Stephen Loring sat on the edge of the sidewalk, his feet in the gutter. He was staring vacantly at the other side of the street, completely oblivious of his surroundings. No one would select a Phoenix sidewalk as an attractive resting-place, unless, like Loring, he were compelled by circumstances over which he had ceased to have control.

“Here, ‘Hombre’! How are you stacking up? Do you want a job?”

With an uncertain “Yes,” Loring arose from the sidewalk, before looking at the man who addressed him. Turning, he saw a brisk, sandy whiskered man about forty-five years of age, who fairly beamed with efficiency, and whose large protruding eyes seemed to see in every direction at once.

The questioner looked only for a second at the man before him. The face told its own story—the story of a man who had quit. The tired eyes half apologized for the lines beneath them.

“Easterner,” decided the prospective employer, “since he wears a belt and not suspenders.” The stranger extended his hand in an energetic manner, and continued: “My name is McKay. The Quentin Mining Company, up in the hills, want men. They sent me down to round up a few. You are the forty-first man, and the boss bet me that I would only get forty.”

Loring’s head was still swimming as the result of a period of drunkenness which only lack of funds had brought to a close. By way of answer he merely nodded wearily and murmured: “My name is Loring.”

His taciturnity in no wise discouraged his interlocutor, for the latter paused merely to wipe the perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief which might possibly once have been white. Then, slipping his arm through Loring’s, he went on with his communications: “The boss bet me I would lose half the men I got, but they will have their troubles trying to lose me. Come right along down to the station! I have them all corralled there with a friend watching them. I don’t suppose you have such a hell of a lot of packing to do,” he drawled, looking at Loring’s disheveled apparel with a comprehending smile. “I went broke myself once in ’Frisco. Why, Phoenix is a gold mine for opportunities compared with that place! I’ll set you up to a drink now. There is nothing like it to clear your head.”

During this running fire of talk, McKay had convoyed Loring to a saloon. The proprietor was sitting listlessly behind a roulette wheel, idly spinning it, the while he made imaginary bets with himself on the results, and was seemingly as elated or depressed as if he had really won or lost money. Observing the entrance of the two men, he rose and sauntered over behind the bar.

“What will you have, gents?”

“I guess about two whiskies,” answered McKay. “Will you have something with us?”

“Well, I don’t mind if I do take a cigar,” answered the barkeeper, as, after pouring their drink, he stretched his arm into the dirty glass case. Then he aimed an ineffectual blow with a towel at the flies on the dirty mirror, and returned to his wheel.

McKay wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and licked the last drops of whisky from his mustache. Then again taking Loring by the arm, he stepped out into the street. The heat, as they walked toward the railroad tracks, was terrific. The dusty stretch of road which led to the station shimmered with the glare. No one who could avoid it moved. In the shade of the buildings, the dogs sprawled limply. Now and then riders passed at a slow gait, the horses a mass of lather and dusty sweat. One poor animal loped by, driven on by spur, with head down, and tail too dejected to switch off the flies.

Loring watched him. “I think,” he mused, “that that poor horse feels as I do. Only he has not the alleviating satisfaction of knowing that he is to blame for it himself.”

The station platform was crowded with battered specimens of Mexican peons, chattering in high-pitched, slurred syllables. Their swarthy faces immeasurably irritated Stephen. Three white men, standing a little apart, looked rather scornfully at the crowd. The only difference in their appearance, however, was that while each of the white men had two suspenders, the overalls of each of the Mexicans were supported by only one. It would have been hard to gather together a more bedraggled set of men than these were; but McKay counted them with loving pride.

“Forty-one! All here!” he exclaimed. “Hop aboard the train, boys; we’re off!”

“Railway fare comes out of your first two days’ work,” he exclaimed cheerfully to Loring.

The train was of the “mixed” type that crawls about the southwest. A dingy, battered, passenger coach trailed at the end of a long line of freight cars, which were labeled for the most part with the white circle and black cross of the “Atcheson, Topeka and Santa FÉ.” The men scrambled aboard, the engine grunted lazily, protestingly, and the long train slowly started. Until the train was well under way, McKay stood with his broad back against the door, his hand lying nonchalantly but significantly on a revolver beneath his vest, then, with a contented smile, he dropped into a seat.

Loring had no hat. In Arizona, a man may go without his trousers, and be called eccentric. To go without a hat is ungentlemanly. Consequently the three other white men whom McKay had collected kept themselves aloof, and Stephen, crawling into a seat beside a voluble Chinaman, dozed off in misery, wondering whether the murmuring buzz that he heard was in his head, or in the car wheels. The Chinaman looked down at Stephen’s unshaven face and matted hair, and grinned pleasantly.

