Falcon, of Squawtooth

A LONG freight train, westward bound, came to a stop in a little California mountain town with a shriek of brakes and a hiss of air. At once a brakeman clambered agilely down the steel ladder of a box car in the middle of the train, and sent the side door of the car creaking along its rusty track. He thrust his head inside and peered about through the darkness of the interior.

Then he cried raucously:

“Come outa that, now! Make it snappy, Jack!”

In a dark corner of the box car a man arose and stepped slowly toward the square of sunlight that represented the door. As the light of day shone in upon him the brakeman looked him up and down, and did not seem so displeased.

The tramp was dressed in overalls, fairly decent shoes, and a cap. Though he was grimy and stained from hours of travel on a freight, he was no dirtier than the brakeman and was dressed as well. His hair was close-cropped, and no stubble of beard showed on his rather boyish face. His eyes were dark and twinkling. His figure was straight and strong. There was nothing hangdog about this tramp.

The brakeman’s tones were mollified as he asked:

“Where you goin’, Jack?”

“West.”

“Uh-huh. I know that. What’re you ridin’ on?”

“I’m broke.”

“Yeah? You don’t look it. You look like a workin’man.”

“I am.”

“What d’ye follow?”

“Railroad-construction work.”

“Huh! A stiff, eh?”

“Yes—a stiff.”

The “shack” was silent a little. Then seeming to have decided the point under contemplation:

“Well, slide out. Guess it’s time for you to eat anyway. But I’ll let you ride out the division for a dollar.”

“Sorry, but I haven’t a dollar. Thanks, though.”

“Four bits, then.”

“Simply haven’t a cent.”

“Well, then unload—and beat it!”

The tramp sat down in the door, dangled his feet, and dropped lightly to the ground.

“So long!” he said, and strode away beside the train, his hands in his trouser pockets.

“Humph!” snorted the brakeman, and gave the door a vicious shove that forced a protesting scream from the track and rollers.

The little town was six thousand five hundred feet above the sea, in the high Sierras. The breath of pines came to the vagabond’s nostrils as he trudged along. A dynamic trout stream plunged over and around huge boulders on its frenzied race to the blue Pacific, two hundred miles away. The rare air of the high altitude, to which the traveler was unaccustomed, sent the blood pounding through his veins; and despite the beginning of hunger pangs his spirits were elated and his step elastic as he walked on toward the village.

Before he reached even its outskirts he saw five men—tramps like himself, no doubt—in camp beside the rushing stream. The odor of cooking came to his sensitive nostrils. He had only to climb down a twenty-foot fill, crawl through the right-of-way fence, and try his luck. He had fed dozens of fellow wanderers, while his money lasted, since he had left the State of Kansas. He had been penniless, now, only since the day before. He realized that he might not be welcome in this hobo camp, for he had long since learned that the so-called tramp fraternity is a figment of the imagination. But the mountain air had made him desperately hungry—his money had fed many of the class down there in camp—it was time for at least a part of his bread cast upon the waters to drift into an eddy and start floating back.

He scrambled down, forked himself between the strands of barbed wire, and boldly approached the source of those savory odors.

That this was a permanent hobo camp was evident from the many blackened cans that lay about, the cold ashes of ancient camp fires, and the carvings on the trees that shaded the rendezvous.

One man stooped over the fire and stirred a large can of boiling Mexican beans. Another was cutting into slices a loaf of bread with his pocketknife, hacking to the center on one side, then turning the loaf to complete the cuts, by reason of the shortness of the blade. Three others lounged on the ground, smoked and whittled, and eyed the newcomer with disapproval.

“How are you, fellows?” the “buttinsky” said, smiling and seating himself on a moss-covered stone.

No one replied, but the man who was cutting the bread looked up and grinned.

He was about the newcomer’s age, and had a clean, lean face with distinct freckles on it and on his neck. His hair was sandy and kinky, and a comb and brush would have made no change whatever in its wiry appearance. His eyes were blue and friendly.

The stranger at once sensed that this man was of a different type from his four companions. Though a tramp, there were about him no marks of the confirmed John Yegg. The others were old-timers of the oldest known school.

“Going to have a little feed, eh?” innocently remarked the new arrival. “I smelled those beans cooking a hundred yards away.”

The old-timers looked from one to another in blank amazement. “Can you beat it?” was the question their looks expressed. Then with a great sigh as of resignation to the demands of a stern duty, one of them rose and fumbled in a pocket of his grease-salvaged vest.

He extracted a dirty match, looked it over with owl-like wisdom, and, stepping around the fire, silently passed it to the newcomer.

At least four pairs of cold eyes watched this pantomime. The man who had been offered the match took it mechanically, and looked up into the donor’s face.

