JERKLINE JO'S SURPRISE
Meantime events were happening out in the street which were to have a
distinct bearing on Lucy and Al's plot to separate Basil Filer from the
contents of his buckskin poke.
These events, however, were quite commonplace on the face of them. The
first was the arrival of Jerkline Jo's wagon train, loaded to the
gunwales with case goods, general merchandise, and food for stock.
The arrival of Jerkline Jo and her proud huskies always was an event of
importance at Ragtown. They made a picture as the heavy eight and
ten-horse teams with the hundreds of bells a-jingle rolled the immense
wagons down the street, while Jo's skinners, quite aware of the furor
they were creating, called "Gee" and "Haw" and manipulated their
jerklines unnecessarily, for the sole purpose of awing the spectators.
One wagon was stopped at Huber's store; the rest continued on through
to Demarest, Spruce & Tillou's Camp Number One, a half mile beyond the
town.
It was Jo's whites that had been brought to a halt before Huber's. The
proprietor came out and asked that the load be discharged in the rear,
as he had just completed a new freight platform at the back entrance.
"Right!" called Jo. Then, "Annie! Ned! Feel of it, white folks!
Bert! Snip! All together. Let's go!"
Like a well-trained company of infantry, the ten whites leaned to the
collars, and the eight tons behind them moved off as easily as a baby
buggy. The hub of all eyes, the attractive girl with cries of "Gee"
and "Haw" and picturesque manipulation of the jerkline, swung her team
around the corner and into the alley. Men with whom she had a standing
agreement to unload freight for her when their services were needed
already had come through the store, and were waiting for her on the new
platform. Dexterously she guided the team with the jerkline and by
word of mouth, so that the load crept along not two inches from the
edge of the platform and came to a stop.
She left her team standing, for Hiram Hooker was to ride back on her
black saddle pony for them as soon as the remainder of the outfit had
reached the camp. Whistling, with her leather chaps swishing, she
walked through the store, smiling right and left at the clerks.
"Well, Jo, how was the trip?" asked Huber as she leaned on the edge of
the window to the proprietor's office and handed him her bills of
lading.
"Oh, much the same as usual," she replied. "The whirlwinds gave us
some trouble. They're prevalent this time of year on the desert, and
are sometimes fearfully annoying--especially so if it's been dry for a
few days and the top of the sand isn't moist."
"What do they do to you, Jo?" asked Huber interestedly.
"Drive you crazy sometimes," she laughed. "They're just like little
cyclones, you know. You'll be moving along serenely, when one of them
will steal up behind you, and before you know it you're the center of a
maelstrom of sand and dust, unable to see, your hat gone, your mouth
and nose filled with--well, about everything that the desert boasts of.
I was feeding hay to a pair of my horses this noon, when a whirlwind
slipped up on me. I threw myself flat on the ground, as one must do or
be swept off his feet, and when it had passed there was not one scrap
of that dry alfalfa hay where I'd thrown it. I found my hat a mile
distant. My nostrils and ears and eyes and mouth were literally loaded
with dirt and fine hay chaff. And my hair! Heavens!" She put her
hands to it. "I usually wear it in braids, you know, but to-day I
thought I'd be smart and perk up a bit. Now I'll have to 'go to the
cleaners,' as Heine says."
Huber laughed. "Say, Jo," he said, "that reminds me. There's a girl
here that'll give you a shampoo. She runs a shooting gallery, and has
a little beauty parlor on the side. Oh, we're getting quite urban at
Ragtown. We'll have Turkish baths next. Go to see her--she'll fix you
up."
"I'll just do that," said Jo, and went out on the street.
Then for the first time she became aware that Lucy Dalles was the
proprietress of Ragtown's beauty parlor, and even then she did not find
it out until she was inside the parlor and Lucy entered by a side door
that connected with the gallery. It was too late to back out
gracefully, even had Jo been inclined to do so.
"Why, hello!" she said. "I didn't know you ran this place. Miss
Dalles, isn't it? We met in the Palace Dance Hall one night, didn't
we?"
Lucy smiled professionally. She did not like this strong, rugged,
beautiful girl who strode along the street with such a firm, conquering
tread and left men gaping after her. Still, she could not afford to
show her dislike.
"Oh, yes--I remember you perfectly well," she said. "Who wouldn't
remember the famous Jerkline Jo! Is there something I can do for you?"
"Mercy, yes!" laughed Jo. "One look at me ought to show you that."
She told about the whirlwind, and Lucy smiled thinly, and indicated the
chair.
