Falcon, of Squawtooth

HUNTER MANGAN was the senior member of the rather large firm of contractors from which the Jeddos had taken their subjob; so Hunt’s dignity would not permit a dash with Manzanita to the moving van. They rode forward, then, at a sedate walk, and when she saw them coming the young driver of the van pulled her six disconsolate mules to a stop.

Mangan lifted his broad-brimmed Stetson.

“Hello, there, Miss Jeddo!” he greeted her. “So you’re here at last. Pretty tough pull, isn’t it?”

Wing o’ the Crow was a beauty—there was no denying that. She was twenty-two and strong and lithe as an Indian girl. On her cheeks was that mahogany-red coloring so attractive in decided brunettes. Her skin was smooth and flawless as the skin of an olive, and her great black eyes, made darker still by the long, black lashes that shadowed them, were fascinating. Her masses of black hair showed no more careful attention than does a wind-blown straw stack, but it lost no picturesqueness because of this.

“My stars!” gasped Manzanita under her breath.

Wing o’ the Crow smiled bashfully at Hunter Mangan, then her big eyes settled a curious look on his companion.

“Pa’s back at th’ tail end, Mr. Mangan,” she said. “How fur ’re we from th’ job?”

“Oh, not more than two miles now. I want you to meet Miss Canby, Miss Jeddo. She lives at that adobe house over there in the cottonwoods, where we get our water. You’ll be camping on the ranch.”

Wing o’ the Crow shyly smiled at Manzanita.

“Well, I guess I’ll have to be movin’ ahead,” she said.

“Wait,” Manzanita told her. “Hunt, you ride back and see her father, if you want to. I’m going to ride in the van, if you’ll lead my mare.”

“Good!” said Hunt. “You two get acquainted.”

Manzanita swung to the ground and handed the contractor her bridle reins. Then she clambered up over the hub to the seat beside Wing o’ the Crow, who divided the seat pad with her.

“Hojup!” she exhorted the mules; and they leaned to the collars and heaved the wagon into motion again.

For a little neither girl spoke, and both watched the mules as if a great deal depended on careful attention to their efforts in the clinging sand. Both were men’s women, and knew less about other members of their own sex than of their opposites. Neither knew how to begin the conversation.

Manzanita, out of the corners of her eyes, took note of the unlaced, run-over shoes and the negligently held-up black stockings of Jeddo’s daughter, also the cheap ring on a workworn finger, and the unstarched gingham dress, over which had been slipped a man’s shirt, the tail hanging to her knees. Wing o’ the Crow observed, when chance offered, the worn leather chaps, the tampico-top boots, the flannel shirt, and the big-roweled Mexican spurs of the daughter of Canby.

Then Manzanita thought of something brilliant.

“How long have you been coming?” she asked.

“Jest from Opaco, or all th’ way?” asked the black-haired girl.

“Both,” said Manzanita.

“We was more’n a week on the railroad,” replied Wing o’ the Crow. “An’ three days drivin’ outa that Opaco. Stock’s wore out, purty near. The railroad trip always does ’em up.”

“Uh-huh—they don’t get any exercise, do they?”

“No.”

“Do you like building railroads?”

“I got to. I don’t know anything else. Sometimes I think I don’t like it; but I guess I do most o’ the time, any way you look at it.”

“Your mother’s dead, isn’t she? So is mine. I was only nine when mine died.”

“I was fifteen,” said Wing o’ the Crow. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

“I’m twenty-two. Do you ride lots?”

“All the time.”

“I’d like to, but we ain’t got any decent saddle hoss. Herd cows?”

“Sometimes. Mostly just ride, though. I could get you a saddle horse, and we could ride together and have lots of fun. Mart—that’s my kid brother—he’d be along whenever he’s down from the mountains. Our cows are all up there in summer. That’s where Mart is supposed to be, building drift fence and things. He was keen enough to be with the cows until the camps came. Now he wants to hang around them all the time. We could shake him, though, now and then, if we wanted to be alone.”

“I couldn’t go with you,” said Jeddo’s daughter. “I gotta work.”

“All the time?”

“Yep.”

“Does your father make you?”

“Not exactly. I like to, I guess. Pa and me never have trouble. He’s easy-goin’—too easy-goin’, some folks say. He’s good to me, though. He’s only got one arm, and I have to do more’n I would if he wasn’t like that, I guess. That’s why they call me Wing o’ the Crow—an’ because I’m black. But I guess you’ve heard.”

