FIGGERIN' JIM.

Dunstan Times, Issue 2487, 28 June 1909, Page 2

FIGGERIN' JIM.

(By Eleanor Gates.)

The camp-fire glowed on the wide level of the desert luce a star fallen out ot the wider reaches of the cloudy sky. Beside the fire, within the narrow circle oj its warmth, lay two blanket-wrapped’ sleepers, the man’s long, lank figure outstretched, so that his feet were close to the double line of stones that compassed the embers; the woman’s brown head touching the shaggy head of her husband, and her back rounded comfortably. Bevondt he fire stod the white-topped prairie schooner, two horses tied to the brakerod on its outer side. A desert stillness was over the camp. The team had long since finisher the grinding of their feed, and now dozed, standing, shifting their weight only occasionally, witn a soft rub of their ropes against the wheels. The fire had ceased to snap and crackle; with now a little movement and,;again, a tiny start of flame, it was noiselessly settling. The breathing of the sleepers was quiet. One sound broke the silence —at steadily lengthening intervals. From under the bed of the waggon came the musically clear drip, drip, drip of water. , Suddenly, another sound—out of the blackness to the east. It was a scraping, as if a heavy weight were being pulled foot by foot over the rocky waste. Gradually it came nearer. The horses heard it and raised their heads to look and listen. Soon there mingled with the scraping a stilled breathing that was not from the sleepers at the fare, then, after a long wait, there emerged from out of the dark, advancing to the end of the waggon-pole by laborious inches and with frequent halts, a creeping Something. The horses backed to the end of their ropes and blew with fear. The Thing at the end of the wagon-pole answered with a gasp and dragged its way forward to the whiffletrees, where it lay prone for a long moment; to the shadow midway of the waggon-box, where it rested again, panting weakly; for an arm s length more, when it uttered a low, hoarse, choking cry. It crawled no farther. With great effort, and after twice fall' ing back to the ground, it struggled up to the waggon-bed. Then ■ there came, from where the clear drip had sounded, a frantic sucking. A horse snorted and pulled at his rope, rattling the brake-rod. Instantly the man beyona the fire sat up, reaching one hand under his blanket for a weapon. A moment he waited, listening and peering. Then, “Who’s there?” he called out sharply. There was no reply. But a bulk, black and partly upright, swayed in the shadows under the waggon. “Who’s there?” he called out sharply. The woman roused, throwing aside her cover*. Her hair was in disorder about her frightened, girlish face. Her eyes were wide with sudden alarm. Jim. What is it?" She scrambled on bands and knees to crouch behind him. “Don’t know. A’ animal, likely, bh. They waited, watching. The fire glinted on the steel of his revolver and on her wide eyes, now tearful with fear. A moment, and a piteous groan came the other a startled look. Then Jim rose to his feet, letting his , blankets fall, and stepped forward, stooping as he went, the revolver ready at his knee. Mary followed him, one timid hand holding to his coat. They skirted the fire and stole beyond it, far enough bring the waggon between them and the light. Here, Jim stooped lower, Mary stall at his back, and advanced to a hind wheel. Then, dropping to one knee, be at once levelled the revolver and struck a match. , . . , “A man!” They cried it together and recoiled. The black bulk was a man, bareheaded and in rags, kneeling, with his hands clutching the rear axle of the schooner. His bearded face was toward lifted. His mouth was pressed hard against the drip of the waggon. The match went out. “My Gawd . said Jim, and dropped his weapon. He reaches a long arm between the wheels, gasped the man by the shoulders and, drew him out. “Light the lantern, kid, he bade, and carried the man bodily to the pile ° f When Mary brought the lantern and held it tremblingly above the stranger, husband and wife looked down upon a face masked by dirt that was cemented with sweat and torn, the lips cracked, th mouth clogged, the tongue—— The man moaned again, feebly mov ng hia head from side to side, and stomg to move hia tortured' lips, a ? d Then he opened his eyes and stared wild17‘Water,” said Jim; “in the basin.” He lifted *he wagging head to has lap. Mary brought the water—a basin lull —all the whole whispering questions. “He’s a greaser, I figger, ’ said Jim, “an’ Ibout <W fer. If. Mirny how some fellers will monkey with this valley. He hunted his own big, red handkerchief, pushed it under the water m the basiin, and having soaked it, lifted it to let a few’drops fill into the open mouth of the CSS chin and trying to raise his body, reached up with one shaking hand. Jim restrained him gently. IJJ P' e you four more drops, he said eooth'ngly; “Sav vou had a close shave, didn t y wimng again. “Wal, you'll be all, right in P a jiffy- We'll do our best fer y, yas, we vJill Why, Mary! He s a white m sh« held the lantern closer. Wherever Tim had wiped clean the forehead, hoi- £? ctai-T Li ftln ,«* of the there was now revealed a hit skin. “He’s a prospector, mebbe, she sai in a Tow voice. , , At that the man turned his head te glare at her. After watching her a moment out of burning eyes he struggled to his hands and knees. “Here, here!” reproved Jim. Again he nut a restraining arm about the other and^drew him back. “I ain’t done with vou • no sir. I got to finish washin your face’ an’ ’ hands. They feel like sandpaper. Now, lean back.” He pressed the fevered head against his shoulder and wet the ea««r lips with the handkerchief. ■ At the end of an hour Jim and Marj were aware that the wanderer knew then . for fellow-humans. .There was under standing in his look, and he smiled eruesomely enough. A little strength hat returned, lo that he was able to help brac« himself into a sitting posture. He too a survey of the fire, the wagon and them Presently, with painful effort, he frarnet one word—“ Hungry.” “I’ll git him a cracker, said Mary., “Dip it ” advised Jim. “I m goin t< give him one hull swaller of water, an besides that, he can have what 11 stick t th Tho man drank his swallow almost fren ziedly, his hands helping Jims to hob the cool dipper. Then, piece> by’ piece, hj ate the wet cracker. When he had finish ed, Jim laid him flat upon a.blanket covered him carefully with another, am blew out the lantern-light. “Sleep’s what he wants, said Mary “You’d better lay down, too, honey. “No, we might both git to snorm an let him drink hisself to death. I knoy them thirst kind. The man am t in hi mind. I’d better just keep my peeper open. He’ll need another swaller prett; soon.” He seated himself beside the coals his knees up, his chin on them, and eacl hand grasping a sockless ankle. ‘Til stay awake, too, Jim. The youn, wife placed herself beside him, snugglmj one hand under his arm. j am t over nr scare yet. Let’s put m y blanket across ° U ThuTthey spent the earlier part of they watch. They spoke, seldom, and then 11 undertones, for the stranger beneath Jami

