[W. Fay Boericke, Sand Springs to Hazen, Sunset, Dec 1906]

 

Sand Springs to Hazen

Fay Boericke

            THESE things near always start drinking or gamboliering. Mine was the gamble. I had gone into the Square Deal saloon Friday night, after getting into Sand Springs. Now Sand Springs weren't calculated to please the beauty-loving eye. Take a stretch of dirty white alkali country, throw a few sagebrush around, put up a feed corral and a combination saloon and eating-house, filled with flies, bad language, and an unsatisfactory odor of bacon and tobacco, and you've got Sand Springs and the Square Deal. But they had the only water within twelve miles, and consequently it was a camping place for teamsters going and coming. At night the ground by the well was sprinkled so liberal with them that you couldn't stir without stumbling over blankets or ropes or wagon shafts, and near landing in a camp fire.

            Well, as I said, I wandered into the Square Deal and sat down, innocent as a babe, in a little game of stud poker. Things went my way for the first hour and I accumulated a respectable pile of chips. Finally (leave me get over the harrowing details quickly), the dealer shuffled and passed me a king. Then he passed me another. He drawed an ace. I bet 'em pretty high, but he stayed. On the next turn, he made my hand three kings, and I pushed over my stack. He called, and produced three aces, without volunteering information where he got them. When the smoke of battle cleared away, I found myself the proud possessor of an iron watch, a six-shooter, and a paper dollar, which I had thoughtfully sewed up my sleeve so I couldn't get at it before—other assets non-negotiable.

            I got out in the open air and had a little talk with myself. "Buck Harvey," says I, "you're the biggest fool in the state of Nevada." That sounding weak and common-place, I branded said Harvey in six different languages.

            "How do you reckon you're going to get to Hazen and credit, with sixty miles between," I continued. "Nice walking, too, one hundred and ten and sand four inches deep, and water stations ten miles apart. D'ye think the stage-driver is the trusting kind, and will take you on your face? Are you going to ask him and get turned down? Well, hardly."

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            This being carried without protest, I was off next morning before the sun was up, with a canteen and some crackers. Nobody needed to tell me it would be hot. Even at eight o'clock you could see the heat rising up in little ripples, from the Silver Mountains, ten miles off. The air seemed to soak it in like a sponge. All around was the alkali flat, dead white, which dazzled the eyes considerable. Yes, I was sure up against the real proposition.

            Then along comes an empty freighter, with six broncs, going at an easy trot, and leaving a big train of dust behind. I felt glad. You take the average teamster, and he's a mighty accommodating fellow. It's lonely across the desert, and they like to have a companion. So I was counting pretty sure on a lift.

            "Partner," says I as he come up, "if you want a gentle-minded son of toil to help you load up at the other end, I'll be pleased to climb up on your seat and go along with you."

            He turned and looked at me, and I felt a cold wave coming. His was sure the most sour-dough face I ever saw. Maybe he wasn't to blame—he must just have been born with a grouch. Mouth drawed down like it was tied, hooked nose, little narrow eyes, general expression like every one in the world owed him ten dollars and was flat broke. He didn't even answer me—just spat over the side, cracked his whip, yelled at the broncs, and was off. I just stood by the road and looked at him. Sometimes you can be too mad to swear, and that was one of the times.

            There was nothing else except to push on, and I went to it. I had covered another mile, when I heard a "honk, honk," behind me, and up rushed a big

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touring car, dusty and oily, but going as smooth and slick over that sandy road as if it had been Fifth avenue. Those big tires couldn't sink to save 'em. Inside were a couple of young fellows driving—nice looking chaps, cool and comfortable. They stopped the car when they saw me.

            "Say," yelled the first, "where 're you going?"

            "Hazen," says I, short like.

            "Want to get in ?" asks his companion. "That's where we're bound."

            "Gentlemen," says I walking up, "that's an embarrassing question for me at the present time. I would sure like to get in, but I fear it's impossible," hoping they'd take the hint.

            "Heck," said the one who was driving. "That's all right. Climb in. We ain't going to pass up a man on the road who's got sand enough to start out for Hazen on a day like this."

            "I got the sand all right," says I, brushing some of same from my clothes. "Gentlemen," says I, "my name's Buck Harvey—prospector, cowman, real estate agent—most anything; at present down on his luck, but hoping some time to hand it back to you for this."

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            "Glad to meet you, Mr. Harvey," says the driver. "My name's Smith, and my friend here is Wetherell. We're running an auto line between Fairview and Hazen. Just slide into the tonneau and make yourself uncomfortable. Jimmie, go crank up."

