Part 17 (1/2)

”He says he's a promoter and capitalist,” Hiram repeated.

”Of course he's talking nonsense.”

Hiram then told of Mr. Tweet's card, which promulgated his operations as a salesman of banana lands, and of the stock he claimed to own in the new ditch digger.

”I thought perhaps he was some sort of a book agent,” said the girl, laughing.

”I don't know much about people,” Hiram confessed with nave simplicity. ”I can't judge folks very well--some folks, anyway.”

”I'm afraid he's a wind bag,” decided Jo. ”Well, we'll befriend him to the grade, anyway, and I guess that then he'll be obliged to s.h.i.+ft for himself. If freight were moving freely, and every day, I might manage to use him--but that won't be the case at first. So we'll have to bid him good-by at the camps. I have an idea he can take care of himself.”

Jerkline Jo glanced at her leather-protected wrist watch.

”It's eight minutes of twelve, Hiram,” she announced. ”I'll roll out my biscuit dough. Can you yell? If so, shout ahead to Blink Keddie and call a halt for noon.”

Hiram rose to his six feet one and cupped his great hands about his mouth. The mellow call that he sent out had rung through miles of Mendocino forest, and now caused every skinner in the line to turn and look back. A wave of Jo's hand and they understood the noon had come.

When they were in camp, and the teams had been fed and watered from the great tank wagon, and Jerkline Jo, with the able help of Twitter-or-Tweet, had made ready the steaming meal, there arose loud praise of the girl's idea concerning the fireless cooker.

”By golly, Jo, this here's grub!” applauded Jim McAllen. ”Some scheme, ol'-timer!”

”I thought it was a kind of a nutty idea when you sprung it, Jo,”

confessed Tom Gulick, ”but I'm strong for the cooker now. Long may she wave! Pa.s.s the gravy, Blink.”

Jerkline Jo glowed with pleasure over her success.

Mr. Tweet made himself very useful by acting as waiter, and hopped about with pots and pans, leading the steaming food on the skinners'

plates. Jo watched him with interest, but still was unable to consider him anything but an imaginative failure--a man who perhaps had seen better days.

When they had finished eating, he collected the dishes, and, as water was heating on the oil stove, had everything washed up and in its place before the resumption of their travel.

”He's clean and neat and thoughtful,” Jerkline Jo reflected. ”Perhaps I'll be able to use him after all. We could use an extra man as roustabout, if business gets good. I'll see. He seems so fond of Hiram, and, really, if it weren't for him, I'd never heard of Hiram.”

She grew thoughtful then, and a trace of red showed under her brown skin. Why had she become so interested in this big countryman from the very start, she wondered.

It was a long, tiresome trip, and days before they reached their temporary destination Hiram Hooker was riding in Jo's wagon, deep in history and algebra and grammar, for Jo had with her all of her schoolbooks.

The days seemed short to both of them. As the magnificent whites plodded steadily on, there was added to the music of the nickeled bells the rapid clicking of Jo at the portable typewriter, or the slower, hesitating peck of Hiram Hooker. They were a silent pair, for they were deep in their studies.

Strange indeed was the picture they presented as they were moved slowly along under the hot desert sky. But for Hiram, at least, this was the beginning of everything. Some magic touch had set him on the road that for years he had longed to travel--the road to knowledge and a better life. Beside him rode the adventure girl who had been beckoning him out of the woods of doubt and ignorance, the girl who had colored his dreams up on lonely Wild-cat Hill.

Hiram quickly became a favorite with Jo's skinners, too; for anybody or anything that the girl approved of was sure to make an appeal to the loyal little crew who swore by Jerkline Jo. Besides, Hiram was irresistible in his quaint geniality and his musical drawl. They called him ”Wild Cat” at first, but when they considered his hugeness and uniform good nature the name seemed a misnomer; so they amended it and called him ”The Gentle Wild Cat.” This moniker clung to Hiram Hooker through all of his subsequent life in the desert.

The seventh day after their start, at evening, they rolled into Julia and set the populace agog with speculation.

As the whites pa.s.sed the depot the station master came out.

”Does a fella named Jerkline Jo belong to this outfit?” he asked, walking along beside Jo's wagon.