“Oh, yes—lots about you. I’ve wanted you to come. I don’t see many girls out here. I thought it would be nice for both of us. I’m sorry you can’t ride with me. We could go up to Little Woman Butte, and—oh, everywhere.”

“I wisht I could, but I ain’t got the time. I got lots an’ lots to do every day.”

“What all?”

“Cookin’ an’ washin’ dishes an’ things like that, an’ stickin’ pigs or skinnin’ Jack an’ Ned—whatever’s to be done.”

“What is sticking pigs?”

“Settin’ slips. You know—loadin’ them little scrapers that ain’t got wheels.”

“Is it hard?”

“Purty. ’Long about three in the afternoon, anyway. It gets you in the back. Then I kinda got to run things—especially when pa’s cuckooed.”

“When pa’s what?”

“Cuckooed—drunk. Takes him four days to get enough, an’ five days to get over his jag. That’s nine days I gotta be bossman.”

No words came to Manzanita now. Brought face to face suddenly with a tragedy, so matter-of-factly introduced into the conversation, she did not know what to say.

“How long have you been a gypo queen?” she asked presently, still thinking of that naïve reference to Jeddo the Crow’s shortcomings.

“Born in a gypo camp.”

“Have you been to school?”

“No. Ma used to teach me, but she died. I c’n read an’ write an’ figger a little. I’m keen about learnin’ things. I read a lot when I ain’t too tired. You see, we’re poor. Somehow we jest about break even on every job we tackle. Pa’d like me to quit th’ road an’ go to school somewheres, but him with his one arm, he couldn’t get along. You been to school a lot, ain’t you? I know by th’ way you say ‘ing’ at th’ end o’ words. Do you read lots?”

“Not so very much,” Manzanita confessed. “I’m usually pretty busy.”

“Doin’ what?”

“Well—now—riding, mostly.”

Manzanita could not read the message of the inscrutable black eyes now turned upon her. Somehow, though, she felt uncomfortable, and hastened to ask:

“Do you live in this van?”

“Yes, I do. I sleep in here. We back it up to th’ cook tent. Hejupah, ole Ned! Ain’t this here sand fierce? Guess I’ll let ’em blow a mite.”

She pulled in gradually on the six lines, and the mules stood heaving.

“I guess I ought to walk,” observed Manzanita.

“Oh, your weight don’t add nothin’ much. They’ll be all right when we get outa this sand an’ hit that dry lake over there. Do you like this country?”

“I love it! Don’t you think it’s pretty?”

“Purty dry an’ purty sandy. How’s Mangan-Hatton gettin’ on with their job?”

“Why, all right, I suppose.”

“Got a cut an’ a fill in rock, ain’t they?”

“I—I think so.”

“This sand’ll make a mighty poor roadbed. Guess they’ll be lots o’ borrowin’ for th’ crown.”

“Ye-yes, I should imagine so.”

“Mangan-Hatton got any Holligans in the rock?”

“I—I never noticed any. This is just common rock, I guess.”

“Common rock! What’s that got to do with Holligans?”

“I thought perhaps Holligans were fissures of some sort.”

“No, they ain’t much on fishin’, I guess. Unless they’re ginnies. Most of ’em are Greeks or Austrians, though. Mostly Mangan-Hatton works stiffs. Any ragtowns on th’ job?”

“One—quite close. Stlingbloke, they call it.”

“Purty raw?”

“I—I suppose so.”

“How close to where we’re gonta camp will it be?”

“About four miles off, I should think.”

“Huh! Jest our luck! They’s always a ragtown right near us, it seems. An’ poor pa he jest can’t keep away from booze. An’ when he’s pifflercated then I gotta keep jumpin’.”

“He isn’t mean to you, is he?” asked Manzanita, in an awed little voice.

“Oh, no. I wouldn’t stand for that. I’m of age. He jest can’t do nothin’ but lay ’round an’ groan—so I gotta cook an’ be bossman, too. Hejupah, Ned! Hejup, Jack!”

“It seems that every mule on railroad work is named either Ned or Jack,” remarked Manzanita, anxious to change the topic.

“Them’s jest railroad names,” explained Wing o’ the Crow. “Railroaders always call tassel tails Ned an’ Jack. D’ye know any o’ th’ stiffs yet?”

