Mr. Temple jogged along with Uncle Jeb in a dilapidated buckboard, oblivious of any discomfort, for he was fascinated with this old scout’s quaint views of life, and listened attentively to the reminiscences of his trapping days.
“Don’t do much else now but chore aroun’,” he said rather sadly. “Guess I’m a-gittin’ too old!”
“Not at all,” Mr. Temple reassured him.
“Wa-al, anyway I’m a figgerin’ on givin’ up my cabin one of these days,” he said. “’Tain’t jest the thing when a man gits so old ter live by himself, and my cabin’s pretty fur frum the Inn.”
“I’d very much like to see it,” Mr. Temple remarked.
“Wa-al, sir, yure shure are welcome ter come and stay a piece with me.”
“That’s very kind, but I couldn’t stay but one night with you.”
“I’m right glad to hev yuh and I’ll take yuh up and bring yer back so yer kin git to Ezry’s place after.”
By that time they had arrived at the Inn.
The next morning they started before sun-up, just Mr. Temple and Uncle Jeb, on foot, of course. The trail began at the foot of the mountain just back of the Inn. Along toward ten o’clock they came in sight of Eagle Pass, where the surveyors had met Uncle Jeb the week previous when he was on his way down to Eagle City.
“Said they’d be here when I come back this way,” he remarked, “but I guess they hevn’t been able to git as fur as this yit.”
“I suppose not,” Mr. Temple said. “You don’t think by any chance we have missed them?”
“No, indeed,” replied Uncle Jeb. “Thar’s not a track o’ them anywheres!”
They finally came to a spot where a lake could be seen in the distance lying right in the center of the mountains.
Looking up, Mr. Temple noted two cliffs identical in appearance on either side of the lake.
“Twin Cliffs, I calls ’em,” explained Uncle Jeb. “Jes’ like twins excep’ thet the one has a hollow underneath. Regular nestin’ place fer eagles in the winter and sometimes in the summer. Durn good place to keep away frum.”
“I suppose so,” Mr. Temple agreed.
Suddenly Uncle Jeb’s eyes were fixed intently on the ground.
Then he pointed.
There was nothing so startling that Mr. Temple could see but a few small holes and some footprints here and there. Also, some blackened embers, evidently the remnants of campfires long since dead, that had been blown hither and thither by the mischievous summer breezes.
“What,” Mr. Temple asked, “would that signify?”
“Them surveyors,” Uncle Jeb replied with a rueful shake of his head. “They come as fur as here and they didn’t go back and they didn’t go on.”
He was now gazing significantly up a trail that led up to the hollow that he had previously pointed out.
“Do you think by any chance they were up there?” Mr. Temple asked anxiously.
“Dunno,” he replied, “I warned them not ter go, I know that! Thar’s been a little landslide here since I passed and thet would cover up the tracks—if thar wuz any.”
Mr. Temple looked and found that parts of the trail were indeed covered with sand and rock. Becoming alarmed he turned to Uncle Jeb searchingly.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Temple,” he said. “Yuh kin go up if yer want to, but I’m a-thinkin’ yuh won’t find nuthin.”
However, Uncle Jeb led the way up the trail and, needless to say, they searched, they shouted and in a frenzy Mr. Temple rushed to a trail that ran back of the cliff, but to his distraction soon realized that it became impassable after a few feet and finally obliterated itself in the impenetrable fastnesses of the deep mountain forest.
“And so your father went on to Mr. Rushmore’s cabin,” said Mrs. Temple.
“Didn’t he look in the hollow?” Mary breathlessly asked.
“Oh, yes, my dear.”
“Did he succeed with Mr. Ezra Knapp then?”
“No, it was all futile.”
“Why so, Mother?”
“He said he had changed his mind and refused to honor the agreement.”
“How perfectly mean!” Mary exclaimed. “But couldn’t Father hold him to it after making such a contract?”
“Assuredly in any other case, but you see this was different.”
“How so?”
“The agreement disappeared along with the surveyors!”
After leaving Artie, Westy strolled home thoughtfully in the haze of an early fall afternoon. He was thrilled beyond measure and equally despondent at the same time, over the knowledge that he would never be able to see those mountain passes where the surveyors had met their doom.
