A WIRE TO JULIA
"I wanted you to tell me something about yourself, Hiram," said
Jerkline Jo. "That's why I called you. What a giant of a man you are!
Tell me about Wild-cat Hill and the big woods of Mendocino. I've never
been so far north in California."
She seated herself on the stool, and Hiram sat cross-legged on the
floor of the freight rack. Ahead the many silvery bells, hung on steel
bows over the hames of each of Jo's white beauties, jingled merrily as
the wagon rolled on into the illimitable desert.
Hiram began to talk, and gradually he grew eloquent, for at soul he was
a poet. He told of the grandeur of the big, solemn redwoods, of the
ice-cold creeks that plunged riotously through the mysterious
fastnesses of great forests. He told of his dead father and mother,
asleep forever between the big bull pines on Wild-cat Hill. He told of
his cramped, starved life, of his hopes and vague ambitions and his
dreams.
She listened silently, deeply interested, her dark eyes glowing upon
him, her chin cupped by a strong brown hand. His simplicity was new
and refreshing. Soon she realized that no ordinary mind lay dormant
back of the well-formed forehead of this tender-hearted backwoodsman.
His talk showed that he had read a great deal and had somehow grasped
the significance of it all. Several times her eyes filled with tears
as she listened; often she smiled understandingly at his quaint
confessions. Presently she asked:
"Hiram, have you any ambition for an education?"
"Yes," he told her. "I've always wanted that, I guess. That's why I
read so much, I s'pose. But there wasn't much chance up there. I
learned all they could teach me at school--learned it easy. But there
wasn't any chance to go farther."
"You've that chance now," she told him softly.
"Do you mean----" He stopped, his lips parted as he gazed into her
eyes.
"Just that," she said. "I'll help you. We'll study together. Right
here in my wagon. Your blacks will jog along without you over many
stretches in the road from Julia to the camps. Through the mountains,
of course, we shall have to be at the jerklines constantly. We'll be
four days traveling between Julia and the camps, loaded, and between
two and three days returning empty. Only one day of the trip going
will be over a mountain road. The rest of the time you may ride with
me and fight for your education. I'll help you."
"Miss Jo----" There was a lump in Hiram's throat.
"Just Jo, please. No one ever troubles to call me miss, and I don't
want them to."
"I'll do it, then, Jo," said Hiram huskily. "I never dreamed I'd ever
have such a chance. And I'll work, too--I'll study night and day. But
why--why are you doin' this for me?"
Slowly the rich color mounted to the cheeks Jerkline Jo. "I--I know
how it is," she said. "I was raised in a gypo camp, and had no chance
until late in my teens. Knew nothing but mules and horses until I was
eighteen or over--cared for nothing else. And I love them still; but
I've grown ambitious to get all that I can from life. I like you,
Hiram Hooker. You're a big, clean-minded, simple-souled man. I'll
help you all I can."
Hiram's experience with Lucy Dalles, and now with this splendid girl
called Jerkline Jo, might have turned the head of a more sophisticated
male. But the big woods of the North teach a man his insignificance in
the scheme of life, teach him honesty and simplicity of heart and
sincerity. So now Hiram Hooker's ego was not inflamed. He had no idea
of his appeal to the other sex. Few women could help admiring such a
handsome young giant as was Hiram, strong as a bull, symmetrical as
some sturdy plant; and his drawling, soft voice was a caress that
bespoke the kindly heart of a child and the tenderness of a woman.
Withal he had a poet's soul, and all women love poetry in a man.
"Tell me about Twitter-or-Tweet, and so forth," she begged finally. "I
can't understand that man. Is he a pure fake?"
"I don't know," Hiram replied. "He was mighty good to me in a way.
He's been about a heap."
"Hiram, if you'll pardon me, we'll begin your lesson right now. I
wouldn't say a 'heap.' You must try to overcome such colloquialisms."
"I'll try never to say it again," Hiram promised unblushingly.
"But listen," she added. "Don't take me to task if you hear me saying
things in the vernacular of the railroad grade. I have to. As Gypo
Jo, I know thousands of the old-timers, and they expect certain things
of me for old times' sake. As Jerkline Jo, the situation will be much
the same. I am obliged to be a mixer. Men whose friendship I could
not afford to dispense with even if I wished to--which, I assure you, I
do not--won't stand for a high-and-mighty attitude in me. I am of the
railroad grade, and proud of it, and I must continue to be a part of
the rough-and-ready frontier life. Hiram, I suppose your ideas of
womanhood are very hallowed. Will you be greatly shocked when you see
me go into a tent saloon and drink a glass of beer with the rabble of
the big camps?"
"Do you do that?"
"I simply have to, Hiram. Ever since I was knee-high to you, until a
very few years ago, I lived with one or more tent saloons within a
stone's throw of our camp. Morals are, after all, a local conception,
Hiram. What is thought to be wrong in one country will be the accepted
practice just over the border line. It's all in the viewpoint. I not
only go into saloons with men friends of mine, but sometimes I play
poker or roulette or faro just to please them. And listen: Never in
all my rough-and-ready life in railroad camps have I been insulted by
regular stiffs, as the laborers are called. Certain outsiders have
misunderstood my freedom from conventionality on several occasions, but
always to their sorrow. Understand, I don't care the snap of my finger
for beer, or to gamble; but these things will be expected of me now as
in the old days when I knew no better, and I dare not assume a superior
attitude toward people who have known me since I was found, a mere
baby, half buried by the desert sands."
