THE START FOR JULIA
Jerkline Jo walked ahead of Hiram Hooker and Tweet to the stables and
corrals, where her three-score horses and mules and her big wagons were
awaiting the start.
"We're all ready to go," she told the pair. "I was only waiting for
you. We'll start at once, whether you are jerkline skinners or not, of
course; but if you're not, I'm afraid we'll go without you."
Mr. Tweet glanced at Hiram and whispered: "I'm 'fraid this is where we
separate, Hooker. Still, I don't know. Maybe I'm a jerkline skinner,
after all. I'll never know till I try."
In front of the stable Tweet came to an abrupt halt and studiously
regarded one of the huge freight wagons.
"Just a moment," he began quaintly. "Was that wagon built to go, or is
it just an advertisement to show what the wagonmaker could do?"
Jo's wagons weighed nearly six thousand pounds. Each separate wheel
had cost her foster father seventy-five dollars, prewar price. The
investment that a single complete wagon represented was in the
neighborhood of six hundred dollars; and as there were seven of them,
besides the lighter trailers, the total outlay was no mean sum. The
spokes of the great wheels were as large as Mr. Tweet's thighs; the
hubs were larger than his waist; the tires were ten inches in width;
the entire running-gear looked as if a small forest of sturdy hardwood
had been felled for its construction.
"It is built to go," the girl assured him.
"Stutterin' Demosthenes! I didn't think there were enough horses in
the world to move the thing! Madam, I have swiftly reached the
conclusion that I am not a jerkline skinner. Are you, Hooker?"
Hiram smiled and spoke to Jerkline Jo.
"That's a fine wagon, ma'am," he said. "I never saw any as good as
that."
"We've six more just like it," she told him, "and some lighter
trailers. The man who made them is dead. I doubt if the world will
ever again see such wagons when these are gone. Now, I want you to
hook up, Mr. Hooker, and show me what you can do."
"Hook up, Hooker!" laughed Tweet, always ready to embrace the slightest
opportunity for a joke.
The girl led the way into the stable, and Heine Schultz, temporary
wrangler, showed Hiram ten immense black horses, not one of them under
sixteen hundred pounds.
"Get 'em out," ordered Jo.
Hiram went to work immediately, with a briskness that caused Heine to
wink at Jo, he threw on the heavy harness and led forth the big-footed
teams. He did not ask which were the leaders or the wheelers, for this
was indicated by the nature of their respective harness and bridles.
Heine noted this and winked again. Hiram was told, when he asked, the
names of the ten, and pointers and swing teams were indicated. In a
period of time utterly bewildering to Mr. Tweet the man from Wild-cat
Hill had his ten black beauties strung out in twos before one of the
wagons, and was speaking to Jerkline Jo.
"I see you ride in the wagons," he observed. "I always rode the nigh
wheeler hoss, ma'am."
"You may do so if you choose. We've saddles."
"Your way suits me," Hiram returned. "It's easier work, I reckon."
The girl climbed into the wagon with Hiram. Heine Schultz did
likewise. Mr. Tweet, being a gregarious person, did not like to be
left alone, so followed the others' example.
"Which way, ma'am?" asked the new skinner.
Jo pointed. "Up that street, and turn the corner to your left," she
directed.
The wagon was about half loaded with the blacksmith's outfit. To add
to this the horse wrangler set the heavy brakes.
Hiram grasped the jerkline, but allowed it to hang slack in his hands.
Now came his soft, caressing drawl, low and musical:
"Pete! Abe! Feel of it! Molly! Steve! Ben! Prince! Up ahead,
there--Jane! Buck!"
As a team the great animals started the heavy wagon, and moved off with
a jingle of chains and bells and the creak of harness.
Heine released the brake and looked at Jo, and this time he merely
nodded.
A block up the street Hiram gave a single pull on his jerkline, and
called: "Haw, Jane!" An instant later--"Gee, Steve! Gee, Molly!
_Gee_, Molly! Steady! Good enough!"
With the leaders and the swings pulling to the left and turning into
the cross street, and the pointers heaving slightly to the right, the
long string made the turn, and the wagon rolled around the corner in
the middle of the street.
This street that they had entered was one of the oldest in
Palada--built by Mexicans in the old Spanish style. There were no
sidewalks--there was not room for them.
"Turn to your right at the next corner," commanded Jerkline Jo.
Hiram Hooker nodded.
As the leaders neared the corner Hiram cried: "Haw, Jane! Haw, Buck!"
and tugged once on his jerkline. Obeying the command, the leaders,
followed by the eight, brought the wagon close to the left-hand side of
the street. Two quick jerks on the line, and the sharp cries, "Gee,
Buck! Gee, Jane!" turned the well-trained leaders to the right and
headed them toward the entrance to the cross street. "Haw, Steve!
