SKINNERS FROM FRISCO
Back at Palada, Jerkline Jo began hunting up the expert skinners who
had pulled the long sash-cord lines for her foster father, and who had
drifted to parts unknown since the completion of the paved road that
had virtually put Pickhandle Modock out of the running. The world has
not an oversupply of expert jerkline skinners, and the plucky girl's
chances for success depended in great part on obtaining good men to
handle her teams. She was able to trace some of the men, and her offer
to pay their expenses to Palada brought replies favorable to the
project in each case. For jerkline jobs are scarce these days, and a
jerkline skinner would rather follow his calling than do any other sort
of work.
The blacksmith, horseshoer, and wagoner, Carter Potts, was still in
Palada, and wished for nothing better than to serve the girl. They had
decided to reopen the shop at Julia, and for his devotion Jo promised
him a generous per cent of any profits which might accrue from work
aside from the care of the immense wagons and shoeing the teams. This
in addition to his monthly salary of a hundred dollars and board.
From Oregon now came "Blink" Keddie, who had driven teams for
Pickhandle Modock since long before the old railroader had settled at
Palada. Tom Gulick came from Utah, where he had been working on a
cattle ranch. Heine Schultz and Jim McAllen came from remote regions
in the northern lumber woods. But of Ed Hopkins, the prince of mule
skinners, and Harry Powell the girl could get no trace.
With the dependable force that she had mustered, however, she took the
stock from pasture, broke even on a job to a desert town to the west in
order to put the teams in shape, and then made ready for the
hundred-and-fifty-mile trip to Julia. She had written Mr. Demarest and
asked him to advertise for two good jerkline skinners to be shipped
with the first draft of laborers he would get from San Francisco. She
had small hopes of obtaining good skinners by this method, but no other
course presented itself.
Two days before the start for Julia came a wire from the San Francisco
office of Demarest, Spruce & Tillou. It read:
Employment office notifies two jerkline skinners
applied re advertisement in paper and have been
forwarded Palada. Arrive day after to-morrow.
Jo showed the telegram to Heine Schultz when she went to the corrals
this morning.
"I'll bet you get a couple o' peaches, Jo," he laughed. "Why, any
tramp's likely to go to an employment office and say he's anything they
want him to be, just to get on the job. And maybe, even, he'll ditch
the train before he reaches the job. Just wanted the trip, you know."
Jo's broad, smooth brow puckered. "I do hope that will not prove the
case," she said. "Jerkline skinners are so hard to get, particularly
in this country. Every man who has ever driven a horse or mule seems
to imagine he can drive jerkline, but you know and I know that it takes
knack and years of practice. But I'm hoping that because these two
applied for this particular job they're all right. If they merely
wished to get free transportation out of San Francisco, it was not
necessary for them to apply as jerkies. They could as easily have
arranged to be shipped as plain skinners, or rock men, or muckers."
"I'll bet you draw a prize, all right," Heine chuckled disconcertingly.
Jerkline Jo postponed the start a day, and awaited the coming of the
applicants.
As the local passenger train from Los Angeles whistled for Palada, Mr.
Orr Tweet roused himself from his seat in the smoker and slapped the
muscle-corded thigh of the disconsolate Hiram Hooker.
"She blows, Hiram, old boy!" cried Mr. Tweet. "Fame and fortune await
us just ahead. She slows! She creeps! Palada opens her arms to us!
Perk up, Hiram! The girl wasn't your kind, my boy. You'd have stepped
all over her little feet, and she'd got a divorce and alimony on the
grounds o' cruelty."
Hiram Hooker sighed and stretched his columnar arms. For a moment or
two the new prospects that loomed kept his mind busy, then his thoughts
reverted to Lucy Dalles, and gloom claimed him once more.
"Don't talk like that, Playmate," he said. "You don't understand. I
loved the girl."
"Prune juice! She'd 'a' made a regular sucker outa you. Good thing I
got you away. A big mountain o' blood and bone like you fallin' for a
dash o' cake frosting like that little hasher. Hiram, you've got a
man's body and a man's brains, and I like you better the more I see of
you. If you're goin' to weep over a woman, weep over a regular woman,
boy--a man's woman. There! Look out the window. See that straight,
strong, black-headed desert girl in chaps and a Stetson? Look at the
brown of her! Look at her stride! Queen o' the earth, hey? That's
the kind of a woman for a man with the body of an elephant and the
imagination of a poet, like you've got. There's a girl worth sighin'
for, only she wears leather chaps! Well, out we go. Palada for a
toehold on the ladder o' fame and fortune!"
The train had squeaked to a stop, and the effervescent Mr. Tweet and
his huge companion descended the steps to the sunny platform. The
businesslike Mr. Tweet buttonholed the first villager he met, and
informed him:
"We're lookin' for a party called Jerkline Jo--a lady with a far-flung
reputation. Can you steer us to her rendezvous, my friend?"
The man stared at him a moment, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
"There's Jo over there," he said. "She's lookin' for ye, I reckon.
That pretty girl in the chaps."
"Her!" gasped Mr. Tweet. "Lordy! And I was just eulogizin' her
through the window o' the coach. I saw her first--Hiram--I saw her
first!"
Next second Mr. Tweet was before Jerkline Jo, lifting his hat and
bowing politely. Behind him, Hiram Hooker stood awkwardly looking at
the girl he had traveled six hundred miles to work for.