blanket tossed and moaned and babbled incessantly, crying out in his thick voice a hundred things, none of which was understandable. Jim sat with, hie face ever turned to the restless figure. Jim’s was a striking visage, curiously homely, like a caricature. His eandy hair, now uncovered, grew in a stiff mop, forming heavy, overhanging eaves for hie large, outstanding ears, for the back of his long, thin neck, for the deep hollows of hie eyes. At the crown it made a tuft. His skin was as colorless as his hair.- Over hie eharp-peaked Roman noee it was stretched so tight that the peak seemed ready to come through; but elsewhere on hie face there was too much of it. It stood in ridges under the eaves on his forehead, it lay° in folds along the sides of his sun-browned neck, it fell into gores about his eyes. At either end of his hig, goodnatured mouth it disposed itself in a billow born of years of persistent smiling. His eyes were blue, a kindly, reflective, pale and—usually—sleepy blue. But now, as he kept vigil, they were alert, and full of a compassion that transformed themselves and his whole plain countenance. “Honey,” ventured Mary, when the sick man had finally fallen into quiet, “raebbe we done wrong to put almost our last nickel in this team an’ waggon an try to come out here. Suppose we dont do much at Hull’s Ledge, Jim? She looked up at him anxiously. Jim patted her rumpled hair. “I fagger we can alius sell the team an’ waggon fer Jvust about what we paid fer em. An’ ain’t we got six barrels of water? We'll make good on that.” “How much money we got left? she whispered. “We done pretty well in Los Angeles peddlin’ that cleanin’-fluid. (< Jim cocked his head at her. “Yas, he whispered back. “But in the long run, I tigger we’ll lose on that proposition. That cleanin’-fluid, fer all the nice things the agent said about it, plumb ct holes in my coat.” Smiling, he reached into a pocket and drew forth a long, soiled buckskin bag which he turned upside down into his wife’s lap. t) “Eighteen dollars and ten cents, she counted. She slipped it »back, coin by coin, into the bag. “I wish it was more, Jim —out hero where it’s so easy to die. He leaned his rough cheek down to touch hers, so smooth and round and childish. “This is the last prospectin’ trio we make, kid,” he said. "Do you say O.K. to that? You know your paw, he never saved a red cent at this nnniii business. Ev’ry year he drug his feet off over Californy lookin’ fer gold, an you an* youx maw, went without grub. I m glad you see it don’t pay. Im a strong man. An’ I’m fine at figurin' things out. I’d keep you in dandy shape if we d just put minin’ outen our heads. We don t want t’ Live like your maw and pa’ did, an’ then—die like them, without nothin . “Let’s go back to Lerida, Jim.’ “After we sell the water-, we will. An I’ll hunt a job with the team. ( Then, when we’ve got some money t gether, we'll build a little house on it, an’ have a garden all around the house. _ An you 11 leam t’ play the pyano an’ sing. _ An I’ll learn t r eat with a fork, ( an we join a church and settle down. “But, aw, Jim, if wo could only strike it just oncet!” The figure beyond the fire moved a little. . Jim began to whisper again. loin paw alius said there was slathers of gold out in this country. He said the fe er that would find it would bo the feller that could take out enough water to last. But vou can’t carry water without burros, an’ they drink up all they can pack.’ The sick man was moving again. A moment, and he sat up, leaning uncertainly on one hand and fixed upon them a look that was full of fear. ' “My sack!” he began. He croaked rather than spoke. "Do you hear ! Where’s my sack?” “I ain’t saw it,” said Jim mildly. “Where did you leave it, my friend?” The other made no reply. His head was lolling again. Presently he could prop himself up no longer and lay back, still covertly watching. “Crazy as Lucifer,” said Jim. “Likely as not that bag of his’n is fifty mile away —out yonder.” He made a sweeping gesture with one arm. . Through the night nothing was discernible save the ragged line cast upon the dark sky by the distant and darker mountains. “I reckon our talkin’ bothers him, said Mary. As Jim got to his feet to search for the dippex > she curled down into her blanket again and soon was fast asleep. Jim tucked her up carefully; next, brought a short length of board from the wagon-boot, mixed some flour in the bowl of a big tin spoon and began painstakingly to cut out tiny squares from an old newspaper. His task was difficult, foi the firelight was dim. _ He finished it leisurely, however, pasting his cut with much exactness. At the end of an hour he took the board back to the wagan, hung it conspicuously against the white clioth of the cover on the near side, and returned to the fire for a doze. Meanwhile the man beyond the fire had ’ not shut his eyes. Presently the clouds parted, letting down the light of the stars; then the eastern sky began slowlv to brighten so that the dark shadows of the mountains drew back from the level desert. He got to his hands and knees—cautiously —and picked his way toward where the neckyoke lay at the end of the wagon-pole, livery few feet he glanced back at the two by the dead tire. When be had gained the neck-yoke he rested a ' moment. This was the way over which 1 be had dragged himself early in the night. His anxious look searched every yard of the arid flat. Suddenly, with a low exclamation, he ’ stood up unsteadily, and half-walked, half-hobbled to where a small brown heap showed among some scattered stones a rod farther on. The heap was a gunnyi sack, partly full. Yet it was so heavy • that he could not lift it. He seized it by its top and pulled it after him slowly. When he reached his blanket he folded a part of the cover over it. Then he prop- ■ ped his head against its lumpy side. “Say ! You’re gittin’ stronger !” _ It was • Jim, a curious smile bending his wide mouth. “Y-ves.” The stranger abruptly sat up. i “Why, you’re a young man !” went on Jim. "Darned if I could tell what you ’ was last night.” i "I’m getting to be my old self now, you ■ see. Thank Heaven!” . , “Did you find all what you was look in 1 fer?” queried Jim, 3 “Yes” —shortly. : “Prospector, ain’t you? Where you . been?” l The stranger’s eyes narrowed resentfully. He gave Jim a keen glance of suspicion. 5 “Sometimes I mine a little,” ho an- ’ swered carelessly. “I’ve been over there 0 for a week or so.” He pointed to the mountains. "What’s your name?” 1 “Volly.” e "Volly. You must a-got plumb often . your track yesterday. Hull’s is in that direction.” He pointed under the J schooner with one finger. “Was you figgerin’ t’ pass her?” For a moment Volly did not answer. But a change came into his face. He ’ smiled —an amused, tolerant, mocking it Bmile, “No, I wasn’t figuring to pass her s by,” lie said. “By the way, isnt your s name Chapin?” . t Jim blinked with surprise. Why, yas. , How Jim Chapin—‘ Figgerin’ Jim i that’s me,” he declared. “Where's your father-in-law?” I “Ole Dan Wheelock? He’s dead. But r here”—he tapped the shoulder of his { sleeping wife —“here’s a gal that’s just as t loco about propectin’ as ever he was.’ ' “la she?” r “Yas. But she ain’t so tumble strong, i I hope I’m a-goin’ to find some shade to I put her under at Hull’s.”

