“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Bridge.
“Evenin’,” snapped Grayson. “Go over to the cookhouse and the Chink’ll give you something to eat. Turn your pony in the lower pasture. Smith’ll show you where to bunk tonight, an’ you kin hev your breakfast in the mornin’. S’long!” The ranch superintendent turned back to the paper in his hand which he had been discussing with his employer at the moment of the interruption. He had volleyed his instructions at Bridge as though pouring a rain of lead from a machine gun, and now that he had said what he had to say the incident was closed in so far as he was concerned.
The hospitality of the Southwest permitted no stranger to be turned away without food and a night’s lodging. Grayson having arranged for these felt that he had done all that might be expected of a host, especially when the uninvited guest was so obviously a hobo and doubtless a horse thief as well, for who ever knew a hobo to own a horse?
Bridge continued to sit where he had reined in his pony. He was looking at Grayson with what the discerning boss judged to be politely concealed enjoyment.
“Possibly,” suggested the boss in a whisper to his aide, “the man has business with you. You did not ask him, and I am sure that he said nothing about wishing a meal or a place to sleep.”
“Huh?” grunted Grayson, and then to Bridge, “Well, what the devil do you want?”
“A job,” replied Bridge, “or, to be more explicit, I need a job—far be it from me to wish one.”
The Easterner smiled. Grayson looked a bit mystified—and irritated.
“Well, I hain’t got none,” he snapped. “We don’t need nobody now unless it might be a good puncher—one who can rope and ride.”
“I can ride,” replied Bridge, “as is evidenced by the fact that you now see me astride a horse.”
“I said ride,” said Grayson. “Any fool can sit on a horse. No, I hain’t got nothin’, an’ I’m busy now. Hold on!” he exclaimed as though seized by a sudden inspiration. He looked sharply at Bridge for a moment and then shook his head sadly. “No, I’m afraid you couldn’t do it—a guy’s got to be eddicated for the job I got in mind.”
“Washing dishes?” suggested Bridge.
Grayson ignored the playfulness of the other’s question.
“Keepin’ books,” he explained. There was a finality in his tone which said: “As you, of course, cannot keep books the interview is now over. Get out!”
“I could try,” said Bridge. “I can read and write, you know. Let me try.” Bridge wanted money for the trip to Rio, and, too, he wanted to stay in the country until Billy was ready to leave.
“Savvy Spanish?” asked Grayson.
“I read and write it better than I speak it,” said Bridge, “though I do the latter well enough to get along anywhere that it is spoken.”
Grayson wanted a bookkeeper worse than he could ever recall having wanted anything before in all his life. His better judgment told him that it was the height of idiocy to employ a ragged bum as a bookkeeper; but the bum was at least as much of a hope to him as is a straw to a drowning man, and so Grayson clutched at him.
“Go an’ turn your cayuse in an’ then come back here,” he directed, “an’ I’ll give you a tryout.”
“Thanks,” said Bridge, and rode off in the direction of the pasture gate.
“ ’Fraid he won’t never do,” said Grayson, ruefully, after Bridge had passed out of earshot.
“I rather imagine that he will,” said the boss. “He is an educated man, Grayson—you can tell that from his English, which is excellent. He’s probably one of the great army of down-and-outers. The world is full of them—poor devils. Give him a chance, Grayson, and anyway he adds another American to our force, and each one counts.”
“Yes, that’s right; but I hope you won’t need ’em before you an’ Miss Barbara go,” said Grayson.
“I hope not, Grayson; but one can never tell with conditions here such as they are. Have you any hope that you will be able to obtain a safe conduct for us from General Villa?”
“Oh, Villa’ll give us the paper all right,” said Grayson; “but it won’t do us no good unless we don’t meet nobody but Villa’s men on the way out. This here Pesita’s the critter I’m leery of. He’s got it in for all Americans, and especially for El Orobo Rancho. You know we beat off a raid of his about six months ago—killed half a dozen of his men, an’ he won’t never forgive that. Villa can’t spare a big enough force to give us safe escort to the border and he can’t assure the safety of the train service. It looks mighty bad, sir—I don’t see what in hell you came for.”
“Neither do I, Grayson,” agreed the boss; “but I’m here and we’ve got to make the best of it. All this may blow over—it has before—and we’ll laugh at our fears in a few weeks.”
“This thing that’s happenin’ now won’t never blow over ’til the stars and stripes blow over Chihuahua,” said Grayson with finality.
A few moments later Bridge returned to the office, having unsaddled his pony and turned it into the pasture.
“What’s your name?” asked Grayson, preparing to enter it in his time book.
“Bridge,” replied the new bookkeeper.
“ ’Nitials,” snapped Grayson.
Bridge hesitated. “Oh, put me down as L. Bridge,” he said.
“Where from?” asked the ranch foreman.
“El Orobo Rancho,” answered Bridge.
Grayson shot a quick glance at the man. The answer confirmed his suspicions that the stranger was probably a horse thief, which, in Grayson’s estimation, was the worst thing a man could be.
“Where did you get that pony you come in on?” he demanded. “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ of
