Overland Red | Page 5

pony shouldered through the breast-high greasewood and picked
his steps along the edge of the hill. The twigs and branches lisped and
clattered against the carved leather tapaderos that hooded the stirrups.
The warm sun awoke the wild fragrance of sage and mountain soil.
Little lizards of the stones raced from Black Boyar's tread, becoming
rigid on the sides of rocks, clinging at odd angles with heads slanted,
like delicate Orient carvings in dull brass.
The girl's eyes, the color of sea-water in the sun, were leveled toward

the distant hills across the San Fernando Valley. From her fingers
dangled the long bridle-reins. Her lips were gently parted. Her gaze was
the gaze of one who dreams in the daylight. And close in the hidden
meadow crouched Romance, Romance ragged, unkempt, jocular....
Boyar first scented the wood-smoke. Louise noticed his
forward-standing ears and his fidgeting. Immediately before her was
the low rounded rock, a throne of dreams that she had graced before.
From down the slope and almost hidden by the bulk of the rock, a little
wand of smoke stood up in the windless air, to break at last into tiny
shreds and curls of nothingness.
"It can't be much of a fire yet!" exclaimed Louise, forever watchful, as
are all the hill-folk, for that dread, ungovernable red monster of
destruction, a mountain fire. "It can't be much of a fire yet."
The pony Boyar, delicately scenting something more than wood-smoke,
snorted and swerved. Louise dismounted and stepped hurriedly round
the shoulder of the rock. A bristle-bearded face confronted her. "No, it
ain't much of a fire yet, but our hired girl she joined a movin'-picture
outfit, so us two he-things are doin' the best we can chasin' a breakfast."
And the tramp, Overland Red, ragged, unkempt, jocular, rose from his
knees beside a tiny blaze. He pulled a bleak flop of felt from his tangled
hair in an over-accentuated bow of welcome.
"We offer you the freedom of the city, ma'am. Welcome to our midst,
and kindly excuse appearances this morning. Our trunks got delayed in
New York."
Unsmilingly the girl's level gray eyes studied the tramp's face. Then her
glance swept him swiftly from bared head to rundown heel. "I was just
making up my mind whether I'd stay and talk with you, or ask you to
put out your fire and go somewhere else. But I think you are all right.
Please put on your hat."
[Illustration: THE GIRL'S LEVEL GRAY EYES STUDIED THE
TRAMP'S FACE]

Overland Red's self-assurance shrunk a little. The girl's eyes were
direct and fearless, yet not altogether unfriendly. He thought that deep
within them dwelt a smile.
"You got my map all right," he said, a trifle more respectfully. "'Course
we'll douse the fire when we duck out of here. But what do you think of
Collie here, my pal? Is he all right?"
"Oh, he's only a boy," said Louise, glancing casually at the youth
crouched above the fire.
The boy, a slim lad of sixteen or thereabout, flushed beneath the
battered brim of his black felt hat. He watched the tomato-can
coffee-pot intently. Louise could not see his face.
"Yes, Miss. I'm all right and so is he." And a humorous wistfulness
crept into the tramp's eyes. "He's what you might call a changeling."
"Changeling?"
"Uhuh! Always changin' around from place to place--when you're
young. Ain't that it?"
"Oh! And when you are older?" she queried, smiling.
Overland Red frowned. "Oh, then you're just a tramp, a Willie, a Bo, a
Hobo."
He saw the girl's eyes harden a little. He spoke quickly, and, she
imagined, truthfully. "I worked ten years for one outfit once, without a
change. And I never knowed what it was to do a day's work out of the
saddle. You know what that means."
"Cattle? Mexico?"
Overland Red grinned. "Say! You was born in California, wasn't you?"
"Yes, of course."

"'Cause Mexico has been about the only place a puncher could work
that long without doin' day labor on foot half the year. Yes, I been there.
'Course, now, I'm doin' high finance, and givin' advice to the young,
and livin' on my income. And say, when it comes to real brain work,
I'm the Most Exhausted Baked High Potentate, but I wouldn't do no
mineral labor for nobody. If I can't work in the saddle, I don't
work--that's all."
"Mineral labor? What, mining?" asked Louise.
"No, not mining. Jest mineral labor like Japs, or section-hands, or
coachmen with bugs on their hats. Ain't the papers always speakin' of
that kind as minerals?"
"Don't you mean menials?"
"Well, yes. It's all the same, anyway. I never do no hair-splittin' on
words. Bein' a pote myself, it ain't necessary."
"A--a poet! Really?"
"Really and truly, and carry one