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  “Ay, Chihuahua!” he ejaculated in shrill surprise and reined in his horse to gaze. The young hobo was running and, not far ahead, the Ground Hog was fleeing before him. They ran through bushy gulches and over cactus-crowned ridges where the sahuaros rose up like giant sentinels; until at last, as he came to the sandy creek-bed, the black hobo stood at bay.

  “They’re fighting!” exclaimed Bunker with a joyous chuckle and rode down the trail like the wind.

  After twenty wild years in Old Mexico, there were times when Bunker Hill found Arizona a trifle tame; but here at last there was staged a combat that promised to take a place in local history. When he rode up on the fight the young miner and the Ground Hog were standing belt to belt, exchanging blows with all their strength, and as the young man reeled back from a right to the jaw the Ground Hog leapt in to finish him.

  “Here! None of that!” spoke up Bunker Hill menacing the black hobo with his quirt; but the battered young Apollo waved him angrily aside and flew at his opponent again.

  “I’ll show you, you danged dog!” he cursed exultantly as the Ground Hog went down before him, “I’ll show you how to run out on me! Come on, you big stiff, and if I don’t make you holler quit you can have every dollar you stole!”

  “Hey, what’s the matter, Big Boy? What’s going on here?” demanded Bunker of the blond young giant. “I thought you fellers were pardners.”

  “Pardners, hell!” spat Big Boy, whose mouth was beginning to bleed. “He robbed me of all my money. We won eight hundred dollars in the drilling contest at Globe and he collected the stakes and beat it!”

  “You’re a liar!” retorted the Ground Hog standing sullenly on his guard, and once more Big Boy went after him. They roughed it back and forth, neither seeking to avoid the blows but swinging with all their might; until at last the Ground Hog landed a mighty smash that knocked his opponent to the ground. “Now lay there,” he jeered, and, stepping over to one side, he picked up a purse from the ground.

  It was the same bulging purse that he had forgotten that morning in his hurry to get over the hill, and as Bunker Hill gazed at it two things which had misled him became suddenly very plain. The day before had been the Fourth of July, when the miners had their contests in Globe, and these two powerful men were a team of double-jackers who had won the first prize between them. Then the Ground Hog had stolen the total proceeds, which accounted for his show of great wealth; and Big Boy, on the other hand, being left without a cent, had been compelled to beg for his breakfast. A wave of righteous anger rose up in Old Bunk’s breast at the monstrous injustice of it all and, whipping out his pistol, he threw down on the Ground Hog and ordered him to put up his hands.

  “And now lay down that purse,” he continued briefly, “before I shoot the flat out of your eye.”

  The hobo complied, but before he could retreat the young miner raised himself up.

  “Say, you butt out of this!” he said to Bunker Hill, waggling his head to shake off the blood. “I’ll ’tend to this yap myself.”

  He turned his gory front to the Ground Hog, who came eagerly back to the fray; and once more like snarling animals they heaved and slugged and grunted, until once more poor Big Boy went down.

  “I can whip him!” he panted rising up and clearing his eyes. “I could clean him in a minute–only I’m starved.”

  He staggered and the heart of Bunker Hill smote him when he remembered how he had denied the man food. Yet he bored in resolutely, though his blows were weak, and the Ground Hog’s pig eyes gleamed. He abated his own blows, standing with arms relaxed and waiting; and when he saw the opening he struck. It was aimed at the jaw, a last, smashing hay-maker, such a blow as would stagger an ox; but as it came past his guard the young Apollo ducked, and then suddenly he struck from the hip. His whole body was behind it, a sharp uppercut that caught the hurtling Ground Hog on the chin; and as his head went back his body lurched and followed and he landed in a heap in the dirt.

  “He’s out!” shouted Bunker and Big Boy nodded grimly; but the Ground Hog was pawing at the ground. He rose up, and fell, then rose up again; and as they watched him half-pityingly he scrambled across the sand and made a grab at the purse.

  “You stand back!” he blustered clutching the purse to his breast and snapping open the blade of a huge jack-knife; but before Old Bunk could intervene Big Boy had caught up a rock.

  “You drop that knife,” he shouted fiercely, “or I’ll bash out your brains with this stone!” And as the Ground Hog gazed into his battle-mad eyes he weakened and dropped the knife. “Now gimme that purse!” ordered the masterful Big Boy and, cringing before the rock, the beaten Ground Hog slammed it down on the ground with a curse.

  “I’ll git you yet!” he burst out hoarsely as he shambled off down the trail, “I’ll learn you to git gay with me!”

  “You’ll learn me nothing,” returned the young miner contemptuously and gathered up the spoils of battle.