“Hull’s!” repeated Volly in a tone of disgust. Then he paused. Presently > he began again: -< l’v got a shack at Hull s a nice little building, too. Just one room, of coarse. I don’t suppose I’ll ever go back to it.” “Want t’ sell ?” , . “I could sell, I guess. You’re planning to stay some time, then? Shacks are scarce.” , , “How much do you want fer yourn? It’s too blamed hot fer the kid t’ camp under the wagon.” . “Lumber’s sixty dollars a thousand out here. And my shack’s twelve by fourteen, and built with a double roof. “A double roof,” echoed Jim. He searched in a coat pocket for a pencil and a piece of paper, and puckering his brows so that a new set of perpendicular ridges intersected the wrinkles on Ins forehead, began to write. When he looked up at last his blue eyes were full of copcern. “I %ger that 1 can’t offer you xnore’n fifteen dollars fer it,” he said. “Fifteen dollars!” Volly shrugged. “Why, that wouldn’t pay for the hauling of the lumber.” . , “Blit fifteen would come pretty nigh t clearin’ me out. I couldnt offer that if it wasn't fer the water I’m haulm, 1 figger, though, that the water was a good investment, ’cause it’s scarce at Hull s. Five barrels ought a bring mo in quite a little pile." „ “Well, maybe, I could take fifteen. “I’ll pay you now,” said Jim. “If the kid was awake she wouldn’t let me, knowin’ it was fer her.” He hunted _ his money-pouch, .drew forth the required amount from it noiselessly and threw the coinis, one by one, across the stones of the fire. m . , “Thanks,” said Villy. “The shack is yours.” .. , S. , Jim gently touched his wifes clieeK. > “Wake up, little gal,” he said. “Its mornin’. That's right! Jim s got t teed Peter an’ Hannah.” He stood nj>, a tall, leaning figure that seemed regardless of a centre of gravity. . Volly was smiling again. How tall are you, Chapin?” lie inquired. “Six feet three—lean on me, honey, if year foot's asleep”—this last to his wife who, aware again of a stranger’s presence, was half-hiding behind him, somewhat abashed. “Ever since I was fifteen I been bumpin’ my head. That s why I ain t six feet four.” He chuckled. “An’ I’m consider’ble thin in the middle, you’ll notice, like a yal la-jacket. If’l stretch A little-cry from Mary cut him short. “Why, Jim! When did you make that?’ she asked, pointing to the board against the schooner. “My ! it’s so pretty ! “Glad you like it,” aid Jim modestly He brought it over to her. “We 11 need it the minute we git to Hulls. V hat do you think of it?” He held it up for Nolly to read. . . . The board was somewhat irregularly let tered, and more or less daubed with flour Jaste. But the notice upon it was clear, t read: WATER FOR SALE 6c A CUP LARD-CAN FULL, 25c. while Jim pulled a railroad tie out of the schooner and split a part of it up for a fire, Mary went beyond the wagon and made a hasty toilet with a basin of water, a hand-towel and a comb. She returned with a shining face and hair that curled damply at either white temple. She was slender and pretty in the morning light, ami stepped with the grace and freedom of a girl raised in the open. “Im glad you’re better,” she said to Volly shyly, balancing the. coffee-pot on the rubbles bordering the blaze. , Volly was sitting up, his back still against the gunny-eack. Jim had handed him the dipper, from which he was now drinking, sip after sip. “I’m a strong man,” he answered. There was pride in his voice. “I always recuperate very quickly.” Jim watered and brought the provision box from under the seat of the schooner. There were only two tin cups in the box. Mary filled one for the guest. ISho and Jim drank from the other. Breakfast was of toasted cracker, fried bacon and dried peaches. The peaches had been scorched in the cooking, and Volly did not eat his portion. Mary ate little, and that, timidly. But Jim crunched his crackers noisily and in haste. The rod sun was breasting the mountains. All the shadows were gone from the desert and the distant canons. It was time to be moving on. The meal over, he scattered the fire with one vigorous, thick-soled boot. “No use to waste the wood,” he said to Mary. “It can help out some other campers. Gimme the gruu-box.” She folded the blankets, Volly having moved aside with his gunny-sack so that she might shake out the one upon which he had slept. He did not offer to help her, or Jim, busily harnessing the team. Cup in hand he sat on his sack, his eyes as alert as ever, and the mocking smile still in them. Every minute or so he wet his lips from the cup. “All aboard!” said Jim to Mary when the blankets had followed the provisions. Then, politely, to Volly: "Hadn’t you better set in the middle, Mister?” Something more than haste had made Jim silent during breakfast. For the first time he had seen what the poor light of the fire had not revealed : \ oily’s ragged trousers were of khaki, wide at the hip and buttoned at the knee \ his torn, woollen shirt was soft and striped, and made with a fancy pocket; his boots, where they met his trousers, buckled over at the top like those of a mining expert or a college-bred surveyor. These marked Volly as a city man. “I’ll sit in the back of the sack. “Do you mind if, the end-board is down?” “No. But the barrel’ll slop on you a little.” Volly gave an affected laugh. “I can’t get too much water,” he - said. “Just, as you say,” answered Jim. “Hop up, Mary r Then, stepping over a wheel to a seat beside her, “Gome, Peter! Hannah ! Giddap!” The schooner veered sharply to the right. A short half-mile farther on :t met a road and turned into it “The Lorida track!” called out Volly. His feet were swinging boyishly against the end-board of the wagon. The lumpy sack was by his side. “Yas.” “I’d have found it then, all right. I wasn’t so far off, after all.” Jim looked round. “\ou never would ’a’ found it without water,” ho said decisively. , “Oh. I don’t know,” said Volly. Again Jim looked' back, a shade of resentment in the pale-blue eyes. Then, “Aw, go long, Peter!” he scolded presently, and cracked his whip. The road was heavy, the sun hot. The team . toiled forward slowly, with the schooner rocking gently from side to side. From his seat behind the water-barrels, Volly hummed to himself and beat to his tune with his heels against the swinging end-board. Jim and Mary talked little, but kept a wateh ahead for a first glimpse of Hull’s. At the middle of the morning a black speck came into sight far in advance on ■ the road. It was Mary who saw it first. “Look ! A team, Jim !” she cried out. “It’s a yucca, I figger,” said Jim. Volly stood up to peer between their heads. “I can’t make out anything,” he complained; “my eyes are so bad. Is it a team, sure?” “It’s movin’,” declared Mary, all excitement. “Watch that mountain on the left there an’ you’ll see I’m right.” “A yucca all’ere looks like somethin’ alive,” said Jim But very soon it became evident that Mary was right. The speck, at a turn __ in the road, lengthened out and was* seen to consist

