Chapter XVIII: “silent” Ollie Baxter

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.