A TRYING JOURNEY.
"I'm glad I'm going, Ben, but I'm sorry to leave you; you'll go back and
tell them I've gone--and be good to Baldy, won't you? I'll write to you
when I get to Helena."
It was long past midnight, and Ben was starting his brother on his
journey to the great city that neither had seen. It was his present
objective point; how far beyond he would go he did not dream.
"How much money have you?" inquired Ben anxiously.
"Nearly ten dollars, with your three. That'll keep me going till I get a
job."
"But say, John, wait a few days and we can sell a horse or a saddle."
Ben hung on to his brother's arm and tried to pull him back; his small,
freckled face was full of entreaty and trouble. "Regan will buy the
three-year-old after pay day. You'd better wait."
"Oh, I've thought of all that," said John. "I could ride the colt off,
for that matter, but I'm not going to take away a thing--except enough
money to last till I get work."
"Don't forget to write, John, will you? They'll blame me at home for not
telling about this, so don't make it too hard for me." Ben's voice was
not very steady, and the note of appeal in it affected John greatly.
"Tell me if work is plenty, for I'm going myself before long--I'll be so
lonesome."
They shook hands without a word, each turning his face away, ashamed of
the tears that would come despite their efforts to suppress them.
"Good-by."
"Good-by."
Ben turned down the trail toward home and John continued on in the
opposite direction. Day was just breaking; the stars still shone above,
while the sun's mellow light brightened the east. Neither boy had any
eyes for the beauties of the sunrise; it was hard for them to part and
neither could think of anything else. They had been not only brothers
but "pardners." Never before had they been separated. Rocked in the
same shoe-box cradle, playing with the same rude toys, sharing the same
pleasures and the same fears, braving the same dangers, and dividing
bread or blanket when need be, they had grown up so closely that they
did not realize the bond till it was about to be broken.
Brothers still they would be, but "pardners" never again.
When out of sight, each, unknown to the other, dropped to the earth and
cried bitterly. Ben's share of grief was the heavier. No change of scene
for him; no excitement of anticipated adventure; no new sights,
experiences, or friends; the world was not spread out before him to
enter at will and to roam over; none of the delights of freedom were to
fall to his lot. Only duty, weary, commonplace, devoid of companionship
and boyish sympathy. He went sorrowfully home.
John, his cry over, felt better. The sun was now coming out in his full
strength, the birds poured forth melody, the cool morning was
refreshing. In spite of the parting wrench he could not help feeling
exhilarated, and the thought that, no matter what might happen, he was
free, made him almost joyous. He sprang up, dashed the tears from his
eyes, and started along the trail, shouting aloud: "I don't care." He
repeated it again and again, trying to convince himself that he really
didn't care.
It was too late to turn back now, even if he wanted to; he knew his
father's character, and he did not fear pursuit. He wished now that he
had walked manfully up to him and told him. "But he laughed at me," he
said aloud, arguing with himself. "I do _not_ care," this between his
teeth; and then he marched on, his head held high, defiantly.
It was fifteen miles to the railroad, John knew; but how much further to
Helena he had no idea--he had not thought of it before.
The trail he was following led him across the range down to the main
road on Savage Creek. The mountain walk was fine, the air cool and
bracing, the sounds of bird and insect grateful. Before long he reached
the creek and drank deeply of its clear waters, washing his bruised face
and hands. This he did gingerly, for his wounds were still fresh and his
bitten thumb, which no one at home had seen, pained him exceedingly. The
danger from a wound by the human tooth is very great, but John realized
nothing but the pain.
The slices of bread and meat which Ben had wrapped in an old newspaper
for him were eaten with relish. Though he was somewhat tired, and his
body still stiff from the hard usage of the day before, he could not
bear to sit still and think. At intervals the tears welled up in spite
of his efforts to keep them back. "I won't think," he said, and repeated
his assertion, "I don't care," to keep his courage up.
A piece of bread still in his hand, munching as he walked, he struck off
down the trail at a strong pace, resolved to reach the railroad and get
to Helena quick.
After several miles of sharp walking along the Savage Creek road, he
heard the heavy _chug-chug_ and rattle of freight wagons ahead of him.
He soon overtook them and hailed the driver.
"Hello, kid; where'd you come from?" called that worthy cheerily, from
his perch on the near wheel mule, his leg thrown carelessly over the
horn of the saddle, the picture of contentment.
