One more step taken, and a nice long one, too. We left the passenger train that took us out of Laramie at the inevitable water tank. The first freight that passed we made no attempt to board, for excellent reasons. A number of hoboes were lounging about, and when this freight pulled in the crowd separated, some running one way and some another.

As we walked down the siding loud sounds of altercation arose and a hobo came tearing up the path with a brakeman swinging a pick handle one short jump behind. The tramp dodged under the train and disappeared. A few yards further on another trainman with a heavy chain in his hands was making vicious cuts at a slender boy, who dodged nimbly around and over the cars, now here, now there. It seemed an inauspicious moment to make the acquaintance of the train crew, so we returned to the welcome shade of the water tank.

Evening came. We cooked our simple meal and prepared for the journey. It was perhaps nine o’clock when the heavy vibration of the roadbed announced the coming of another freight. We crouched in the bushes at the side of the track. The train jarred to a halt and in the light from the fire box we could see the hose being let down to the engine tank.

Silently we drew near and made a hurried inspection of the rolling stock. Only one car was open. This was a gondola loaded with some massive, black machinery. We swung our bundles over the edge and scrambled in ourselves. Pieces of machinery were heaped in a confused mass, but in one end two broad, curving bars of metal like huge springs fitted together in such a way as to form an elliptical enclosure. Hastily we opened a bundle and extracted an oilcloth covered blanket. Bundles, hats and canteen were stowed beneath a projection. Then we wedged ourselves into the oblong space that scarcely afforded room for our bodies and tucked the black covering neatly over us. Hardly were we down when a “shack,” as the hoboes call the trainmen, approached over the top of the train and with lantern in hand leaped from one piece of machinery to another, narrowly missing our bodies as he passed.

Dan fell asleep almost immediately, but I was not so fortunate. My head and shoulders rested on a heavy piece of metal which vibrated and bounded up and down with the violent jarring of the train. Crowded as we were in the constricted space, I had no opportunity to change my position, so could only submit to the constant pounding with fortitude. At times it seemed that I could no longer endure the concussion at the base of the skull, which set up a violent headache, and also I was in fear that a shift of the great mass of metal might pin us down and perhaps crush us. But moving was out of the question, for the trainmen were constantly passing with lanterns and pick handles, and woe to the unlucky hobo who crossed their path.

The night wore away, and as the first grey streaks of dawn showed in the sky the train entered a division point. Several men engaged in conversation at the side of the car in which we lay concealed.

“Got any ’boes aboard this trip, Bill?” inquired a heavy voice.

“Well, I’ve got a suspicion that we may have. When we stopped for water just this side of Laramie I thought I saw a couple scooting along the side. But we haven’t been able to locate anybody. Better see what you can raise.”

The next instant a man vaulted onto the end of the car and sat on the edge, with feet dangling a scant twelve inches above my head. Dan was sound asleep, and I was in deadly fear lest he waken suddenly and make some move or sound. The intruder carried a lantern, which shone palely in the growing light.

“Here, Joe, gimme that lantern a second. I want to take a look in that refrigerator car.”

The seated detective passed the light to his mate, then leisurely placed his foot within an inch of my right ear, and stepping over our heads, made his way across the car. His pal peered into the open ventilator in the ice chest of the car ahead, and a moment later both men jumped to the ground to greet the new crew.

“All right, boys. No ’boes this morning. She’s all ready to take out.”

The engineer sounded the welcome signal and we entered a new division. It was broad daylight before I saw a trainman, and then a brakie appeared, coming over the tops from the rear. With a cautious motion I pulled the blanket over Dan, who still slept, and drew a fold across my own face.

The brakeman advanced with a cheerful whistle, and his heel rang sharply on the iron projection at Dan’s shoulder, who threw out both arms and raised up with a cry. As Dan sat up, the brakie sat down with exceeding swiftness. The two men glared at one another and it would be difficult to say which had the blanker expression—Dan, who had been so rudely startled out of his sound sleep, or the brakeman, who had witnessed the apparition of a man rising out of apparently solid metal. The sight of their gaping mouths and bulging eyes proved too much for my risibles and stretching out my cramped arms, I burst into peals of laughter. My unexpected appearance seemed the one thing needed to complete the utter mental disorganisation of the unfortunate trainman. He was too far gone to speak, but gulped and gasped like a dying fish. Dan and I gradually eased our stiffened bodies out of our iron cradle, and by degrees the brakeman’s wits returned. I at once got to work and soon had his promise to leave us unmolested.

