Late twilight had thrown a gorgeous cloak of purple mist over the whole
surrounding country as the trio of weary scouts ambled up the stone
steps into the long, low room which served as a lobby, dining-room and
ballroom all in one.
There were few balls or parties held in that rustic Inn except on
festive occasions, such as weddings, etc., when the farm and ranch folk
would gather there.
“Ol’ Pop Burrows,” pioneer and crony of Uncle Jeb’s, who owned the
place, greeted them with all the warm hospitality so characteristic of
the real, honest-to-goodness Westerner.
By the time Westy and Artie, with their miscellaneous baggage, had been
shown to their room, the aroma of a delicious dinner was emanating from
the kitchen below them.
“Boy, but that smells good!” Westy exclaimed, in the process of washing
up.
“Now, that’s what I’d call an instance of mental ‘telegraphy,’” Artie
remarked, smiling through the folds of a face-towel.
“You mean mental telepathy,” said the ever-serious Westy.
“You go to the head of the class for that,” laughed Artie. “Whatever you
call it, it smells good.”
“Let’s snap into it! I’m as hungry as the proverbial grizzly,” Westy
said, walking toward the door.
“You’ve got nothing on me and I’ll be right with you, Wes.”
They descended the stairs and found Uncle Jeb already awaiting them. He
led them to a table at the far corner of the room where the steaming
food was being placed by a little wizened-looking man, whose agile step
and manner belied somewhat the immobile expression of his face.
Indeed, he was an unusual looking man; swarthy skin with “the smallest
eyes.” As Artie remarked, “You’d almost wonder how he could see out of
them.”
“Evidently, no one could say they were the windows of his soul,” said
Westy. “They’re not big enough for a fellow to tell whether he’s looking
your way or not.”
“Maybe he hasn’t any soul,” put in Artie, who afterward had good cause
to remember this jesting remark.
“Now, boys,” drawled Uncle Jeb, who had been eating in silent
contemplation while Westy and Artie were talking, “you hain’t doin’
Ollie Baxter justice when yuh talk ’bout him thet way. He wouldn’t hurt
a flea, ’n I guess he’s shure ’nough got a soul, fer he never says
nuthin’, jes cooks fer Ol’ Pop, waits on table when them tourists come
in summer, ’n does all the chores thet’s asked o’ him on the place. I
reckon thar hain’t a man livin’ thet minds his bizness like Ollie
Baxter; no, sir!”
“Well, pardner, I reckon yuh’re dead right,” chimed in Ol’ Pop, as he
seated himself by the table. “He came strollin’ in here one day nigh
onto ten year ago. He sez to me as quiet like as if he had allus known
me: ‘Pop,’ sez he to me jes like that; ‘Pop, I’m a furriner roun’ these
parts, ’n jes by accident I heerd down in Eagle City thet yuh wanted a
man to do chores. So, I thinks to myself thinks I, I’m the man he wants,
so if yuh don’t mind I’ll take it pronto!’ Jes like thet he talked,
quiet like, but to the point; nuthin’ fancy.”
Ol’ Pop Burrows, like many of his type, manipulated his food by means of
the knife with all the dexterity of an expert. As he talked between
bites, he would wave the implement in mid-air, as if to express himself
more fully to his interested listeners. Then, with a swoop (that would
do justice to only a bird of prey), he would descend upon his plate,
scoop up the proper amount that the knife would hold, and presto--it had
disappeared. The conversation would then be resumed.
To Artie and Westy, who were amazed at this work of ingenuity, each
recurrence made them marvel more, and gave them a secret thrill to be in
company with these two old scouts of the Rockies. In fact, late that
night, when they were in bed and exchanging confidences, they both
agreed it must have been great to have lived in those days that Uncle
Jeb and Pop Burrows had lived in as boys; when mothers and fathers
didn’t keep tabs on a fellow’s table manners and things like that.
“Just think,” said Westy, “all boys had to do in those days was to fish,
hunt and eat with their knives, no sisters to boss a guy around and tell
you what to do as if they’re your own mother.”
Artie agreed to this most heartily. He also expressed his contempt of
our present-day civilization in a few words that did not leave any doubt
as to his feelings in the matter.
“Anyhow,” remarked Artie with a ring of enthusiasm more pronounced in
the darkness, “we can do as we like all summer and that’s something.
That is--we can do as Uncle Jeb does, I mean.”
“Bet your life,” said Westy. “Gee, I can hardly believe we’re here,
Artie, can you? Pinch yourself and see if it’s true.”
“Don’t hafta, when I get a whiff of that ozone coming in the window.
Guess the Rockies is the only place in the world where the air smells
like this,” Artie murmured, his voice drifting sleepily into space.
“Uh huh!” said Westy in a monotone. “Gosh, but I’m tired, ain’t you,
Art?”
“Sure!”
“G’night, Art!”
“Night, Wes!”
Uncle Jeb, passing by their door into his own room, called good-night
and reminded them that they were to make an early start in the morning.
They answered him drowsily and sleep must have overpowered them before
the echo of their voices died away in the night. The moonlight,
streaming in through the open windows on the two sleeping forms,
transformed the room into a magic fairyland of dancing silver shadows,
giving the whole an air of profound tranquillity.