"Up the road a way," answered John evasively. "How far is it to the
railroad?"
"What d'ye want of the railroad?" asked the "mule skinner" sharply,
bringing his foot down and sitting erect.
John knew that these freighters did not look with favor on the railroads
or with any one or thing connected with them, for they declared
bitterly that the railroads robbed them of their business.
"It's only a couple of miles to the railroad," the man continued. "But
it's eighteen miles to a station. A railroad's no good without a
station; climb in this and take a ride."
John climbed up as the wagon moved slowly along. He was tired, and the
cheerful "mule skinner" was a desirable companion, for the time at
least. The man lifted his leg again and turned in his saddle, the better
to talk to his passenger.
"I was comin' down the road last month," he began, "and the pesky train
half a mile away scared my mules nigh out of their wits. Mules don't
like trains; don't blame them neither. It's thrown the critters out of
work and is forcin' me clear out o' business--how there, you Mag!" he
interrupted himself to shout, as the dainty-footed mule swerved to avoid
a mud-hole. "Notice that mule?" queried the teamster.
John nodded an assent.
"She's one of the finest near leaders in the country; watch her gee." A
long jerk line ran from the driver's saddle to the bit of the near
leader of the eight-mule team. He pulled the line gently and the leader
swung promptly to the right. He pulled steadily and the intelligent
animal swung back into the road.
"See that? Only a touch and she's awake. That mule's a dandy; been
offered two hundred for her--she's little, too." John only nodded, but
the teamster, glad enough to have a listener, rattled on about his
grievances, the all-absorbing railroads and the men who ran them and
spoiled his business.
The wagon did not travel fast enough for the impatient passenger, so
before long he scrambled down again.
"Must you go?" inquired the teamster. "Well, you leave the wagon road at
the third bridge ahead, and if you cut across to your left you'll come
to the railroad." The boy thanked him and started off on a brisk walk
down the road. "But it's eighteen miles to a station, and a railroad's
no good without a station," shouted the mule skinner, determined to have
one more rap at the iron trail.
"So long," yelled the boy in return, and continued at a brisk pace, in
his effort to drown gloomy feelings by rapid motion.
At the third bridge he left the road, struck across to the left, and
came upon the railroad. It was a disappointment, though he found all
that could be expected when a "station is eighteen miles away." The
shining rails stretched away, before and behind him, till they ran
together in the distance. The journey was a weary one, the track rough
with boulders, the ties hard and unyielding to his heel, and just too
near together to allow of an easy stride. Momentarily the heat of the
sun increased, and the track seemed to reflect it back more intensely.
There was no shade and the heavens were brazen. He stopped at every
brook to drink and bathe his blistering feet and cool his aching hand.
Though he had eaten nothing since early morning he did not feel hunger,
except in its weakening effect. On and on he trudged, hour after hour,
until swinging his legs became mechanical and he ceased to feel even
weariness. At length a cooling rain began to fall, wetting him
thoroughly and arousing him to faint gratitude for the relief it
brought.
Just before nightfall an object loomed up far down the track; it was the
station at last! The boy struggled on, limping, his mouth open and dry,
his bitten hand swollen to twice its usual size; and now reaching a
water tank near the platform, he dropped down by it, cruelly tired.
After a short rest, he raised his head and looked around. Not another
building was in sight but the station, and not a morsel of food had he
eaten since early morning. "I'll tackle the station people for
something to eat," he said to himself, and, suiting the action to the
word, presented himself at the door. A woman was there, but in the dusk
she took him for a tramp, slamming the door in his face when he asked
for food. His only hope now was to catch a train and reach some
settlement. The station agent dashed his last hope by saying that the
last train for the night had gone; but noticing the boy's forlorn
appearance he spoke to him kindly, so John plucked up courage to say:
"Where can I buy something to eat?" The man responded by bringing him
food, and, while the boy was gratefully eating, told him that he would
be glad to let him rest on the waiting-room floor during the night, but
since the rules of the road did not permit of this the best shelter he
could offer was a vacant building across the track. John accepted the
suggestion gladly, for he was tired in every fibre. "Good night; that
supper was bully, thank you," he said to the agent.
"Looks like rain," said the other, following to the door. "Hello,
there's a fire in that house already; must be some other fellows there
for the night. You'll have company, but look out that they don't rob
you. Good night."