But we were not to remain so for long. The conductor himself came over the top—a new thing in our experience—and kindly, but firmly, told us to get off at the next stop.

Thus we found ourselves in the edge of a fair-sized railroad yard, the name of which we made no attempt to learn, but contented ourselves with seeking a quiet spot where we could cook a meal and rest. The back of my head, neck and shoulders was bruised black from the hours of pommelling, and I was glad to snatch a few hours of restless sleep. Dan prepared and packed a box of food, filled the canteen and made ready for the night’s adventures.

Just at dark we entered the railroad yard as a freight rolled in from the east. Dan told me to wait while he reconnoitred. Hardly had he gone when a man appeared at my side as though he had risen out of the ground. He held a pocket flash in one hand and a club in the other.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded sternly.

“Waiting for my husband,” I said.

Lifting the flash, he examined me from head to foot. Reaching forward, he tapped the box of lunch under my arm with his billy.

“What have you got in that box?” he inquired.

“Grub,” I replied.

“So ho! A box of grub and a roll of blankets. You look like a woman hobo.”

I admitted the charge and declared my intention of taking the west-bound freight. “And I suppose you are a detective hired to prevent that very thing,” I concluded.

“You’ve struck it,” he answered. “That’s....”

He leaned forward and stiffened like a pointer dog in the presence of a flock of quail. With wonderful dexterity he slipped the flash in his pocket and drew a revolver, then moved forward with the sinuous grace of a panther and as silently as a shadow. I heard the footsteps of several men approaching across the yard.

“Halt!” barked the detective. “Throw up your hands. Keep ’em high now, and face the east. Now, beat it.”

I heard the sound of running feet, punctuated by dull thuds as the detective belaboured the heads and shoulders of the fleeing men with his billy.

“Fo Gawd’s sake, don’t, Boss. Oh, Gawd. You’re killin’ me.” It was the pleading voice of a negro, who seemed to be bearing the brunt of the clubbing.

In a few minutes the detective came back, panting. My blood was boiling.

“You great big brute, you,” I began. “Why don’t you jump somebody who has a decent chance, if you must act like a devil?”

“You’ve got your nerve, young lady, talking to me like that. Don’t you know I can run you and your old man in if I want to?”

“Oh, I suppose you could. But what makes you want to be so cruel? You don’t look like a brute.”

“Well, maybe I am too rough, though that is what I’m hired to be. Besides, some yeggs broke into a building in a little town up the line about a year ago, and when me and my mate tried to run them in, they shot my pal dead and winged me in the shoulder. Since then I club all hoboes on general principles.”

Just then I recognised Dan’s step as he came up the yard. The detective made a forward movement, but I seized him by the arm.

“That’s my husband coming, and you better let him alone. If you start clubbing him, I’ll fix you, pistol or no pistol.”

“Let go. I’ll not hurt him.”

He bounded forward, and intercepting Dan, questioned him closely. Then ordering him to remain where he was, he returned and questioned me. Then he summoned Dan.

“Well, people,” he said, as Dan came up. “I guess I’ll take a chance on you. If the conductor don’t get wise and make a kick, I’ll not see you when you get aboard that cattle car yonder. So long.”

Hurrying over, we climbed in just as the train pulled out. As I peered through the slats in the front of the car, I saw a hobo make a running leap into the gondola immediately in front of us. A soft footfall sounded on the roof of our car and the detective leaped down beside the hobo, who scrambled madly up the end of the boxcar ahead. The men reached the roof almost together and for a moment seemed etched against the sky. The officer made a mighty swing with his billy at the tramp’s head. There was a crack like a revolver shot, and the hobo pitched from the top of the rapidly moving car and rolled head over heels down the twenty foot embankment. Sickened, I clung to the bars while the train rushed on.