Haw, Molly! Over the chain, Molly! Haw, boys, haw!"
At Hiram's command, the off pointer, Molly, had stepped daintily over
the heavy chain that ran between her and her mate, and now both of them
were pulling the heavy tongue at right angles to the left, the wheelers
helping. As neatly as most men might have made the corner with a
single buggy, the string of ten and the heavy wagon swung into the
intersecting street, as narrow as the other, and not a hub touched.
Jerkline Jo's dark eyes were sparkling. "You've got a job, Hiram," she
said. "A jerkline driver who can make that corner without scraping a
hub is a real jerkline driver."
"Thank you," replied Hiram, with a merry grin, thrilling at her use of
his given name. "And I'll say that the man that trained this team was
a jerkline driver, too."
"A man didn't train them," Jerkline Jo informed him proudly. "I
trained them."
"Just the same," returned Hiram, "I stick by what I said."
"Now you take the line, Mr. Tweet," instructed Jerkline Jo.
"I don't care for it," said Tweet. "I'm a promoter and capitalist.
I'll go to work and get a job here in this burg, Miss Jo, and pay you
for my transportation down when I've earned the price. But I have a
sneaking feeling that Molly wouldn't care for the cadence of my voice;
and Pete he eyed me kinda suspiciously when Hiram led 'im out.
No--there's a limit. I've reached it."
"Drive back to the stable, Hiram," Jo ordered. "We'll start for Julia
at once."
She turned to Tweet. "I'm sorry," she said. "Why did you ship down
here as a jerkline skinner, Mr. Tweet? You came over a rival railroad,
of course, and your transportation will cost me full fare."
"Madam," he replied guiltily, "I was broke, and just had to get outa
Frisco. And I couldn't leave Hiram. Why, that boy would 'a' been a
suicide, if it hadn't been for me. He was in love, and wouldn't work,
and in another day he'd been broke--a hick from Wild-cat Hill alone and
friendless and in love in big, cruel San Francisco. If it wasn't for
me, you'd never got 'im."
"That's right," spoke up Hiram. "He made me come."
"Madam," added Tweet, "I hope you'll forgive me. I'll pay you all I
owe you with interest. I'm the original go-getter from Gogettersburg,
on the Grabemoff River. I'm down and out right now, but any day I'm
liable to turn into a skyrocket. Madam, you trust me. I've promised
Hooker to lead him to fame and fortune, and to do that I gotta stick
with 'im, ain't I? Well, then, can't you find somethin' for me to do
for you, so's I c'n ride with you to this new railroad? That country
sounds good to me. I'll maybe go to work and get a toehold over there.
You'll never regret befriendin' me, Miss Jo."
The girl stood, thoughtful, her feet planted against the jolting of the
wagon.
"Could you help about the cooking?" she asked.
"Madam, I could--and would."
"I like to be accommodating," she told him. "I know how it is. I was
raised in the camps, and know all about being broke and knocking about
the country. I'll take you along, and I'll take a chance on your
paying me for the transportation."
"You'll never regret it, Miss Jo. Pile whatever you want done on me.
I'm a good roustabout, willin' and cheerful, and always a kind, happy
little playmate. Thank you."
An hour later ten heavy wagons, some of them trailing because of the
lack of skinners, rumbled through Palada, with an eight or ten-horse
team pulling, the remainder of the horses and mules and Jerkline Jo's
black saddle mare following like devoted dogs. Palada was out in a
body to wave good-by and good luck to Jerkline Jo. She drove the last
team, ten magnificent whites, spotless as circus horses, with thirty
tiny bells jingling over their proud necks. Ahead of her in the train
Hiram Hooker drove his blacks. As long as she could see anybody at
Palada, Jerkline Jo stood in the front of her wagon, facing rearward,
and waved her hat. There were tears in her dark eyes as she turned to
her team at last, and the desert opened its arms to their coming.
Slowly the teams forged ahead into the infinite sandy waste, where
whispering yuccas and thorny cactus grew, and jack rabbits went looping
away among bronze greasewood bushes. A cloud of dust hung over the
wagon trail. Ahead stretched seeming nothingness for mile after weary
mile.
Jerkline Jo hoped to make twenty miles a day, loaded as the wagons were
with only the blacksmith outfit. She might have made perhaps
twenty-four miles under such conditions, had it not been for the
counteracting softness of the teams. Loaded, they would make from ten
to twelve miles daily, which seems intolerably slow in these days of
speed and nerve-wracking restlessness. But with six of the teams
working steadily the outfit would transport upward of thirty tons
twelve miles a day, which represents an enormous amount of provisions
for man and beast.
Twitter-or-Tweet Orr Tweet rode with Hiram. The train had been
traveling perhaps two hours, and it was after eleven o'clock, when
there came a "Who-hoo!" from Jerkline Jo. Hiram and Tweet looked back.