He was sorry, of course, that such a calamity had befallen those poor fellows, but there was no denying, he secretly admitted, that it added still more zest and charm than before to that haven of Paradise in the far-off Rockies.
It was certainly an Eden-like temptation to poor Westy to have heard that story, for the more he thought about it, the greater his desire became to participate in the wild life for one whole glorious summer.
Still, he realized that some great good fortune would have to wave its fairy wand over the Martin household to convince his respected father that he was able to take care of himself and come back safe from that hazardous wilderness.
“I want to go so much,” Westy said half-aloud, as he was mounting the steps of the house. “Gee whiz, I’d do almost anything to go.”
“What were you saying?” asked Mr. Martin who had previously come home from business and was divesting himself of his topcoat and hat in the front hall. “Were you speaking to me, son?”
“No, Father,” Westy respectfully answered. “I was just thinking of something.”
“Well, my boy,” he said firmly, “you must always do your thinking in the proper places. I noticed as I came along in the bus from the station that you barely escaped being run over. One of those foolhardy speeders came rushing along without any regard to the privacy of your thoughts. There isn’t any room in the world for dreamers, especially the business world. You must quit dreaming if you ever expect to make a mark for yourself in business when you get there.”
“Well, I don’t expect to get there,” Westy whispered to himself.
“What was that you said?” Mr. Martin asked.
“Oh, I said I don’t suppose I get enough air,” Westy replied, feeling absolved from his white lie immediately, when his mother came forward to greet him. She smiled knowingly at her son, thankful that he had evaded any unnecessary argument.
“Well, if you have been in school studying all afternoon it won’t hurt you any. The more you study the quicker you’ll get through and get to business like Mr. Captroop,” Mr. Martin reminded him.
“Come now,” Mrs. Martin interposed, “dinner is about ready.”
Westy looked upon his mother at that moment as one might look on an angel of mercy, for she had saved him from listening to a prolonged discourse on the safe and sane business career for all young men and the many admirable qualities of the Hon. Archie Captroop.
But to Westy’s dismay, the estimable Mr. Martin took up the conversation at the dinner table, where he had left off.
“As I was going to say before dinner,” he began, “I think it would be a very wise plan for Westy to make the most of his next summer’s vacation.”
“How?” Westy hopefully asked.
“By getting something to do like most energetic boys would do, instead of running around wild the whole summer with some unknown Wild Westerner.”
“But, Father,” Westy, crestfallen, despairingly pleaded, “I was speaking to Art to-day and it seems that he was planning on me asking him to go. His mother and father had already given their consent.”
“Really, my boy, that was quite a presumptuous thing for him to do considering that he had not yet been asked. Perhaps though, you had given him encouragement!”
“No, that’s just it. I knew I wouldn’t be able to go and that’s why I didn’t ask him.”
“Then he was presuming,” his father said. “Talking about the Rocky Mountains it reminds me that I was talking with Archie on my way home on the train and I was telling him about this idiotic thing that Mr. Temple had planned for you and this Rushmore man, and he thought, as I do, that it’s a perfectly ridiculous idea for two such young boys as you and Artie Van Arlen to go in that wild country, accompanied only by this perfect stranger whom even Mr. Temple knows little about. Archie remarked that he thought perhaps he might take a longer vacation next summer and visit the Rockies himself. A nice, steady young man like that is well deserving of some recreation when he works as faithfully as he does the year round.
“Now,” Mr. Martin continued, “if a sensible person like Captroop was to accompany you, why I might make allowances!”
“That would be better than missing it altogether, Wes,” his sister Doris remarked.
“It wouldn’t be fair to Artie though, after him saving my life like he did,” Westy chokingly remarked.
“It would be more fair to the boy not to ask him, after what has just happened, and allow him to take any more risks in your interests. You can go if you decide wisely and ask Archie; he can look out for you best. Think it over!”
That night as Westy lay in his bed the thoughts flashed like code messages in his brain and he wondered....
Two weeks had passed by and still Artie was unable to return to school. His foot was slow in mending and he still limped about painfully.