The floor of the car was covered with filth, so that sitting or reclining was out of the question. To add to our discomfort a storm blew up and the cold wind and rain beat between the slats and chilled us to the bone. As we slowed at a siding a low, mournful sound came to our ears, and we found ourselves beside a great cattle train. The poor animals moaned and bellowed in the sleety blast. Some were down, and I could easily picture their experiences of long hours without food and water, exposure to the broiling heat of the noonday sun in the crowded cars, followed by the night’s cold wind and rain.

We were completely exhausted when morning came, and crawled weakly out when a brakeman ordered us off the train. Throwing ourselves in the shade of boxcars that stood on a lonely siding, we were instantly asleep. The sound of voices wakened me and, sitting up, I saw a dozen hoboes scattered about. Some were east and some west-bound, but all agreed that this particular division was the deuce to cross.

A freight rolled in and some boarded her, but did not linger long. With shouts and curses, the train crew plied pick handles and chains, and every man was beaten off.

Some two hours later another freight hove in sight and we concealed ourselves in the high brush beside the track. The crew united to drive the crowd of hoboes down the line, and as the chase swept past, we hastened to examine the unguarded cars. In the middle of the train stood three cattle cars loaded with ninety-pound steel rails. These were piled in sloping tiers on each side, leaving a runway down the centre of the car.

“Here’s a good place, Dan. We’ll lie down in there.”

“Good heavens, girl,” he cried aghast. “If those heavy rails should shift in swinging around these mountain curves, there wouldn’t be enough of us left to hold a funeral over.”

“I’m not particular about my funeral, if it should come to that. I’d rather trust the rails than the detectives. Come on, I’m going in.”

Opening the end door, I piled in and lay down in the little runway. On either side the sloping heaps of rails rose high above my head. Dan closed the door and lay down also.

The trainmen were too busy with the hoboes to disturb us, or they considered the rail cars too dangerous for the most daring adventurer, for we were left in peace.

The rails grated and chafed as we rocked along. I took a look at Dan, who grew a trifle white about the lips when the rails shifted a little. I was full of content as I realised that we were making good progress, and laid my head on the bundle and slept.

It was night and Dan was shaking me and whispering in my ear when I wakened. Staggering up, I gazed about, bewildered. Taking my hand, Dan led me out of the car, which stood on a siding, and across the tracks away from the lighted street of a town.

“This is an awfully tough town,” he said softly. “The rail cars were cut out here, and I went for fresh water. I never saw so much drunkenness or so many toughs in my life. We must get away before morning if we possibly can.”

A distant whistle announced the approach of an engine. A long train of tank cars clanked to a standstill. We advanced hopefully, but not a car was open. The yard was dark and we chose a tank car close behind the engine. A narrow ledge projected in front, and on this we perched—feet dangling and backs close pressed against the end of the great cylinder. The engineer and brakeman sauntered up and paused close by. The brakie carried a lantern in one hand and rested the other not two feet from my side. There they stood and talked while we almost ceased breathing. But the deep shadow of the tank concealed us, and they separated, leaving us undiscovered.

Then began the wildest ride of my career. That engineer seemed speeding to the bedside of a dying friend, or perchance, to some sweetheart who awaited his coming. The crest of the mountain range was past and the train shot like a meteor round shouldering hills and through the steep ravines. The tank car leaped and plunged like a thing of life, threatening to leave the rails at each sharp turn of the road. Balancing perilously, we clung like limpets to the narrow shelf, while a wild thrill, born of the rapid motion through the mountain fastnesses with the night wind fanning my face, drove all fear from my mind. I could have shouted with pure delight and felt that I need only will it and my soul would part company with all material things to soar to meet the stars that blazed overhead.

The first flush of dawn brightened the sky as the lights of a good sized town appeared ahead. We gathered ourselves up for the leap. The train slowed and entered a long railroad yard. A group of men, lanterns in hand, stood at one side of the track, and as they caught sight of us, they set up a shout and raced for the train. A dozen cars swept past before they were able to board it, and we saw them moving forward around the awkward tank cars. A single glance identified them.

“We’ll have to jump quick before the brutes get any nearer,” I cried.

The train was still moving at a lively clip as we leaped off. Catching our stride, we raced for the sagebrush on the right. The officers set up another racket, but apparently considered a chase hopeless.

Circling widely, we came to a squat building on the outskirts of town. From within rose a hum of machinery and in the doorway stood the stalwart figure of a young man. He hailed us merrily.