  * * *

  CHAPTER III

  HOBO STUFF

  “Young man,” began Bunker Hill after a long and painful silence in which Big Boy completely ignored him, “I want to ask your pardon. And anything I can do─”

  “I’m all right,” cut in the hobo wiping the blood out of one eye and feeling tenderly of a tooth, “and I don’t want nothing to do with you.”

  “Can’t blame ye, can’t blame ye,” answered Old Bunk judicially. “I certainly got you wrong. But as I was about to say, Mrs. Hill sent this lunch and she said she hoped you’d accept it.”

  He untied a sack from the back of his saddle, and as he caught the fragrance of new-made doughnuts Big Boy’s resolution failed.

  “All right,” he said, making a grab for the lunch. “Much obliged!” And he chucked him a bill.

  “Hey, what’s this for?” exclaimed Bunker Hill grievously. “Didn’t I ask your pardon already.”

  “Well, maybe you did,” returned the hobo, “but after that call down you gave me this morning I’m going to pay my way. It’s too danged bad,” he murmured sarcastically as he opened up the lunch. “Sure hard luck to see a good woman like that married to a pennypinching old walloper like you.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” observed Old Bunk, gazing doubtfully at the bill, but at last he put it in his pocket.

  “Yes, that’s right,” he agreed with an indulgent smile, “she’s an awful good cook–and an awful good woman, too. I’ll just give her this money to buy some little present–she told me I was wrong, all the time. But I want to tell you, pardner–you can believe it or not–I never turned a man down before.”

  The hobo grunted and bit into a doughnut and Bunker Hill settled down beside him.

  “Say,” he began in an easy, conversational tone, “did you ever hear about the hobo that was walking the streets in Globe? Well, he was broke and up against it–hadn’t et for two days and the rustling was awful poor–but as he was walking along the street in front of that big restaurant he saw a new meal ticket on the sidewalk. His luck had been so bad he wouldn’t even look at it but at last when he went by he took another slant and see that it was good–there wasn’t but one meal punched out.”

  “Aw, rats,” scoffed Big Boy, “are you still telling that one? There was a miner came by just as he reached down to grab it and punched out every meal with his hob-nails.”

  “That’s the story,” admitted Bunker, “but say, here’s another one–did you ever hear of the hobo Mark Twain? Well, he was a well-known character in the old days around Globe–kinder drifted around from one camp to the other and worked all his friends for a dollar. That was his regular graft, he never asked for more and he never asked the same man twice, but once every year he’d make the rounds and the old-timers kind of put up with him. Great story-teller and all that and one day I was sitting talking with him when a mining man came into the saloon. He owned a mine, over around Mammoth somewhere, and he wanted a man to herd it. It was seventy-five a month, with all expenses paid and all you had to do w
as to stick around and keep some outsider from jumping in. Well, when he asked for a man I saw right away it was just the place for old Mark and I began to kind of poke him in the ribs, but when he didn’t answer I hollered to the mining man that I had just the feller he wanted. Well, the mining man came over and put it up to Mark, and everybody present began to boost. He was such an old bum that we wanted to get rid of him and there wasn’t a thing he could kick on. There was plenty of grub, a nice house to live in and he didn’t have to work a tap; but in spite of all that, after he’d asked all kinds of questions, Old Mark said he’d have to think it over. So he went over to the bar and began to figger on some paper and at last he came back and said he was sorry but he couldn’t afford to take it.

  “‘Well, why not?’ we asks, because we knowed he was a bum, but he says: ‘Well gentlemen, I’ll tell ye, it’s this way. I’ve got twelve hundred friends in Arizona that’s worth a dollar apiece a year; but this danged job only pays seventy-five a month–I’d be losing three hundred a year.”

  “Huh, huh,” grunted Big Boy, picking up some folded tarts, “your mind seems to be took up with hoboes.”

  “Them’s my wife’s pay-streak biscuits,” grinned Bunker Hill, “or at least, that’s what I call ’em. The bottom crust is the foot-wall, the top is the hanging-wall, and the jelly in the middle is the pay streak.”

  “Danged good!” pronounced the hobo licking the tips of his fingers and Old Bunk tapped him on the knee.

  “Say,” he said, “seeing the way you whipped that jasper puts me in mind of a feller back in Texas. He was a big, two-fisted hombre, one of these Texas bad-men that was always getting drunk and starting in to clean up the town; and he had all the natives bluffed. Well, he was in the saloon one day, telling how many men he’d killed, when a little guy dropped in that had just come to town, and he seemed to take a great interest. He kept edging up closer, sharpening the blade of his jack-knife on one of these here little pocket whetstones, until finally he reached over and cut a notch in the bad man’s ear.

  “There,” he says, “you’re so doggoned bad–next time I see you I’ll know you!”

  “Yeh, some guy,” observed Big Boy, “and I see you’re some story-teller, but what’s all this got to do with me?”