"Madam," said his companion, "if you are Jerkline Jo, permit me to
introduce myself and my friend. I am Mr. Tweet--Playmate
Tweet--Twitter-or-Tweet Orr Tweet. My friend and companion in arms is
Hiram Hooker, from the virgin forests of Wild-cat Hill. I hope we find
you well, and a look into your face tells me that I never hoped for a
surer thing in my life. Madam, when you know me better, you will learn
that I am not fresh, merely bubbling over with the joy of existence."
For a little Jerkline Jo gazed at him, then burst into ringing
laughter. "Well, if you can drive jerkline," she said, "there's no
doubt but that you will be a pleasant addition to our little family.
I'm happy to meet you, Mr.----"
"Playmate Tweet--Twitter-or-Tweet Orr Tweet."
"_What_?"
"Orr Tweet--Twitter-or-Tweet Orr Tweet," patiently repeated Mr. Tweet.
"Are you trying to be funny?" The dark eyes narrowed dangerously.
"I am funny," corrected Mr. Tweet. "I can't help it. Allow me to
explain: My last name, unfortunately, is Tweet. Tweet is the
well-known conversational effort of a bird, and also 'Twitter,' if we
are to believe the bird lovers. Therefore, I am ruthlessly called
Twitter at times by my friends, and more often Twitter-or-Tweet. Orr
is my first name. Orr Tweet. Suppose, for instance, my name happened
to be Jim Brown, and I had been given the nickname of Blister. Then I
would be called Blister Jim Brown, or Blister Brown. But my name is
Orr Tweet, and my nickname is Twitter-or-Tweet. Therefore, I am
Twitter-or-Tweet Orr Tweet, or Twitter-or-Tweet Tweet. You've heard
the story of the lady who asked the ticket agent for 'Two to Duluth,'
haven't you? He thought she was flirting with him, and came back with
'Tweedle-de-dee;' whereupon she slapped him. So far I have escaped
such consequences when telling people my name. But if, when asked, I
reply 'Orr Tweet,' they say 'What or Tweet?' Then if I reply
'Twitter-or-Tweet _Orr_ Tweet,' they look at me as if they thought I
was trying to kid 'em. So I begin my explanation by giving them my
nickname, or monaker, 'Playmate,' and follow it with my second monaker,
'Twitter-or-Tweet,' as I am frequently called, or Twitter-or-Tweet Orr
Tweet, or Twitter-or-Tweet Tweet. It's very simple."
Jerkline Jo laughed again at the end of this seemingly nonsensical
harangue, and fixed her dark eyes on Hiram Hooker. The giant stood
staring at her, and not a thought of Lucy Dalles was in his mind now.
His blue eyes caught her dark ones, and his glance was lowered in
confusion. Womanlike, Jerkline Jo took him in at a glance, and
something within her responded to the appeal that his handsome manhood
made to femininity.
"What a godlike physique!" she thought.
Then impulsively she stepped forward and extended her hand.
"I'm glad you've come, Mr. Hooker," she said. "And I do hope you are
really a jerkline skinner."
"And how 'bout me?" complained Mr. Tweet.
"I beg your pardon," said the girl, biting her lip. "What a stupid
thing for me to say! But really--well, Mr. Hooker does look more like
an outdoors man than you do, Mr. Tweet. I didn't mean to discriminate
between you in my offer of welcome, though. Mr. Hooker, _are_ you a
jerkline skinner?"
For the first time Hiram's soft voice began to drawl. "Yes, ma'am," he
told her earnestly. "I've driven jerkline since I was knee-high to a
duck--eight and ten and twelve, and even sixteen, ma'am. I reckon I
can make 'em pull, no matter how far out you hook 'em on."
"Where have you worked?"
"At home, ma'am--in the big timber o' Mendocino County--haulin' tanbark
and ties and shakes and posts over the mountains to the lumber steamers
on the coast."
"Do you love horses and mules?" she queried eagerly.
"I love everything that breathes, I reckon, ma'am," he told her softly.
"I kill nothin' that lives, except rattlesnakes, unless I need the
meat. Then sometimes I don't kill."
Jerkline Jo's dark eyes glowed. She turned to Mr. Tweet.
"And you?" she asked.
"Madam," he replied, "I came down here under false pretenses, but now
I'll make a clean breast o' my treachery. I was broke; I had to get
out o' Frisco and get a toehold somewhere. But after seein' you, I
can't try to put one over on you. Couldn't if I wanted to try, I
guess. I am not a jerkline skinner, but I love animals. I am one of
those confident persons who will try anything once--even twice. The
things I have done, and was told I could not do, are legion. If you
will give me a trial for my inseparable friend's sake, I have no doubt
at all but that in the course of a short time your mules will refuse to
lift a foot unless I am behind 'em with my persuasive voice. In other
words, Miss Jo, I am yours to command."
She smiled, a finger to her lips. "Well, come over to the corrals,
both of you," she said, "and we'll see what we can do. I simply must
have Mr. Hooker. So if you two are inseparable, why----" She paused.
"I understand," Tweet put in. "All women are that way, once they're
subjected to Hooker's spell. I simply can't get it myself, but it's a
fact."
Jerkline Jo blushed furiously. She who had withstood the ordeal of a
hundred proposals, she who had been raised where men were continually
twitting her about some man who was yearning to bestow his affections
upon her, was blushing at Tweet's harmless suggestions.