She told Hiram about her childhood then, and that she knew nothing of
her parents, not even her own true name. Hiram gave ear eagerly to her
story, and thought he understood her situation.
"I couldn't think anything wrong of you, ma'am,' he told her gently as
she finished.
"And don't call me 'ma'am,' please," she corrected with a friendly
smile. "And that reminds me that I made us wander from the subject of
Twitter-or-Tweet. You were telling me about him when I interrupted.
What is he? He's not a common tramp--a stiff."
"He says he's a promoter and capitalist," Hiram repeated.
"Of course he's talking nonsense."
Hiram then told of Mr. Tweet's card, which promulgated his operations
as a salesman of banana lands, and of the stock he claimed to own in
the new ditch digger.
"I thought perhaps he was some sort of a book agent," said the girl,
laughing.
"I don't know much about people," Hiram confessed with naïve
simplicity. "I can't judge folks very well--some folks, anyway."
"I'm afraid he's a wind bag," decided Jo. "Well, we'll befriend him to
the grade, anyway, and I guess that then he'll be obliged to shift for
himself. If freight were moving freely, and every day, I might manage
to use him--but that won't be the case at first. So we'll have to bid
him good-by at the camps. I have an idea he can take care of himself."
Jerkline Jo glanced at her leather-protected wrist watch.
"It's eight minutes of twelve, Hiram," she announced. "I'll roll out
my biscuit dough. Can you yell? If so, shout ahead to Blink Keddie
and call a halt for noon."
Hiram rose to his six feet one and cupped his great hands about his
mouth. The mellow call that he sent out had rung through miles of
Mendocino forest, and now caused every skinner in the line to turn and
look back. A wave of Jo's hand and they understood the noon had come.
When they were in camp, and the teams had been fed and watered from the
great tank wagon, and Jerkline Jo, with the able help of
Twitter-or-Tweet, had made ready the steaming meal, there arose loud
praise of the girl's idea concerning the fireless cooker.
"By golly, Jo, this here's grub!" applauded Jim McAllen. "Some scheme,
ol'-timer!"
"I thought it was a kind of a nutty idea when you sprung it, Jo,"
confessed Tom Gulick, "but I'm strong for the cooker now. Long may she
wave! Pass the gravy, Blink."
Jerkline Jo glowed with pleasure over her success.
Mr. Tweet made himself very useful by acting as waiter, and hopped
about with pots and pans, leading the steaming food on the skinners'
plates. Jo watched him with interest, but still was unable to consider
him anything but an imaginative failure--a man who perhaps had seen
better days.
When they had finished eating, he collected the dishes, and, as water
was heating on the oil stove, had everything washed up and in its place
before the resumption of their travel.
"He's clean and neat and thoughtful," Jerkline Jo reflected. "Perhaps
I'll be able to use him after all. We could use an extra man as
roustabout, if business gets good. I'll see. He seems so fond of
Hiram, and, really, if it weren't for him, I'd never heard of Hiram."
She grew thoughtful then, and a trace of red showed under her brown
skin. Why had she become so interested in this big countryman from the
very start, she wondered.
It was a long, tiresome trip, and days before they reached their
temporary destination Hiram Hooker was riding in Jo's wagon, deep in
history and algebra and grammar, for Jo had with her all of her
schoolbooks.
The days seemed short to both of them. As the magnificent whites
plodded steadily on, there was added to the music of the nickeled bells
the rapid clicking of Jo at the portable typewriter, or the slower,
hesitating peck of Hiram Hooker. They were a silent pair, for they
were deep in their studies.
Strange indeed was the picture they presented as they were moved slowly
along under the hot desert sky. But for Hiram, at least, this was the
beginning of everything. Some magic touch had set him on the road that
for years he had longed to travel--the road to knowledge and a better
life. Beside him rode the adventure girl who had been beckoning him
out of the woods of doubt and ignorance, the girl who had colored his
dreams up on lonely Wild-cat Hill.
Hiram quickly became a favorite with Jo's skinners, too; for anybody or
anything that the girl approved of was sure to make an appeal to the
loyal little crew who swore by Jerkline Jo. Besides, Hiram was
irresistible in his quaint geniality and his musical drawl. They
called him "Wild Cat" at first, but when they considered his hugeness
and uniform good nature the name seemed a misnomer; so they amended it
and called him "The Gentle Wild Cat." This moniker clung to Hiram
Hooker through all of his subsequent life in the desert.
The seventh day after their start, at evening, they rolled into Julia
and set the populace agog with speculation.
As the whites passed the depot the station master came out.
"Does a fella named Jerkline Jo belong to this outfit?" he asked,
walking along beside Jo's wagon.
"I'm Jerkline Jo," she told him.
"You! Huh! Well, there's a wire for you. I'll run and get it."
Jo called to her ten whites to halt, and the wagon came to a rest. A
minute later the yellow paper was in her hands. She read:
Twenty tons awaiting you at Mulligan Supply
Company, Julia. Get it over the mountains at once
to Breece Brothers, Hunter & Stevenson, and
Washburn-Stokes. Drummond's trucks are coming. You
are in for a stiff fight. Good luck. DEMAREST.