A faint sunset glow illumined the dry, brown plain as we approached the grade west of Cheyenne. A pungent odour rose from under foot as we trailed through the low brush, and as we approached the track, the rails set up a low humming that steadily increased in pitch and volume. A glaring eye appeared in the distance. I had never attempted to board a train in rapid motion and was more or less ignorant of ladders, hand holds and other details of car construction, and the idea of leaping on the roaring mass that came thundering through the semidarkness appalled me. Nearer and nearer drew the engine. The fierce glow of the furnace, as the fireman laboured to fill the insatiable maw, gleamed red upon the gravelled track. Black smoke rolled from the stack and hung low in the quiet air. With laboured pants, like an exhausted leviathan, the great machine lurched past.

Dan caught my hand and we ran beside the track. Car after car clanked by. The hammering wheels seemed hungry for a victim. My eyes visioned the ghastly death of an unknown man, whose life had been ground out but a scant half hour before we had discovered the mangled remains. I saw myself, hampered with clinging skirts and weighted with a heavy bundle, clinging, slipping, falling between the ravening wheels, and a deadly nausea seized me. With a half stifled cry I turned down the embankment. Dan pulled and exhorted in vain.

“It’s no use,” I said doggedly. “I just can’t do it.”

The tail-lights of the caboose faded from view.

“Well, I’ll be darned,” said Dan. “I never knew you were a coward.”

“I don’t care if I am. It’s better than being chopped to pieces under that train. I feel sure I should have gone under if I had made the attempt.”

“Nonsense,” he replied. “Now we’re in a nice fix. We can’t stay here. We can’t walk across that wilderness. And we can’t catch a freight in the railroad yard on account of Jeff Farr. First time I ever saw you show the white feather.”

“Just you wait till morning and we’ll see who’ll show the white feather. I’m going to walk right into that yard, and Jeff Farr or no Jeff Farr, I’ll board the first west-bound freight that pulls out.”

Jeff Farr, as all the hoboes know, is an officer, especially dreaded because of his drastic methods of handling vagrants, who makes his headquarters at Cheyenne. We had heard of him repeatedly, for his fame had spread even beyond Omaha, and his mere name was sufficient to strike fear in the stoutest heart.

In a disgruntled mood, we plunged into the bushes, and without attempting to make camp, threw ourselves on the ground and slept. At dawn we ate a cold lunch and turned back toward Cheyenne.

At the west entrance of the railroad yard, a watchman stopped us. I pleaded our cause to such good effect that he turned his back and gazed into space as we scurried past. Two long strings of boxcars stood as though ready for the road, and as we approached, a brakeman clambered from the top of the nearest and spoke to me. He had noted the behaviour of the detective, so as soon as I explained the situation he motioned to the second string and told us that it was a west-bound train, already searched and passed by the detectives, and now waiting, under the guard of our friend the watchman, for engine and crew.

Ducking across the tracks we examined the long line of cars, but each was shut and sealed. In the middle of the train stood several gondolas, and in lieu of nothing better, we boarded one. Crouching down, we waited for the start with every nerve at high tension. A pair of hands grasped the edge of the gondola. “Jeff Farr,” thought I with a shudder. A man’s head appeared above the brim. With staring eyes, he glared at us for a moment, then, with an inarticulate grunt, dropped to the ground. The brakeman who had directed our movements engaged him in conversation. Another pair of hands came over the other side of the car. Again a vision of revolvers, handcuffs, courtroom and jail flashed through my mind. Again a man’s head appeared.

“Well, I’ll be blowed—a woman!” he gasped, and disappeared from view.

Then a third man appeared. He evidently knew what to expect, for he stared at us with a friendly grin.

“The boys said they was a woman up here, but I thought they was kidding me. Say, you folks got nerve—sticking your head into the lion’s mouth like this. Ever hear of Jeff Farr?”

“It’ll take something a whole lot worse than Jeff Farr to keep me in this God-forsaken hole of a Cheyenne,” I replied.

“They said you had grit. Hope you get through all right,” he answered, as a jolt announced the arrival of the engine.

“Off brakes,” whistled the engineer. With gasps of relief we saw the buildings glide past, for we knew we were safe for the present.

At the second station out an empty box car was picked up and the crew transferred us into that. The strict laws against riding freights caused us to keep every opening closed. There was no ventilation, and as the sun climbed higher, we suffered severely from thirst, for in the excitement of departure we had neglected to fill the canteen. Shortly after noon the train stopped and we heard voices near at hand. The door was shoved open and a man’s head appeared.

“You can’t ride in there. Come out at once.”

We leaped to the ground.

“Clear out as fast as you know how. I don’t want to run you in, but if anybody comes along, I’ll have to, and that may mean a month in jail.”

