Treasure and Trouble Therewith | Page 9

women in
outlying farms have guns and dogs, the one loaded, the other cultivated
in savagery against the visits of the hobo.
Mark rose unwelcoming, but the fellow did look miserable. He was
gaunt and dirty, long ragged locks of hair falling below the brim of his
torn straw hat, an unkempt straggle of beard growing up his cheeks. His
clothes hung loose on his lean frame, and he looked all the same color,
dust-brown, his hair, his shirt, his coat, even his face, the tan lying dark
over a skin that was sallow. Only his eyes struck a different note. They
were gray, very clear in the sun-burned face, the lids long and heavy.
Their expression interested Mark; it was not the stone-hard, evil look of
the outcast man, but one of an unashamed, smoldering resentment.
The same quality was in his manner. The request for water was neither
fawningly nor piteously made. It was surly, a right churlishly
demanded. Mark moved to the pump and filled the glass standing there.
The tramp leaning on the pickets looked at him, his glance traveling
morose over the muscular back and fine shoulders, the straight nape,
the dark head with its crown of thick, coarse hair. As Mark advanced
with the glass he continued his scrutiny, when, suddenly meeting the
young man's eyes, his own shifted and he said in that husky voice,
hoarse from a parched throat:
"It's the devil walking in the heat on these rotten dusty roads."
The other nodded and handed him the glass. He drained it, tilting his

head till the sinews in his haggard throat showed below his beard. Then
he handed it back with a muttered thanks.
"Been walking far?" said Mark.
The tramp moved away from the pickets, jerking his head toward the
road behind him. For the first time Mark noticed that he had a basket
on his arm, containing a folded blanket.
"From the fruit farms down there. I've been working my way up fruit
picking. But it's a dog's job; better starve while you're about it. Thank
you. So long."
It was evident he wanted no further parley, for he started off down the
road. Mark stood looking after him. He noticed that he was tall and
walked with a long stride, not the lazy shuffle of the hobo. Also he had
caught a quality of education in the husky voice. Under its coarsened
inflections there was an echo of something cultured, not fitting with his
present appearance, a voice that might once have known very different
conditions. Possibly a dangerous chap, Mark thought; had an ugly look,
a secret, forbidding sort of face. When the educated kind dropped they
were apt to fall further and come down harder than the others. He threw
the glass into the bushes and went in to wash up. Before he was called
to supper he had forgotten all about the man.
In the cool of the evening the Burrages sat on the porch, rather crowded
for the space was small. Mark, on the bottom step, smoked a pipe and
watched the eucalyptus leaves printed in pointed black groupings
against the Prussian-blue sky. This was the time when the family,
released from its labors, sat back comfortably and listened to the
favored one while he told of the city by the sea. Old Man Burrage had a
way of suddenly asking questions about people he had known in the
brave days of the Comstock, some dead now, others trailing clouds of
glory eastward this many years.
Tonight he was minded to hear about the children of George Alston
whom Mark had met. Long ago in Virginia City Old Man Burrage had
often seen George Alston, talked with him when he was manager of the

Silver Queen and one of the big men of that age of giants. Mother
piped up there--she wasn't going to be beaten. Many's the time she'd
waited on George Alston when he and the others would come riding
over the Sierras on their long-tailed horses--a bunch of them together
galloping into Placerville like the Pony Express coming into
Sacramento.
"And some of 'em," said the old woman, rocking in easeful
reminiscence, "would be as fresh with me as if I'd given 'em
encouragement. But George Alston, never--he'd treat me as respectful
as if I was the first lady in the land. Halting behind to have a neighborly
chat and the rest of them throwin' their money on the table and off
through the dining room hollerin' for their horses."
Her son, on the lower step, stirred as if uncomfortable. These memories,
once prone to rouse a tender amusement, now carried their secret sting.
"He was the real thing," the farmer gravely commented. "There wasn't
many like him."
Sadie, who was not interested