She beckoned with her hand. Both Hiram and Tweet placed fingers on
their breasts inquisitively; then she cupped her hands about her mouth
and called:
"_Hi_-ram!"
"'_Hi_-ram,' huh?" grunted Tweet. "For one hungering second I thought
maybe she wanted me." He grasped his twisted nose and straightened it.
"'Twon't stay," he observed gloomily. "Go on and ride with her, you
big soft-voiced lady killer! I'll stick with Pete, and maybe he'll
learn to love me. What'll I do if they begin to get rambunctious,
Hiram?"
"Don't worry," Hiram returned. "They won't do anything they're not
doing right now. Just let 'em drift right along."
He swung himself to the ground and waited until the girl's wagon came
abreast, then climbed up over a brake-shoe and squeezed himself between
the slats of the tall freight rack with which her wagon was equipped.
The girl stood in the front end of the rack, and such material as the
wagon carried was piled behind her, leaving a little compartment free
of encumbrance in which she might move about. There was no driver's
seat, and therefore quite a little room was hers.
Hiram gazed in utter bewilderment at what he saw. A coal-oil stove was
burning, and on it pots were steaming. There was a tiny
oilcloth-covered table, and on it and under it were pots and pans and
other utensils of the kitchen.
What surprised him more, though, was another lower table before which
stood a collapsible stool. On it were books and papers and a portable
typewriter, with a half-typed sheet on the platen. There were ink and
pens and other articles necessary to an officer or a study. Against
the front end of the wagon rack stood a chest, with its lid closed, and
more cooking utensils were on top of it.
Jerkline Jo smiled at his bewilderment.
"I'm cooking our dinner, you see," she explained. "To keep good men, I
figure that they must be well cared for. When my father ran this
freight outfit our skinners cooked for themselves, and often were
obliged to eat cold lunches. When they did cook, there was no time for
anything better than fried steak, or fried ham, or fried bacon and
eggs. One grows terribly tired of fried things, and, besides, they're
not good for the digestion.
"I've resolved that on this job we're going to live like people who are
permanently situated. That chest there is a fireless cooker. My own
scheme. In it now vegetables and a beef roast are cooking, and they'll
be ready by noon. I mean to make biscuits and bread and cakes and pies
in my oil-stove oven, which is a dandy. I can arrange to do all that
on the smoothest portions of the road. I'll roll my biscuit dough soon
now, and when we camp there'll be fresh, hot biscuits, roast beef with
brown gravy, and steamed vegetables all ready for us. What do you
think of my scheme, Hiram?"
Hiram knew nothing of the advantages of a fireless cooker, but he did
know that food such as she had spoken of was unheard of on a freighting
trip, and told her so.
"Besides," she added, "I have bought some large thermos bottles, and no
matter how hot the desert is we'll always have cold water to drink.
Every night it will get almost ice cold in this country, you know; and
if we bottle it early in the morning it will remain cold all day."
Hiram was looking at the typewriter. "This is my office and study,"
said the girl. "My foster father's recent death called me from a
preparatory school back in the Middle West, just when I was getting
along so well toward gaining an education. I decided not to give up.
I am taking two correspondence courses, and mean to continue my studies
here in my wagon. Also I am learning stenography and touch-typewriting.
"At first I thought I'd open an office at Julia or the rag town that
will spring up soon, and not drive a team myself. Then it occurred to
me that I could save money by driving a team, and could continue my
studies and attend to my business affairs while on the road. With
well-trained teams, like we have, a freight skinner has hours and hours
on the road when he has nothing to do but loll on his seat and smoke.
As I don't smoke, I mean to improve the time with study. Don't you
think I'm a wonderful schemer, Hiram?"
Hiram nodded, and thoughts of pink-and-white little Lucy Dalles and her
ambitions were far in the background of his mind. Jerkline Jo was a
beautiful girl--as different in her beauty from Lucy Dalles as is day
from night. Her hair was dark and heavy, and crowned a low, broad
brow. Her skin was now tanned a rich mahogany, but was clear and
flawless, and her bare arms were round and brown. Her confident poise,
her sturdy shoulders, showed character and strength far above the
ordinary. She was a man's woman, was Jerkline Jo Modock, and only a
man among men might hope to become her mate. She wore a broad-brimmed
Stetson with a horsehair band, a blue-flannel man's shirt, worn leather
chaps for comfort, and riding boots. A holstered six-shooter hung
close at hand, the ivory-handled butt of the big weapon ready to her
grasp. Here was a wonderful woman, and Hiram Hooker knew it, and knew,
too, that here at last was the adventure girl who, in his dreams up
there on Wild-cat Hill in the big woods of the North had been beckoning
him to come and work for her, to fight for her--to die for her if fate
should so decree.