four hundred pounds of flour, ten pounds of Arm & Hammer soda, ten pounds of salt, four pounds of pepper, sage for the dressing, two hundred pounds of sugar. With these staples, Dewey Jones ordered five dozen eggs and forty pounds of bacon and fifty pounds of potatoes. He pulled down fifteen pounds of P&G yellow soap for the hard water country they were going into; twenty-five pounds of lard in a big pail, and six cases of Pet milk in twenty-four can boxes.
He grinned a little then, thinking how he had a dollar-ten in his pocket and yesterday he was just hoping for luck; and here he stood buying groceries and spending money like a drunk Swede in a parlor house. He added three cases each of tomatoes and corn, six gallons of molasses, and baking powder. Then he gave the clerk his own personal order and asked for a separate bill. The clerk got him two pairs of Levis, two shirts, one Levi jumper, half a dozen pairs of socks, two suits of light underwear, three cartons of Bull Durham, and an extra carton of papers.
“That does it in here,” Dewey Jones said. “I’ll swing around back.”
He drove the chuck wagon behind to the loading dock and helped the clerk carry out the order. They topped off the load with sacks of clean oats and cotton-seed cake, Dewey signed the bills, and crossed over to the Chink’s for his meal. He ate with a fine appetite and rolled a cigaret on the sidewalk, staring sideways at the saloon doors ten steps on his right. He was heading out for three months, a long, rocky road before he’d get another drink. He ought to have a couple just for the road and then head for the ranch.
Dewey Jones started toward the saloon, sniffing the malt odor that drifted through the swinging doors; and then he stopped and walked across the street and down the alley toward the loading dock. If he couldn’t trust himself yet, he had no business trying two drinks and maybe signing away his unearned pay and ending with twenty. He climbed aboard, shook out the lines, and spoke gently to the mules.
“Good luck,” the clerk called.
“Thanks,” Dewey Jones said. “See you in July.
CHAPTER TWO
DEWEY JONES DROVE into headquarters just ahead of supper call. He located the big canvas tarp in the tackroom and snugged it over the chuck wagon, fed the mules, and went to supper. Later on he smoked in his bunk and listened to the talk. Jim Thornhill said softly, “Sure don’t look forward to that Black Brush,” and the others began talking about the Salt River country, building up a vague word-picture in Dewey’s mind. Finally the lamp was snuffed and five o’clock came all too soon, with old Buford’s stentorian yell jerking them upright.
After breakfast Dewey Jones harnessed his mules while the boys saddled their number one horses and rounded up fifteen extra. Bedrolls were lashed atop the chuck wagon and Cochrane gave them some parting words which consisted of wishing them good luck and reminding Hank Marlowe that the front office expected a damned good gather. Hank said, “Do our best,” and Dewey knew the boys didn’t particularly take to Cochrane’s way of talk.
Heading south, Dewey set the pace because their speed had to match the mule gait. They made twenty-three miles that day and camped just outside Snowflake on the irrigation ditch under big, old cottonwood trees. Throwing horses and mules into the pasture, Raymond explained that the Mormons kept the little twenty-five acre pasture for the convenience of travelers.
“Good folks,” Dewey said.
“Sure,” Raymond said. “I was born here. You and me’ll go to the dance tonight.”
Snowflake had about three hundred people and you couldn’t buy coffee, smoking tobacco, or cigars because of the Mormon religion. Raymond knew everybody in town and was treated kindly, but he’d backslid and was called a jack Mormon. The other boys turned down Raymond’s invitation and hit the sack early, and Raymond took Dewey into town for the dance.
“Just mind your p’s and q’s,” Raymond said. “Don’t start no trouble.”
The dance was opened with prayer and a song; then Raymond introduced Dewey to a cousin and she took him around the hall and made him acquainted with everyone. He danced with the girls and liked one pretty little thing who was all blue eyes and yellow hair and kept smiling at him as they whirled around in waltzes and two-steps. Dewey worked up a sharp appetite for the midnight supper, just peeking over at the long table loaded down with fried chicken and ham and cake and pie. He got to bed at one and was up at five, feeling fresh despite the short rest. They ate breakfast at the local cafe and Hank signed the tab which went to Cochrane, and thanked the lady for rising so early to cook just for them; and then they wasted no time lining out south on the Show Low road.
They got into piñons and junipers and cedars that day, and the first high stands of ponderosa pine, with mountains looming up jagged dark to the south and west. Making a twenty-eight mile drive, they hit Show Low at sundown, coming through a shallow valley into the town that sprawled on a slope with trees standing up black and thick to the west. Show Low had gotten its name from a game of Seven Up played on this spot in the early days. There was a big hand with a seven-thousand-acre ranch at stake and the first bidder begged on five and the other fellow gave him one and then said, “Show low, and take it,” and the man showed it and won the ranch, and the name stuck until it became official.
They camped out that night and Dewey cooked a good breakfast of bacon and eggs and fried potatoes. They drove to Cibecue, camped out, and the following morning went seven miles to the rock storehouse where groceries and supplies were kept for outlying ranch work. The storehouse had no windows and just one door lined with flat iron slabs. The next morning Hank, who had gone on ahead during the night, returned with an Apache Indian boy and the string of pack burros.
Dewey studied those burros while he cooked breakfast. He didn’t know much about burros and his first thought was, if that was his kitchen transportation, and he had to pack and unpack those little demons, he wondered who was going to keep them close at hand and how many days it would be before the boys quit because the meals weren’t put out on time.
Hank opened the storehouse and everybody got busy, splitting up all supplies for storage or packing. The storehouse sat in the northeast corner of a big pasture about three sections square, with a little stream running through the middle. The pasture was barbwire fenced, five strands high on cedar posts, and used mainly as a holding pasture. It was one day’s ride from the main ranch and the boys usually rested cattle here before driving on to the railroad. “In a couple of weeks,” Hank Marlowe said, “Cochrane and old Bob’ll come down, pick up the chuck wagon and mules, and take ’em back to headquarters. Now we got to pack and get started. Squab, cut out the kitchen canaries!”
The Apache boy drove the four kitchen burros over and gave Dewey his first close look. He could tell the leader right off, that was Benstega, who weighed around four hundred and seventy-five pounds. Benstega was brown with a white face that boasted a brown streak down the middle.
“Jim Toddy,” Squab said, pointing to the other brown burro.
Jim Toddy was smaller than Benstega. Tom was mouse-colored and a little bigger than Jim Toddy. “This one,” Squab said, slapping the last burro, “Jerry.”
Jerry weighed around four hundred and was sort of grayish-white, more from age than anything else. Dewey looked them over while they eyed him in burro fashion, and Hank Marlowe swallowed a grin. Dewey Jones might not understand burros now, but a month from today he’d know too damned much and wish he never learned.
Hank laid out blankets and hair pads for each burro, put good blankets over the hair pads, with pack covers all ready. Dewey sorted out his kitchen equipment while Squab led the other ten pack burros up and saddled them. Dewey got everything in neat stacks, dried fruit, flour, sugar,
