Cattle-Ranch to College Page 13

  CHAPTER XI.

  A TRYING JOURNEY.

  "I'm glad I'm going, Ben, but I'm sorry to leave you; you'll go back andtell them I've gone--and be good to Baldy, won't you? I'll write to youwhen I get to Helena."

  It was long past midnight, and Ben was starting his brother on hisjourney to the great city that neither had seen. It was his presentobjective point; how far beyond he would go he did not dream.

  "How much money have you?" inquired Ben anxiously.

  "Nearly ten dollars, with your three. That'll keep me going till I get ajob."

  "But say, John, wait a few days and we can sell a horse or a saddle."Ben hung on to his brother's arm and tried to pull him back; his small,freckled face was full of entreaty and trouble. "Regan will buy thethree-year-old after pay day. You'd better wait."

  "Oh, I've thought of all that," said John. "I could ride the colt off,for that matter, but I'm not going to take away a thing--except enoughmoney to last till I get work."

  "Don't forget to write, John, will you? They'll blame me at home for nottelling about this, so don't make it too hard for me." Ben's voice wasnot very steady, and the note of appeal in it affected John greatly."Tell me if work is plenty, for I'm going myself before long--I'll be solonesome."

  They shook hands without a word, each turning his face away, ashamed ofthe tears that would come despite their efforts to suppress them.

  "Good-by."

  "Good-by."

  Ben turned down the trail toward home and John continued on in theopposite direction. Day was just breaking; the stars still shone above,while the sun's mellow light brightened the east. Neither boy had anyeyes for the beauties of the sunrise; it was hard for them to part andneither could think of anything else. They had been not only brothersbut "pardners." Never before had they been separated. Rocked in thesame shoe-box cradle, playing with the same rude toys, sharing the samepleasures and the same fears, braving the same dangers, and dividingbread or blanket when need be, they had grown up so closely that theydid not realize the bond till it was about to be broken.

  Brothers still they would be, but "pardners" never again.

  When out of sight, each, unknown to the other, dropped to the earth andcried bitterly. Ben's share of grief was the heavier. No change of scenefor him; no excitement of anticipated adventure; no new sights,experiences, or friends; the world was not spread out before him toenter at will and to roam over; none of the delights of freedom were tofall to his lot. Only duty, weary, commonplace, devoid of companionshipand boyish sympathy. He went sorrowfully home.

  John, his cry over, felt better. The sun was now coming out in his fullstrength, the birds poured forth melody, the cool morning wasrefreshing. In spite of the parting wrench he could not help feelingexhilarated, and the thought that, no matter what might happen, he wasfree, made him almost joyous. He sprang up, dashed the tears from hiseyes, and started along the trail, shouting aloud: "I don't care." Herepeated it again and again, trying to convince himself that he reallydidn't care.

  It was too late to turn back now, even if he wanted to; he knew hisfather's character, and he did not fear pursuit. He wished now that hehad walked manfully up to him and told him. "But he laughed at me," hesaid aloud, arguing with himself. "I do _not_ care," this between histeeth; and then he marched on, his head held high, defiantly.

  It was fifteen miles to the railroad, John knew; but how much further toHelena he had no idea--he had not thought of it before.

  The trail he was following led him across the range down to the mainroad on Savage Creek. The mountain walk was fine, the air cool andbracing, the sounds of bird and insect grateful. Before long he reachedthe creek and drank deeply of its clear waters, washing his bruised faceand hands. This he did gingerly, for his wounds were still fresh and hisbitten thumb, which no one at home had seen, pained him exceedingly. Thedanger from a wound by the human tooth is very great, but John realizednothing but the pain.

  The slices of bread and meat which Ben had wrapped in an old newspaperfor him were eaten with relish. Though he was somewhat tired, and hisbody still stiff from the hard usage of the day before, he could notbear to sit still and think. At intervals the tears welled up in spiteof his efforts to keep them back. "I won't think," he said, and repeatedhis assertion, "I don't care," to keep his courage up.

  A piece of bread still in his hand, munching as he walked, he struck offdown the trail at a strong pace, resolved to reach the railroad and getto Helena quick.

  After several miles of sharp walking along the Savage Creek road, heheard the heavy _chug-chug_ and rattle of freight wagons ahead of him.He soon overtook them and hailed the driver.

