"That sounds to me all right," assented the Colonel.
"The hot water," observed the Professor, "would naturally be at the surface; but as for the tale itself--"
"It would, eh?" queried Aconite. "Well, I've forded the Firehole where the bottom was hot, an' the top cold. An' Old Jim Bridger knowed of a place where the water of a cold spring starts at the top of a mountain, and slides down so fast that the friction heats the water hot--just rubbin' on the rocks comin' down. It's here in these hills som'eres, yet!"
The Artist, the Groom and the Colonel fished industriously for one day and then handed in a unanimous verdict that it was a shame to take advantage of the trout's verdancy. So the Hired Man and Aconite foraged for the frying-pan.
The change to boat from land carriage was so grateful, now, that they made wondrous voyages, first to the scenes reached by water. They photographed bears near camp and both deer and elk in the meadows and on their shore feeding-grounds. It was no longer a strange or startling thing to see a grizzly bear, and to stalk him with a kodak. The pelicans on the lake were to them as the swans on a private pond. The sense of ownership grew upon them. Here was their own pleasure-ground. It was theirs by virtue of their citizenship. They might not visit it often--though all declared their intention of coming back every summer--but, anyhow, it would be fine to know that here on the summit of the continent was this wonderland, owned by them and each of them.
They took saddle horses down the southern approach to Heart Lake, and voted it the loveliest lake in the park.
"That is," said the Bride, "it doesn't compare with the big lake up yonder in greatness; but it's just pure joy. Let's camp here for the night. Let's draw another romance from the library right now; and give the victim time to compose his thoughts while we go see that Rustic Geyser, with the stone logs around it."
Somehow they seemed farther from the haunts of men here than anywhere else in the Park. The stream of tourists seemed to sweep on past the Thumb Lunch Station, toward the Lake Hotel; and Heart Lake, with Mount Sheridan brooding over it, was theirs alone. And it was here that the Hired Man, with many protests that he wasn't really a member of the party, but only working his way, told his story--like another Ulysses returned from Troy and his wanderings.
FROM ALPHA TO OMEGA
THE HIRED MAN'S STORY
It narrows a man to stick around in one place. You broaden out more pan-handling over one division, than by watching the cars go by for years. I've been everywhere from Alpha, Illinois, to Omega, Oklahoma, and peeked over most of the jumping-off places; and Iowa is not the whole works at all. That's why I'm here now. Good quiet state to moss over in; but no life! Me for the mountains where the stealing is good yet, and a man with genius can be a millionaire!
I was in one big deal, once--the Golden Fountain Mine. Pete Peterson and I worked in the Golden Fountain and boarded with Brady, a pit boss. Ever hear of psychic power? A medium told me once that I have it, and that's why folks tell me their secrets. The second day Brady told me the mine was being wrecked.
"How do you know?" said I.
"They're minin' bird's-eye porphyry," said Brady, "purtendin' they've lost the lode."
"Maybe they have," said I.
"Not them," replied Brady, who never had had any culture. "I can show you the vein broad's a road an' rich as pudd'n'!"
I didn't care a whoop, as long as they paid regular; but Brady worried about the widows and orphans that had stock. I said I had no widows and orphans contracting insomnia for me, and he admitted he hadn't. But he said a man couldn't tell what he might acquire. Soon after, a load of stulls broke loose, knocked Pete Peterson numb, and in the crash Brady accumulated a widow. It was thought quite odd, after what he'd said.
The union gave him a funeral, and then we were all rounded up by a lawyer that insisted on being a pall-bearer and riding with the mourners, he and Brady had been such dear friends. The widow never heard of him; but unless he was dear to Brady, why did he cry over the bier, and pass out his cards, and say he'd make the mine sweat for this? It didn't seem reasonable, and the widow signed papers while he held in his grief.
Then we found he had awful bad luck losing friends. A lot of them had been killed or hurt, and he was suing companies to beat fours. We were going over our evidence, and another bunch was there with a doctor examining to see how badly they were ruined.
"Beautiful injury!" said the lawyer, thumping a husky Hun on the leg.
"No patellar reflex! Spine ruined! Beautiful! We'll make 'em sweat for this!"
He surely was a specialist in corporate perspiration. I asked what the patellar reflex was, and the doc had Pete sit and cross his legs, and explained.
"Mr. Peterson," said he, "has a normal spine. When I concuss the limb here, the foot will kick forward involuntarily. But in case of spinal injury, it will not. Now observe!"
He whacked Pete's shin with a rubber hammer, but Pete never kicked. His foot hung loose like, not doing a blamed thing that the doc said it would if his spine was in repair. The doc was plumb dumb-foundered.
"Most remarkable case of volitional control--" he began.
"Volitional your grandmother!" yells the lawyer. "Mr. Peterson is ruined also! He was stricken prone in the same negligent accident that killed dear Mr. Brady! He is doomed! A few months of progressive induration of the spinal cord, and breaking up of the multipolar cells, and--death, friend, death!"
The widow begun to whimper, and the lawyer grabbed Pete's hand and bursted into tears. Pete, being a Swede, never opened his face.
"But," said the lawyer, cheering up, "we'll make them sweat for this.
Shall we not vindicate the right of the working-man to protection, Mr.
Peterson?"
"Yu bat!" said Pete. "Ay bane gude Republican!"
"And vindicate his right," went on the lawyer, "to safe tools and conditions of employment?"
"Ay tank we windicate," said Pete.
"Nobly said!" said the lawyer and hopped to it making agreements for contingent fees and other flimflams. It was wonderful how sort of patriotic and unselfish and religious and cagey he always was.
We quit the Golden Fountain, and I got some assessment work for Sile Wilson. Pete wouldn't go. He was sort of hanging around the widow, but his brains were so sluggish that I don't believe he knew why. I picked up a man named Lungy to help. Sile's daughter Lucy kept house for Sile in camp, and in two days she was calling Lungy "Mr. Addison," and reproaching me for stringing a stranger that had seen better days and had a bum lung and was used to dressing for dinner. I told her I most always allowed to wear something at that meal myself, and she snapped my head off. He was a nice fellow for a lunger.
When I had to go and testify in the Brady and Peterson cases against the Golden Fountain, old Sile was willing.
"I'd like to help stick the thieves!" he hissed.
"How did you know they were thieves?" asked I.
"I located the claim," said he, "and they stole it on a measley little balance for machinery--confound them!"
"Well, they're stealing it again," said I; and I explained the lost vein business.
"They've pounded the stock away down," said the lunger. "I believe it's a good buy!"
"Draw your eighteen-seventy-five from Sile," said I; "and come with me and buy it!"
"I think I will go," said he. And he did. He was a nice fellow to travel with.
Well, the Golden Fountain was shut down, and had no lawyer against us.
It was a funny hook-up. We proved about the stulls, and got a judgment for the widow for ten thousand. Then we corralled another jury and showed that Pete had no patellar reflex, and therefore no spine, and got a shameful great verdict for him. And all the time the Golden Fountain never peeped, and Lungy Addison looked on speechless. Our lawyer was numb, it was so easy.
"I don't understand--" said he.
"The law department must be connected in series with the mine machinery," said I, "and shuts off with the same switch. Do we get this on a foul?"
"Oh, nothing foul!" said he. "Default, you see--"
"No showup at ringside," said I; "9 to 0? How about bets?"
"Everything is all right," said he, looking as worried. "We'll sell the mine, and make the judgments!"
"And get the Golden Fountain," said I, "on an Irish pit boss and a Swede's spine?"
"Certainly," said he, "if they don't redeem."