            When I had settled back on the soft cushions, and rolled a cigarette, and the car had started, easy and graceful, I felt good enough to forgive most anyone—all except that teamster ahead. We approached him rapid, and in a few minutes passed him flying. I laid back luxurious, and it was all I could do to keep from yelling at him out of pure kid joy.

            The auto fair ate up the road for the next couple of miles. And then there was a sickening kind of a lazy report, and the car sagged a little to one side. Smith talked unwisely as he shut off power, and we all got off to look at the trouble.

            "Punctured," says Wetherell disgusted, examining the big front tire, which was flabby and flat as a pancake in distress. "That glass did the trick," pointing to a broken bottle further back. "Well, lucky we got a new tire to slip on."

            "You bet," says Smith, fumbling in the toolbox. Then he emitted a string of cuss-words that anyone would have been proud of. "We've lost the jackscrew," he finally -articulated. "Must have dropped out; anyhow it's gone. How do you figure we can jack her up without it?"

            "I pass," says Wetherell. "But that team behind us is coming up, and the driver's probably got one. We can borrow it from him."

            Now, as I said, the average teamster's a good fellow, and will do most anything for another that's stuck. He'll give him half his water; he'll lend him his horses to pull him out of a bad place in the road; he'll help him unload if necessary. You see, he may need the same help himself any day. But it's different with the teamsters and automobiles. There is mighty little love lost between them. They kind of regard each other as natural enemies. An autoist couldn't get a piece of wire from a freighter without paying for it and paying good. When I thought over these, and then got a kodak of the gentle and benign features of that driver back of us, I sort of shivered to think what was coming to the boys.

            Up comes my accommodating friend with the broncos, uglier and grouchier than ever.

            "Say, friend," calls Smith.

            "Whatcher want," says Grouch, short and pleasant.

            "We want to borrow your jackscrew for ten minutes. We're stuck, and got to put on a new tire to go on."

            Now that was a foolish thing to say, for it played right into Grouch's hand. He knew he had 'em. I could see him figuring how much he could soak them.

            "I'll let you have it," says he finally, "for fifteen dollars."

            "Fifteen dollars," repeats Wetherell helplessly. "For ten minutes?"

            "Take it or leave it," says Grouch, gathering up his reins.

            "We got to take it," says Smith. "Hand the jack down. Another team may not come along for hours. But you

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ain't in the right place, old man," he remarks admiring to Grouch. "You ought to be making John D. hustle for his job, instead of running a holdup game out in the desert. Here's your fifteen dollars."

            While he and Wetherell were adjusting the jack under the axle of the car, I slipped quietly over on the other side of Grouch's wagon, where he wasn't looking, and climbed sociably up to his seat. When I was seated real comfortable beside him, I noticed my old six-shooter had fallen out of my pocket while climbing up, and was reposing impressive like on my knee. Grouch noticed it too when be looked round to see who was there.

            "Brother," says I, sweetly, "I kind of think you're overestimating the value of ten minutes of your valuable time."

            "Maybe I am," he answers, looking at the gun sort of fascinated.

            "I knew you'd agree with me, brother," says I. "You've overestimated it about twelve dollars, I judge."

            "You've got the drop," he says irrelevant, noticing the barrel showed signs of wear.

            "You have sure grasped the situation ably," I responds. "As we no longer have any grounds for argument, just pass me the twelve simoleons. Thank you. And remember talking ain't always good for the lungs in this climate."

            I slipped the coin into my pocket, and went back to the boys, who had nearly finished putting on the new tire, and in a few minutes were ready to start off again. They wanted to make up for lost time, and threw on the high speed at the start. We fairly skimmed over that desert. It was the prettiest driving ever I see, in and out, dodging rocks and ruts and sandy hollows, now and then leaving the road and zig-zagging the sage brush, scaring up prairie dogs and gophers, and long yellow lizards, that scudded along nearly 

as fast as us. Hazen kept getting more distinct, and finally with enough speed to make a mail train die of shame, we pulled up at the big white hotel there.

            "Boys," said I, as we came to a stop, "what's your fare from the Springs to Hazen ?"

            "Twelve dollars," said Smith, "but—"

            "While you boys were fixing that tire, I was explaining the state of affairs to our loving friend, the teamster," I interrupted. "He was terrible sympathetic, and absolutely insisted on my accepting part of the fifteen he buncoed you out of to pay my fare. You don't often meet people like him on the road." And I handed over the twelve dollars to Smith.

            He looked at me considerable puzzled.

            "Oh, it's all straight," says I.

            "You don't expect me to believe it," says he.

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            "That's your business," says I. "I've give you the facts, and there ain't nothing more to be said."

            He thought a minute, and then I guess he understood.

            "We're going to have refreshments," he remarks, suddenly.

            "No, it's mine," says Wetherell.

            "We'll all buy," says I, feeling for my paper dollar.