Jo climbed into it, and was bundled with clean, perfumed towels that
caused her to grow reminiscent of school days and dainty dresses and
all the things that as Jerkline Jo she had been obliged to put aside.
"Do you know," she said as Lucy began her delicate ministrations, "I've
never before in my life been in a beauty parlor."
"You are one of the few women who do not need one," said Lucy, forced
to a sincere compliment by the undeniable, fresh beauty of her patron.
"Oh, thank you!" said Jo with a laugh. "It's not just that, though. I
expect, if the truth were told, I've needed the services of a beauty
artist for years. But I was raised in a construction camp, you know,
until I was pretty much of a young lady, and such things were entirely
out of my ken. Then at Palada, where my foster father eventually
settled and went into the freighting business and running a store, we
were not so progressive as Ragtown even. So when I went to boarding
school in the Middle West I was virtually immune from many of the new
fads. You, then, are the first person that ever washed my hair--except
myself, of course. I remember even that my dear old foster mother
always made me wash it when I was a kid--once a year perhaps," she
ended with a laugh. "Poor ma! She had little enough time to fuss with
a child's hair, cooking for big, hungry men all the time as she was,
and driving a slip team while she was resting."
Jo was merely trying to make conversation, for she could think of
little to say that she thought might touch a responsive cord in the
fluffy girl from the city. Jerkline Jo was a man's woman. She could
talk about almost anything that other women could not bring into their
conversation.
"You've had an interesting life, haven't you?" observed Lucy,
manipulating Jo's scalp till the skin tingled pleasantly. "I wish I
could have met you when I was writing moving-picture scenarios. What a
character you would have made for the heroine of a Western thriller!"
"Oh, you've written scenarios! How interesting! And--and--if this
isn't trespassing on delicate ground--sold them?"
Lucy tittered. "Yes, I sold some of them," she replied.
This gave them a basis for conversation, and they progressed famously
until the grinning face of a railroad-construction stiff appeared
suddenly at the door.
"Hey!" he called to other stiffs behind him. "Look wot's goin' on!"
"Hello, there, 'Squinty' Malley!" and Jo laughed. "Get your face out
of that door. This is sacred ground, you roughneck!"
"Look at Jo!" derided Squinty, an old friend of the girl's in many a
half-remembered camp. "Hey, youse plugs, gadder 'round here and lamp
Jerkline Jo dollin' up! Good night!"
"Beat it now!" Jo reiterated.
"Say, dis here's good!" retorted Squinty. "I to't youse was a reg'lar
woman, Jo! Youse know more 'bout cuffin' ole Jack an' Ned dan youse do
'bout fixin' yer hair. Say, lady," he addressed Lucy, "fix 'er
up--hey? Doll 'er up proper, an' le's see wot de ol'-timer looks like."
"You'll oblige me by getting out of the door," said Lucy indignantly.
"Oh, don't scold the poor eel!" pleaded Jerkline Jo. "He doesn't know
any better. So you want to see me dolled up, do you, Squint? By
George, you're on, old-timer! I've got some glad rags here in this
burg. Go on now! I'll be the queen of the ball to-night!"
"Lucy," Jo laughed familiarly when the tramps had vanished, "fix up my
hair the best you possibly can. Give me the latest, will you? I'm
going to have some fun to-night."
An hour later, when darkness had settled over Ragtown and the night's
revel was on, there entered the Palace Dance Hall a figure that brought
gamblers from their absorbing games, stopped the dizzying whirl of the
dancers, and caused glasses that were halfway to eager lips to pause in
mid-air.
Jerkline Jo's almost black hair was piled on top of her head in
bewildering fashion, and set off with flashing rhinestone ornaments,
furnished by Lucy Dalles. Jo wore a semievening dress of pale-blue
silk, and Lucy had powdered her face and neck until little contrast
could be noted between skin that had braved the desert winds and that
which had been protected. Jo wore fashionable slippers with great
shell buckles and high French heels. She cast a dazzling smile over
the silent assemblage, then threw back her glorious head and let her
laughter ring.
That laugh revealed her identity.
"Jerkline Jo!" came a chorus of yells, and men stared at her, while
women drew together in groups, their comments expressed in lowered
voices.
As they crowded around her Lucy Dalles peered in at the door, a
contemptuous sneer on her lips.
"Have a good time, old girl!" she muttered, grinding her little white
teeth. "But I learned something to-day that'll set _you_ back a step
or two. Get me to doll you up, will you, you impossible roughneck?
You'll pay for that!"