After our Wood River experience, a word was sufficient to put us in motion, and as we struck off across the tracks, I glanced back and saw that we were in the town of Laramie.

This little city stands in the midst of a barren plain, ringed about by distant mountain ranges. Trees are scarce, and what few there are evidently belong to doting owners, so that it is difficult for travellers of our persuasion to find shelter from the broiling sun. On the south side of town a narrow gauge railroad meanders off across the flat, grey plain, and near it we found a few discouraged trees in an abandoned rhubarb field. We made camp, set up the tent and cooked a much appreciated meal. As night came on mosquitoes swarmed about and we had recourse to a great smudge in front of the tent. About sundown I saw a tall, gaunt man walking slowly toward an abandoned freight car that stood on a rusty spur of the dinky railroad. As I watched his listless movements my professional interest was aroused, for I took him to be some unfortunate from the east in search of health.

Next morning we went up town, Dan to hunt for work and I to buy some much-needed provisions. Dan was lucky enough to secure immediate employment on some construction work at the Wyoming State University, located a short distance north of town.

I learned from a neighbour that no use was now being made of the pie-plant that grew on the railroad property, so I helped myself to a fine cooking. Forced to abstain from fruit and vegetables so long, the rhubarb made an especial appeal to our palates. I also discovered a large patch of a wild plant, which, as a child, I had often gathered for my mother. She called it “lamb’s quarter,” and held the young and tender shoots in high esteem for greens. I now pulled a large panful and we found them a pleasant addition to our menu. As I worked I again saw the invalid, and that night the poor fellow was sitting on a pile of ties with his head in his hands when Dan came home from work. He looked so desperately lonely and miserable that I asked Dan to go over and talk to him and see if there was anything we could do to help. In a few minutes Dan came back.

“The man is not sick. He’s hungry,” he said.

“Hungry!” I cried. “If that is all that ails him, he must be starving to look as he does. Go and invite him here for supper.”

Dan returned with the ragged, pallid stranger, whose emaciated face was almost covered by a heavy brown beard. He took a seat on an old stump and ate what was offered him in silence. After the meal he filled the water bucket, carried dried dung to replenish the smudge, then set off toward the boxcar without a word.

Next morning he sat on the ties as before. Again Dan called him over, and again he ate in silence, but on leaving he doffed his scare-crow hat.

“Thank you very much,” he muttered.

That evening he appeared without waiting to be summoned and as he drank his cocoa, I saw Dan choking with suppressed emotion. No sooner had the man gone, after attending to the chores as before, when Dan burst out.

“Did you see what that chap did? He picked up the salt instead of the sugar (we keep both in cocoa cans) and put a heaping spoonful in his cocoa, and blessed if he didn’t drink the unspeakable mess without a quiver.”

Next day our peculiar visitor came in rather early and stood awkwardly about, fumbling with his hat. Then with a shy, sidelong movement, he laid a fifty cent piece on our pine box table, and bolted away like a scared rabbit. A half hour later he came hesitatingly back, and prompted by Dan’s questions, explained that he had spent most of the day chopping wood, for which work he had received the fifty cents.

We had dubbed him Larabo for want of a better name, as a convenient abbreviation of Laramie Hobo, and that night he spent the evening beside our fire. Emboldened by our acceptance of his pitiful offering and encouraged by tactful questions, he told us his story.

He was born in Angel’s Camp, California, some twenty-three years ago, and was one of those unfortunate children whose father must remain unknown and whose mother died at his birth, leaving him to the care of her sisters in shame. The lad grew up untrained and uneducated, despised by the children of decent parents; and as he developed into a rugged, raw-boned youth, took up the work of a gold miner. He was not lacking in ambition, and saved his money with some vague idea of escaping the sins of his parents by migrating to parts unknown and establishing himself in some business.

At the age of twenty-one he had several hundred dollars in the savings bank, and set out for the east to better his condition. Farm life attracted him, so he hired out to a dairy-man. In course of a year he became very expert and, having saved his wages carefully, in the fall of 1907 determined to start a dairy of his own. He rented a small farm, laid in a good stock of hay and arranged to buy a herd of dairy cattle. His idea was to make as large an initial payment as possible, giving his note for the balance and depending on cream checks to pay off the indebtedness.

The farmer from whom he was purchasing the cows took him to a money lender to arrange for the loan. When Larabo came to sign he discovered that the note ran but six months, and since winter was coming on with the inevitable drop in cream production he doubted his ability to meet the note when due. The banker assured him that the note could be renewed without trouble, if necessary, and advised him that this short term note was in his favour, since it would enable him to pay off some of the debt in the spring and secure the remainder with a new note if desired, thus effecting a saving in interest. Thus persuaded, Larabo signed.