“Oh, yes—lots of them.”

“Who all’s at Mangan-Hatton’s? Any ole-timers, did you hear?”

“You bet. I know all the old-timers’ names. There’s Lardo the Cook and Laflin the Goblin, Tombstone, Totaljohn, and Demijohn, Gus the Finn, Bung the B-B—I think that’s just too funny!—Davie the Child,—and, let’s see—Grimes o’ the Coffins, Raddle the Swamper, Dippy-Dip, The Parasite, Lobbygow, Markle, and Spot o’ the Outcasts. Laflin the Goblin is a strange creature. They say his name will be put up at the next hobo convention for king of the tramps. Isn’t that too ridiculous?”

“What d’ye mean, redickilous?”

“Why, tramps having a king.”

Wing o’ the Crow was thoughtful. “I guess maybe it is,” she admitted at length. “I never thought about it. I know purty near all them stiffs—knew most of ’em all my life. I wish we could get stiffs—they work so much better, somehow. But stiffs won’t stay in a gypo camp long, if they stop there at all. We get hicks—farmers, and bindle stiffs. They don’t know no better.”

“Why won’t the stiffs work for you?”

“Well, we can’t feed like th’ big bugs do. An’ we can’t afford to furnish blankets. All our men are bindle stiffs—not regular stiffs, you know—but th’ fellas that carry bundles on their backs—their own beddin’. Then our stock is old and rundown, an’ stiffs want good stock to work with. If I was like a gypo queen’s supposed to be I reckon I’m good lookin’ enough to hold the stiffs. But I ain’t like that. I wouldn’t kid any man along to get ’im to stick in our camp. I’m a lady, if I do skin Jack an’ Ned an’ pull a lot o’ rough stuff. Did you tell me all th’ stiffs’ names that’s at Mangan-Hatton’s?”

“There’s—now—Falcon the Flunky.”

“Never heard o’ him. Who’s skinnin’ th’ plow teams on th’ dirt work?”

“I don’t believe I can tell you that. I haven’t paid a great deal of attention to the work.”

“Don’t know who’s on snap, either?”

“Yes, I believe I do know one snap skinner. I was going to tell you his name. Halfaman Daisy. Know him?”

Again there was silence. Then, “I know ’im,” said Wing o’ the Crow. “How long’s he been out here?”

“I think he came with the outfit.”

“Uh-huh—how close to Mangan-Hatton is our campin’ place?”

“Less than a mile away, I think.”

Silence once more. Then, “Does Halfaman Daisy go to this ragtown very much?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve been there only once, though—to-day, for the first time.”

“Have Mangan-Hatton had a pay day?”

“One, I think.”

“Uh-huh. I guess Halfaman’s been to that ragtown then—what d’ye call it? Stlingbloke? Huh—they’re all stlingbloke, I’ll say.”

Here a tall, ruggedly handsome man, with coal-black hair and mustache, and with one shirt sleeve pinned up, rode past on a mule, with Mangan at his side. They galloped ahead, Mangan leading Manzanita’s mare.

“Guess we’re purty near there,” observed Wing o’ the Crow. “I’ll sleep to-night! Don’t suppose you know what Mangan-Hatton ’re payin’ th’ snap?”

“I haven’t the remotest idea,” replied Manzanita.

Wing o’ the Crow looked at her curiously. “Funny!” she said. “That outfit’s been here a month, I hear, an’ you don’t know nothin’ about ’em but a few stiffs’ names.”

Manzanita looked uncomfortable, and felt as she looked. There was a strange tone of accusation in the large black eyes of the girl of the van. It caused the girl of the desert to feel inferior—insignificant.

“A bunch o’ dance-hall girls at this Stlingbloke, I guess—huh?”

“Yes,” replied Manzanita.

“Did you see a girl with very light hair—bleached, I guess?” questioned the gypo queen.

“I didn’t see her when I was there.”

“Well, I’ll find out from somebody purty soon, I s’pose. So the begatter’s drivin’ snap for Mangan-Hatton, eh? Thinks he’s some skinner, that plug! All right, pa!”

Ahead of them was the man motioning for the van to circle around him and Mangan and come to a stop.

“Home, again!” and Wing o’ the Crow sighed. “Some home, I’ll say! Nice shady spot under that flower there! Does this country ever get so hot it smokes?”