CHAPTER III
HOBO STUFF
"Young man," began Bunker Hill after a long and painful silence in whichBig Boy completely ignored him, "I want to ask your pardon. And anythingI can do----"
"I'm all right," cut in the hobo wiping the blood out of one eye andfeeling tenderly of a tooth, "and I don't want nothing to do with you."
"Can't blame ye, can't blame ye," answered Old Bunk judicially. "Icertainly got you wrong. But as I was about to say, Mrs. Hill sent thislunch and she said she hoped you'd accept it."
He untied a sack from the back of his saddle, and as he caught thefragrance of new-made doughnuts Big Boy's resolution failed.
"All right," he said, making a grab for the lunch. "Much obliged!" Andhe chucked him a bill.
"Hey, what's this for?" exclaimed Bunker Hill grievously. "Didn't I askyour pardon already."
"Well, maybe you did," returned the hobo, "but after that call down yougave me this morning I'm going to pay my way. It's too danged bad," hemurmured sarcastically as he opened up the lunch. "Sure hard luck to seea good woman like that married to a pennypinching old walloper likeyou."
"Oh, I don't know," observed Old Bunk, gazing doubtfully at the bill,but at last he put it in his pocket.
"Yes, that's right," he agreed with an indulgent smile, "she's an awfulgood cook--and an awful good woman, too. I'll just give her this moneyto buy some little present--she told me I was wrong, all the time. But Iwant to tell you, pardner--you can believe it or not--I never turned aman down before."
The hobo grunted and bit into a doughnut and Bunker Hill settled downbeside him.
"Say," he began in an easy, conversational tone, "did you ever hearabout the hobo that was walking the streets in Globe? Well, he was brokeand up against it--hadn't et for two days and the rustling was awfulpoor--but as he was walking along the street in front of that bigrestaurant he saw a new meal ticket on the sidewalk. His luck had beenso bad he wouldn't even look at it but at last when he went by he tookanother slant and see that it was good--there wasn't but one mealpunched out."
"Aw, rats," scoffed Big Boy, "are you still telling that one? There wasa miner came by just as he reached down to grab it and punched out everymeal with his hob-nails."
"That's the story," admitted Bunker, "but say, here's another one--didyou ever hear of the hobo Mark Twain? Well, he was a well-knowncharacter in the old days around Globe--kinder drifted around from onecamp to the other and worked all his friends for a dollar. That was hisregular graft, he never asked for more and he never asked the same mantwice, but once every year he'd make the rounds and the old-timers kindof put up with him. Great story-teller and all that and one day I wassitting talking with him when a mining man came into the saloon. Heowned a mine, over around Mammoth somewhere, and he wanted a man to herdit. It was seventy-five a month, with all expenses paid and all you hadto do was to stick around and keep some outsider from jumping in. Well,when he asked for a man I saw right away it was just the place for oldMark and I began to kind of poke him in the ribs, but when he didn'tanswer I hollered to the mining man that I had just the feller hewanted. Well, the mining man came over and put it up to Mark, andeverybody present began to boost. He was such an old bum that we wantedto get rid of him and there wasn't a thing he could kick on. There wasplenty of grub, a nice house to live in and he didn't have to work atap; but in spite of all that, after he'd asked all kinds of questions,Old Mark said he'd have to think it over. So he went over to the bar andbegan to figger on some paper and at last he came back and said he wassorry but he couldn't afford to take it.
"'Well, why not?' we asks, because we knowed he was a bum, but he says:'Well gentlemen, I'll tell ye, it's this way. I've got twelve hundredfriends in Arizona that's worth a dollar apiece a year; but this dangedjob only pays seventy-five a month--I'd be losing three hundred a year."
"Huh, huh," grunted Big Boy, picking up some folded tarts, "your mindseems to be took up with hoboes."
"Them's my wife's pay-streak biscuits," grinned Bunker Hill, "or atleast, that's what I call 'em. The bottom crust is the foot-wall, thetop is the hanging-wall, and the jelly in the middle is the pay streak."
"Danged good!" pronounced the hobo licking the tips of his fingers andOld Bunk tapped him on the knee.
"Say," he said, "seeing the way you whipped that jasper puts me in mindof a feller back in Texas. He was a big, two-fisted hombre, one of theseTexas bad-men that was always getting drunk and starting in to clean upthe town; and he had all the natives bluffed. Well, he was in the saloonone day, telling how many men he'd killed, when a little guy dropped inthat had just come to town, and he seemed to take a great interest. Hekept edging up closer, sharpening the blade of his jack-knife on one ofthese here little pocket whetstones, until finally he reached over andcut a notch in the bad man's ear.
"There," he says, "you're so doggoned bad--next time I see you I'll knowyou!"
"Yeh, some guy," observed Big Boy, "and I see you're some story-teller,but what's all this got to do with me?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing," answered Old Bunk hastily, "only I thought whileyou were eating----"
"Yes, you told me two stories about a couple of hoboes and then anotherone about taming down a bad man; but I want to tell you right now,before you go any further, that I'm no hobo nor bad man neither. I'm adanged good miner--one of the best in Globe----"
"Aw, no no!" burst out Bunker holding up both hands in protest, "you'vegot me wrong entirely."
"Well, your stories may be all right," responded Big Boy shortly, "butthey don't make a hit with me. And I've took about enough, for one day."
He started back up the trail and Bunker Hill rode along behind him goingover the events of the day. Some distinctly evil genius seemed to havetaken possession of him from the moment he got out of bed and, try as hewould, it seemed absolutely impossible for him to square himself withthis Big Boy.
"Hey, git on and ride," he shouted encouragingly, but Big Boy shook hishead.
"Don't want to," he answered and once more Bunker Hill was left toponder his mistakes. The first, of course, was in taking too much forgranted when Big Boy had walked into town; and the second was in everrefusing a hobo when he asked for something to eat. True it amounted inthe aggregate to a heart-breaking amount--almost enough to support hisfamily--but a man lost his luck when he turned a hobo down and Old Bunkdecided against it. Never again, he resolved, would he restrain his goodwife from following the dictates of her heart, and that meant that everyhobo that walked into town would get a square meal in his kitchen. Wherethe cash was coming from to buy this expensive food and pay for thefreighting across the desert was a matter for the future to decide, butas he dwelt on his problem a sudden ray of hope roused Bunker Hill fromhis reverie. Speaking of money, the ex-hobo, walking along in front ofhim, had over eight hundred dollars in his hip pocket--and he claimed tobe a miner!
"Say!" began Bunker as they came in sight of town, "d'ye see those oldworkings over there? That's the site of the celebrated Lost BurroMine--turned out over four millions in silver!"
"Yeah, so I've heard," answered Big Boy wearily, "been closed downthough, for twenty years."
"I'm the owner of that property," went on Bunker pompously. "Andrew Hillis my name and I'd be glad to show you round."
"Nope," said the future prospect, "I'm too danged tired. I'm going downto the crick and rest."
"Come up to the house," proposed Bunker Hill cordially, "and meet mywife and family. I'm sure Mrs. Hill will be glad to see you back--shewas afraid that something might happen to you."
The hobo glanced up with a swift, cynical smile and turned off down thetrail to the creek.
"I see you've got your eye on my roll," he observed and Bunker Hillshrugged regretfully.