  "Hello, kid; where'd you come from?" called that worthy cheerily, fromhis perch on the near wheel mule, his leg thrown carelessly over thehorn of the saddle, the picture of contentment.

  "Up the road a way," answered John evasively. "How far is it to therailroad?"

  "What d'ye want of the railroad?" asked the "mule skinner" sharply,bringing his foot down and sitting erect.

  John knew that these freighters did not look with favor on the railroadsor with any one or thing connected with them, for they declaredbitterly that the railroads robbed them of their business.

  "It's only a couple of miles to the railroad," the man continued. "Butit's eighteen miles to a station. A railroad's no good without astation; climb in this and take a ride."

  John climbed up as the wagon moved slowly along. He was tired, and thecheerful "mule skinner" was a desirable companion, for the time atleast. The man lifted his leg again and turned in his saddle, the betterto talk to his passenger.

  "I was comin' down the road last month," he began, "and the pesky trainhalf a mile away scared my mules nigh out of their wits. Mules don'tlike trains; don't blame them neither. It's thrown the critters out ofwork and is forcin' me clear out o' business--how there, you Mag!" heinterrupted himself to shout, as the dainty-footed mule swerved to avoida mud-hole. "Notice that mule?" queried the teamster.

  John nodded an assent.

  "She's one of the finest near leaders in the country; watch her gee." Along jerk line ran from the driver's saddle to the bit of the nearleader of the eight-mule team. He pulled the line gently and the leaderswung promptly to the right. He pulled steadily and the intelligentanimal swung back into the road.

  "See that? Only a touch and she's awake. That mule's a dandy; beenoffered two hundred for her--she's little, too." John only nodded, butthe teamster, glad enough to have a listener, rattled on about hisgrievances, the all-absorbing railroads and the men who ran them andspoiled his business.

  The wagon did not travel fast enough for the impatient passenger, sobefore long he scrambled down again.

  "Must you go?" inquired the teamster. "Well, you leave the wagon road atthe third bridge ahead, and if you cut across to your left you'll cometo the railroad." The boy thanked him and started off on a brisk walkdown the road. "But it's eighteen miles to a station, and a railroad'sno good without a station," shouted the mule skinner, determined to haveone more rap at the iron trail.

  "So long," yelled the boy in return, and continued at a brisk pace, inhis effort to drown gloomy feelings by rapid motion.

  At the third bridge he left the road, struck across to the left, andcame upon the railroad. It was a disappointment, though he found allthat could be expected when a "station is eighteen miles away." Theshining rails stretched away, before and behind him, till they rantogether in the distance. The journey was a weary one, the track roughwith boulders, the ties hard and unyielding to his heel, and just toonear together to allow of an easy stride. Momentarily the heat of thesun increased, and the track seemed to reflect it back more intensely.There was no shade and the heavens were brazen. He stopped at everybrook to drink and bathe his blistering feet and cool his aching hand.Though he had eaten nothing since early morning he did not feel hunger,except in its weakening effect. On and on he trudged, hour after hour,until swinging his legs became mechanical and he ceased to
feel evenweariness. At length a cooling rain began to fall, wetting himthoroughly and arousing him to faint gratitude for the relief itbrought.

  Just before nightfall an object loomed up far down the track; it was thestation at last! The boy struggled on, limping, his mouth open and dry,his bitten hand swollen to twice its usual size; and now reaching awater tank near the platform, he dropped down by it, cruelly tired.

  After a short rest, he raised his head and looked around. Not anotherbuilding was in sight but the station, and not a morsel of food had heeaten since early morning. "I'll tackle the station people forsomething to eat," he said to himself, and, suiting the action to theword, presented himself at the door. A woman was there, but in the duskshe took him for a tramp, slamming the door in his face when he askedfor food. His only hope now was to catch a train and reach somesettlement. The station agent dashed his last hope by saying that thelast train for the night had gone; but noticing the boy's forlornappearance he spoke to him kindly, so John plucked up courage to say:"Where can I buy something to eat?" The man responded by bringing himfood, and, while the boy was gratefully eating, told him that he wouldbe glad to let him rest on the waiting-room floor during the night, butsince the rules of the road did not permit of this the best shelter hecould offer was a vacant building across the track. John accepted thesuggestion gladly, for he was tired in every fibre. "Good night; thatsupper was bully, thank you," he said to the agent.

  "Looks like rain," said the other, following to the door. "Hello,there's a fire in that house already; must be some other fellows therefor the night. You'll have company, but look out that they don't robyou. Good night."

