“And remember who was subbing off us on the south—camped right next to us?”
“Sure—Jeddo the Crow. Oh, I get you now! Jeddo’ll be on this job soon, hey? And with him will be Wing o’ the Crow! So that’s the big idea. You can’t hold Halfaman when Jeddo gets out here.”
“I thought I might if I give him a snap team,” said Hunt. “Jeddo the Crow will probably camp right next door to us. Halfaman can have a good job, and not be a mile away from the girl at that. I’d like to hold him. He’s a bear with a team.”
“Good man, all right. Popular with the rest o’ the stiffs, too. And that means a lot. How ’bout that black-haired little kid of Jeddo’s, Hunt? Is she a regular shanty queen of the old school?”
“No, Steve. She’s mighty pretty, too. And work! She’s as good as a man. If that fellow Jeddo had any pep and would cut the booze he’d make good. But he’s a thorough gypo man—doesn’t care, I guess. Just loves the life and is content to drag along with a few old skates and a collection of junk for tools. But Wing o’ the Crow is different. She takes after her mother, I suppose. Mrs. Jeddo was a pretty nice little woman, mild and ladylike and uncomplaining. Say, it wouldn’t be a bad idea for all concerned if Halfaman could horn in there. He and that girl would move dirt.”
“Uh-huh,” agreed Steve.
Soon the camp was rolled in blankets after the meal, and only the flunkies worked under the gasoline torches. Later they, too, lay on the hard ground, looking up at the desert stars, speculating on their future in this wilderness before they dropped asleep.
The mules and horses crunched their alfalfa hay, or rested their weary bodies in the white sand. The night wind of the desert blew softly through the chevaux-de-frise of the yuccas, which moaned dismally. Over on the summit of a rocky butte a coyote laughed at his mate, who laughed derisively back from another eminence. Falcon the Flunky lay under a wagon, wrapped in a quilt, his head on his rolled-up coat. If there was a mystery in the line of Falcon the Flunky it was now in the background of his mind; for he was dreaming that Lardo the Cook had ordered him to slice a thousand hams, with no slice a hair’s breadth thicker than the rest. The task kept him rather busy.
At six o’clock the following morning Webster Canby and his brood of five were at breakfast. Besides Mart and Manzanita, the brood for the present consisted of “Crip” Richey and “Limpy” Pardoe—gentlemen of the saddle—and Mrs. Ehrhart, the housekeeper. The cows were on summer pasture at this time of year, up on the mountain meadows, and the remainder of the vaqueros were with them at the camp called Piñon—Ed Chazzy, “Lucky” Gilfoyle, Splicer Kurtz, and “Toddlebike” Todd. Pardoe and Richey belonged up there, and were at the home ranch for only twenty-four hours. Mart Canby, too, belonged up there; but for the present Mart was interested in the new railroad camps and had decided, with the consent of a lenient father, to “get an eyeful” before returning to the altitudes. Miss Manzanita Canby was always anywhere she wished to be at any time she wished, so long as the pinto could get her there in conformance with these wishes.
“Did you see ’em, Manzy?” Mart asked his sister, who had just taken her seat at the foot of the table, for Mrs. Ehrhart occupied the head.