of two uncovered wagons drawn by an eight-horse team. “We’re gittin’ dost to Hull’s,” said Mary triumphantly. “Supply wagon, prob’ly,” said Jim. “Don’t you reckon so, Mister Volly? ’ “Oh, lumber, I should think,” answered Volly. He had eat down, again and was now brushing hastily at his torn shirt. It was close upon noon when the outbound team drew near, coming, at a smart trot. Jim left the Lerida track to give it full right of way. “Say ! What you haulin’, pardner? ’ he shouted to the dusty driver. “Water—sixteen barrels every week. What you haulin’?” Off came a wide sombrero in deference to the pretty face looking out from under the schooner’s cover. “Wa-water,” faltered Jim, and jerked Peter and Hannah to a stand. Then he turned to Mary. A sudden redness was darkening all the folds and hollows of his face. His mouth hung open helplessly. “Water,” he said again, and gulped. “Why, Jim!” said Mary anxiously. “Why, Jim!” But Jim had whirled to call over the barrels to Volly. “You didn’t say nothin about a reg’lar water-wagon,” he began. “An’ I tole you I was haulin’ an’ expected to make somethin’.” He waited a moment for an answer. When none came he looked hack. “Volly!” he called irascibly. “I said that you didn’t ” But Volly was not there. “He’s gone !” said Jim. His face was pale now and blank with amazement. Together he and Mary each leaned over a wheel and looked back. The waterwagons had halted a moment at the foot of a gentle slope. Volly, sack in hand, was clambering into the rear one. Mary spoke first. 1l Wal!” she said. “He was et up with thankfulness!” Jim’s hair fairly bristled in his anger. "Ife he'd a-been a dog,” he said slowly, “he’d ’a’ licked my hand, anyhow.” They sat for a while in silence. Then Jim hurst forth. “I’m a fool!” he cried. “I’m.a blamed fool! I can be done by anybody!” He gave a bitter laugh “Why, a-course ho didn’t tell me I wouldn’t sell my load. Ho wanted me to buy his shack.” “Buy his shack?” echoed Mary. His pale eyes beseochcd her, then swam with baffled wrath. “I give him fifteen dollars fer it,” he explained brokenly. Her own eyes filled. “Wal, never mind, Jim,” she pleaded, reaching to embrace him. “Mehhe we can sell it again.” ”1 didn’t want you should liave to sleep out no more, honey. But now—-what re we ,goin’ t’ live on? We got water, but nobody’ll want water. I reckon we’d better turn back.” She looked up with a cheering smile. “No!” she cried; “I’ve got a’ idear. We'll do some washin’ at Hull’s!” “Wal mobhe we could.” He was only half-comforted, however, and sat with his chin on his breast. "Yas, wo will,” she reiterated, “an’ sell the shack besides. You’ll see.” They ate their noon meal from the wagon-seat. It was of crackers, with a taste of cheese, but neither had an appetite for it. Peter and Hannah ate their dampened barley greedily, and took impatient turns at the horse-bucket. Husband and wife sat talking long after lunch was finished. Jim was still for heading hack to the railroad, for ho had no heart to go forward. y ti “1 don’t see how you stick with me, Mary said disconsolately, “when I’m alius pullin’ an’ haulin’ you into the middle of nowhere.” , “Pm wrong this time. Y’ see, I figgered ” . . “Mostly you figger right, Jim. An whatever you do, its for me. They kissed each other tenderly. Late in the afternoon they started forward once more, both hopeful again, and singing together as they went. When a turn at the base of some hilly ground brought Hull's into view the sun was already setting and flashing upon the little windows of the dozen or more board structures in the place and burnishing the tops, and walls of some scattered and dusty tents and the sides of their own whitetopped schooner. They drove part way down the short single street of the camp, a gaunt dog contesting each step of their progress, and drew up before the door of what seemed to be the town’s main building. It was a saloon, square-fronted, nnpainted, and set snugly in between two less pretentious board edifices. Jim handed the reins to Mary and took one long step to the ground. A half-dozen men were seated in front of the saloon on a lon&- bench. They looked him over with indifference. Jim gave them a grave nod. There was a man in tho doorway of the saloon. “Why, hello!” he called', grinning. “If here ain’t ‘Figgerin Jim ! “Howdy,” said Jim, somewhat puzzled. The other exploded a laugh. “Say, did you ever git a patent on that combined corset an’ chest-protector of yourn?” he demanded. Jim colored. “Ain’t never tried, he said shortly. , , . “Haw! haw! haw!” laughed the row on the bench. “What you haulin’?” went on the man in the doorway. “Water,” said Jim. “Water! Why, Akerly’s just unloaded sixteen barrels.’’ One of the men on tho bench now spoke up. He was a thick-set man with red “Say, ‘Figgerin’ Jim,’” he began tauntingly, “this town don’t drink water.” His companions laughed immoderately. They had just caught sight of the sign on the schooner. . “But—but,” stammered Jim, ‘this water is brung to do washin’ with. I figger that where water's scarce a person oughta git good pay fer washin’.” At this there was still another hurst of mirth. “Why, Hull’s is eighty mile from the tank-cars,” said the man in the doorway scoffingly. “Washin’ is hauled out the railroad dirty and, brung back clean.” “Is it?” Slowly’“Jim turned round to the wagon. • a riv. «i .a • , * . , • A wistful face was idokifig down at him. “We—we didn’t think about that, did we?” Mary half-whispered. The man in the doorway now caught sight oii the girl on., tho seat. “Y’ see, lie went on more kindly, “washin’ is a heap lighter’n water.” . “So it is,” admitted Jim. His lips set ■ in a hard line. Then, to the row on the beach : “Will one of you gents please tell me where Volly’s shack is?” The effect of his question was startling. One man rose almost with a leap; the others sat back, leaned, forward or turned about one upon another, excitedly. •‘Volly?” they cried. “Volly!” Volly. He seen him !” The five that were still seated rose up 1 like one. “When?” they cried again. ‘‘Where? How far out? At Lerida.? “Ten mile out,!’ answered Jim, an ! makin’ fer Lerida.” , 1 * Still exclaiming—to him; to each other, to themselves —they turned and made off, ! scattering as they went. The man in the doorway ■ ran in to his bar. Behind was left only the thick-set man with red hair. Jim stepped back, crossed his feet slowly, unwrinkled his forehead and wrinkled it again, and finally hung his long weight, i to the front -wheel by an elbow. All tho , while ha looked at the ground. After a little a faint smile ruffled the folds at either end of his mouth. He glanced at , the red-haired man. “Volly ain t been murderin’ nobody hereabouts, has he. he inquired, , “He 1 left here two weeks ago, gom liuther in. He was so kind of foxy about * leavin’—gitting away in the dark without a burro—that the camp suepicioned him. t Wal, the next mornin’ two fellers up an

