THE WAY OF LIFE
Sand, sand, sand--far as the eye can reach, a sea of sand, with here
and there a half-buried and bleached horned skull, and vultures
circling high above in the heavens.
Away in the blinding distance five specks appear, and finally are seen
to be slowly on the move. Hours after this discovery, if an observer
were to remain stationary, the specks take on the shapes of animal
life--two men, a woman, and two burros bearing packs. Onward they move
slowly, and once more become mere specks, scarce discernible against
the weird hue of the sky, then vanish altogether. Once more in all
this vast, dread waste moves nothing save the vultures indolently
circling in the hot dome above.
Days later a dust-covered automobile worms its way through the traffic
in Los Angeles and comes to rest before a tall office building. Two as
dusty as the car descend from the tonneau, and one leaves the seat
beside the driver. Pedestrians stare curiously at the trio as, talking
and laughing in high spirits, they cross the pavement to the building's
entrance.
"Desert rats--mining folks," observes a wiseacre to his friend. "Look
at the girl and the chaps! Peach, eh? That's the life! Ho-hum!
Gotta get back to the old office, Bill. See you to-night at lodge, I
s'pose. S'long!"
In a lavishly furnished anteroom of a suite of offices on the top floor
of the building, Jerkline Jo and Hiram Hooker sank into overstuffed
chairs and relaxed, while the other man, in khaki and scarred puttees,
excused himself and entered the rooms beyond, carrying a suit case that
tugged at his arm until his shoulder sagged. He was absent from the
intercom a half hour.
"Well, boy," said Jerkline Jo, "it's all over, I guess. What an
experience! I thought I knew the desert and the rough life before, but
I wasn't out of my A B C's."
"It was glorious, though," said Hiram. "I wouldn't have missed it,
dear, for worlds."
"Nor I, either. But I don't wish ever to return. Once is enough."
After this they were silent. Both sat with eyes closed, dreaming of
the past and the beckoning future. Their dreams were finally
interrupted by the reappearance of Mr. John Downer, the mining engineer
for the Gold Hills Mining Co., in whose offices they now sat.
"Well," he began, smiling, "if you'll come in now, Mr. Floresta would
like to have a talk with you. Getting a bit rested, Miss Modock?"
Mr. Floresta, president of the Gold Hills Mining Co., was a pudgy, pink
man, carefully groomed and manicured and barbered, who radiated
businesslike good nature. On his rich mahogany desk lay a row of gold
specimens that glittered in the sunlight streaming in through a window.
He shook hands warmly with Jo and Hiram; and when all were seated they
talked of the trip for a time, and then the president plunged to the
heart of the business that had brought them together.
"Knowing that you were in a hurry, Miss Modock," he said, "I called a
meeting of the stockholders, and we reached the conclusion that, if Mr.
Downer's report was entirely satisfactory, there would be no use in
quibbling over the price you and Mr. Hooker have asked. The sum that
you ask for the group of claims that you filed upon is, as you are
aware, an enormous one for unproved mining properties. Still, we wish
to be fair; and on Mr. Downer's glowing report we are going to take a
chance. Therefore, please state your pleasure in the matter of
payments, and arrangements will be made at once."
A great sigh escaped Jo, and tears welled to her dark eyes.
"Thank you, Mr. Floresta," she said. "If you can let us have two
hundred thousand at once, I'm sure payment of the remainder of the
million can be easily arranged to suit both sides."
Mr. Floresta bowed and pushed a buzzer button. A moment or so later a
messenger was on the way to a bank with a check. When he returned he
handed Floresta another check--one certified by the cashier of the
company's banking house.
"Now for yours and Mr. Hooker's signatures, please," said Floresta. "I
have indicated in the transfer papers that the remainder of the million
dollars is to be paid in four semi-annual installments, of two hundred
thousand each, with interest at six per cent on deferred payments. Is
that entirely satisfactory?"
"Entirely," Jo told him, and went to his desk and took up the pen he
handed her.
Five minutes later Hiram and the girl were alone in the anteroom once
more. Hiram took the hands of Jerkline Jo and bent over her.
"Ma'am," he drawled whimsically, "if you'll let me, I'll kiss you now!"
