NIGHT had cast its black poncho over the desert when the Mangan-Hatton outfit completed its ninety-mile journey from Opaco. Up close to the chain of calico buttes that upreared from the level land as if a giant child had piled them there in play, the wagon train was halted.
It was two hours beyond their regular feeding time, and the disappointed mules brayed ceaselessly. One minute’s delay in this important matter is sufficient to cause a railroad mule to tell the world about it, and two hours of infraction of the rules brought forth a protest proportionately heartrending. The vehicles were drawn up in a hollow square, and teams were unharnessed and fed inside the barrier, which served as a corral. There was necessarily a great hubbub, for there was no moon and nobody seemed to know where anything was. Orders were bawled right and left, amended, countermanded, and disregarded. Men swore intermittently, especially when they came in contact with a nest of desert cacti, unseen in the dark, but quite able to make its presence known. Teams stamped and eagerly crunched their feed. Men fell over piles of harness and kicked things—sometimes to their regret.
A calmer crew presided over a range set up temporarily in the sand. Here was little confusion, for all had seen to it that the cooks and their flunkies were supplied with provisions and the necessary tools.
Falcon the Flunky was greatly in evidence, slicing loaf after loaf of baker’s bread by the flickering light of gasoline torches, cutting ham into what he tried to convince himself were thin slices, carrying bucket after bucket of water from the tank wagon, conveniently backed up to the scene of these culinary activities, and staking the range with greasewood roots foraged from the desert which had heaved them up. It is said of the desert that there one digs his wood and climbs for his water; which is quite true, since the roots of the greasewood make better fuel than the branches, and springs are invariably in the foothills, on higher land.
Already Falcon the Flunky was becoming familiar with his task. The outfit had camped several times since leaving Opaco, and he had learned much.
The head cook—or chef, as he is dignified by the stiffs—was an old-time camp cook, and one of the best in railroad-construction circles. “Lardo the Cook” was a hard worker and a whirlwind for speed—tall, bony-faced, and paste-skinned—and, furthermore, he was a good fellow. There was a second cook called “Baldy,” and two more flunkies called “Rambo the Bouncer” and “Strip.”
Not long after the stock had been fed and watered Falcon the Flunky, at Lardo’s command, beat upon a dishpan with his knuckles and shouted: “Come get it!” And like a pack of hungry wolves the strangers on the desert swooped down upon ham and eggs and cottage-fried potatoes, for the unaccustomed coldness of the desert night and the delay had made them ravenous.
They sat on the ground about the range and held plates and coffee cups, while Falcon the Flunky and the other two piled victuals in the plates and poured steaming coffee in the cups. Over the range the cooks worked speedily, frying more and more and more.
Hunter Mangan, with his walking boss and his bookkeeper, sat with the rest on the ground and ate as greedily as anybody. Mangan’s eyes followed Falcon the Flunky as he hustled about supplying the hungry men, always ready, always willing, silent when asking some one if he wanted anything more, patiently efficient.
“That’s quite a flunky you’ve got, Hunt,” remarked the walking boss, a big, fat, red-faced giant named Reynolds. “Now, that’s the way I like to see a man act. He savvies that these stiffs are half starved and that most of ’em have been drivin’ teams all day, while he’s been only ridin’ and lookin’ at the scenery. He can’t do enough for ’em. Where’d that bird blow from?”