foiler's. They goes an’ goes. Fin’lly, they see Volly makin’ tracks along a draw. They holler, an’ ” “Yas?” said Jim eagerly. Mary was leaning out at his shoulder. “He shot at ’em.” “I see,” said Jim. “An’ no man shoots at people follerin’ him unless he don’t want ’em to git on to what he’s struck.” “I figger that’s so,” said Jim. He ascended the wheel and grasped the reins. ‘Which is his shack?” ‘The last' one on your right,” said the red-haired man languidly. “Thank y’,” said Jim, and clucked to the team. Hull’s Ledge was a young camp, as shown by the smallness of the tin-can piles beside each tent and shack. At that hour, with the sun down and a fresh, light wind blowing over it from the west, it was taking on a lively air. Smoke was rising out of chimneys and from the outdoor fires of the tents; men were going to and fro in the street or chattering in groups beside their open doors; from the hilly ground beyond the town other men were straggling home to the evening meal; a couple of burros were hailing each other from opposite ends of the camp, while the gaunt dog was capering in front of the schooner, still challenging its progress with loud, but not unfriendly, barks. Jim reined again—at the last shack on the right, a forlorn little building, with shattered window-panes and a sagging door. “Jim,” said Mary as she looked at it, “can we git back to Lcrida on three dollars?” . “I figger we can,” said Jim bravely, and hastened to unhitch the tired team. Before dark they had swept their new homo and made down their lied in one corner of it. They had fed and watered the horses, too, and built a fire on the ashes of Volly s last one. Then, beside the lire, with two pancakes fried in bacongrease, a scant half-dipper of tea and part of a can of corned-beef, warmed over, they made another meagre meal. During supper Jim saw that Mary was looking up at the sign on the wagon, and that her eyes were full of tears. He arose, strode resolutely over to the wagon, seized the lettered board and without a word laid it upon the fire. Instantly Mary grabbed at it, rescuing it before it could bo damaged. “No, no, Jim!” she cried. “It’s such a pretty sign. Y’ know we might sell a dollars worth of water.” She hung the sign up once more, and admired it by the light of the fire. “If we only could make expenses,” she added as she rejoined her husband. Jim had been doling out bits of baconrind to the dog. Now he hunted his pencil and a square of paper. After writing a moment he looked up with a smile. We can,” he announced, “if we half a dozen passengers out to Lcrida. Soine of these fellers will shore want to go.” It was a new hope, and a cheering. While they discussed it confidently, sitting cosily side by side at their fire, the camp dog rose of a sudden and with shorv bounds and barks of greeting, disappeared around the shack. Jim got up and followed. When he came back presently his face was grave. “I hate to do a bad turn even to a mean man, ’ he said. “An’ Volly shore is moan. He’s worse. He’s crooked, by thunder! Sc crooked lie oughta sleep in a roundhouse.” "What was it?” asked Mary. Jim bent close. “Two men an’ two burros,” he whispered. “They’re gom’ out to hunt fer his find.” The camp was noisy far into the night. There was much merrymaking at the square-fronted saloon, where an acoordeon and a jew’s-liarp were joined in a lively tune. And with the music mingled loud laughter, shouting, snatches of song, the occasional sound of a boisterous clog, tho clink of glasses and the running rattle < i chips. . But Jim and Mary, happy in tnelr new plan, slept soundly through it all. By sunrise next day they were up once more, and Jim had set about making a certar-ty out of that plan. First, he greased the wagon, Mary aiding him by placing a short length of scant ling under the axle when he had swung a wheel clear of the ground. Next, with hammer and saw and many a whistled chorus, he constructed three rough seals out of as many boards ripped away from the wall of the newly-acquired shack. The seats finished ho covered them carefully with gunny-sacking. Meanwhile, sat beside him, mending the blindersi of Hannah's bridle and a rip in her own short skirt. Throughout the morning no water patrons ’came. And the sign was made only an object for good-natured chaff by those who chanced to spy it. But these were few in number, for with the mounting of the sun the camp had fallen into sleepy quiet. Neither Jim nor Mary minded the sallies aimed at the sign. Their hopes did not lie now in the contents of the barrels. “The horses’ve had a day’s rest, said Mary complacently, “an’ to-morrow we 11 load up an’ pull our freight. Things are go in’ to come out just fine.’ “I figger they will,” said Jim. At sundown ho made toward the squarefronted saloon, for the matter of passeugers was, as yet, unsettled. He strode away whistling, his wide, black, slouch hat set far back on his head, so that it fairly hung from the quail-like tuft on his crown. . * He returned soon, shuffling as he came, and with his hat pulled down over his eyes. At his heels slunk the camp dog. Mary saw that he was downcast, but wisely forehore to question, her eyes very anxious as she waited, and her lower lip ready to quiver. He flung himself down beside her, without raising his eyes to hers. Presently he began : “Wal, honey, this is the time 1 put my finger in my own eye.” “How’s that, Jim? 1 ’ She tried hard to keep her voice even. “Wal, just bearin’ of Volly has made ’em all want t’ -stay at Hull’s —er go out on his trail.” . _ “N-no passengers, Jim? lhat don t matter. It’ll be nicer, anyhow, just travellin’ by our two silvee.” He reached out for her hand. Twilight came on, then darkness and renewed, sounds of gayety from the saloon. Still they sat. Peter and Hannah moved restlessly at the wagon and whinnied their needs. The camp dog came up to sniff , about the grease-spattered stones of the fire. But Jim and Mary were forgetful of all else save that a new disappointment had brought them nearer to each other. “Nothin’ matters as long as we’re happy,” she whispered, gripping all his big fingers between her slender ones. “Ain’t that so, Jim?” “Nothin’ matters as long as we love each other,” Jim whispered back. “Did—did they joke at y’isome, over at the saloon?” “These here new prospectors is reg lar Smart Alecs,” he answered scornfully. “Ah’ they couldn’t ride to Lerida with us if they wanted to. Huh! What do they see that’s so blamed funny about u.y figgerin’ ?” Soon the supper fire was crackling, the coffee-pot purring beside it, and renewed sputterings of bacon-grease were tempting the nostrils of the camp dog. Peter and Hannah were being given their last meal of the day, too, and a generous bucket of drink besides. “We’ll 1 have more water’n we need for our trip,’’ observed Jim. “But, just the same, I don’t intend to give none to any of these Hull smarties. No, I’ll use that water myself, even if I have to take a bath, by jingo!” The next moment the sounds of the camp changed. There came a cry of “‘Fire!” from somewhere at the father end of the street. Then the cluster ot

shacks* and tents sprang into clearer view as flames burst from a building beyond the saloon. As one ruddy banner after another flashed into the dark sky men tumbled through doors and went scurrying toward the flames. There they darted to and fro like as many busy, black moths. The camp dog forsook the remnants of his supper and dashed up the street. Jim and Mary followed. The shack that was ablaze was so much tinder, and furnished a faultles'; draft. Soon it burned with a heavy roar, sending showers of sparks across the scattered locfs of the camp. A spark, like a falling star, alighted on the shingle roof of the saloon, where it glowed and faded and ginned again. Other sparks, carried by the wind, floated as far as the Volly snick, going out as they touched the desert Calls were made for water, and a man ascended to a roof, reaching bank to lift a bucket after him. Other men had seized shovels and were pitching sand upon the roofs of the shacks nearest the fire Still others had a scantling which they now used as a battering-ram. Again and again they ran at the burning shack with their heads lowered to shield their Gees. The smoke and flames soon drove them away, and drove back the men with shovels. Now thd two neighboring shacks were threatened, and the heat and smoke prevented any throwing of water and sand upon the already smoking roofs. Instead, the contents of the shacks were ejected hastily, then dragged to a distance, after which the battering-ram began its worn once more. Jim and Mary now started back toward their own shacks. “The hull camp 11 go, ho said, “if they don’t watch out. Why, look!” He stopped her for a rnc merit. “The saloon’s a-burnin’!” The running and shouting had grown. Men with pails hurried up from every direction and went hurrying away again. The proprietor of the saloon was walking about on the shingles, widFng a wet sack. From under him. came the heavy thud, thud, of moving things. 'J he salccn was being emptied. When the proprietor scrambled down the window-panes on the western side of the building were snapping into bits. Two shacks across the street we-e in flames also, and some tents were being jerked up and dragged out of the way danger, leaving uncovered behind them the beds and belongings of the owners. _ Jim and Mary now forsook their place by the door. The smoke was heavy about them, the heat of the nearing fire could be felt. Mary ran into the shack, and Jim to the schooner. “I’ll git the things out, ’ she called to him. “You climb on the roof.” A moment and she reappeared, her arms full of bedding. „ , He had stopped beside the fire, Now he was kneeling, paper and pencil in hand, and writing hastily by the unsteady light. “Jim!” she entreated. “Jim ! Cant you do nothin’ better’n just figger?” She came to a standstill. He got up then and took the blankets from her. “I’ll git the grub-box, he told her. “It’s too heavy fer you.” As he came out of the shack she met him, a bucket in her hand. “No, no, he said determinedly. You just take the wagon-tongue an’ steer.” “But the house!” she cried. He put his shoulder to the end-board and braced a foot. “I’m a-gom’ to let the house burn,” he said. The camp was a very bedlam of shouts and pounding, splashing and breaking and crackling. Accompanying the clamor was the deep, steady undertone of the fire, like the blast’from a great furnace. Jim and Mary, with the team falling in beside the schooner, drew slowly away from the din to the rocky centre of the near-by stream-bed. There they halted and lookocl. bci civ The saloon had fallen in ; two shacks closer at hand were in flames; on the roofs of others could be seen the figures of men armed with sacks or buckets. “My, ain’t it awful!” wailed Mary. He lifted her to the seat that \ oily had occupied, and stood at her knee. The shouting and subsiding a little, for the ■ fire-fighters were gradually ceasing their labors and falling back into little groups to watch the burning. A mild interest supplanted the recent excitement “She spread two ways, you see, explained Jim. “Nothin’ could a-stopped her. Our shack-11 go next. He lifted himself to a seat beside Mary, putting an arm about hex*. When their home of a day caught fare a moment later a general laugh went up from the watching groups. Mary was weeping softly, and Jim tightened the arm that was about her and pressed her cheek against his breast. His own cheek waa red, but not with the reflected light of the flames. He had heard the laugh and understood it. “1 didn’t mean to be cross to you, honey,” he said tenderly. Half an hour later and Hulls was reduced to a double line of glowing ash-piles, each pile flanked! by heaps of bedding, canvas valises, boxes, frying-pans, clothing, picks, shovels, and home-made furniture. Then the groups broke up, wiping at their faces and commenting on the fare. A few men set to work to raise their tents. Others spread their blankets beside their belongings. On all sides there was laughter