The Cowpuncher Read Online Free Page B

friend give a slight start and bend shrewd eyes on Mason. But he said nothing beyond announcing his own name.
    “Gaylord,” he said, “Tom Gaylord. Most folks call me Old Tom, which is short and easy and saves wear and tear on the tongue.”
    The others nodded and Huck introduced himself.
    “Now everybody knows everybody else, we jest might as well take it easy,” said Mason. “Stretch out and be comf’table, only watch out for the lantern. Don’t wanta start a fire in this straw. Car of blastin’ powder right ahead of us and that stuff goes off mighty sudden and mighty hard if you fetch a light to it. So be keerful of yore smokes, too.”
    He began tamping a blackened pipe with stubby paws. Huck noticed how powerful the fingers were that manipulated the tobacco. “Thought you said you were a gent of leisure?” he remarked, offhand.
    The fat man chuckled. “How do you know I ain’t?” he countered.
    Huck gestured at the roughened, calloused fingers. “Your hands never got that way from settin’ on ‘em,” he replied.
    The other nodded. “You got sharp eyes, son, the kind what don’t miss much. Nope, I don’t do overmuch loafin’, even though I am takin’ it easy right now. Fact is, the reason I’m on this rattler is ‘cause I’m headin’ for what oughta be a new job, and money comes too hard to spend on railroad tickets when you can be jest as comf’table in a side-door Pullman for free. I’m headin’ for the new Esmeralda gold diggin’s. I’m a hard-rock man mostly, but I know somethin’ ‘bout hydraulic minin’, and that’s what they’re usin’ over there. They’re knockin’ down a hull mountainside of gravel and doin’ purty well at it, I hear tell. Payin’ good wages, anyhow.”
    Again Huck saw old Tom Gaylord’s eyes gleam with interest, but again the oldster held his tongue. Huck wondered exactly what cards the old man was playing so close to his skinny chest.
    All night long the freight roared across the plains of Kansas. Lulled by the steadily clicking wheels and the monotonous rumble of the cars, Huck Brannon slept the profound sleep of untroubled youth. But still it was a catlike sleep. Each time the train slowed to a stop at lonely pumping stations for water or fuel, the cowboy drifted awake to the changing tempo of sound and movement. He’d never law-dodged before, and it made him jumpy.
    It was the grunting and stirring of fat Lank Mason which fully and finally aroused him in the gray dawn. He sat up, brushing the straw from his rumpled black hair, and grinned sleepily at the fat man. Lank grinned back, shook himself like a big dog coming out of the water, and began burrowing under the straw heaped along the wall. He drew forth a gunny sack that clanked as he shook it. From the sack he took an array of tin cans that had not yet known the ravaging touch of a can opener.
    “Breakfast in the dining car—right here—in fifteen minutes,” Lank observed, hauling out a flat slab of sheet iron from beneath another straw heap.
    He laid the slab of tin near the partly open car door, cupped up the edges and criss-crossed some splinters of wood on its surface. Then he went after the cans with a huge jacknife, ripping them open, flattening some of them after pouring out the contents, which he carefully heaped on the flattened sheets when they were ready. Then he struck a match to the splinters of wood, which burned with a brisk and almost smokeless flame.
    “Allus pick yore wood for fire and no smoke,” he observed to the interested cowboy.
    Over the flame and glowing embers he whisked the homemade “skillets,” deftly turning the contents with the blade of the jackknife.
    In almost no time at all smoking hot sausages, savory strips of fried bacon and slabs of steaming corned beef were ready for eating.
    One of the hoboes came lugging a can of waterfrom a corner of the car. More wood was placed on the glowing sheet iron and coffee brewed swiftly in the can.
    “I’ve seen