  As John approached the outhouse he saw through the half-open door ablazing fire and a half dozen tough-looking men seated around it,warming themselves and drying their tattered clothes.

  A hesitating knock on the door frame received a chorus of "Come ins."The old door swung back on its leather hinges with a jolt and Johnentered.

  The ruddy firelight gleamed on the face of a slovenly fellow who satbeyond the fire. It was a well-fed face, rounded, and not ill-looking incontour, but grimy and littered with little tufts of whisker; a grayflannel shirt, red neckerchief and greasy-collared tan canvas coatclothed the upper part of his body, and John cast his eye about on fourother specimens of the same type, seated on ties about the blaze.

  "Where from, kid?" asked one, as all turned to observe the newcomer. Allthey saw was a weary, hesitating boy. "Come up to the fire," they saidcordially, and moved to make room for him. "Which way you goin'?"

  "I'm going West," he answered, his glance taking in the whole crowd.

  "We're goin' West too. Did you come in on that last freight?" asked one.

  John shook his head.

  "No? Well, we all got put off here a little while ago; the con and otherbrakies got onto us and fired us. We wanted a sleep anyhow--been ridin'two days straight." (John wondered for a time what "con" and "brakies"meant, but finally concluded that the words might be translated intoconductor and brakeman.)

  "I walked in," said the boy innocently.

  A look of pity showed plainly on each hobo's face as he echoed "Walked?"That any one would walk, with a railroad near, was beyond thecomprehension of these tramps, for tramps they were--the regulationkind.

  "You're green on the road, kid," said one, whose name was Jimmy, as Johnsoon learned. "You'll soon get sick of counting ties," he continued,gazing curiously at the boy, as did they all. "Why, kid, I've travelledthis country from side to side and from top to bottom in the lastfifteen years and I've yet to walk a step--except off one side to getfeed," he added in explanation.

  "But I hadn't money to ride," said John, innocently.

  "Money? Ho! ho! Why I haven't seen the color of coin this summer. Whatd'ye want of money? Beat 'em; we'll show you." He spoke with a sort ofprofessional pride, and the expression was reflected on the faces of theother men.

  John's bruised countenance had been noticed, but as he had evidentlybeen whipped in some fistic argument it was etiquette not to questiontoo openly, but to approach the matter indirectly. By degrees theylearned that he had had trouble and left home.

  "I left home just at his age, boys," said Big Larry, an American-bornIrishman.

  "That so?" said one encouragingly.

  "Yep, 'twas like this. Back in the East--" And Larry launched forth on arecital of the circumstances which led him to "take to the road" andfollow it ever since.

  Two others had similar experiences. Jimmy, however, frankly admittedthat he took to it from choice. "When I was twenty-one," he began, "Iwas engaged to be married, and expected to settle down and be a familyman." This statement seemed to amuse the hoboes, for they laugheduproariously. "My mother--she's a widow," Jimmy continued unmoved, "gaveme five hundred dollars to set me up in the butcher business in our townin Ohio. Well, things went on fine till pretty near the happy day, whenI began to see that the girl was getting offish and I told her so. Shegot hot and said something about another chap that I didn't like, and Iquit her--quit her cold." A grunt of approval went round the circle.

  "It cut me up some and I got to drinkin' a little, and soon I wasdrinkin' harder. The five hundred my mother gave me and the five hundredI had already saved up went in no time, for before long I was drinkin'like a fish all round the town. My mother wanted me to swear off, andsaid she'd give me another start, but I knew it wasn't no use and toldher so and pulled out of the town on a freight train. Been at it eversince."

  "Pretty tough on your mother," said Larry.

  "You must 'a' had about a thousand, Jimmy," ventured a less thoughtfulone.

  "Yes, it was pretty tough on the old lady, but I was no good for thatplace, and she'd spent enough money on me. Had about a thousand, an'it's more than I've had since all put together, an' more than I'll eversee again," the tramp added, musingly. "I'll never leave the road now; Ilike it. A man doesn't have to worry about anything, he's better withoutmoney an' he gets enough to eat, always seein' new places, learnin'about the country, and findin' new friends."

  Most of this speech was made for John's benefit, and he listened withinterest.

  "Now, boys, not one of us had seen the other forty-eight hours ago, andyet here we are round our fire talkin' sociable, spinnin' yarns andhearin' 'em told; and I'll bet we're happier than any six millionairesin New York city."