and noisy talking. Jim and Mary were out of the waggon, busily clearing a spot beside the schooner of its stones, when a man came hurrying their way from the burned camp. His face was blackened, and he was rubbing his smarting eyes. “Say, gimme'a-cup of water, Jim,” he called out, thrusting one hand into a pocket. “Gee! but Im thirsty!” It was the proprietor ot the square-fronted saloon. Without a word Jim reached up tor ms sign. Then, taking out his pencil, he painstakingly formed a 2 in front of the printed 5. ‘One cup?” he queried, “It 11 be two-bits.” He hung up the sign again. , . „ The saloon-man stared. “Two-bits, he repeated. “Why, we Just been throwin’ on the fire with buckets. Are you crazy?” , , “I don’ think so, saad Jim calmly. “Anyhow, I didn't throw any water. I jiggered it worth more at two-bits a enp than boards at sixty dollars a thousand. He took down the cardboard once more to put the dollar-sign and a hunch-backed 1 after the word “full” on the third line. The notice now read-. WATER FOR SALE 25c a Cup LARD-CAN FULL, $1.25. “Y* see,” said 1 Jim, “water is up.” He lighted the lantern and hung it beside the sign. , , “Two bits!” said the saloon-man again. “Do you think that’s fair, Mrs Chapin?” Mary waa standing beside her husband, her face bright with a happy smile. “Why, a-couree, it’s fair,” she answered with quite unusual spirit. “It’s exac’ly what you charged fer a little drink of whisky.” _ “We seen your sign, added Jim. “Haw, haw!” But his eyes had no mirth in them. The saloon-man shot him a quick look. ' “Wal, mebbe you’ll git two-bits a cup,” he said. “Y’ see, most of the water in camp is gone.” “Aw, wal,” drawled Jim, “the men in this camp don’t drink water.” Still another man was aproaching the schooner —the thick-set, red-haired man. “Got any water?’’ he asked. “I’ll take a cup.” Jim pointed 1 at the sign. The red-haired man curled his lips at it. “Two-bits!” he said, and glowered at Jim. “Huh! I can’t git a drink of whisky fer that.” “No, you can’t, my friend,” cried the saloon-man, “I can’t afford to sell at any old l price, not on your life!” Ho walked

away, expostulating, the red-haired man at his heels. Jim bent to give Mary a rousing kiss. “Wall, honey?” he said, chuckling. “Fergive me fer twittin’ you about vour figgerin’, Jim. You was right! You was!” “They had their fun outen me,” said Jim. “Now they’ll pay fer their water.” Later in the night a third man—a stranger—visited the schooner. Two canteens hung by straps from his shoulder’s. He carried several empty whisky flasks in his hands. And he paid for the filling of them without a question. “Goin’ further in?” Jim asked him. “Yes,” answered the roan. “Did you hear about their coming across Volly’s tracks up north of here a little ways? Well, they did. And some of the boys are going to camp on them,_ and wait till Volly tries to go back to his strike.” “Tracks?” said! Jim. “What tracks could they find?” “W 7 hy, he’d dragged something heavy along the ground for miles.” The following morning Jim did not do an encouraging business. The men who lived in tents had not thrown their supply of water upon the fire, and so were able to sell right and left, and at Jim’s quotation. This was a new quotation. For -with the first streaks of dawn Jim had risen to change his sign, and now it read: WATER FOR SALE 4€c a Oup LARD-GAN FULL $2.00. But Jim was not disheartened. The tent supply could not be' a large one. And three full days more must pass befor the arrival of the water wagons. At noon the red-haired man came sauntering up to the schooner. “How much’ll these be, Chapin?” he demanded, diaplaying two bottles. He already had four dimes in the palm of a hand. “Two and a-quarter,” said Jim. “But it’ll only take four cups.” “Six, pardner. An’ since the fire, y know, water has riz.” The man fairly threw down the price. “You’re taking advantage of a public calamity,” he declared. Jim’s blue eyes glinted. “When I hit Hull you didn’t worry about my calamity',” he observed. “I’d water eighty mile—an’ nobody wanted it.” \ “I believe these barrels could be seized fer the camp,” blustered the red-haired man. , , „ ~ “Better git that outen your head, said Jim. He sat down with his back against a wagon-wheel and looked defiantly at the ashes-dotted! camp. The red-haired man had gone and Jim was still watching when he saw a moving something on the distant desert beyond the camp. It was in the direction of Lerida, and at first it looked to be a small cloud—a dust cloud that moved! with the speed of wind upon the far heat-blurred horizon. But for all that it was nearing swiftly, it was too steady and lasting to be the result of a whirlwind. Soon it grew very much larger. At its centre was a black speck that jerked from side to side every now and then, trailing , the cloud in its wake. “Wal, what in the dickens! puzzled Jim, and sprang up. “Mary! Look! “Why,” said Mary, “it’s one of them auto-roundabouts!” When the dust-cloud advanced to the farther edge of Hull s and halted, an automobile emerged out of it—not a runabout, however, but a great, covered, steam touring-car, its glass-protected front seat occupied by two men, its tonneau by four more. Then, amid the settling cloud, the six occupants of the car stood up to survey the havoc wrought by the The men of the camp ran toward the car, gathering together as they went until, on reaching it, they formed a crowd about it. There was some excited talk back and forth. Then hats went into the air and the newcomers were greeted with s shrill, rousing cheer. “I know,” said Jim; “ths auto has bnmg a load of whisky. ’ 4 "" Three men now stepped out of the machine, and, while the dwellers of the camp pressed about them with a loud chorus, evidently of questions, the three in the machine sat down, and the machine itself, with a forward leap, left the crowd behind and came skimming straight up to the schooner. A man sprang from the tonneau before the machine had fairly and pulled off his goggles. “Chamn, he began eagerly, “I’m mighty glad you re here » * Jim suddenly straightened, almost defensively, and stood, a hand_ on either hip. His stoop had gone. His look was stern. The speaker was clean-shaven, but his eyes were bloodshot, his face zigzagged with scratches that were only half-healed. “So it’s you, Volly, he 68 Volly held out a hand. “I was too sick to be decent the other day, ’ he said apologetically. “But let me thank you now.” , „ , “I figger you want somethin, said Jim. , .. “Well, if