“I ought to be able to get out by spring at least,” he called cheerfully to Westy, who was on his way home from school.
“Aw, don’t get discouraged, Art,” Westy returned feelingly, as he walked up to the Van Arlen residence and seated himself alongside of Artie in the porch swing. “You’ll be out before Thanksgiving, I bet.”
“Gee, I hope so anyway!” Artie doubtfully exclaimed. “Still, I’d be worse off if I was dead.”
“Now you’re saying something!” Westy put in, feeling a pang of conscience, for before he had reached Artie’s home he was wondering how he would tell him of the proposition his father had put up to him. It wouldn’t be sporting to tell him now, he thought. It would be better not to tell him at all—that is not until his foot was entirely better and by that time perhaps he would have considered the matter thoroughly and decide to the contrary.
Not that Westy had contemplated anything definite as yet. Oh, no! But he had pondered it over until he couldn’t think of anything else and was at his wit’s end between wanting to go and the debt he owed to Artie.
He thought as he neared home that it was a bit of luck that Artie had not brought up the subject.
That night, Mr. Martin again broached the conversation along those lines.
“Son,” he said, looking straight at Westy and with decision, “you have until the end of this week to make up your mind as to whether you prefer going with Archie or staying home this summer.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Westy sadly.
“Archie has told me,” Mr. Martin resumed, “that he will decide Sunday as to where in the West he wants to go. He’s going to get some booklets from the different railroads and then he will start next week to make reservations.”
“Why next week, when summer is such a long way off?” Westy queried.
“Why? Because, my dear boy, Mr. Captroop is a very unusual young man and thoroughly conservative in everything he does. Consequently, he’s not putting off until the last minute what can be done next week and, furthermore, he always makes sure of where and what he’s going to do before he starts out.”
“Quite a remarkable person,” Mrs. Martin remarked with a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
Mother-like, Mrs. Martin resented Archie Captroop being held up as an example to her son, for his lovable romantic and non-conservative traits were the very things that endeared him to her most.
Doris Martin, who was expecting the cause of the discussion to call on her that certain Wednesday evening, entered the room.
“Well,” she said, “I hope Mr. Captroop takes me somewhere this evening instead of sitting around buzzing like a stock ticker!”
“You ought to be thankful,” said Mr. Martin, “that he saves his money instead of throwing it away on some senseless movie that doesn’t teach you anything. My motto is never to spend your money on something that doesn’t bring you a full return.”
“Horrors, Father!” exclaimed Doris. “You talk like a confirmed moralist.”
The door bell rang its warning of Archie’s arrival, so she hurried to the door.
“Do not speak about it to-night,” Mr. Martin warned Westy. “It would be more proper for you to go to his house and extend the invitation—that is, if you have decided,” he added meaningly.
The strains of some popular waltz were drifting in from the living room, so Westy knew it meant that Archie Captroop would add one more dollar to his savings account that evening.
He decided to go up to his room, as his mother was busily sewing and non-committal. She was heartily in sympathy with her son, but she dared not show it.
The first book Westy picked up in his room was the one Artie had been telling about and loaned to him two weeks ago. He had not read it before, for he thought it would only be adding insult to injury and also too tempting.
But he could not resist it this particular evening with the fate of this promised adventure lying in the hollow of his hand.
In the dark silence of his room some hours later he argued the point with himself, that he couldn’t have much fun with that “Claptrap” guy if he did go, for he’d probably want to sit around like some old lady and not want to do anything but read the whole time.
“Still,” a little voice inside him whispered, “it’s far better than staying home, isn’t it?”
“I suppose that’s right,” Westy declared, weakening. Then feeling a little mean for giving voice to the thought he added: “I could ask Archie Saturday afternoon and I wouldn’t have to say anything to Artie about it, for a while, anyway!”
So Westy made his decision.
The days succeeding were difficult ones for Westy’s peace of mind. He even avoided passing Artie’s house in the event that he would see him, and so be thwarted from his set purpose.
But Friday night came quickly and he went to bed feeling as though he was facing some terrible catastrophe on the morrow. His slumber was restless and broken throughout the night.