“He allee samee broke,” he murmured to himself, crooning with pleasure.

For six hours the train had been plowing its way across the desert, backing, stopping, groaning, wheezing. The blue line of the hills seemed little nearer than in the morning. Only the hills behind seemed farther away. Now and then, far out in the sage-brush, a film of dust hung low in the air, telling of some sheep outfit driving to new grazing lands. On the side of the train next Loring, a trail followed the line of the telegraph poles. Wherever the trail crossed the track and ran for a while on the opposite side, Stephen felt a childish anger at it, for otherwise he could amuse himself by counting the skeletons of horses and cattle, which every mile or so made splatches of pure white against the gray white of the dust. The passengers slouched in the hot seats, rolling countless cigarettes with the dexterity which marks the Southwesterner, drawing the string of the “Durham” sack with a quick jerk of the teeth, at the close of the operation. The air of the car reeked with smoke. At each little station-shed new men joined the crowd, being received with looks of silent sympathy and invariably proffering a request for the “makings.” When this was received, they resignedly settled on the torn black leather of the seats, trying to accomplish the impossible feat of resting their necks on the edge of the backs without cramping their legs against the seats in front of them.

The train stopped suddenly with a jerk which was worse than usual, as if the engine had stumbled over itself. The brakeman, a target for many jests, hurried through the car.

“What have we stopped for now?” drawled McKay. “To enjoy the scenic effect?”

“Horse runned along ahead of the engine and bust his leg in the trestle,” laconically answered the brakeman.

“The son-of-a-gun! Now, the critter showed durned poor judgment, didn’t he?”

The brakeman swore mildly, and disappeared. In a few minutes he returned, carefully spat in the empty stove, and the train casually moved on again.

Seeing a paper lying in the aisle, as he walked down the car, the brakeman stooped and picked it up. His eye fell upon a large red seal, and much elaborate writing. With a puzzled expression he read the document.

“It must be a passport,” he thought. “First one I ever seed, though. I wonder who might Stephen Loring be.”

His eye fell upon the appended description:

He looked about at the men in the car until his eye fell on Stephen.

“That’s him, all right,” he thought. “I should say it would be sort of inconvenient to have such a good description to fill!”

He went to Stephen and touched him on the shoulder. “Hey, stranger, I reckon this belongs to you.”

Loring, surprised, took the proffered paper. Then he felt in the pocket of his coat.

“I think it must have fallen out of my pocket. Much obliged!” he exclaimed.

It was an old passport, expired ten years since, but Stephen carried it about with him as a means of identification in case of accident.

“How did you know that this was mine?” he asked the brakeman from idle curiosity.

The man pointed with an exceedingly dirty thumb to the description.

“I ain’t no detective, but I reckon that fits pretty well.” Then he nodded to Loring and walked away.

Loring glanced idly at the passport as it lay open on his knee. As he did so he wondered what the friends who knew him ten years back, at the time when that document was issued, would say to his appearance now. “Wild oats gone to seed. I guess that about describes me,” he murmured, with a grim smile, as he folded the passport and slipped it back into the frayed lining of his pocket. Dissipation and wreck do not change the color of a man’s eyes, the shape of his forehead or the outline of his face, so that it had still been possible to recognize Loring by his old passport. Had it been a description of his personality instead of his measurements, no one could have recognized the original. Mathematically it is but the difference of an inch from a retreating chin to one thrust forward; artistically a very slight touch will turn frank eyes into hopeless ones; philosophically the turning of the corners of the lips downward instead of upward may change the whole viewpoint of life. Experience is mathematician, artist, and philosopher combined, and it had accomplished all these changes in Stephen Loring.

Through the parting kindness of friends, most of the men had some food, which they proceeded to chew with noisy satisfaction. Loring began to feel cravings. The Chinaman beside him was gnawing at a huge ham sandwich with a very green pickle protruding from between the edges of the bread. He eyed Loring, then turned to him and asked: “You hab bite? My name Hop Wah. I go cook for the outfit. Me heap fine cook,” solemnly added the celestial.

Loring gratefully shared the food.

The men in the car, who until now had been rather morose and silent, began to cheer up, and to sing noisily. Loring lazily wondered why, until he saw several black bottles passed promiscuously about. McKay handed his own flask to Loring.

“Have another drink!” he said, “there is nothing like it for a hang-over.”

Loring took a deep pull at the flask.