“Seems to me I get you,” he said, a trifle embarrassed. “I’ve heard of a tramp’s being given the match in a camp where he’s not wanted. It’s a subtle suggestion, I believe, for him to go elsewhere and build a camp fire of his own, isn’t it?”

“Ol’-timer,” the donor of the match said sneeringly, “youse’re right. Dat means ‘Beat it!’—and dis means ‘Beat it quick!’—see?”

He lifted a clenched fist for the other’s inspection.

“Oh, I get you,” the unwelcome visitor replied, rising from the stone. “I’ll beat it, of course. But don’t labor under the delusion that what you’ve just held up has anything to do with it.”

He turned, thrust his hands into his pockets again, and started back toward the right of way.

“Wait a minnit, Jack!”

The ejected one turned. It was the bread slicer who had spoken.

“C’mon back here an’ dig in on the bread an’ beans, ol’-timer,” he invited. “You’re as welcome as the flowers in May. I happen to know, for the simple reason that I’m the Jasper that bungled up for the pinks and the punk myself. I’m entertainin’ to-day.”

The man who had passed the match turned on him with a snarl.

“Wot’s de idear, ‘Halfaman’? Do youse want every farmer on de line to come buttin’ in on yer scoffin’s? Youse gi’me a pain, Jack!”

“Aw, go get in yer kennel and gnaw yer bone, ‘Blister’!” retorted the bread-and-beans magnate. “You ole fuzzy tails get my goat. You wouldn’t give a man a crumb o’ tobacco; but I notice you’re always the first one to butt in yerself when anybody else has scoffin’s. I buys them pinks and I buys this punk; and all that any o’ you stiffs furnished for this little picnic was the salt ‘Monk o’ the Rum’ swiped from the grocer while I was gettin’ the beans. I’ll do the sayin’ who’s to scoff in this camp. C’mon back here, ol’-timer, and dig in!”

“Sinful Blister,” which was the weird moniker of the dissenter, slouched back to his seat on the ground, muttering discontentedly. The other John Yeggs shrugged indifferently, in full sympathy with the Blister, but diplomatically acceding to the wishes of him who had bought the beans.

The now invited guest returned, and the cook poured out the beans into smaller tin cans and silently passed one to him. The one designated as Halfaman thrust two slices of bread into the other’s hands, and into other cans poured black coffee.

For a space the six ate in silence, the stranger from time to time glancing at his benefactor as if he wished to thank him, but could not find the words.

“Where you headin’ for, Jack?” Halfaman presently asked, his freckled cheeks shuttling over jaw-bones that oversaw the mastication of huge portions of food.

“West,” was the short reply.

“What d’ye follow when ye’re followin’?”

“I’m hunting construction work.”

“Dirt or rock?”

“Either.”

“That’s me; I’m a stiff. Was you beatin’ it down to the desert? There’s a big job openin’ up down there.”

“Yes, I heard about that. The Gold Belt Cut-off, eh?”

“That’s her, I’m makin’ it down there. I know lots o’ contractors that’ll have jobs on the road.”

The other ate in silence for a space, as if thinking deeply. “I don’t know but I’ll try to get down there, too,” he said presently. “I wasn’t exactly headed for any particular place.”

“She oughta be a good job. There’s good men’ll be down there. First thing I c’n ketch goin’ west takes me.”

“Do—do you mind if I go along with you?” hesitatingly asked the other.

“I should say not! I don’t like ramblin’ alone. Never did. I get to talkin’ to meself. Sure—we’ll make it out together. What’s yer moniker, Jack?”

Again the stranger hesitated. Then a little red crept into his face as he replied: “They call me ‘The Falcon.’”

One of the John Yeggs snorted softly and winked at a companion. It was quite plain to him that the speaker knew little about hobos’ monikers and such things.

“Been followin’ construction work long?” asked Halfaman.

“Virtually all my life,” returned the other.

At this another of the listeners sighed wearily, and whispered to one near him:

“Get dat, will youse? Been follyin’ de big camps all his life! C’n youse beat it? I’m bettin’ he never seen a railroad camp—hey? No foolin’!”

His friend nodded with a grimace that showed agreement.

When he had finished eating, the new friend of The Falcon rose, and, lying flat, took a long drink from the cold mountain stream.

“Well,” he announced, “I’m beatin’ ’er up to the tracks. C’mon, if you’re goin’ with me, Jack. There’s a westbound freight due before so very long, if the switchman didn’t lie—and he didn’t look like he had brains enough to lie.”

“Much obliged for de scoffin’s, Halfaman,” volunteered one of the tramps as The Falcon followed the freckled youth through the fence.

“Keep the change!” called Halfaman. “But next time I’m settin’ up the eats, le’ me do the invitin’.”

