Part 16 (2/2)
Hiram began to talk, and gradually he grew eloquent, for at soul he was a poet. He told of the grandeur of the big, solemn redwoods, of the ice-cold creeks that plunged riotously through the mysterious fastnesses of great forests. He told of his dead father and mother, asleep forever between the big bull pines on Wild-cat Hill. He told of his cramped, starved life, of his hopes and vague ambitions and his dreams.
She listened silently, deeply interested, her dark eyes glowing upon him, her chin cupped by a strong brown hand. His simplicity was new and refres.h.i.+ng. Soon she realized that no ordinary mind lay dormant back of the well-formed forehead of this tender-hearted backwoodsman.
His talk showed that he had read a great deal and had somehow grasped the significance of it all. Several times her eyes filled with tears as she listened; often she smiled understandingly at his quaint confessions. Presently she asked:
”Hiram, have you any ambition for an education?”
”Yes,” he told her. ”I've always wanted that, I guess. That's why I read so much, I s'pose. But there wasn't much chance up there. I learned all they could teach me at school--learned it easy. But there wasn't any chance to go farther.”
”You've that chance now,” she told him softly.
”Do you mean----” He stopped, his lips parted as he gazed into her eyes.
”Just that,” she said. ”I'll help you. We'll study together. Right here in my wagon. Your blacks will jog along without you over many stretches in the road from Julia to the camps. Through the mountains, of course, we shall have to be at the jerklines constantly. We'll be four days traveling between Julia and the camps, loaded, and between two and three days returning empty. Only one day of the trip going will be over a mountain road. The rest of the time you may ride with me and fight for your education. I'll help you.”
”Miss Jo----” There was a lump in Hiram's throat.
”Just Jo, please. No one ever troubles to call me miss, and I don't want them to.”
”I'll do it, then, Jo,” said Hiram huskily. ”I never dreamed I'd ever have such a chance. And I'll work, too--I'll study night and day. But why--why are you doin' this for me?”
Slowly the rich color mounted to the cheeks Jerkline Jo. ”I--I know how it is,” she said. ”I was raised in a gypo camp, and had no chance until late in my teens. Knew nothing but mules and horses until I was eighteen or over--cared for nothing else. And I love them still; but I've grown ambitious to get all that I can from life. I like you, Hiram Hooker. You're a big, clean-minded, simple-souled man. I'll help you all I can.”
Hiram's experience with Lucy Dalles, and now with this splendid girl called Jerkline Jo, might have turned the head of a more sophisticated male. But the big woods of the North teach a man his insignificance in the scheme of life, teach him honesty and simplicity of heart and sincerity. So now Hiram Hooker's ego was not inflamed. He had no idea of his appeal to the other s.e.x. Few women could help admiring such a handsome young giant as was Hiram, strong as a bull, symmetrical as some st.u.r.dy plant; and his drawling, soft voice was a caress that bespoke the kindly heart of a child and the tenderness of a woman.
Withal he had a poet's soul, and all women love poetry in a man.
”Tell me about Twitter-or-Tweet, and so forth,” she begged finally. ”I can't understand that man. Is he a pure fake?”
”I don't know,” Hiram replied. ”He was mighty good to me in a way.
He's been about a heap.”
”Hiram, if you'll pardon me, we'll begin your lesson right now. I wouldn't say a 'heap.' You must try to overcome such colloquialisms.”
”I'll try never to say it again,” Hiram promised unblus.h.i.+ngly.
”But listen,” she added. ”Don't take me to task if you hear me saying things in the vernacular of the railroad grade. I have to. As Gypo Jo, I know thousands of the old-timers, and they expect certain things of me for old times' sake. As Jerkline Jo, the situation will be much the same. I am obliged to be a mixer. Men whose friends.h.i.+p I could not afford to dispense with even if I wished to--which, I a.s.sure you, I do not--won't stand for a high-and-mighty att.i.tude in me. I am of the railroad grade, and proud of it, and I must continue to be a part of the rough-and-ready frontier life. Hiram, I suppose your ideas of womanhood are very hallowed. Will you be greatly shocked when you see me go into a tent saloon and drink a gla.s.s of beer with the rabble of the big camps?”
”Do you do that?”
”I simply have to, Hiram. Ever since I was knee-high to you, until a very few years ago, I lived with one or more tent saloons within a stone's throw of our camp. Morals are, after all, a local conception, Hiram. What is thought to be wrong in one country will be the accepted practice just over the border line. It's all in the viewpoint. I not only go into saloons with men friends of mine, but sometimes I play poker or roulette or faro just to please them. And listen: Never in all my rough-and-ready life in railroad camps have I been insulted by regular stiffs, as the laborers are called. Certain outsiders have misunderstood my freedom from conventionality on several occasions, but always to their sorrow. Understand, I don't care the snap of my finger for beer, or to gamble; but these things will be expected of me now as in the old days when I knew no better, and I dare not a.s.sume a superior att.i.tude toward people who have known me since I was found, a mere baby, half buried by the desert sands.”
She told Hiram about her childhood then, and that she knew nothing of her parents, not even her own true name. Hiram gave ear eagerly to her story, and thought he understood her situation.
”I couldn't think anything wrong of you, ma'am,' he told her gently as she finished.
”And don't call me 'ma'am,' please,” she corrected with a friendly smile. ”And that reminds me that I made us wander from the subject of Twitter-or-Tweet. You were telling me about him when I interrupted.
What is he? He's not a common tramp--a stiff.”
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