“Thees time—with variations,” he exclaimed excitedly. And they were variations!
McKay regarded his flock with genial interest.
“Ain’t he the musical boy, though?” he observed to Loring.
“Playing those two together is quite a trick,” thought Loring; “I must learn it.” Then he realized that he could not even play either singly. Such impulses and awakenings were frequent with him. Constructively he felt himself capable of doing almost anything. The ridiculousness of his thought aroused him from his lethargy, and he began to hum softly the tune that car wheels always play.
At eight o’clock the engine gave a last exhausted wheeze, and stopped. “Quentin. All ashore!” called out McKay.
The men took their bundles from the racks, crowded down the aisle, and out to the rickety station platform, where the ticket agent, lantern in hand, looked at them wonderingly.
“I didn’t lose a man on the trip,” McKay said to the agent, in answer to the latter’s query of “What in hell?” “Well, boys,” went on McKay, “it is ten miles to where we camp, and there ain’t no hearses, so I guess we’ll have a nice little moonlight stroll.”
The station settlement of Quentin consisted of a few scattered tents, and of five saloons, with badly spelled signs. One shack bore in large letters the proud legend: “Grocery Store.” It had evidently been adopted as a residence, for in smaller letters beneath the sign was painted: “This ain’t no store—Keep out!” Loring, with lazy amusement, read this evidence of a shiftlessness greater than his own.
The crowd began to gravitate toward the saloons. “Hey, other way there!” shouted McKay, for he well knew that if the crowd began drinking there, very few would reach camp. A big Mexican, who had been imbibing heavily on the train, lurched toward the saloons, bellowing: “Me much mal’ hombre. I take a drink when I damn please!”
“You much mal’ hombre, eh?” said McKay, smiling. “Then take that!” He stepped up to the man, and let drive a blow from one shoulder that almost broke the mutineer’s jaw. The man staggered, then turned and ran, but up the trail. The other men howled with laughter, then they picked up their blanket rolls and bundles, and laughing and singing started up the trail, where the deep shadows of the tall suwaras made black streaks against the white porphyry of the projecting cliffs.
Loring and Hop Wah followed at the end of the procession, the former consoling himself for his lack of blankets by thinking how much easier walking was without them; the latter cheerfully singing a song of which verse, chorus, and envoi were: “La la boom boom! La la boom boom!” If this were lacking in originality, it was at least capable of infinite repetition, and it turned out to be Wah’s one musical number.
Mile after mile up the trail toiled the straggling line, the Mexicans calling loudly to each other, or mocking with jeering whoops the unfortunates who slipped on the loose stones. McKay, chuckling to himself with pleasure, led the little band. He was thinking of the expressions of praise and surprise, of the congratulations upon the successful outcome of his expedition, which would be bestowed upon him in camp.
Immediately ahead of Loring walked the three other white men of the collection. The volubility of their cursing, as they stumbled along, caused McKay to drop back to them. After the customary greeting of “Well, gents, how are you stacking up?” he began to probe into the cause of their discontent.
“What’s the work, boss, anyhow?” they asked.
“Can you ‘polish’ the head of a drill?” asked McKay. He inquired as a matter of form, for one glance at their slouching shoulders and their thin chests had given him his answer. “Can’t?” he observed cheerfully. “Well, I guess your work will be ‘mucking’ on a narrow gauge railway grade that we are building.”
“Mucking!” growled one. “Ain’t there nothing else that we can do besides scratch around with a pick and shovel?”
“Well, Sullivan, it is that at first. Later, if I can get you a job out at the main camp, I will. It is sort of hard on you fellows to have to grub with all these ‘Mex’ at the road camp; but as soon as you get a little ‘time’ saved up you can start in buying your own stuff and messing together.”
“Save up ‘time’!” exclaimed Sullivan. “Hell! There ain’t no use savin’ anything in this Gawd-forsaken country.”
“Well, cheer up, anyway!” laughed McKay. “Here is the ground where the road camp lies.” Several camp-fires blazed suddenly out of the darkness. Around them many shadowy figures were grouped. These gathered with interest about the newcomers, noisily commenting upon their appearance. “Here we are, boys. The tents ain’t down here yet; but sleeping out of doors is powerful healthy. Sure Mike!” he added, poking a grinning Mexican boy in the ribs. “Seguro Miguel! Nothing like it, is there, Pedro?”
“How about the rattle-bugs, Boss?” asked Sullivan, the malcontent.
“There ain’t no rattlesnakes out in April. Besides, if there was, they would not bite your carcass,” answered McKay, irritated by the man’s attitude of continual grumbling.
The men all busied themselves unrolling their blankets and looking for sheltered places in which to sleep. Loring was not accustomed to construction camps. He thought that for the white men, at least, sleeping accommodations must have been provided.
“Where can I sleep?” he asked McKay.
The latter grinned from one big ear to the other. “Say,” he drawled, “that’s good! Your hot bath ain’t ready though. Haven’t got any blankets, have you?” he added, relenting a bit. “Better crawl in with some one to-night. To-morrow, when I come down here from the copper camp, I’ll bring you a pair. I guess you won’t skip till you have done enough work to pay for them, as you won’t have money enough to vamos. And, say, I’ve got a swell hat that I will give you. It ain’t respectable or refined like not to have one.”
The rough kindness touched Loring deeply, and he began to thank him warmly.
McKay uttered a brisk good night and turned to walk up the trail which led to the main camp, two miles beyond. The Mexican whom the boss had knocked down at the station stepped suddenly forward. Expecting trouble, Loring jumped to his feet. He heard McKay say: “I guess the señorita won’t think much of your beauty now, will she, Manuel? I’ll send the doctor down in the morning to fix up that face of yours.” The Mexican, instead of rushing at McKay, exclaimed excitedly: “Oh, boss, you just like a father to me!”
Still smiling at the sudden change of temper Loring lay down on the ground, and tried to sleep. The knife-like cold of the Arizona night made him shiver. Striving to keep warm, he rolled from side to side. Suddenly, from out of the darkness near him, he heard a soft laugh: “Hey, me bludder, Hop Wah got plenty blankets. Roll here!” Gratefully he crawled in between the Chinaman’s blankets. Wah looked at him curiously. “La la boom boom,” he crooned to himself. “Heap lot whisky.” Then he turned over and went peacefully to sleep.
Loring lay rigidly upon his back. Conscience, remorse, and a rock beneath his fourth rib, all kept him awake. The stars did not answer his half-framed questions, so he shut his eyes. It is hard to think when the eyes are closed, so he opened them again. It was a very simple question that he reiterated to the shadows, to the embers of the fire, and to the drone of the Gila river. It consisted of one word—“Why?” There was no need of his asking any one except himself; but he put off as long as possible asking the one person who could answer, for he knew why. His friends had always been so ready to make excuses for his shortcomings, that in graciousness he could do no less than acquiesce. But in spite of the veil with which memory surrounds facts, when a man lies awake at night he is likely to see them as they are.
That both of Stephen’s