His mother allowing him the luxury of sleeping late on Saturday morning proved a boon to Westy on this particular day, as it prevented any meeting with his father at the breakfast table. That, he was thankful for.
Lunch time came and he ate in ominous silence. Then, as the clock ticked its way around to one o’clock and finally one thirty, he left the house with unwilling steps.
“I think you’re just in time to catch the bus Father’s due on,” his mother called after him, coming out on the porch.
“Archie may be on it too!” his sister Doris added, joining her mother.
“Uh huh!” muttered Westy.
“What a funereal expression, when he ought to be tickled that he got Father to relent this far,” Doris remarked to her mother.
“I know, my dear, but your brother feels that it is a breach of honor to slight Artie and I’m rather in sympathy with him. Still, I suppose, one must be optimistic and think it is all for the best.”
Westy had reached the corner by this time and looked down the street before turning. The bus that he was to take stopped directly opposite Artie’s house, but as there was still ten minutes to the good he decided he would wait where he was until he saw the bus coming.
He kept consoling himself that it was the better way not to have to face Artie just now. Leaning against a telegraph pole, he tried to whistle softly, but the notes sounded hollow and false. Now and then he would step out into the street looking for the bus, although he knew it wasn’t yet due.
At this one instance, while he was gazing down the long, paved roadway, a figure emerged from one of the houses and limped painfully down the stone walk. Westy dared not draw back or run, as much as he would have liked to, for he knew that it was Artie, and he also knew that Artie had recognized him. There was a lump in his throat as he saw with what effort Artie was hobbling along to meet him half way. He felt despicable as he smiled to this brave pal of his, by way of greeting.
“’Lo, Wes, old top,” Artie said cheerily. “I was just going to try and make it to your house when I saw you. Wondered what happened you haven’t been around. Been sick?”
“Well, y-y-yes!” Westy lied, flushing with embarrassment for doing so.
“Oh, I say, but I’m sorry! Feel better now, huh? Were you coming to see me too?”
“Yes—that is—first I was, but I didn’t think I’d have time. Going to take the bus to Archie’s. Invited there this afternoon,” Westy said, and then to relieve the pounding around his heart: “Don’t feel keen about going, though.”
“I can imagine,” Artie said with feeling, “but it’ll do you good if you’ve been sick to be quiet for a while. You better cross now, Wes, I think I hear your bus coming now. See you later. Wait! Look! Whassa matter with it?”
The bus came lumbering down the street pell-mell and careened from one side to the other like a drunken man.
The two boys could see, even from a distance, that something had evidently happened to the driver, as he had slunk down in his seat and his head hung over the wheel.
The huge car was running wild!
“My Father!” Westy cried. “He’s in it!”
“Maybe you can⸺” Artie yelled as Westy ran toward the center of the road.
“Yes, maybe I can!” Westy’s voice could hardly be heard above the cries of the few pedestrians in the street and the frenzied shouts of the passengers within the bus.
Westy then gauged the distance from where he stood and then backed over to the curb. With a rush it came directly toward him, heading straight for the large elm tree at his back. He must avoid that at all costs, he thought.
The door of the bus was open, the weather still being mild; so Westy jumped blindly! Just making the step he reached across the inert form of the driver, whom he could tell at one glance was dead, grasped the emergency brake, and jamming his feet down taut and firm, stopped the car with a grinding shriek just at the edge of the curb.
There were only two faces that Westy could ever remember afterward in that near-fateful bus. One was the white and trembling face of Archie Captroop, whose quivering lips revealed the fact that not only had he lost his head in that near-tragedy but also his nerve. The other face was that of his father, lying prone upon the floor, the blood streaming out of a deep gash in his scalp and entirely covering his head.
With a cry of distress Westy knelt beside him and spoke to him tenderly, but there came no answer to his earnest pleadings.
He lifted his father’s head up gently and with a sob that bespoke his anguish realized at once that his father was unconscious, probably dying.
The House of Martin during the next few hours was the scene of much anxiety and despair.
A white-capped nurse was passing in and out of the sick-room, while Westy and his sister sat on the stairway, apprehensive each time that she had come to tell them the worst.