All winter long he fed and tended the cattle most faithfully and they did well, but as he had anticipated, the receipts from the creamery were insufficient to meet the note. When he asked for the promised renewal, the banker declared he could not do it, the times were too hard, money was scarce, some banks had issued script. If he failed to pay the debt, he would be sold out. The green, ignorant boy did his utmost to raise the necessary cash, but money was tight, as the banker had said, and a month later hay, equipment, cattle and savings were swept away.

Penniless and discouraged, he started to beat his way to the gold mines of the west. He was brutally slugged at Cheyenne, and at Laramie was arrested and given thirty days in jail. On his release he obtained work as a dishwasher in a restaurant and there remained until he had saved twenty dollars. On his way to the station to take a train for the west he met an officer, who took his money and ran him in. The judge remembered his face and gave him a sixty-day sentence.

During this period he brooded over his experiences and on his release sought out the man who had arrested and robbed him and administered a beating. He was once more arrested and clubbed and sentenced as a habitual offender. When his term expired, the chief of police ordered him to stay away from the business section of town under penalty of immediate arrest, and all officers, train crews and detectives were warned against him. Twice he walked miles along the western track and caught a freight, only to be beaten and thrown off. He was too feeble from abuse and confinement to cross the mountain wastes on foot, and at last resigned himself to slow starvation in the rotting freight car. For five weeks he had averaged but one meal a day, earned by doing odd jobs around the outskirts of town, and his wonderful endurance had almost reached its limit when we took him in.

Daily he has come to the camp for breakfast and supper, and has revealed his gratitude for our attentions by many little helpful acts and a dumb show of affection like a faithful dog.

Yesterday afternoon dense black clouds blew up while I was doing some marketing, and before I could reach camp the most severe hailstorm of my experience struck the town. I took shelter in the doorway of a cottage to escape the fearful pelting, but a woman appeared and sharply bade me be gone. I then stopped under a cow shed, but a man came from a near-by house and threatened me with arrest. Buffeted by the slashing hailstones, I struggled on to camp, only to find our little tent blown flat and covered with limbs torn from the trees by the storm.

The clouds passed as quickly as they had come. The sun shone with dazzling brilliance but little warmth; the sky resumed its wonderful transparent blue; and in the rarefied atmosphere the distant mountain peaks loomed clear and sharp with a deceptive aspect of proximity.

Despite the flood of golden sunshine the ground was still concealed by a liberal coating of hailstones as night fell.

I had done all I could to make things endurable when Dan came in from work, but he thought it best to sleep in some barn on account of the intense cold. After seeking permission at four or five houses and meeting with curt refusals and even threats, we returned to camp and found Larabo feeding a rousing fire and busily scraping a spot clear of ice. Here we set up the tent and spread our thin blankets on the ground, while a cutting wind swept across the valley and threatened to tear our shelter from its fastenings.

Dan’s work was finished, so as soon as we had thawed out and eaten breakfast this morning he went to town to get a time table and see if something could be done for poor Larabo. We have decided to take a passenger train to the first small station west of here, so I packed our baggage for the journey while Larabo looked on disconsolately.

Suddenly he whirled about and took to his heels and, glancing around, I saw a well-dressed man approaching through the rhubarb field. He came directly to me and began to talk about the recent storm. This led to some conversation concerning the University and I told him that Dan had been working there. His eyes fell on Larabo, who was moving restlessly about some hundred yards away.

“You should not allow that disreputable tramp to hang around your camp,” the stranger said. “People complain that you are harbouring hoboes and criminals, and it is giving you a bad reputation.”

His words loosed the flood of seething indignation that had been gathering strength with each succeeding day. I described the heartless treatment accorded us by the townspeople; I told the story of Larabo, and concluded with a scathing arraignment and denunciation of the Chief of Police who permitted such outrages. As I paused for breath the stranger broke in.

“I feel sure that the things of which you complain are mostly due to lack of understanding,” said he. “Take this Chief of Police now. He is really not such a bad fellow. His intentions are good. Fact is, I’m the Chief. Some of our good people have been complaining and calling this a tramp roost, and have asked me to have you arrested or run out of town.”

“You don’t look like the heartless brute that I had pictured, and I am glad indeed to meet you,” I responded, “for now I feel sure that you will take poor Larabo up town and protect him while he is earning enough money to get away.”

With that I invited the Chief to have a seat on a stump and we talked with mutual benefit and pleasure until Dan returned. The men were introduced and Dan explained that he had secured work with room and board for Larabo with a Socialist family, who would treat him kindly and vouch for his good behaviour. All that was necessary was for the Chief to grant permission for him to remain in town and furnish protection from official thugs.

Larabo was summoned and came reluctantly. I bade him and the Chief good-bye as Dan went with them to see our protÉgÉ settled in his new quarters. When Dan gets back we, too, will bid adieu to the rhubarb field and go our way with a satisfied feeling of work well done.