Top-Notch Magazine/Volume 66/Number 3/East of Sunrise/Chapter 3

HE sheriff at Tres Alamos, Jerry Blake, had a name for men like Red Galloway and Eph Springer. He called them “grubbers.” Grubbers are the hobos of the desert country, but they go the ordinary tramp one better. Although their wanderings may be aimless, their purposes have a set direction. Any man who can be begged or cajoled into giving them a grubstake is their quarry.

They pretend to be prospectors. Many of them possess sufficient knowledge of mineral indications and of ore, pockets, and pay streaks to make excellent prospectors. But the professional grubber is too lazy. If he can, by an agreement to turn over half his prospective discoveries to the person who grubstakes him, receive a three-months’ supply of bacon, beans, and flour, he will vanish into some comfortable spot in the desert and loaf away his time while the food lasts.

When the food gives out, he will return to the easy mark who grubstaked him with a piece of very rich ore in an empty tobacco sack, or an old sock, or a bit of dirty cloth, and claim that he has found a lead of that kind of stuff but that it will take him another three months to develop the “find” and see just what he’s got. The grubstaker, thinking he has a half interest with the grubber in a prospective fortune, furnishes another three-months’ supply of bacon, beans, and flour. And the grubber returns to his old camp in the desert and enjoys another three months of idleness. With the same piece of rich ore, which he has stolen somewhere and which is his whole stock in trade, he will look around for another likely person whom it is possible to beguile.

This is the grubber’s method. It is the way he supports himself in idleness and keeps his wretched body and soul together. He is a flimflammer; and if any other method of acquiring easy money presents itself as feasible, he will adopt it promptly even though it hinges upon crime.

A grubber is not a true prospector, nor is a true prospector a grubber. The mountains and mesas are filled with honest gold hunters who, if they are grubstaked, go searching industriously for precious metal. But men like Red Galloway and Eph Springer are not of this type.

Some grubbers travel afoot, toting a bag of provisions and a canteen of water; others, more fortunate, own a burro, and some may rise to the dignity of owning a horse. But, between foot-grubbers, burro-grubbers, and horse-grubbers there is a difference merely of degree.

Galloway and Springer were so widely known in those deserts that it was becoming increasingly hard for them to find any one from whom they could secure a grubstake. Because they knew all the water holes and springs where not only water but a forage of grama-grass and mesquite beans could be had, they were able to keep their horses after a fashion; but they were almost at the last extremity when, instead of exchanging a six-dollar nugget for food, they passed it to a treacherous herdsman for a tin canteen of tiswin. It was their plan to forget their troubles temporarily by using a little illegal fire water.

They rode, that early afternoon, to a spot near the old Tumbling Stone Trail where a dribble of water and a few nibbles of scant grass would keep the breath of life in their horses. They had a little bacon, but thought best to save it; for Eph had killed a chuckwalla which weighed three pounds dressed. They built a fire, roasted the lizard between two hot stones, and had a pièce de résistance to go with their fire water.

For almost a year they had hunted in couples. They called themselves “pards.” Tiswin, however, is said to be a drink with fight in it, and they began quarreling as they divided the chuckwalla. There was a division of opinion, too, on another matter.

They knew Seward of Sacatone. He had caught them stealing on one occasion, and instead of taking them to jail he had sent them over the border into Mexico. On returning from Sonora they had another encounter with Seward which fell just short of being disastrous.

They held Seward in dread, for they believed fully all the legends that dealt with his superhuman powers. If he told them to do anything, they did it, for they were convinced that he would put the blight of the evil eye upon them if they failed to carry out his orders. They knew, too, that if they did a friendly act for Seward he would be found grateful; somehow, Seward, although he had never made a “strike,” always had money. All this gave Eph Springer an idea.

“Red,” said he, over the last of the chuckwalla, “the’ ain’t no manner o’ use o’ you and me fightin’. We got a chance to pull down a grubstake.”

“Meanin’ which?” grunted Galloway.

“Ain’t we jest heard somethin’ which Seward would be mighty glad to know? A scheme is afoot to do him up. Us two could tell him about it, and like as not he’d come across with ten, twenty, or mebby fifty pesos. We could take things easy fer a spell on fifty pesos.”

Galloway had imbibed enough tiswin to feel an unaccustomed energy flowing through his veins. He showed interest, for his wits were not so fuddled but that the logic of Springer’s remarks appealed to him.

“Sufferin’ sidewinders!” he muttered. “It shore looks like a good bet, Eph. But the moharrie and Chombo is travelin’ on a couple o’ fast caballos. We couldn’t never expect to get to that place east o’ Sunrise afore them two got there.”

“Say, listen!” said Springer, his enthusiasm growing as his mind developed the plan. “Us two could foller down the Hermosito Trail till we found Seward and this here La Joya moharrie. We could spill the beans about that faro dealer afore ever them two reached the pass east o’ Sunrise. Mebby Seward ’u’d shell out a hundred pesos. We’d be savin’ his life, wouldn’t we? Seems like we owe it to him, after he got us clear o’ that Dirk Sanger, otherwise Guido Fresco, like he done.