  “Oh, nothing, nothing,” answered Old Bunk hastily, “only I thought while you were eating─”

  “Yes, you told me two stories about a couple of hoboes and then another one about taming down a bad man; but I want to tell you right now, before you go any further, that I’m no hobo nor bad man neither. I’m a danged good miner–one of the best in Globe─”

  “Aw, no no!” burst out Bunker holding up both hands in protest, “you’ve got me wrong entirely.”

  “Well, your stories may be all right,” responded Big Boy shortly, “but they don’t make a hit with me. And I’ve took about enough, for one day.”

  He started back up the trail and Bunker Hill rode along behind him going over the events of the day. Some distinctly evil genius seemed to have taken possession of him from the moment he got out of bed and, try as he would, it seemed absolutely impossible for him to square himself with this Big Boy.

  “Hey, git on and ride,” he shouted encouragingly, but Big Boy shook his head.

  “Don’t want to,” he answered and once more Bunker Hill was left to ponder his mistakes. The first, of course, was in taking too much for granted when Big Boy had walked into town; and the second was in ever refusing a hobo when he asked for something to eat. True it amounted in the aggregate to a heart-breaking amount–almost enough to support his family–but a man lost his luck when he turned a hobo down and Old Bunk decided against it. Never again, he resolved, would he restrain his good wife from following the dictates of her heart, and that meant that every hobo that walked into town would get a square meal in his kitchen. Where the cash was coming from to buy this expensive food and pay for the freighting across the desert was a matter for the future to decide, but as he dwelt on his problem a sudden ray of hope roused Bunker Hill from his reverie. Speaking of money, the ex-hobo, walking along in front of him, had over eight hundred dollars in his hip pocket–and he claimed to be a miner!

  “Say!” began Bunker as they came in sight of town, “d’ye see those old workings over there? That’s the site of the celebrated Lost Burro Mine–turned out over four millions in silver!”

  “Yeah, so I’ve heard,” answered Big Boy wearily, “been closed down though, for twenty years.”

  “I’m the owner of that property,” went on Bunker pompously. “Andrew Hill is my name and I’d be glad to show you round.”

  “Nope,” said the future prospect, “I’m too danged tired. I’m going down to the crick and rest.”

  “Come up to the house,” proposed Bunker Hill cordially, “and meet my wife and family. I’m sure Mrs. 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.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 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 an 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.’

  “‘Oh, tell us about it,’ they all says at once; so Spud began on his tale.

  “It seems he was over around Clifton when some French miners came in and, knowing their weakness, Spud dammed up the creek and got ready to have a frog farm. He sent back to Arkansaw and got three carloads of bull-frogs–thoroughbreds old Spud said they was–and turned them loose in the creek; and every evening, to keep them from getting lonely, he’d play ’em a few tunes on his flute. Well, they were doing fine, getting used to the dry country and beginning to get over being homesick, when one night Murph went up there and played them the Arkansaw Traveler.

  “Well, of course that was the come-on–Old Spud stopped his story–and finally one la
dy bit.

  “‘Yes, but how did you lose your fortune?’ she asks and Spud he shakes his head.

  “‘By playing that tune,’ he says. ‘Them frogs got so homesick they started right out for Arkansaw–and every one perished on the desert.’”

  “Huh!” grunted Big Boy, who had been listening intolerantly. “Say, is that all you do–sit around and tell stories for a living? Why the hell don’t you git out and work?”

  “Well, you got me again, kid,” admitted Old Bunk mournfully, “I’m sure sorry I made you that talk. But I was so doggoned sore at that pardner of yours that I kinder went out of my head.”

  “Well, all right,” conceded Big Boy, “if that’s the way you feel about it there’s no use rubbing it in, but you certainly lost out with me. My hands may be big, but I never broadened my knuckles by battering on other people’s back doors. At the same time if I have to ask a man for a meal I expect to be treated civil. When I’m working around town and a miner strikes me for a stake I give him a dollar to eat on, and if I happen to be broke when I land in a new camp I work my face the same way. That’s the custom of the country, and when a man asks me why I don’t work─”

  “Aw, forget it!” pleaded Bunker, “didn’t I ask your pardon? Didn’t my wife tell you why I said it? But I’ll bet you, all the same, if you’d fed as many as I have you’d throw a fit once in a while, yourself. Here’s the whole camp shut down, only one outfit working and they’re just running a diamond drill–and at the same time I have to feed every hobo that comes through, whether he’s got any money or not. How’d you like to buy your grub at these war-time prices and run a hotel for nothing, and at the same time keep up the assessment work on fifteen or twenty claims? Maybe you’d get kind of peevish when a big bum laid in his blankets and wouldn’t even get up for breakfast!”