Presley now had the choice of two routes.His objective point was the spring at the headwaters of Broderson Creek, in the hills on the eastern side of the Quien Sabe ranch.The trail afforded him a short cut thitherward.As he passed the house, Mrs.Hooven came to the door, her little daughter Hilda, dressed in a boy's overalls and clumsy boots, at her skirts.Minna, her oldest daughter, a very pretty girl, whose love affairs were continually the talk of all Los Muertos, was visible through a window of the house, busy at the week's washing.Mrs.Hooven was a faded, colourless woman, middle-aged and commonplace, and offering not the least characteristic that would distinguish her from a thousand other women of her class and kind.She nodded to Presley, watching him with a stolid gaze from under her arm, which she held across her forehead to shade her eyes.
But now Presley exerted himself in good earnest.His bicycle flew.He resolved that after all he would go to Guadalajara.He crossed the bridge over the irrigating ditch with a brusque spurt of hollow sound, and shot forward down the last stretch of the Lower Road that yet intervened between Hooven's and the town.He was on the fourth division of the ranch now, the only one whereon the wheat had been successful, no doubt because of the Little Mission Creek that ran through it.But he no longer occupied himself with the landscape.His only concern was to get on as fast as possible.He had looked forward to spending nearly the whole day on the crest of the wooded hills in the northern corner of the Quien Sabe ranch, reading, idling, smoking his pipe.But now he would do well if he arrived there by the middle of the afternoon.In a few moments he had reached the line fence that marked the limits of the ranch.Here were the railroad tracks, and just beyond--a huddled mass of roofs, with here and there an adobe house on its outskirts--the little town of Guadalajara.
Nearer at hand, and directly in front of Presley, were the freight and passenger depots of the P.and S.W., painted in the grey and white, which seemed to be the official colours of all the buildings owned by the corporation.The station was deserted.No trains passed at this hour.From the direction of the ticket window, Presley heard the unsteady chittering of the telegraph key.In the shadow of one of the baggage trucks upon the platform, the great yellow cat that belonged to the agent dozed complacently, her paws tucked under her body.Three flat cars, loaded with bright-painted farming machines, were on the siding above the station, while, on the switch below, a huge freight engine that lacked its cow-catcher sat back upon its monstrous driving-wheels, motionless, solid, drawing long breaths that were punctuated by the subdued sound of its steam-pump clicking at exact intervals.
But evidently it had been decreed that Presley should be stopped at every point of his ride that day, for, as he was pushing his bicycle across the tracks, he was surprised to hear his name called."Hello, there, Mr.Presley.What's the good word?"Presley looked up quickly, and saw Dyke, the engineer, leaning on his folded arms from the cab window of the freight engine.But at the prospect of this further delay, Presley was less troubled.
Dyke and he were well acquainted and the best of friends.The picturesqueness of the engineer's life was always attractive to Presley, and more than once he had ridden on Dyke's engine between Guadalajara and Bonneville.Once, even, he had made the entire run between the latter town and San Francisco in the cab.
Dyke's home was in Guadalajara.He lived in one of the remodelled 'dobe cottages, where his mother kept house for him.
His wife had died some five years before this time, leaving him a little daughter, Sidney, to bring up as best he could.Dyke himself was a heavy built, well-looking fellow, nearly twice the weight of Presley, with great shoulders and massive, hairy arms, and a tremendous, rumbling voice.
"Hello, old man," answered Presley, coming up to the engine.
"What are you doing about here at this time of day? I thought you were on the night service this month.""We've changed about a bit," answered the other."Come up here and sit down, and get out of the sun.They've held us here to wait orders," he explained, as Presley, after leaning his bicycle against the tender, climbed to the fireman's seat of worn green leather."They are changing the run of one of the crack passenger engines down below, and are sending her up to Fresno.
There was a smash of some kind on the Bakersfield division, and she's to hell and gone behind her time.I suppose when she comes, she'll come a-humming.It will be stand clear and an open track all the way to Fresno.They have held me here to let her go by."He took his pipe, an old T.D.clay, but coloured to a beautiful shiny black, from the pocket of his jumper and filled and lit it.
"Well, I don't suppose you object to being held here," observed Presley."Gives you a chance to visit your mother and the little girl.""And precisely they choose this day to go up to Sacramento,"answered Dyke."Just my luck.Went up to visit my brother's people.By the way, my brother may come down here--locate here, I mean--and go into the hop-raising business.He's got an option on five hundred acres just back of the town here.He says there is going to be money in hops.I don't know; may be I'll go in with him.""Why, what's the matter with railroading?"Dyke drew a couple of puffs on his pipe, and fixed Presley with a glance.
"There's this the matter with it," he said; "I'm fired.""Fired! You!" exclaimed Presley, turning abruptly toward him.
"That's what I'm telling you," returned Dyke grimly.