Mrs. Martin, sitting faithfully by her husband’s side, dry-eyed, seemed shaken with grief inwardly and her white face looked haunted with lost hope.
Four hours had passed and still he had not regained consciousness. The doctor was standing, silently gazing down into the darkened street. He turned back toward the bedside and Mrs. Martin, watching his mobile face intently, thought she detected the faintest glimmer of hope pass across his features.
“Another half hour will tell,” he told her, “and if he lives he’ll have his son to thank not only for his life, but for the half-dozen others he saved from being dashed to pieces.”
The doctor, it seems, had witnessed the accident, and sang Westy’s praises for many a long day after.
Archie had left to go home two hours before, saying he was too upset from the ordeal to stand the suspense of waiting. They couldn’t seem to get a coherent account from him as to how Mr. Martin injured his head. He said he couldn’t seem to remember, he was so excited, except that he saw him fall just as Westy jumped on the steps of the runaway bus.
So Archie went and no one cared to detain him.
Twenty minutes, then a half hour, went by that seemed to the waiting trio like years.
The nurse, reëntering the room, took the sick man’s pulse and nodded to the doctor who was standing close by.
Slowly but surely Mr. Martin opened his eyes, smiling rather wanly at his wife, who was now bending eagerly over him. She was afraid to speak lest he should fall back again into that coma.
The doctor, suspecting her fear, spoke softly. “He’ll be all right now, providing he has nothing to excite him. Perfect quiet and rest will do the trick. I’ll be back in a few hours!”
The nurse went out of the room with him and Mrs. Martin clasped her husband’s hand in hers, fighting back the fears of joy that were continually overflowing. The door opened once again, but this time it was Doris and Westy whose youthful figures were framed in the doorway.
Mrs. Martin put her finger to her lips and motioned for them to come.
“That’s all right,” Mr. Martin spoke weakly. “I want to talk to that boy of mine!”
“Not now, dear,” Mrs. Martin said almost pleadingly. “I’m afraid you’re not quite up to it just yet.”
“Rats!” he replied firmly this time. “Takes a whole lot to kill me, I guess. Westy, come here!”
“Yes, Father,” said Westy, with tears brimming in his large eyes as he knelt once more by his father’s side.
“My boy, you’re a real he-man, do you know that?” he said, raising his hand from under the coverlet and placing it on Westy’s bowed head. “I’m no end proud of you, lad!”
“M-mm,” was all Westy could say.
“After what I witnessed to-day—is it still to-day?” he asked, turning his head toward the window where the shades were now drawn.
His wife nodded.
“After what I witnessed to-day,” he continued, sheer gratitude inflecting his voice, “I’m quite sure that there isn’t a boy alive who is any better able to take care of himself than our boy. Isn’t that right, Mother?”
Mrs. Martin smiled her assent.
“And so,” he went on, “the only way I can repay this modern hero of ours is to grant him the wish of his heart’s desire.”
“I don’t wish to be repaid, Father. It was no more than I should have done,” Westy said, vainly trying to conceal his embarrassment.
“Oh, no, son, that wasn’t any mere duty you performed on my behalf and also the others; it was true courage, the stuff that one rarely sees displayed so splendidly. I wouldn’t have believed it was in you really!”
“I’ve always tried to tell you that!” Mrs. Martin exclaimed with a touch of maternal pride.
“But, Father,” chimed in Doris, clasping her father’s other hand, “just what was it that happened to you?”
“It’s not much to tell, Dorrie, it all happened so quick. Archie and I were sitting together in the back seat of the bus chatting, after we left the station. We had gone but a few blocks when I happened to notice that the driver didn’t stop as we passed by River Street, and I thought it was strange, as a lady waiting there had hailed to him, but he seemed to take no notice of her. Suddenly, as I was just about to mention it to Archie, the poor fellow collapsed, and of course we were all thrown into a panic. No one seemed to know what to do to stop it, and by that time we were running wild. Then, I chanced to look ahead and there was Westy standing in the middle of the street waving his arms frantically. Naturally I forgot all else and got up out of the seat intending to start for the front of the bus. Previously we had all been seated, as the car, swerving from one side of the street to the other, prevented us from keeping on our feet. Archie, meanwhile, had been quaking with fear and I did my best to calm him, but, as I was saying, when I saw Westy I got up and Archie evidently misinterpreted my intention for he arose also. I suppose he didn’t know what he was doing—panic-stricken, I guess, but he pushed me aside to try and get to the front of the bus first and in doing so knocked me backwards, throwing me against the rear window. My head must have gone clear through it, for I could hear the crash of glass and then I seemed to strike something sharp. I don’t remember anything after that.”