  "Yes, we are," they said emphatically, in chorus. John thought much andsaid nothing.

  "People s'pose we don't have to work," said Shorty, another of thegroup, "but I'd like to see them dudes work from Chicago to 'Frisco on afreight train. Why, them fellers don't know a brake beam from adrawhead, to say nothin' of ridin' rods, breakin' seals on box cars,foolin' brakies, and a hundred other of the little fine points of ourtrade."

  "An' then," chimed in another, "if we don't work much, we don't getmuch, so what's anybody else got to kick about, s'long's we'resatisfied?"

  Everybody agreed, and the group dropped into a cheerful silence.

  John had listened, it must be confessed, rather admiringly; the freedomand apparent ease of the life fascinated him, and he had half a mind tobecome a hobo. He did not realize the degradation that went with it, thedishonest acts that were necessary to secure food without money, thehardship it entailed, and the constant uncertainty of it all.

  CURRAN, BRADY'S NIGHT WRANGLER. (_Page 227._)]

  The thing that bothered him was the food supply, and he finally venturedthe question: "Where will you get your breakfast in the morning?"

  "Breakfast? Well, we may not get it till dinner time, but we'll get it.There are a few houses at a gravel pit half a mile ahead, where we gotsupper last night, but they're hard to work and we'll have to get toHelena before we chew," explained Larry cheerfully. "But you're allright with that hand of yours," broke in Jimmy. "You can work thesore-hand racket all right; just show that to a motherly-looking womanand she'll fill you up quick."

  "I worked the sore-hand dodge myself for a beautiful hand-out last
nightdown at the gravel pit," said Shorty.

  John began to realize that it was a pretty precarious and mean way ofliving, to depend on people's generosity for sustenance.

  As the evening passed the talk subsided, and when the suggestion tosleep was given there was not a dissenting voice--from John least ofall. All lay down in a row, their feet toward the fire. The coats hadbeen taken off and spread over the row so that each made a covering oftwo thicknesses.

  Toward morning the boy was awakened by a hand that fumbled about hispocket--the one which contained his money. Fortunately he had taken theprecaution before going to sleep to put his own hand in and grasp themoney. His hand was being slowly withdrawn when he quickly turned over,and then, fearing to sleep again, he rose and sat down by the wall, hishead against the rough boards.

  At daybreak a freight train came rumbling into the station and stopped.In an instant the tramps were up, and, separating, ran for the train.John was left alone, wondering what to do, but only for a minute, forJimmy came running back, and with a hurried "I'll help you," rushed himover to a pile of ties. When the trainmen had gone into the station,Jimmy took the boy over to a car and pointing under it said: "Never rodea brake beam? Well, I'll show you. See that brake beam?" He pointed outthe bar that held the brake shoes and crossed from wheel to wheel underthe car. "And those rods running lengthwise from it? Well, you sit onthe bar and hold on to the rods. See, like this," and he slipped underthe car and sat down on the wooden bar, his legs dangling and his handsgrasping the rods. "I see," said John, and in a second had taken Jimmy'splace.

  "Good, here's my board; I'll get along with my coat wrapped round if Ineed to," and he handed a board a foot long and eight inches wide,having a slot cut in one end. This John fitted over the rod, and it gavehim a safer and more comfortable seat.

  "Here they come; keep dark." Jimmy disappeared, and the conductor'slantern came swinging down toward the engine; his feet crunched thegravel as he passed, and John's heart was in his mouth.

  "Pull out at once," was the order, and the engine backed viciously forits start, nearly jerking John from his perch.

  "Say, kid, I forgot to tell you"--it was Jim alongside again--"look outand don't get pinched in the air-brake rods; they're bad. When thetrain's stopping, keep low and you'll be all right. I'm on the next carbehind."

  The train was now gathering headway, and John wondered how Jimmy wouldreach the wheel trucks between the now fast revolving wheels. A peculiarsensation came over the boy--half fear, half exhilaration. The whirringwheels clacked and thumped the rail joints, the ties flew underneathdizzily, the dust rose like a fog, and the wind of the train rattled thesmall stones of the roadbed together; the heavy car swayed above himdangerously near, and John, half choked and wholly terrified, wonderedif he would come out of this irresistible whirlwind of a thing alive.All he could do was to grip the rods at his head and hang on.