Cattle-Ranch to College Part 17

"Looks like rain," said the other, following to the door. "h.e.l.lo, there's a fire in that house already; must be some other fellows there for the night. You'll have company, but look out that they don't rob you. Good night."

As John approached the outhouse he saw through the half-open door a blazing 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 John entered.

The ruddy firelight gleamed on the face of a slovenly fellow who sat beyond the fire. It was a well-fed face, rounded, and not ill-looking in contour, but grimy and littered with little tufts of whisker; a gray flannel s.h.i.+rt, red neckerchief and greasy-collared tan canvas coat clothed the upper part of his body, and John cast his eye about on four other specimens of the same type, seated on ties about the blaze.

"Where from, kid?" asked one, as all turned to observe the newcomer. All they saw was a weary, hesitating boy. "Come up to the fire," they said cordially, 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 other brakies 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 into conductor 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 the comprehension of these tramps, for tramps they were--the regulation kind.

"You're green on the road, kid," said one, whose name was Jimmy, as John soon learned. "You'll soon get sick of counting ties," he continued, gazing curiously at the boy, as did they all. "Why, kid, I've travelled this country from side to side and from top to bottom in the last fifteen years and I've yet to walk a step--except off one side to get feed," 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. What d'ye want of money? Beat 'em; we'll show you." He spoke with a sort of professional pride, and the expression was reflected on the faces of the other men.

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

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

"That so?" said one encouragingly.

"Yep, 'twas like this. Back in the East--" And Larry launched forth on a recital of the circ.u.mstances which led him to "take to the road" and follow it ever since.

Two others had similar experiences. Jimmy, however, frankly admitted that he took to it from choice. "When I was twenty-one," he began, "I was engaged to be married, and expected to settle down and be a family man." This statement seemed to amuse the hoboes, for they laughed uproariously. "My mother--she's a widow," Jimmy continued unmoved, "gave me five hundred dollars to set me up in the butcher business in our town in Ohio. Well, things went on fine till pretty near the happy day, when I began to see that the girl was getting offish and I told her so. She got hot and said something about another chap that I didn't like, and I quit 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 was drinkin' harder. The five hundred my mother gave me and the five hundred I 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, and said she'd give me another start, but I knew it wasn't no use and told her so and pulled out of the town on a freight train. Been at it ever since."

"Pretty tough on your mother," said Larry.

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

"Yes, it was pretty tough on the old lady, but I was no good for that place, 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 ever see again," the tramp added, musingly. "I'll never leave the road now; I like it. A man doesn't have to worry about anything, he's better without money 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 with interest.

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

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

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

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

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

John had listened, it must be confessed, rather admiringly; the freedom and apparent ease of the life fascinated him, and he had half a mind to become a hobo. He did not realize the degradation that went with it, the dishonest acts that were necessary to secure food without money, the hards.h.i.+p it entailed, and the constant uncertainty of it all.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CURRAN, BRADY'S NIGHT WRANGLER. (_Page 227._)]

The thing that bothered him was the food supply, and he finally ventured the 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 got supper last night, but they're hard to work and we'll have to get to Helena before we chew," explained Larry cheerfully. "But you're all right with that hand of yours," broke in Jimmy. "You can work the sore-hand racket all right; just show that to a motherly-looking woman and she'll fill you up quick."

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

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

As the evening pa.s.sed the talk subsided, and when the suggestion to sleep was given there was not a dissenting voice--from John least of all. All lay down in a row, their feet toward the fire. The coats had been taken off and spread over the row so that each made a covering of two thicknesses.

Toward morning the boy was awakened by a hand that fumbled about his pocket--the one which contained his money. Fortunately he had taken the precaution before going to sleep to put his own hand in and grasp the money. 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, his head 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, for Jimmy came running back, and with a hurried "I'll help you," rushed him over 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 rode a brake beam? Well, I'll show you. See that brake beam?" He pointed out the bar that held the brake shoes and crossed from wheel to wheel under the car. "And those rods running lengthwise from it? Well, you sit on the bar and hold on to the rods. See, like this," and he slipped under the car and sat down on the wooden bar, his legs dangling and his hands grasping the rods. "I see," said John, and in a second had taken Jimmy's place.

"Good, here's my board; I'll get along with my coat wrapped round if I need 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 gave him a safer and more comfortable seat.

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

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

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

The train was now gathering headway, and John wondered how Jimmy would reach the wheel trucks between the now fast revolving wheels. A peculiar sensation came over the boy--half fear, half exhilaration. The whirring wheels clacked and thumped the rail joints, the ties flew underneath dizzily, the dust rose like a fog, and the wind of the train rattled the small stones of the roadbed together; the heavy car swayed above him dangerously near, and John, half choked and wholly terrified, wondered if 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.