Part 13 (2/2)

”Two and a half cents a pound,” was her prompt reply.

”It's an awful price, when you think it over,” he said reflectively.

”Just imagine, Jo; two and a half cents a pound bein' added onto the price of a sack o' flour--with flour at the unheard-of price it's already reached. And hay and grain! Jo, it's simply staggering.”

”I admit that,” she said. ”But I suppose you took all that into account when you made your bid on the job.”

”You bet your sweet life we did, girl! And I'll tell you what--we figured freight at three and a half cents a pound.”

”You're fortunate. I'll get that, too, if I beat the trucks.”

”Figurin' on gougin' us out of our profits already, eh?”

”Not at all, Mr. Demarest. Two and a half cents is my minimum. I'll freight for that only if forced to by the trucks. I doubt if I can make money at that figure. Only a trial over an extended period of time will tell. It all depends on the nature of the soil--on the condition that the roads develop after a period of heavy traffic over them, and the devastation of the winter rains. There'll be snow in those mountains, too. It's a gamble--a big gamble--but all that I can see against me is the fact that trucks don't eat hay when they're not at work.”

”And how d'ye know where our Camp One is going to be located, girl?” he asked kindly. ”I don't know myself yet.”

”Of course you don't know positively,” she replied. ”But I'll bet you ten to one that you'll never sublet that piece of heavy-rock work through the b.u.t.tes. I don't know a subcontractor--and I've not been out of touch with the grade so very long--who could tackle that stupendous task. So, if you can't sublet it--and I'm betting you can't--it will be up to you folks to do it yourselves. So that tells me where your largest camp will be, and at the nearest water to your largest camp the rag town will spring up. Isn't that all logical?”

”Sound as a dollar,” he told her. ”You weren't raised by Pickhandle Modock for nothing, were you?”

She rose from her chair. ”Tell your subs to send me a wire at Julia when they're ready for any freight, at two and a half cents for a starter,” she said. ”I'll get it to 'em. But if no one meets my price, look for a raise to three cents for the second trip. Of course, if I don't hear from them, I'll know some one has beaten me out. Then I'll see what can be done. Your camp, of course, won't be in till last, I suppose. I'll go back to Palada now, take the stock off pasture, and begin hardening them up. Then I'll start for Julia, and will be there before your outfit moves in.”

CHAPTER XII

SKINNERS FROM FRISCO

Back at Palada, Jerkline Jo began hunting up the expert skinners who had pulled the long sash-cord lines for her foster father, and who had drifted to parts unknown since the completion of the paved road that had virtually put Pickhandle Modock out of the running. The world has not an oversupply of expert jerkline skinners, and the plucky girl's chances for success depended in great part on obtaining good men to handle her teams. She was able to trace some of the men, and her offer to pay their expenses to Palada brought replies favorable to the project in each case. For jerkline jobs are scarce these days, and a jerkline skinner would rather follow his calling than do any other sort of work.

The blacksmith, horsesh.o.e.r, and wagoner, Carter Potts, was still in Palada, and wished for nothing better than to serve the girl. They had decided to reopen the shop at Julia, and for his devotion Jo promised him a generous per cent of any profits which might accrue from work aside from the care of the immense wagons and shoeing the teams. This in addition to his monthly salary of a hundred dollars and board.

From Oregon now came ”Blink” Keddie, who had driven teams for Pickhandle Modock since long before the old railroader had settled at Palada. Tom Gulick came from Utah, where he had been working on a cattle ranch. Heine Schultz and Jim McAllen came from remote regions in the northern lumber woods. But of Ed Hopkins, the prince of mule skinners, and Harry Powell the girl could get no trace.

With the dependable force that she had mustered, however, she took the stock from pasture, broke even on a job to a desert town to the west in order to put the teams in shape, and then made ready for the hundred-and-fifty-mile trip to Julia. She had written Mr. Demarest and asked him to advertise for two good jerkline skinners to be s.h.i.+pped with the first draft of laborers he would get from San Francisco. She had small hopes of obtaining good skinners by this method, but no other course presented itself.

Two days before the start for Julia came a wire from the San Francisco office of Demarest, Spruce & Tillou. It read:

Employment office notifies two jerkline skinners applied re advertis.e.m.e.nt in paper and have been forwarded Palada. Arrive day after to-morrow.

Jo showed the telegram to Heine Schultz when she went to the corrals this morning.

”I'll bet you get a couple o' peaches, Jo,” he laughed. ”Why, any tramp's likely to go to an employment office and say he's anything they want him to be, just to get on the job. And maybe, even, he'll ditch the train before he reaches the job. Just wanted the trip, you know.”

Jo's broad, smooth brow puckered. ”I do hope that will not prove the case,” she said. ”Jerkline skinners are so hard to get, particularly in this country. Every man who has ever driven a horse or mule seems to imagine he can drive jerkline, but you know and I know that it takes knack and years of practice. But I'm hoping that because these two applied for this particular job they're all right. If they merely wished to get free transportation out of San Francisco, it was not necessary for them to apply as jerkies. They could as easily have arranged to be s.h.i.+pped as plain skinners, or rock men, or muckers.”

”I'll bet you draw a prize, all right,” Heine chuckled disconcertingly.

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