Twitter-or-Tweet Orr Tweet paced back and forth in his little pine
office, his hands behind his back, his brows furrowed. Every little
while he grabbed his nose and straightened it savagely, but each time
it reverted to its list to port again, and Tweet marched on
disconsolately. It was the evening of the next to last day of his
three days of grace. To-morrow Paloma Rancho, Ragtown, and all that
they represented would slip automatically from his control, and he
could not raise a finger to stop it.
Suddenly the door burst open with a bang, and Heine Schultz filled the
little office with the roar of a behemoth:
"Oh, boy! Have you seen it? Just come in with the mail! Los Angeles
papers! Here, read, man! And then get drunk! I'll help you!"
Tweet snatched the paper from him, and his steel-blue eyes bugged at
the glaring headlines:
Gold! Gold! Gold! Death Valley Gives Up
Another Secret. Rich Find in Little-Known Corner
of Treacherous Waste. Dead Father of Picturesque
Girl Called Jerkline Jo the Finder. Weird Tale of
Struggles and Death and Baby Lost on Desert. Gold
Hills Mining Co. Takes Over the Claims at $1,000,000.
President Says Richest Discovery Since Days of '49.
"Great stutterin' Demosthenes!" exclaimed Tweet, and fell limply into a
chair.
Then again the door was opened, and a boy from the post office handed
Tweet a special-delivery letter. Tremblingly he tore the envelope and
removed a yellow telegram. Tears sprang to his eyes as he read aloud:
"Have to-day deposited to credit of your checking
account in Bluemount National Bank, Los Angeles,
one hundred thousand dollars. Check against it at
pleasure. Hiram and I on our way to Mendocino
County for a little rest and to see old friend of his.
Reach Ragtown in about two weeks if all goes well.
"JEAN PRINCE HOOKER, JERKLINE JO."
Tweet sprang from his chair, cramming on his hat.
"Lock the door and take the key, Heine!" he cried. "I'm going to Los
Angeles at fifty miles an hour!"
At the same time in the shooting gallery Al Drummond and Lucy Dalles
stared over the top of a newspaper at each other, their eyes tragic.
"Gyped!" exclaimed Drummond at last.
"Gyped!" Lucy echoed faintly.
Then for a time there was silence, broken at last by Drummond's weary
voice.
"Guess I'll drift up to the Dugout," he said. "See you later."
Lucy made no reply, but stood staring out across the spring-scented
desert, her thoughts on the tinkling streams of Mendocino and the big,
kind, sheltering trees. The rhododendrons were beginning to blossom
there now. Soon the redwood lilies would be scenting the air with
their delicate fragrance. Gray squirrels would be scolding in lofty
trees, and trout would be leaping in still, dark pools.
Lucy sat down very suddenly, and then her head fell forward on her
arms. There on the carpeted counter, between the rifles, she sobbed
heartbrokenly. She knew by intuition that in her quest for wealth she
would not have Al Drummond to help her in the future.
Ragtown's biggest day was when old Basil Filer, having been acquitted
of the charge of murder on the evidence furnished by Jerkline Jo and
Hiram Hooker, returned to hunt for his burros. This was Ragtown's
greatest day because Hiram Hooker and his bride came, too.
They had spent a pleasant time with Uncle Sebastian Burris in Mendocino
County, most glorious of countries in spring. Hiram had expressed the
wish to see Uncle Sebastian again and to tell him all that had befallen
him in driving jerkline to Ragtown. Hiram had learned a great lesson,
he felt. He had left the north woods to do something less prosaic than
driving jerkline, and a series of peculiar incidents had forced him
back into the same old groove again. Yet the once scorned, neglected
task had brought him adventures and a fortune and a splendid girl.
Over all this he wished to marvel with his old benefactor and friend,
and Jo had readily consented to the trip. They had returned for Basil
Filer's trial as the main witnesses for the defense.
The stage brought all three into the town, and for the first time they
saw the new steel and the track-laying engine beyond. Carpenters were
building the roundhouse, and new buildings were going up all over the
village.
Ragtown turned out in a body to meet them. The wagons and teams of
Jerkline Jo's freight outfit were covered with flags, and Jo's proud
skinners paraded the streets, the wagons loaded with cheering
townspeople. Carried on the shoulders of men, the bride and groom were
escorted to the Palace Dance Hall, where a banquet had been prepared,
over which presided Twitter-or-Tweet Orr Tweet.