“Miss Doris Martin, a Mr. Captroop is downstairs and wishes to see you!” the nurse said, entering the room.
“If you’ll be so kind, Miss Treat, will you tell him I’m not at home and that my father is doing nicely?”
“Surely, I’m only too glad to,” the nurse replied, “and now if you will let Mr. Martin rest for a while, you can see him again in the morning.”
“Before you go,” Mr. Martin said, “I want to tell Westy that he can do as he wants to, providing he comes back next fall determined to get through school as quick as he can and get to business instead of wasting his summers hereafter.”
“Do you mean, Father,” Westy asked breathlessly, “that I can ask Artie? Do you mean that?”
“Something like that,” Mr. Martin answered.
Westy grasped his father’s hand and impetuously stooped and kissed him. Rushing out of the room and down the stairs he flung his coat and hat on in the hall and hurried to tell the news to Artie!
There wasn’t a pair of feet on the paved sidewalks of Bridgeboro that night that stepped any lighter than Westy’s. He seemed to be nearing Artie’s house on air and there were a thousand tiny voices all singing inside him at once.
The night felt frosty and damp after the rather warm afternoon, but as far as Westy was concerned summer dwelt within his heart eternal.
Ringing the bell he waited, excitement and joy kindling his cheeks with radiance. Mr. Van Arlen opened the door.
“Where’s Art?” he asked, stepping inside quickly.
“How is your father?” Mrs. Van Arlen called, hearing Westy’s voice.
“Getting on fine,” Westy answered with gladness in his voice. “Where’s Art?”
“You’re a fine boy, Westy,” Mr. Van Arlen now remarked, as though he hadn’t heard Westy’s question. “I hear the bus company are going to reward you for your bravery and no doubt you’ll get a medal from your troop for such heroism.”
“Yeh? Has Art gone to bed?” he queried, indifferent as to what rewards or medals he might get and intent only on bearing the glad tidings to his friend.
“Here I am, Wes,” Artie shouted from the living-room. “What’s all the excitement?”
“Gee whiz, Art, gee whiz! Bet you can’t guess?”
“Quit keeping me suspended!” Artie laughed. “What is it?”
“We’re going!”
“Where?”
“Why, you dumb-bell! Where would we be going?”
“Wes! You don’t mean⸺”
“Sure.”
“Honest and truly?”
“Cross my heart’n hope to die if we’re not. Father just gave his consent.”
“Oh, boy, but we’re two lucky guys!”
“I should say you are,” Mr. Van Arlen interposed, as glad as the boys themselves.
“And say, Wes,” Artie broke in again, “the doctor told me to-night I’d get to school in two weeks. Good news comes in bunches, eh?”
“Righto! I’ll go home now and write to Uncle Jeb right away.”
“Sure thing.”
“Well I’ll be going along, Art. S’long!”
“G’night!”
The winter came and dragged along interminably for the two boys. They counted the months and talked of little else in their moments of recreation.
The months finally became counted in weeks and the weeks into days, until one morning Westy received a letter from Uncle Jeb telling them to leave Bridgeboro the following week and meet him at the Grand Central Station in New York.
The eventful day was glorious with sunshine and fragrant with the perfume of budding trees and flowers, as Westy and Artie said their final good-bys.
Mr. Martin soberly commanded Westy what to do and what not to do, but the chirping of the birds in the neighboring trees seemed to tell Westy that he could afford to listen, for there ahead of him was the thrilling promise of real adventure.