There was no answer; and the two struggled up the hill, and walked along the track toward a water tank to hide and wait the coming of the next westbound freight.

They reached the tank and sat down on the ground behind it, resting their backs against the pedestals. Halfaman removed a greasy cap with a broken visor, and laid it in his lap, allowing the cool mountain breeze to play with the kinks of his sandy hair. He had a way of talking out of one corner of his good-natured and rather wide mouth which amused the reticent Falcon.

“You ain’t been on the road long, have you, kid?” he said kindly.

“Why do you say that?”

“You might just as well be wearin’ a card on yer breast, like a blind man does, tellin’ the world about it,” said Halfaman. “Le’ me tell you sumpin. You don’t wanta go buttin’ into hobo camps like you did back there. Them old Jaspers hate themselves. They got no use fer the likes o’ you.”

“But you’re not like them.”

“I should say I ain’t! I’m a construction stiff. They’re just stiff. I’m a tramp, but I work. They don’t unless they have to—see? I was buyin’ some pinks and punk to cook up for myself—see?—and they butts in on me and gets me for a feed. I never turn a stiff down if I got anything, so I told ’em to come on an’ bust ’emselves. I know two of ’em—‘Sinful Blister’ and ‘Monk o’ the Rum.’ The other two’s pals o’ theirs. I’ll feed anybody—gaycat, yegg, bindle-stiff, skinner, mucker, or dyno. But I want ’em to feed me when I’m broke, too. I got no use for the likes o’ them back there. I’m a decent tramp—get me?”

“Yes,” replied The Falcon. “I try to be that myself. That’s why I approached the camp. I thought maybe I’d be treated like I’ve treated dozens of others since I started West.”

“And wasn’t you?”

“Yes—by you. And I’ll not forget it. Stay by me—if you like me—and you’ll never regret what you did for me to-day.”

The other studied him openly. “I don’t quite get your number,” he stated. “Your hands ain’t the hands of a workin’ stiff, and you talk kinda like you knew how. You say you been followin’ construction camps all yer life?”

“That’s what I said.”

“But you was lyin’.”

“Well, the way you say that, I can’t resent it, of course. Anyway, I call myself a railroad stiff. Accept it as truth, or don’t—it makes little difference to me. I may be raw—I guess I am—but you stick with me and I’ll pay you for that dinner.”

“Don’t do it till I ask for it,” retorted the other, cupping a hand back of one of his prominent ears and listening up the track.

He arose and went to the two lines of steel, sprawling flat and holding an ear to a rail.

“I hear her singin’ to me,” he announced, returning. “She’ll be here in a minnit. Now that moniker of yours.” He stood before the tank looking at the many carvings thereon. “I don’t see it here, f’r instance. Get up an’ I’ll show you mine. Cut ’er there three years ago, when I was ramblin’ east, ridin’ through the snowsheds, stretched out on the backs of a car o’ sheep to keep warm. Some bed if it don’t lay down under you!”

The Falcon had risen and stood looking up to where the other pointed. In neat carving, on one of the wooden pedestals, he saw:

HALFAWAY DAISY
1917, BOUND EAST
PHINEHAS BEGAT ABISHUA

“That’s an odd name,” remarked The Falcon. “And the quotation?”

“Well, by golly, it ain’t any odder’n my real one, ol’-timer! Daisy’s me right name; and as if that wasn’t funny enough the old folks slipped me a Bible name—Phinehas. Phinehas Daisy—c’n you beat it? I’m one o’ the begatters.”

“What’s that?” asked The Falcon, the lips of his grave mouth twitching in amusement.

“Ain’t you never read the Bible?”

“Not as much as I ought, perhaps.”

“Well, the begatters, as I call ’em are in the Bible. I learned that part by heart till it got down to me. It goes like this: ‘And the children of Amram; Aaron, and Moses, and Miriam. The sons also of Aaron; Nadab and Abihu, Eleazar and Ithamar. Eleazar begat Phinehas. Phinehas begat Abishua.’ Didn’t you ever read that?”

“Yes, I suppose so. Rather dry in there, I thought.”

“Well, I’m Phinehas. I’m one o’ the begatters—see? But the bos they call me Halfaman. That’s pretty raw, too. See how they got it on me? I gotta be square all the time, or folks will think I’m only half a man because they call me that. I used to have a pal, and his right name was Holman Rose. Wasn’t that funny?—Rose and Daisy! Sometimes they called us ‘The Bouquet.’ And then, seein’ his name was Holman, they called me Halfaman. Maybe they’re right, but I never refused a guy a feed when I had it. Here she comes, Falcon. Now you do just what I tell you to, and we’ll make ’er out easy, and ride ’er clean to the desert—if we’re lucky. Believe me, ole Falcon, I’m a ramblin’ yegg when I get started!”