“Hello, there! Where are you going in such a hurry?”

We explained our plight, and he was good enough to come to our aid.

We entered the power plant and watched the youth fetch out water, soap and towels for our convenience. Catching sight of myself in a mirror, I uttered a cry of surprise. Coated with dust as I was from the long ride so close to the engine, I more nearly resembled a negress than a white woman. While we removed the stains of travel, the boy placed coffee pot and frying pan on a small stove in a corner and soon spread a savoury meal on the pine table. While we ate, he explained that he had the night shift at the plant and slept in the building during the day. He had a reputation for feeding every hobo who came along. Consequently, the officers might come there to look for us. Besides, the day man was not so charitable, so it would be well for us to be out of sight before he arrived.

Leading the way to his little cubby hole of a room, he pulled the bed out from the wall so that it stood almost across the doorway, and spread some quilts on the floor behind it. Tossing our bundles out of sight, he suggested that we lie down and remain as quiet as possible.

We were scarcely hidden when the day man arrived. Our friend complained of a sick headache and said he had moved his bed to get more fresh air. He had darkened the room as much as possible and now threw himself down and feigned sleep. Three men approached the door.

“Say, Frank,” one began, “a couple of hoboes came up this way and we want ’em. You better come across now and tell us where they went. We’re getting tired of the way you run a tramp roost up here.”

“Well, you’ve got your nerve, I must say. Can’t a fellow get any rest from you fee-chasing scavengers? Here I go to bed with a sick headache, and no sooner do I fall asleep than you come chasing hoboes and wake me up again. If you want any information, why in hell don’t you talk to Harry? Ask him if he’s seen any tramps.”

“Sorry if you’re sick, old man,” answered one of the officers soothingly. “We didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Cut the bunk,” growled another. “I want to know if you saw these bums?”

“No, I haven’t seen any bums,” shouted Frank savagely. “Furthermore, I want you pussy-footed bulls to clear out of here. I’m sick, and I want to sleep.”

He whirled over with his back to the door. The officers stood about uncertainly for a few minutes and then we heard them tramping about the building. When all was quiet, Frank thrust his head over the edge of the bed.

“How was that for a stiff bluff?” he chuckled. “Your uncle Ezra is right there with the goods, ain’t he, what? See any bums? No, of course not. The only bums I ever see are those bulls that hang around the station. And now that the fly cops have flitted, tell us the sad story of your young lives.”

So I took up the familiar tale and the lad listened with bated breath and sparkling eyes while I led him step by step across the country. On conclusion he told me of himself. He was a student in a technical school, utilising his vacation to gain practical experience in his specialty of electricity and earn money for the coming term.

As I lay prone on the floor, the intense pain of my bruised spine eased a trifle, and lulled by the hum of the generators, I fell asleep. Night had fallen when I awoke and both men were gone. I found them chatting busily, while Dan repacked our bundles for the journey and Frank broiled a large steak over the coals.

“Fill up, sweet friends, fill up,” quoth he, carving a huge slab of meat. “Ways are long, the steak is fleeting, and the jail is not your goal. At least, we hope that it doesn’t prove to be. So eat and be merry, for to-morrow you may be in Granger.”

Nothing loath, we fell to with great gusto, and while we ate, discussed the best method of getting out of town. We decided to take a passenger to the first stop, as at Laramie.

As we started to the train, our host seized his hat and made ready to accompany us.

“I’ll just let the buzzers look after themselves while I give you the benefit of my powerful protection up town. Those bulls won’t be so liable to run you in because you’re walking the streets without a thousand dollars in your pockets if I am by to testify to your noble characters. Then I know most of the boys who run out of here and I may be able to fix it so the freight crew will pick you up without any trouble.”

Thus we bought our tickets and said good-bye to our young friend while the officers glowered from a distance.

Once more we got out at a barren flag station, but we hadn’t long to wait. As the freight stopped, a brakeman leaped down and came directly to us.

“All right, folks, we’ll give you a lift and pass you over the next division if we can. Get in that boxcar over there.”

In we crawled and rode in comfort the night through. Early next morning, as the train sped through a desolate wilderness, another brakeman climbed into the car.