As John approached the outhouse he saw through the half-open door a
blazing fire and a half dozen tough-looking men seated around it,
warming themselves and drying their tattered clothes.
A hesitating knock on the door frame received a chorus of "Come ins."
The old door swung back on its leather hinges with a jolt and John
entered.
The ruddy firelight gleamed on the face of a slovenly fellow who sat
beyond the fire. It was a well-fed face, rounded, and not ill-looking in
contour, but grimy and littered with little tufts of whisker; a gray
flannel shirt, red neckerchief and greasy-collared tan canvas coat
clothed the upper part of his body, and John cast his eye about on four
other specimens of the same type, seated on ties about the blaze.
"Where from, kid?" asked one, as all turned to observe the newcomer. All
they saw was a weary, hesitating boy. "Come up to the fire," they said
cordially, and moved to make room for him. "Which way you goin'?"
"I'm going West," he answered, his glance taking in the whole crowd.
"We're goin' West too. Did you come in on that last freight?" asked one.
John shook his head.
"No? Well, we all got put off here a little while ago; the con and other
brakies got onto us and fired us. We wanted a sleep anyhow--been ridin'
two days straight." (John wondered for a time what "con" and "brakies"
meant, but finally concluded that the words might be translated into
conductor and brakeman.)
"I walked in," said the boy innocently.
A look of pity showed plainly on each hobo's face as he echoed "Walked?"
That any one would walk, with a railroad near, was beyond the
comprehension of these tramps, for tramps they were--the regulation
kind.
"You're green on the road, kid," said one, whose name was Jimmy, as John
soon learned. "You'll soon get sick of counting ties," he continued,
gazing curiously at the boy, as did they all. "Why, kid, I've travelled
this country from side to side and from top to bottom in the last
fifteen years and I've yet to walk a step--except off one side to get
feed," he added in explanation.
"But I hadn't money to ride," said John, innocently.
"Money? Ho! ho! Why I haven't seen the color of coin this summer. What
d'ye want of money? Beat 'em; we'll show you." He spoke with a sort of
professional pride, and the expression was reflected on the faces of the
other men.
John's bruised countenance had been noticed, but as he had evidently
been whipped in some fistic argument it was etiquette not to question
too openly, but to approach the matter indirectly. By degrees they
learned that he had had trouble and left home.
"I left home just at his age, boys," said Big Larry, an American-born
Irishman.
"That so?" said one encouragingly.
"Yep, 'twas like this. Back in the East--" And Larry launched forth on a
recital of the circumstances which led him to "take to the road" and
follow it ever since.
Two others had similar experiences. Jimmy, however, frankly admitted
that he took to it from choice. "When I was twenty-one," he began, "I
was engaged to be married, and expected to settle down and be a family
man." This statement seemed to amuse the hoboes, for they laughed
uproariously. "My mother--she's a widow," Jimmy continued unmoved, "gave
me five hundred dollars to set me up in the butcher business in our town
in Ohio. Well, things went on fine till pretty near the happy day, when
I began to see that the girl was getting offish and I told her so. She
got hot and said something about another chap that I didn't like, and I
quit her--quit her cold." A grunt of approval went round the circle.
"It cut me up some and I got to drinkin' a little, and soon I was
drinkin' harder. The five hundred my mother gave me and the five hundred
I had already saved up went in no time, for before long I was drinkin'
like a fish all round the town. My mother wanted me to swear off, and
said she'd give me another start, but I knew it wasn't no use and told
her so and pulled out of the town on a freight train. Been at it ever
since."
"Pretty tough on your mother," said Larry.
"You must 'a' had about a thousand, Jimmy," ventured a less thoughtful
one.
"Yes, it was pretty tough on the old lady, but I was no good for that
place, and she'd spent enough money on me. Had about a thousand, an'
it's more than I've had since all put together, an' more than I'll ever
see again," the tramp added, musingly. "I'll never leave the road now; I
like it. A man doesn't have to worry about anything, he's better without
money an' he gets enough to eat, always seein' new places, learnin'
about the country, and findin' new friends."
Most of this speech was made for John's benefit, and he listened with
interest.
"Now, boys, not one of us had seen the other forty-eight hours ago, and
yet here we are round our fire talkin' sociable, spinnin' yarns and
hearin' 'em told; and I'll bet we're happier than any six millionaires
in New York city."
