Judge — January 11, 1913 — page 6: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

ES, I’ve had some pretty wild experiences. See those gray hairs—just over the temple? They came of one of ’em. At least I never knew I had a gray hair until after that day. It was up in the mountains—out in British Columbia—where they were building a rail- road through the Rockies. The air was full of the smell of burnt powder, and the earth shook under your feet night and day with the explosion of dynamite. There was one section alone where they ‘‘shot’’ off ten million pounds of black powder, dynamite and virite, and the game had gone off thirty miles from each side the right of way. But this isn't the story—and yet it’s got something to do with it, after all; for on that par- ticular day I had taken a twenty-mile tramp after moun- tain goat, and when I was about four miles from camp I was all played out. I had hit the right of way, and was following the contractor’s wagon trail, when I saw a team and wagon pulling up slowly behind me. Seeing a chance for a ride, I waited. There was the most lugubrious-looking chap on the seat I ever saw, and I was grinning before I spoke. His eyes bulged out like peeled onions, his lips were thin and set, and he was so thin you could have put two of him behind a fair-sized sapling. He was at least six feet tall, and the way he was humped over reminded me of a dachshund. And sour! The look in his face would have curdled milk. “Will you give me a ride, friend?"’ I asked. He cast one strange, unsympathetic look at me, and grunted, “Suppose so—if you want it!’” That was all, and I climbed up beside him. Inside of three minutes I knew I was with a crazy man. I began talking to him cheerfully, but he wouldn’t answer. I talked about hunting, the climate, horses and rail- roads; but I couldn’t so much as get. another grunt out of him. He held the reins tightly with one hand, and with the other clutched the wagon brake, as though he was eternally thinking himself going down a bill. He regarded every little stone and stick in the road as though it wasa ~~ SV mountain or a pitfall, and once, when we ran over a small bowlder, his face set in a fierce grimace and I could see his teeth clinched tight. And then it hap- pened. One of those spruce chickens we call fool-hens in the mountains got up in front of the horses with a roar of wings, and the team set off at a frightened gallop. It wasn’t a fast gallop, but as I hung on with both hands I couldn’t help grinning to see how seared my strange companion was. He pleaded and tugged back on the reins, and his eyes seemed ready to pop. Then I laughed. I couldn’t help it, for, although we were getting an infernal bouncing, there wasn’t any danger. But the sweat started out on that poor chap’s face, and he gave me just one quick, pitying look, Then, right ahead of us, the road became mighty rough. It was filled with rocks and chopped- down stumps, and the team started out at a fresh lick, as though they meant to give us a bouncing that would rattle every bone in our bodies. Then my insane com- panion gave something like a war whoop, dropped the reins and leaped off the wagon—and as he went he yelled, “Jump! For God’s sake, jump!’’ “*He’s foolish in the garret,’’ was the thought that ran through my mind, and I caught up the reins and couldn't help from turning back a grinning face as I saw him pick himself up and stare after me. ‘These mountains drive people mad,’’ I told myself, as I tugged at the lines. ‘‘They've driven that poor fellow dippy, and I’m going to tell Contractor Hogan about his queer actions when we get to camp. I don’t believe’’-—— But all other thought was bumped out of me at that moment. I never had such a ride as I had over those nigger-heads and stumps, and I could hear the boxes with which the wagon was loaded bumping about and crashing together in amaz- ing fashion. I lost my hut, my gun, and there wasn’t a bone in my body that didn’t get its separate and indi- vidual jar. I had to set my teeth to keep ’em from breaking, and I thought it was a mighty lucky thing all canned stuff was sent to the camps in tin cans and not glass, or the load would be pulverized. We hadn’t comicbooks.com