“Then see the walker. Or just go to work unloadin’. Don’t bother anybody about a job, young fella. Help yourself.”
“Thanks,” said Joshua.
“Huh!” said the stable boss.
Joshua walked toward the nearest car of the train, from which men were dragging bundles of tents, heavy tent poles, and all manner of camp paraphernalia. He noticed a squat, wide-chested man with a broad-brimmed tan hat on his head, who, though undemonstrative, stood watching the unloading in a half-aloof, half-interested manner which gave him an air of commandership. Toward him Joshua directed his steps, and as he drew nearer he took note of finely chiseled features, heavy iron-gray hair, and kindly slate-colored eyes that looked out from under craggy brows as black as a campfire kettle. They made thick arches, and here and there solitary hairs that were thrice as long as the others stuck out like the spines of a cactus. A stubby gray beard covered the lower portion of his face, and the rest of it was brown as a cascara berry.
“Are you the boss here?” asked the wayfarer.
“Yep”—and the kindly slate eyes gave Joshua a keen, quizzical look that seemed to catalogue him from A to Z.
“I want to go to work.”
“Hop to it.”
Here was invitation enough, so Joshua fell in at the end of the line of men moving to and from the car, and when he reached the door took upon his shoulders the tongue of a wheeled scraper that was handed out. He carried it to where a group of men were assembling all sorts of grading implements, and returned for another load.
For about fifteen minutes he made the same round, carrying anything that was handed out, often assuming a quarter or a half of some heavy piece of freight too cumbersome for a single man. And as he worked he frequently caught the slate eyes of the squat boss upon him.