Far into the night they celebrated, and in all of Ragtown there was
only one who did not attend. This was poor little Lucy Dalles, sobbing
her heart out in her little cabin, her dream of wealth and marriage
with Al Drummond gone.
It was nearly midnight when there came a gentle tapping on her door.
Dashing the tears from her eyes, Lucy walked unsteadily across her
expensive rug and opened the door to a crack. Next moment she found
herself in a pair of strong arms, and her head lay on the breast of
Jerkline Jo.
"There, there, dear! There, there! Don't cry! It's all right--all
right! I know--I understand."
With her arms about the sobbing girl, big-hearted Jerkline Jo, the
desert's grandest product, led the way to one of the big leather chairs
and sat down. Only Lucy's sobs broke the silence, while Jo sat and
smoothed back her pretty hair.
Presently the sobbing ceased, and then Jo rose and, taking her in her
arms again, kissed her and smiled into her eyes.
"You must bathe your eyes now, dear," said Jo, "for Mr. Tweet is coming
to see you pretty soon. He told me so. Now look your best for Tweet
has something serious to say to you."
She left her then, and an hour later Tweet interrupted Jo and Hiram in
Jo's little cabin on the edge of town. He came in and sat down.
"Well, Jo," he said, "it's a go. We'll go to work and get married
to-morrow mornin', if the old bus will take us to a preacher. I guess
I've loved her some time," Tweet added bashfully. "Lucy and me'll make
nice little playmates."
Hiram rose and gripped his old friend's hand. "I'm mighty glad,
Tweet," he told him. "Just too much Ragtown--that's all that was the
matter with Lucy. She was kind to me up there in Frisco when I'd just
come out of the woods. Her heart's warm, and that's what counts."
Tweet's steel-blue eyes twinkled. "Course nobody could blame her for
makin' you spend four dollars an hour for an automobile," he said. "It
was a crime not to roll you for your jack in those days, Hooker. I
forgave her for that a long time ago."
Next morning Basil Filer drifted into town, driving his recaptured
burros ahead of him. Silently he worked at packing the bags and
throwing diamond hitches.
Jerkline Jo and Hiram stood laughing at the gurgling imps of the
desert, and Jo went up to Filer.
"What does this mean?" she asked. "You're all packed up for a trip."
The weird old eyes looked up at her queerly. "We're goin'--out there,"
croaked Filer, a trembling finger pointing toward the fragrant desert.
"It's spring, Baby Jean--and now's the time to hunt for gold, when
there's lots o' feed for the little fellas."
"Gold!" cried Jo. "Why, man, you've so much money coming to you that
you can't spend it in the rest of your natural life."
"Money?" he said absently. "Yes--you've done me han'some, Baby Jean.
But I ain't got much use for money. Money's only a grubstake, so's you
c'n buy things and go out and hunt for gold. Good-by, folks! Next
fall you'll see me and the little fellas ag'in. Hi, Muta! Lead out!"
And, gripping his staff, he limped off in the wake of his long-eared
companions, swinging their packs from side to side as a mother rocks
the cradle.
"They're all like that," said a man. "It's the hunt for it that keeps
'em goin'. They don't know what to do with it when they get it."
The dark eyes of Jerkline Jo were full of dreams.
"Yes, we're all like that, I imagine," she said.
"And how bout _you_, Jo?" some one asked. "Now that you're rich and
married and all?"
Jo looked down the street at the nearly completed roundhouse and the
track-laying engine working on below the town.
"I?" she said dreamily. "Why--why--I don't just know. The steel has
come, and now freight will reach here by train. We're going to New
York--Hiram and I--and maybe across the Atlantic. But we'll come back
soon, and--and---- Oh, there'll be a new road building
somewhere--another Ragtown. We couldn't quit, I guess. What's city
life and all that money will buy compared with the thrill of driving a
ten-horse jerkline team over the desert and the mountains? I guess,
after we've looked about the Gentle Wild Cat and I will just keep on
driving jerkline to Ragtown--somewhere."
She pointed over the desert to where a bent old man and six drifting
burros were blending gradually into the landscape.
"He's not crazy," she said softly. "He has just voiced a great
fundamental truth for all humanity. Money is only a grubstake. The
world needs gold and--and freight. Jerkline to Ragtown--that's life!
Some Ragtown will need freight--some Ragtown--somewhere."
THE END.