I do I can pay for it, Ghapin; and for what you did for me out there, too.” He nodded toward Lenda. “No man can pay me fer what he eats and drinks by my tire,” said Jim. “Vhat do you want?” “Water, Chapin; can you spare us some?” "Water’s high.” r “I suppose it is.” _ “We’ve lots of gasoline,” spoke up the driver of the car, “but no water. We d like a barrel.” _ .. Jim madie no reply to him. His look was still on Volly. “So youve brung all these gents out to locate,” he said, and pointed a thumb over his shoulder toward the mountains. ’ Volly started; stared, and swallowed; then wheeled round to the men In the car “I talked!” he cried in a low voice “He knows the whole thing; I was delirious!” / , "I didn’t understand what you denied Jim slowly. “Did we, Mary? But timid Mary was behind the schooner, out of sight of so many strangers. “No, you talked like a blamed Chink, said Jim. “But quartz was what you had in that bag. I spotted that!” One of the trio that had left the automobile at the edge of the camp now came hurrying up. “What’s the matter, Volly ? he demanded, “Let’s get started. How d’ do, Chapin. I’m Royse.” “Royse, he doesn’t want to sell me any water,” said Volly. “You talk to him.*” “This is a fine fix we’re in,” scolded Royse. “I thought you told me we’d find plenty of water at Hull’s.” “How did I know the confounded plate would burn?” retorted Volly. He strode to and fro, cursing under his breath. “Chapin, I’ll give you one hundred dollars for a barrel of water,” said Royse “You bet you would,” said Jim. The other two members of the party now came up, their faces all concern. “Two hundred, Chapin,” said Royse. “That’s handsome. “I figger Volly’s found somethin’ pretty good.” t “Three hundred, Chapin. You can t refuse that. Come now, man.” “Three hundred! Why didn’t you think of me, Volly, when you was pickin’ locators? I saved your life.” “What are your terms?” demanded Royse. Jim walked close to him. “Ihis man, he began, pointing to Volly, “never would a-lived t’ git to Leri da if it hadn’t a-been fer me. He come t’ my fire dym . I washed him, I fed him, I brung him as far as he wanted t’ go. And after I d saved his lif© he sold me his shack her© f©r all but the last three dollars I had in the world. An’ he knew when he done it that he was rich.” “I was sick, I tell you, cried Volly.

“You’ll be sickersaid Jim. “The boys have been on your trail ever since they knowed I met you out yonder. He jerked his head toward Lerida. “On his trail? How?” questioned Royse. “Two went out with burros the night l got here—the two you shot at, Volly. L understand they think they’ll spot your find.” “They can’t!” cried Royse. “Then four er five more have been lollerin’ his track where he drug the quartz along. They’ll all be waiting’ fer you out there, I reckon. The town amt cared a hang about burnin’ up. its been aworryin’ about Mister \olly. “Onapin, we’ll give you a thousand dollars for a barrel.” “A thousand?” said Jim. \\hy, you city fellers spend that ev’ry year just on see-gars.” “Well, what do you think is lair, then ? persisted l Royse. “I’ll just ask you this,” returned Jim. “What man of you five has got a better right to share with Volly than me? “Share!” It was Volly, aghast. “Yas, share.’ “Suppose we take you along and let you locate.” ~ . “You can’t say that isn’t square, declared Royse. . ~ “I don’t never leave Mary, said Jim. “Make that a rule.” . “Well, what will you do, Chapin. questioned Royse, exasperated. “I’ll give your choo-choo its belly lull of water,” said Jim, “an’ 111 hand you over two barrels besides. But, first, ev-ry mother’s son of you will sign me a grubstake paper.” I‘You’re wild !” said Royse. “That means half of everything!” added Volley, almost with a wail. “That’s the law,” said Jim. “‘lou didn’t balk, Volly, at takin’ more’n half from me.” ... “It’s too much,” Royse cried again. “Oome-Mve’ll have to try somewhere else. “All right,’ ’said Jim, "try. But there ain’t a man in Hull’s that wants to see you fellers git outen camp in your auto. “But half, Mr Chapin,? We can’t do it! Not on your life ! We’ll walk first 1 “Wal, go ahead an’ walk.” said Jim. “You’ll have lots of comp'ny. Look!” He pointed toward the burned camp. The six turned. Men were hurrying about in evident excitement among the piles of belongings. Other men were on their knees rolling up blankets. "They’ll all be tickled to death V go streakin’ along with you,” said Jim. “The lead here has plumb petered.” The camp dog came up, snffing and circling the wagon. Jim hunted the wash-basin, filled it from the dipper and set it beside the wheel, “Some of ’em’ll here first, though, fer water. There s a couple cornin’ now.” “Merciful Heaven!” breathed Royse helplessly. Ho beat his hands together. “Volly, we’ve got to do it! Chapin, where’s some paper?” A groan went up from the men in the “Hurry!” warned Volly. The oncoming men were close. >( “Make the paper out to Mary an’ me, ’ bade Jim. “We grub-stake you t’gether.” Then, to the pair from the camp t spar© you no water, gents. Sony.” “Half!” mourned a disconsolate voice from the tonneau. “I’m givin.’ you somethin’ worth money fer somethin’ I ain’t seen,” reminded Jim. “Oh, it ; ’s there, all right,” declared Volly. , “I figger it is,” said Jim. Royse wrote, then V oily —his hand shaking; afterward, beginning with the man at the wheel, the others scrawled their names in turn. “Now the water, Chapin !” cried Royse. “Help yourself,” said Jim, poring over the paper. A short half-hour and the big car, with another forward leap, went speeding away from the schooner and into the desert, sending up a whirl of sand in its wake. Now Vlary reappeared from her place of retirement and ran to Jim with outstretched arms. “Aw, honey Aw, honey!” was all she could cry. She laid her brown head against his breast. “Wal, little woman,” said Jim, opening his own arms to receive her, “where are we goin’ to buy that lot? Say, we 11 build a pyazza around our house, an’ ev’ry room’ll have ee-lectric lights. Yas, ma’am. An’ we’ll have pams in the front yard, an’ a’ auto, by thunder! Mary, this is one time when my figgerin’ come out O. K.” Then, hand in hand, they stood and watched the inhabitants of Hull’s, by ones or twos or in small groups, go out of the burned camp and into the desert, following the tracks of the automobile. Soon all these made a long, straggling, uneven line. And, far in advance of that line, leading it toward the distant mountains, went a swift-moving pillar of dost.