Most of the stores were open and well filled with men, but to Kurt’s sharp eyes there appeared to be much more gossip going on than business.  The town was not as slow and quiet as was usual with Bend towns.  He listened for war talk, and heard none.  Two out of every three men who spoke in his hearing did not use the English language.  Kurt went into the office of the first hotel he found.  There was no one present.  He glanced at an old register lying on the desk.  No guests had registered for several days.

Then Kurt went out and accosted a man leaning against a hitching-rail.

“What’s going on in this town?”

The man stood rather indistinctly in the uncertain light.  Kurt, however, made out his eyes and they were regarding him suspiciously.

“Nothin’ onusual,” was the reply.

“Has harvesting begun in these parts?”

“Some barley cut, but no wheat.  Next week, I reckon.”

“How’s the wheat?”

“Some bad an’ some good.”

“Is this town a headquarters for the I.W.W.?”

“No.  But there’s a big camp of I.W.W.’s near here.  Reckon you’re one of them union fellers?”

“I am not,” declared Kurt, bluntly.

“Reckon you sure look like one, with thet gun under your coat.”

“Are you going to hire I.W.W. men?” asked Kurt, ignoring the other’s observation.

“I’m only a farm-hand,” was the sullen reply.  “An’ I tell you I won’t join no I.W.W.”

Kurt spared himself a moment to give this fellow a few strong proofs of the fact that any farm-hand was wise to take such a stand against the labor organization.  Leaving the fellow gaping and staring after him, Kurt crossed the street to enter another hotel.  It was more pretentious than the first, with a large, well lighted office.  There were loungers at the tables.  Kurt walked to the desk.  A man leaned upon his elbows.  He asked Kurt if he wanted a room.  This man, evidently the proprietor, was a German, though he spoke English.

“I’m not sure,” replied Kurt.  “Will you let me look at the register?”

The man shoved the book around.  Kurt did not find the name he sought.

“My father, Chris Dorn, is in town.  Can you tell me where I’ll find him?”

“So you’re young Dorn,” replied the other, with instant change to friendliness.  “I’ve heard of you.  Yes, the old man is here.  He made a big wheat deal to-day.  He’s eating his supper.”

Kurt stepped to the door indicated, and, looking into the dining-room, he at once espied his father’s huge head with its shock of gray hair.  He appeared to be in earnest colloquy with a man whose bulk matched his own.  Kurt hesitated, and finally went back to the desk.

“Who’s the big man with my father?” he asked.

“He is a big man, both ways.  Don’t you know him?” rejoined the proprietor, in a lower voice.

“I’m not sure,” answered Kurt.  The lowered tone had a significance that decided Kurt to admit nothing.