“How do you do?” he began. “We heard about you from the boys back there, and we’ll see you as close to Ogden as we can. But you’ll have to leave this car, as it’ll be dropped next stop, and the only place for you is in an empty fruit car way up near the head of the train. You’ll have to go over the top while she’s spinning. Do you think you can make it?” looking at me anxiously.

“Sure,” I answered boldly, my tone implying that I had walked the tops of moving freights since the age of three.

Strapping our bundles to our backs, we started. I confess to a peculiar sensation in the pit of my stomach as I trod the narrow plank nailed along the apex of the roofs, and jumped from car to car, while the train rocked heavily along, lurching around the curves, and the wild landscape rotated past on either side. But after the first few minutes the feeling passed and I was able to conclude the journey with all the sang-froid of an old hand.

“After to-day, I’ll be expecting to meet women brakies most any time. You’d make a swell member of the Union,” volunteered our guide, as we settled ourselves in the fruit car.

The day passed and the night. About four in the morning another brakeman appeared and roused us.

“We will stop at Uintah about sunrise,” he said. “You will have to go back to the rear of the train, and be ready to drop off as the train slows down for the station. Get away as quickly as you can, for if you are discovered riding on this train, the whole bunch of us may spend a month in jail.”

So I took another stroll along the swaying roofs and climbed onto the rear platform of the caboose. As the train began slowing for Uintah, we flipped off and bolted away from the track.

After many miles of wilderness the fertile valley looked very beautiful to our tired eyes. Accustomed from childhood to an abundance of fresh fruit the year round, the restricted diet of recent months has told on me. Now berry vines, fruit orchards and vineyards reminded me of home, and we determined to buy a little fruit, fresh from the garden.

Passing up a tree-bordered roadway, we came upon a long, low farmhouse, squatted at ease upon a terraced hillside, the brown of its unpainted wooden frame blending with the russet hues of tree trunks and knotted loops of trailing grape vines. A fluffy maltese kitten with arching back scampered with sidelong leaps to meet us, then frolicked up a tree. Two dogs set up a racket and a winsome, dark-eyed girl came to the door. I asked for ten cents worth of raspberries. With a charming smile she led the way to the roomy kitchen, and taking down a bright tin pail, placed it in my hands with instructions to go right into the patch and help ourselves to what we wanted. We busied ourselves among the tall, green canes, and as the scent of flowers and fruit came to my nostrils, it seemed that I had been transported to the beautiful spot where I was born.

“At last I can realise that I am nearing home,” said I, turning to Dan.

On our return to the kitchen with the luscious red berries, the laughing maid met us, and set out dishes, spoons, sugar and a great pitcher of yellow cream. And what a feast we had! Our hostess informed us that the first passenger train that stopped at their little station did not come through till nearly one o’clock, so while Dan roamed about the ranch, the little woman and I sat on the long veranda and got acquainted.

With shy head hanging and many a blush, she said she had been married but four months. Her husband, who was a Mormon, was then at one of his other ranches, where he stopped for weeks at a time. I surmised that she was not his first wife, but warned by her attitude, forbore to question. She told me of her limited opportunities and narrow horizon. With wistful eyes she listened to my descriptions of large cities. She herself had never been further than Ogden, and only twice to that metropolis. The furnishings of the house were crude in the extreme, and she confided to me her longing for curtains such as she had once seen in Ogden, and hoped to have a strip of carpet for the parlour floor some time.

Suddenly she flung herself on her knees at my side and buried her face in my lap, while great sobs shook the slender body. She was all alone she said, all, all alone, and she was afraid. Her mother had eleven children and was always too overworked to listen to her daughter’s nonsense, as she called it. I gently raised the child—she was but sixteen years of age—to my lap, and with tender words and petting calmed the storm of sobs. When she could listen I advised her as best I could, and wrote a set of instructions to guide her in the coming hours of need. Poor little wild rose. I dread to think of what the future holds for her, so sensitive, so frail.

Once more we took a train and soon landed in Ogden. Turning to the left, we crossed the river and came to a large cottonwood grove. Here we pitched camp and Dan took up the never-ending search for work. Last night he came home with a big watermelon and the welcome news that he was to start work on Monday morning. So for a few days at least I am free to rest and sew.