“O Auntie Belle!” he roared.

Within the dark depths of the house life stirred.  In a moment a capable and motherly woman had taken them in charge.  Amid a rapid-fire of greetings, solicitudes, jokes, questions, commands and admonitions Bob was dusted vigorously and led to ice-cold water and clean towels.  Ten minutes later, much refreshed, he stood on the low verandah looking out with pleasure on the little there was to see.  Eight dogs squatted themselves in front of him, ears slightly uplifted, in expectancy of something Bob could not guess.  Probably the dogs could not guess either.  Within the house two or three young girls were moving about, singing and clattering dishes in a delightfully promising manner.  Down the winding hill, for Sycamore Flats proved after all to be built irregularly on a slope, he could make out several other scattered houses, each with its dooryard, and the larger structures of several stores.  Over all loomed the dark mountain.  The sun had just dropped below the ridge down which the road had led them, but still shone clear and golden as an overlay of colour laid against the sombre pines on the higher slopes.

After an excellent chicken supper, Bob lit his pipe and wandered down the street.  The larger structures, three in number, now turned out to be a store and two saloons.  A dozen saddle horses dozed patiently.  On the platform outside the store a dozen Indian women dressed in bright calico huddled beneath their shawls.  After squatting thus in brute immobility for a half-hour, one of them would purchase a few pounds of flour or a half-pound of tea.  Then she would take her place again with the others.  At the end of another half-hour another, moved by some sudden and mysterious impulse, would in turn make her purchases.  The interior of the store proved to be no different from the general country store anywhere.  The proprietor was very busy and occupied and important and interested in selling a two-dollar bill of goods to a chance prospector, which was well, for this was the storekeeper’s whole life, and he had in defence of his soul to make his occupations filling.  Bob bought a cigar and went out.

Next he looked in at one of the saloons.  It was an ill-smelling, cheap box, whose sole ornaments were advertising lithographs.  Four men played cards.  They hardly glanced at the newcomer.  Bob deciphered Forest Reserve badges on three of them.

As he emerged from this joint, his eyes a trifle dazzled by the light, he made out drawn up next the elevated platform a buckboard containing a single man.  As his pupils contracted he distinguished such details as a wiry, smart little team, a man so fat as almost to fill the seat, a moon-like, good-natured face, a vest open to disclose a vast white shirt, “Hullo!” the stranger rumbled in a great voice.  “Any of my boys in there?”

“Don’t believe I know your boys,” replied Bob pleasantly.

The fat man heaved his bulk forward to peer at Bob.