,” said Wing o’ the Crow.
“How long’s he been out here?”
“I think he came with the outfit.”
“Uh-huh--how close to Mangan-Hatton is our campin’ place?”
“Less than a mile away, I think.”
Silence once more. Then, “Does Halfaman Daisy go to this ragtown very
much?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve been there only once, though--to-day, for the
first time.”
“Have Mangan-Hatton had a pay day?”
“One, I think.”
“Uh-huh. I guess Halfaman’s been to that ragtown then--what d’ye call
it? Stlingbloke? Huh--they’re all stlingbloke, I’ll say.”
Here a tall, ruggedly handsome man, with coal-black hair and mustache,
and with one shirt sleeve pinned up, rode past on a mule, with Mangan
at his side. They galloped ahead, Mangan leading Manzanita’s mare.
“Guess we’re purty near there,” observed Wing o’ the Crow. “I’ll sleep
to-night! Don’t suppose you know what Mangan-Hatton ’re payin’ th’
snap?”
“I haven’t the remotest idea,” replied Manzanita.
Wing o’ the Crow looked at her curiously. “Funny!” she said. “That
outfit’s been here a month, I hear, an’ you don’t know nothin’ about
’em but a few stiffs’ names.”
Manzanita looked uncomfortable, and felt as she looked. There was a
strange tone of accusation in the large black eyes of the girl of the
van. It caused the girl of the desert to feel inferior--insignificant.
“A bunch o’ dance-hall girls at this Stlingbloke, I guess--huh?”
“Yes,” replied Manzanita.
“Did you see a girl with very light hair--bleached, I guess?”
questioned the gypo queen.
“I didn’t see her when I was there.”
“Well, I’ll find out from somebody purty soon, I s’pose. So the
begatter’s drivin’ snap for Mangan-Hatton, eh? Thinks he’s some
skinner, that plug! All right, pa!”
Ahead of them was the man motioning for the van to circle around him
and Mangan and come to a stop.
“Home, again!” and Wing o’ the Crow sighed. “Some home, I’ll say! Nice
shady spot under that flower there! Does this country ever get so hot
it smokes?”