Part 21 (2/2)

The sights were inspiring. Man's work at empire building beckoned me, for surely the wagoning of munitions to remote outposts of civilization was very necessary. Consequently I trudged best foot forward, although on empty stomach and with empty pockets; but glad to be at large, and exchanging good-natured greetings with the travelers encountered.

Nevertheless my new boots were burning, my thigh was chafed raw from the swaying Colt's, and my face and throat were parched with the dust, when in about an hour, the flag of the military post having been my landmark, I had arrived almost at the willow-bordered river and now scanned about for the encampment of my train.

Some dozen white-topped wagons were standing grouped in a circle upon the trampled dry sod to the south of the road. Figures were busily moving among them, and the thin blue smoke of their fires was a welcoming signal.

I marked women, and children. The whole prospect--they, the breakfast smoke, the grazing animals, the stout vehicles, a line of washed clothing--was homy. So I veered aside and made for the spot, to inquire my way if nothing more.

First I addressed a little girl, tow-headed and barelegged, in a single cotton garment.

”I am looking for the Captain Adams wagon train. Do you know where it is?”

She only pointed, finger of other hand in her mouth; but as she indicated this same camp I pressed on. Mr. Jenks himself came out to meet me.

”Hooray! Here you are. I knew you'd do it. That's the ticket. Broke loose, have you?”

”Yes, sir. I accept your offer if it's still open,” I said.

We shook hands.

”Wide open. Could have filled it a dozen times. Come in, come on in and sit. You fetched all your outfit?”

”What you see,” I confessed. ”I told you my condition. They stripped me clean.”

He rubbed his beard.

”Wall, all you need is a blanket. Reckon I can rustle you that. You can pay for it out of your wages or turn it in at the end of the trip. Fust I'd better make you acquainted to the wagon boss. There he is, yonder.”

He conducted me on, along the groups and fires and bedding outside the wagon circle, and halted where a heavy man, of face smooth-shaven except chin, sat upon a wagon-tongue whittling a stick.

”Mornin', Cap'n. Wall, I'm filled out. I've hired this lad and can move whenever you say the word. You----” he looked at me. ”What's your name, you say?”

”Frank Beeson,” I replied.

”Didn't ketch it last night,” he apologized. ”Shake hands with Cap'n Hyrum Adams, Frank. He's the boss of the train.”

Captain Adams lazily arose--a large figure in his dusty boots, coa.r.s.e trousers and flannel s.h.i.+rt, and weather-beaten black slouch hat. The inevitable revolver hung at his thigh. His pursed lips spurted a jet of tobacco juice as he keenly surveyed me with small, shrewd, china-blue eyes squinting from a broad flaccid countenance. But the countenance was unemotional while he offered a thick hand which proved singularly soft and flatulent under the callouses.

”Glad to meet you, stranger,” he acknowledged in slow ba.s.s. ”Set down, set down.”

He waved me to the wagon-tongue, and I thankfully seated myself. All of a sudden I seemed utterly gone; possibly through lack of food. My sigh must have been remarked.

”Breakfasted, stranger?” he queried pa.s.sively.

”Not yet, sir. I was anxious to reach the train.”

”Pshaw! I was about to ask you that,” Mr. Jenks put in. ”Come along and I'll throw together a mess for you.”

”n.o.body goes hungry from the Adams wagon, stranger,” Captain Adams observed. He slightly raised his voice, peremptory. ”Rachael! Fetch our guest some breakfast.”

”But as Mr. Jenks has invited me, Captain, and I am in his employ----” I protested. He cut me short.

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