Their trip to New York was uneventful and when they arrived at the Grand Central Station, the picturesque figure of Uncle Jeb stood out individually amidst the hustling throng. His very presence seemed to breathe clean, fresh air into that artificial atmosphere.
He caught sight of the boys almost at the same time they saw him. With his familiar smile of welcome he joined them.
“Howdy, boys! I reckon now we’re jest about on time. Are yuh both ready to leave?” he asked, laughing heartily.
“I’ll say so!” they answered unanimously.
When the “all aboard” was called and they felt the tug of the engine making ready to pull out, Artie and Westy looked into one another’s faces beamingly.
I’ve always thought since, it would be rather a difficult thing to decide, as to which one of the boys looked the happiest.
The sun was hardly more than a perceptible blur behind the vast wall of mountains surrounding Eagle City when Westy, Artie and Uncle Jeb alighted from the Pullman train onto the station platform.
They were fatigued after their long and tiresome journey and followed Uncle Jeb wearily over to a rather dilapidated looking Ford, ostensibly the only taxicab the town afforded, which was to convey them to the Inn.
The rickety little car started off with a snort as they seated themselves in the springless seat. Minus shock absorbers and all, they gave themselves up to the clear cool wind blowing gently in their faces as they sped along the rough, unpaved roads.
Time itself seemed to stand still as they flew past little unpainted shacks and makeshift abodes, for there wasn’t any Super-Seven that covered the ground any faster than this rattle-box of a flivver. Here and there they would catch a glimpse of some pretentious looking ranch-owner’s home, until gradually civilization was left behind and became no more than a speck on the horizon.
They were in the foothills now, with the towering Rockies on all four sides. It seemed to Westy, who was dexterously trying to keep his seat with the others, that they would surely run clean into the mountainside whichever way the driver might turn. He confided as much to Uncle Jeb who smilingly remarked: “Got more ’n ten mile to go yit, afore we come to the Inn and after thet it’s a couple more ’til we hit the trail into the hills.”
It amused Westy and Artie considerably to hear Uncle Jeb refer to that majestic pile of rock and pine forests tipping against the sky-line, as the “hills.”
“’Tain’t high here, boys,” he said, divining their smiling silence. “Wait’ll we cross Eagle Pass to-morrer, this side o’ my cabin! Them’s what yuh call mountains over there shure ’nough.” This with a finality that did not leave the boys in any doubt as to what they were to expect.
By this time, they were swiftly approaching the picturesque little Inn that nestled with such an air of peace and contentment against the lordly mountainside.
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.
Before the great golden orb of light had shown itself behind the “hills,” Uncle Jeb hailed the boys with a cheery good-morning.
They stretched themselves with an affected weariness and bounded out of the bed to make ready for their short journey to the cabin.
Uncle Jeb had already started to breakfast when they arrived downstairs. Ol’ Pop joined them shortly and they consumed the hearty food with much gusto.
“Silent” Ollie, as Westy now called him, was hustling back and forth from the kitchen attending to the wants of the hungry quartet.
His head was sparsely covered with iron-gray hair and his thin colorless lips scarcely deviated an eighteenth of an inch from his mouth, except to answer yes or no. He was exceptionally slight of build, but still, one seemed to gather a suggestion of muscularity about him.
At all events, he was a source of interest to the two boys, notwithstanding his disinclination to talk to them.
He had come from the kitchen bearing a steaming, savory pot of coffee. At that moment, Ol’ Pop Burrows was relating all the events and happenings that had taken place around while Uncle Jeb was East at Temple Camp. He remarked quite casually that he had done a “fair to middlin’” business in the little Inn that previous summer.
“Gets better every year,” he said. “Expect to take in more’n ever this year; yes, sir; it gets better every year,” he repeated more to himself than to his listeners.
Artie was gazing with rapt attention at this old timer, but Westy’s gaze was centered on Ollie. It had been centered there ever since the conversation started, for the observing Westy had caught a faint expression of real human interest on the stony countenance of Ollie Baxter. It was barely perceptible, but Westy saw, and having seen remembered....
The sun was now well out of its hiding-place behind that gigantic curtain of rock, and the dew was glistening in its crags and crevices like so many millions of precious diamonds.