“Come up to the house,” proposed Bunker Hill cordially, “and meet my wife and family. I’m sure 22Mrs. Hill will be glad to see you back–she was afraid that something might happen to you.”
The hobo glanced up with a swift, cynical smile and turned off down the trail to the creek.
“I see you’ve got your eye on my roll,” he observed and Bunker Hill shrugged regretfully.
23CHAPTER IV
CASH
It was evident to Bunker Hill that no common measures would serve to interest this young capitalist in his district; and yet there he was, a big husky young miner, with eight hundred dollars in his pocket. That eight hundred dollars, if wisely expended, might open up a bonanza in Pinal; and in any case, if it was spent with him, it would help to pay the freight. Old Bunk chopped open a bale of hay with an ax and gave his horse a feed; and, after he had given his prospect time to rest, he drifted off down towards the creek.
The creek at Pinal was one of those vagrant Western streams that appear and disappear at will. Where its course was sandy it sank from sight, creeping along on the bed-rock below; but where as at Pinal the bed-rock came to the surface, then the creek, perforce, rushed and gurgled. From the dark and windy depths of Queen Creek Canyon it came rioting down over the rocks and where the trail crossed there was a mighty sycamore that almost dammed its course. With its gnarled and swollen roots half dug from their crevices by the tumultuous violence of cloudbursts, it clung like 24an octopus to a shattered reef of rocks and sucked up its nourishment from the water. In the pool formed by its roots the minnows leapt and darted, solemn bull-frogs stared forth from dark holes, and in a natural seat against the huge tree trunk Big Boy sat cooling his feet. He looked younger now, with the blood washed off his face and the hard lines of hunger ironed out, and as Bunker Hill made some friendly crack he showed his white teeth in a smile.
“Pretty nice down here,” he said and Bunker nodded gravely.
“Yes,” he said, “nice place for frogs. Say, did you ever hear the story about Spud Murphy’s frog farm? Well Spud was an old-timer, awful gallant to the ladies, especially when he’d had a few drinks, and every time he’d get loaded about so far he’d get out an old flute and play it. But it sounded so sad and mournful that everybody kicked, and one time over at a dance when Spud was about to play some ladies began to jolly him about it.
“‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ says Spud, ‘there’s a story connected with that flute. The only time I ever stood to make a fortune I spoiled it by playing that sad music.’