“Or, here’s another scheme,” Springer went on, apparently embarrassed by the ideas that suddenly laid hold of him; “us two could go to Tres Alamos, gettin’ there afore sundown, and we could bat up the scheme to that moharrie, the Norcross girl, whose dad is a partner o’ Simms in the general store. Seward was to pick up five thousand dollars in gold and deliver it in Los Cerillos. Mebby we could stop Seward afore he got started. That Ethel Norcross would whack up a big grubstake right off’n the store shelves for a red-hot tip about what we got next to over at Chombo’s.

“And then there's something else,” Springer expanded, apparently doing all the thinking for both himself and his partner; “us two could go to the sheriff and tell him where he could find this Lola Sanger. There was a thousand paid fer bringin’ in Dirk Sanger, and mebby he’d make a deal fer infermation about the moharrie?”

“Now y’u are plumb loco,” scoffed Galloway. “The farther we can keep away from sheriffs the better we’re off. Nary, Eph! Our best bet is to go huntin’ Seward out Hermosito way. We’re near the end of our grub, but if we can locate Seward and tell him what’s on our minds, I’ll bet he’d give us the run o’ his camp.”

“Tres Alamos is nigher, and we could hit that burg afore sundown. I’m fer goin’ there, Red, and seein’ what the moharrie ’ll do fer us. Simms & Norcross stand to lose five thousand pesos; and I’ll gamble a blue stack that they’ll be plumb lib’ral with us—with the moharrie on our side.”

Galloway was dubious about that. “That Norcross moharrie ain’t got any friendly feelin’ fer us, Eph, as y’u ort to know,” he objected.

“But her and Walt Seward are friends, and she’d do a lot fer Seward.”

“Tell y’u what, Eph,” Galloway suggested, as a brilliant idea crossed his wits; “we’ll sep’rate. Y’u kin go to Tres Alamos and work Simms & Norcross, and I’ll take the scatterin’ o’ grub we got left an’ hike out the Hermosito Trail. You put it over in the town, and I’ll put it over with Seward. Mebby we’ll pick up a couple o’ grubstakes by workin’ both ends o’ this string. How about it?”

It looked promising to the two desert hobos, but they almost came to blows when they reached the point of dividing the scanty store of food and the small supply of tiswin that was left.

“No use yore tryin’ to hog everythin’,” grumbled Springer; “I’m takin’ more chances in town than what y’u are takin’ along the Hermosito Trail.”

“I'm needin’ more grub, in case I can’t make a go of it,” argued Galloway. “And look what's li’ble to happen if I should fall in with Chombo and the moharrie.”

“Y’u’d be all right; y’u wouldn’t tell ’em nothin’.”

“As fer that, y’u’re playin’ a safe thing. If Seward’s gone on his way, tell what y’u know and y’u’re bound to be treated han’some. Me, now—say, I’m takin’ all the chances.”

Before they had finished the argument, each had reached for his dirk; but calmer counsel prevailed when Springer began to see Galloway’s side of the contention.

“Buenos!” he grunted. “One more drink from the canteen, Red, and we’ll part comp’ny. Where’ll we meet up ag’in? Dead Mule Flat?”

“Shore,” assented Galloway; “bring yore grubstake there, and I’ll bring mine—if I happen to rustle one.” He cocked one eye at the sun. “I allow it’s cool enough to be movin’, Eph. Let’s strike out.”

They mounted their sorry steeds, bade each other “Adios!” and Galloway struck out for the Hermosito Trail while Springer pushed for Tres Alamos.

It was five o’clock in the afternoon when Springer clattered into the town. The trail he was following led directly into the main street, with the county courthouse and jail among the first buildings he would have to pass. These were public institutions with which he was entirely out of sympathy, for good and sufficient reasons, so he turned into a back street and came to the general store of Simms & Norcross by a roundabout course.

Leaving his horse at the hitching rail, he passed through the open front doors with all the assurance he could muster. A brown-eyed, brown-haired girl was waiting on a woman customer in the dry-goods department. When she saw Springer a look of astonishment crossed her pretty face—a look which almost immediately gave place to an expression of dislike and suspicion. Springer, calling upon all the little courage he possessed, stepped to the counter.

“Miss Norcross,” he inquired, “has Seward of Sacatone left for Cerillos with that gold?”

Ethel Norcross dropped the scissors which she was about to use on a bolt of cloth; but, being a girl of determination and spirit, she immediately composed herself. “If you will sit down, Mr. Springer,” she replied, “I will talk with you in a moment.”

“There ain’t no time to lose if Seward ain’t been here yet,” Springer told her.

The girl gave him a quick look. “Mr. Seward,” she answered, “started on a prospecting trip yesterday morning. Just a minute, please.”

A look of worry flooded her eyes, for no doubt she had a premonition that there was evil news about to be unfolded. As soon as she had finished waiting on the customer, she went to a desk in the back part of the store and spoke to the senior partner, Mr. Simms. Mr. Simms’ face was presently reflecting his own worry, and he got up from the desk and motioned to Springer. Opening the door of a rear room, he waved Springer inside.

“We’ll talk with him, Ethel,” said the senior partner, “and find out, if we can, where he got his information.”

The three of them went into the rear room, the door was closed, and a very private consultation went forward. For once in his life, at least, Eph Springer was springing a sensation.