“Sell it?” said he. “Sell your breeches fust. Either way you’d be only half dressed. No!”
“It would take me a little way. I’ll not stay in Benton—not to be pointed at as a dupe.”
“Oh, pshaw!” he laughed. “Nobody’ll remember you, specially if you’re known to be broke. Busted, you’re of no use to the camp. Let me make you a proposition. I believe you’re straight goods. Can’t believe anything else, after seein’ your play and sizin’ you up. Let me make you a proposition. I’m on my way to Salt Lake with a bull outfit and I’m in need of another man. I’ll give you a dollar and a 139 half a day and found, and it will be good honest work, too.”
“You are teaming west, you mean?” I asked.
“Yes, sir. Freightin’ across. Mule-whackin’.”
“But I never drove spans in my life; and I’m not in shape to stand hardships,” I faltered. “I’m here for my health. I have——”
“Stow all that, son,” he interrupted more tolerantly than was my due. “Forget your lungs, lights and liver and stand up a full-size man. In my opinion you’ve had too much doctorin’. A month with a bull train, and a diet of beans and sowbelly will put a linin’ in your in’ards and a heart in your chest. When you’ve slept under a wagon to Salt Lake and l’arned to sling a bull whip and relish your beans burned, you can look anybody in the eye and tell him to go to hell, if you like. This roarin’ town life—it’s no life for you. It’s a bobtail, wide open in the middle. I’ll be only too glad to get away on the long trail myself. So you come with me,” and he smiled winningly. “I hate to see you ruined by women and likker. Mule-skinnin’ ain’t all beer and skittles, as they say; but this job’ll tide you over, anyhow, and you’ll come out at the end with money in your pocket, if you choose, and no doctor’s bill to pay.”
“Sir,” I said gratefully, “may I think it over to-night, and let you know in the morning? Where will I find you?”
“The train’s camped near the wagon trail, back at 140 the river. You can’t miss it. It’s mainly a Mormon train, that some of us Gentiles have thrown in with. Ask for Cap’n Hyrum Adams’ train. My name’s Jenks—George Jenks. You’ll find me there. I’ll hold open for you till ten o’clock—yes, till noon. I mean that you shall come. It’ll be the makin’ of you.”
I arose and gave him my hand; shook with him.