“Hey, Chink, have some?” continued McKay.

Wah smiled and shook his head.

“Don’t drink, eh? Well, I’ll bet then that you are strong on dope,” said McKay, as he returned the flask to his pocket.

Night began to turn the color of the hills to a rich cobalt. Now and then the train crawled past shacks whose evening fires were beginning to twinkle in the dusk. Little camps scattered in the niches of the foothills showed gray and blurred. Jagged masses of rock, broken by cuts and hollows, now overshadowed the train. Giant cacti, growing at impossible angles from pinnacles and crevasses, loomed against the sky line. As the hills shut in, the roar of the train echoed of a sudden louder and louder where the desert runs flat as a board to the hills, and then with no transition becomes the hills.

“Only fifteen miles more now, boys,” sang out McKay; “but it may take two hours,” he added under his breath.

Cheered by this announcement, one of the Mexicans groped under his seat and produced a large nondescript bundle, which, after sundry cuttings of string, and unwrapping of paper, resolved itself into a guitar. Then, after fishing in his pockets, he produced a mouth-organ with two clamps attached. Loring, for want of better occupation, watched him. The man deftly fastened the harmonica to the edge of the guitar. Then slinging the dirty red guitar ribbon over his neck, he played a few warning chords. When the attention of all was fixed upon him, he bent his head over the mouth-organ, and strumming the guitar accompaniment with sweeping strokes, rendered a selection that had once been “A Georgia Camp-Meeting.” The applause being generous, the artist threw himself into the spirit of his performance.

“Thees time—with variations,” he exclaimed excitedly. And they were variations!

McKay regarded his flock with genial interest.

“Ain’t he the musical boy, though?” he observed to Loring.

“Playing those two together is quite a trick,” thought Loring; “I must learn it.” Then he realized that he could not even play either singly. Such impulses and awakenings were frequent with him. Constructively he felt himself capable of doing almost anything. The ridiculousness of his thought aroused him from his lethargy, and he began to hum softly the tune that car wheels always play.

At eight o’clock the engine gave a last exhausted wheeze, and stopped. “Quentin. All ashore!” called out McKay.

The men took their bundles from the racks, crowded down the aisle, and out to the rickety station platform, where the ticket agent, lantern in hand, looked at them wonderingly.

“I didn’t lose a man on the trip,” McKay said to the agent, in answer to the latter’s query of “What in hell?” “Well, boys,” went on McKay, “it is ten miles to where we camp, and there ain’t no hearses, so I guess we’ll have a nice little moonlight stroll.”

The station settlement of Quentin consisted of a few scattered tents, and of five saloons, with badly spelled signs. One shack bore in large letters the proud legend: “Grocery Store.” It had evidently been adopted as a residence, for in smaller letters beneath the sign was painted: “This ain’t no store—Keep out!” Loring, with lazy amusement, read this evidence of a shiftlessness greater than his own.

The crowd began to gravitate toward the saloons. “Hey, other way there!” shouted McKay, for he well knew that if the crowd began drinking there, very few would reach camp. A big Mexican, who had been imbibing heavily on the train, lurched toward the saloons, bellowing: “Me much mal’ hombre. I take a drink when I damn please!”

“You much mal’ hombre, eh?” said McKay, smiling. “Then take that!” He stepped up to the man, and let drive a blow from one shoulder that almost broke the mutineer’s jaw. The man staggered, then turned and ran, but up the trail. The other men howled with laughter, then they picked up their blanket rolls and bundles, and laughing and singing started up the trail, where the deep shadows of the tall suwaras made black streaks against the white porphyry of the projecting cliffs.

Loring and Hop Wah followed at the end of the procession, the former consoling himself for his lack of blankets by thinking how much easier walking was without them; the latter cheerfully singing a song of which verse, chorus, and envoi were: “La la boom boom! La la boom boom!” If this were lacking in originality, it was at least capable of infinite repetition, and it turned out to be Wah’s one musical number.

Mile after mile up the trail toiled the straggling line, the Mexicans calling loudly to each other, or mocking with jeering whoops the unfortunates who slipped on the loose stones. McKay, chuckling to himself with pleasure, led the little band. He was thinking of the expressions of praise and surprise, of the congratulations upon the successful outcome of his expedition, which would be bestowed upon him in camp.

Immediately ahead of Loring walked the three other white men of the collection. The volubility of their cursing, as they stumbled along, caused McKay to drop back to them. After the customary greeting of “Well, gents, how are you stacking up?” he began to probe into the cause of their discontent.

“What’s the work, boss, anyhow?” they asked.