"Yes, we are," they said emphatically, in chorus. John thought much and
said nothing.
"People s'pose we don't have to work," said Shorty, another of the
group, "but I'd like to see them dudes work from Chicago to 'Frisco on a
freight train. Why, them fellers don't know a brake beam from a
drawhead, to say nothin' of ridin' rods, breakin' seals on box cars,
foolin' brakies, and a hundred other of the little fine points of our
trade."
"An' then," chimed in another, "if we don't work much, we don't get
much, so what's anybody else got to kick about, s'long's we're
satisfied?"
Everybody agreed, and the group dropped into a cheerful silence.
John had listened, it must be confessed, rather admiringly; the freedom
and apparent ease of the life fascinated him, and he had half a mind to
become a hobo. He did not realize the degradation that went with it, the
dishonest acts that were necessary to secure food without money, the
hardship it entailed, and the constant uncertainty of it all.
[Illustration: CURRAN, BRADY'S NIGHT WRANGLER. (_Page 227._)]
The thing that bothered him was the food supply, and he finally ventured
the question: "Where will you get your breakfast in the morning?"
"Breakfast? Well, we may not get it till dinner time, but we'll get it.
There are a few houses at a gravel pit half a mile ahead, where we got
supper last night, but they're hard to work and we'll have to get to
Helena before we chew," explained Larry cheerfully. "But you're all
right with that hand of yours," broke in Jimmy. "You can work the
sore-hand racket all right; just show that to a motherly-looking woman
and she'll fill you up quick."
"I worked the sore-hand dodge myself for a beautiful hand-out last night
down at the gravel pit," said Shorty.
John began to realize that it was a pretty precarious and mean way of
living, to depend on people's generosity for sustenance.
As the evening passed the talk subsided, and when the suggestion to
sleep was given there was not a dissenting voice--from John least of
all. All lay down in a row, their feet toward the fire. The coats had
been taken off and spread over the row so that each made a covering of
two thicknesses.
Toward morning the boy was awakened by a hand that fumbled about his
pocket--the one which contained his money. Fortunately he had taken the
precaution before going to sleep to put his own hand in and grasp the
money. His hand was being slowly withdrawn when he quickly turned over,
and then, fearing to sleep again, he rose and sat down by the wall, his
head against the rough boards.
At daybreak a freight train came rumbling into the station and stopped.
In an instant the tramps were up, and, separating, ran for the train.
John was left alone, wondering what to do, but only for a minute, for
Jimmy came running back, and with a hurried "I'll help you," rushed him
over to a pile of ties. When the trainmen had gone into the station,
Jimmy took the boy over to a car and pointing under it said: "Never rode
a brake beam? Well, I'll show you. See that brake beam?" He pointed out
the bar that held the brake shoes and crossed from wheel to wheel under
the car. "And those rods running lengthwise from it? Well, you sit on
the bar and hold on to the rods. See, like this," and he slipped under
the car and sat down on the wooden bar, his legs dangling and his hands
grasping the rods. "I see," said John, and in a second had taken Jimmy's
place.
"Good, here's my board; I'll get along with my coat wrapped round if I
need to," and he handed a board a foot long and eight inches wide,
having a slot cut in one end. This John fitted over the rod, and it gave
him a safer and more comfortable seat.
"Here they come; keep dark." Jimmy disappeared, and the conductor's
lantern came swinging down toward the engine; his feet crunched the
gravel as he passed, and John's heart was in his mouth.
"Pull out at once," was the order, and the engine backed viciously for
its start, nearly jerking John from his perch.
"Say, kid, I forgot to tell you"--it was Jim alongside again--"look out
and don't get pinched in the air-brake rods; they're bad. When the
train's stopping, keep low and you'll be all right. I'm on the next car
behind."
The train was now gathering headway, and John wondered how Jimmy would
reach the wheel trucks between the now fast revolving wheels. A peculiar
sensation came over the boy--half fear, half exhilaration. The whirring
wheels clacked and thumped the rail joints, the ties flew underneath
dizzily, the dust rose like a fog, and the wind of the train rattled the
small stones of the roadbed together; the heavy car swayed above him
dangerously near, and John, half choked and wholly terrified, wondered
if he would come out of this irresistible whirlwind of a thing alive.
All he could do was to grip the rods at his head and hang on.