“Can you ‘polish’ the head of a drill?” asked McKay. He inquired as a matter of form, for one glance at their slouching shoulders and their thin chests had given him his answer. “Can’t?” he observed cheerfully. “Well, I guess your work will be ‘mucking’ on a narrow gauge railway grade that we are building.”

“Mucking!” growled one. “Ain’t there nothing else that we can do besides scratch around with a pick and shovel?”

“Well, Sullivan, it is that at first. Later, if I can get you a job out at the main camp, I will. It is sort of hard on you fellows to have to grub with all these ‘Mex’ at the road camp; but as soon as you get a little ‘time’ saved up you can start in buying your own stuff and messing together.”

“Save up ‘time’!” exclaimed Sullivan. “Hell! There ain’t no use savin’ anything in this Gawd-forsaken country.”

“Well, cheer up, anyway!” laughed McKay. “Here is the ground where the road camp lies.” Several camp-fires blazed suddenly out of the darkness. Around them many shadowy figures were grouped. These gathered with interest about the newcomers, noisily commenting upon their appearance. “Here we are, boys. The tents ain’t down here yet; but sleeping out of doors is powerful healthy. Sure Mike!” he added, poking a grinning Mexican boy in the ribs. “Seguro Miguel! Nothing like it, is there, Pedro?”

“How about the rattle-bugs, Boss?” asked Sullivan, the malcontent.

“There ain’t no rattlesnakes out in April. Besides, if there was, they would not bite your carcass,” answered McKay, irritated by the man’s attitude of continual grumbling.

The men all busied themselves unrolling their blankets and looking for sheltered places in which to sleep. Loring was not accustomed to construction camps. He thought that for the white men, at least, sleeping accommodations must have been provided.

“Where can I sleep?” he asked McKay.

The latter grinned from one big ear to the other. “Say,” he drawled, “that’s good! Your hot bath ain’t ready though. Haven’t got any blankets, have you?” he added, relenting a bit. “Better crawl in with some one to-night. To-morrow, when I come down here from the copper camp, I’ll bring you a pair. I guess you won’t skip till you have done enough work to pay for them, as you won’t have money enough to vamos. And, say, I’ve got a swell hat that I will give you. It ain’t respectable or refined like not to have one.”

The rough kindness touched Loring deeply, and he began to thank him warmly.

McKay uttered a brisk good night and turned to walk up the trail which led to the main camp, two miles beyond. The Mexican whom the boss had knocked down at the station stepped suddenly forward. Expecting trouble, Loring jumped to his feet. He heard McKay say: “I guess the seÑorita won’t think much of your beauty now, will she, Manuel? I’ll send the doctor down in the morning to fix up that face of yours.” The Mexican, instead of rushing at McKay, exclaimed excitedly: “Oh, boss, you just like a father to me!”

Still smiling at the sudden change of temper Loring lay down on the ground, and tried to sleep. The knife-like cold of the Arizona night made him shiver. Striving to keep warm, he rolled from side to side. Suddenly, from out of the darkness near him, he heard a soft laugh: “Hey, me bludder, Hop Wah got plenty blankets. Roll here!” Gratefully he crawled in between the Chinaman’s blankets. Wah looked at him curiously. “La la boom boom,” he crooned to himself. “Heap lot whisky.” Then he turned over and went peacefully to sleep.

Loring lay rigidly upon his back. Conscience, remorse, and a rock beneath his fourth rib, all kept him awake. The stars did not answer his half-framed questions, so he shut his eyes. It is hard to think when the eyes are closed, so he opened them again. It was a very simple question that he reiterated to the shadows, to the embers of the fire, and to the drone of the Gila river. It consisted of one word—“Why?” There was no need of his asking any one except himself; but he put off as long as possible asking the one person who could answer, for he knew why. His friends had always been so ready to make excuses for his shortcomings, that in graciousness he could do no less than acquiesce. But in spite of the veil with which memory surrounds facts, when a man lies awake at night he is likely to see them as they are.

That both of Stephen’s parents had died when he was a child was no answer to the question which he asked of the fire and the river. His uncle had educated him with an affectionate insight which no parent could have bettered. That he had not all along realized what he was doing was no answer. A keen judge of men, Loring was an inspired critic of himself. It was not lack of ambition that had dragged him down, for always there had been a longing for those things which were not within his grasp. There was no inherent vice in his character. There was courage, loyalty, and kindness. There was only one thing lacking—some power to drive the whole.

Most people are either led or pushed through life. But there are some whose motive power must come from within.