He told us his name and during the progress of the meal took little part in the conversation, but after he had eaten his supper he leaned back in his chair and in response to Owen’s question, said:
“No, I ain’t exactly a stranger round here, but this old kitchen is about the only thing that ain’t changed. I used to know every inch of ground in this country when I was punchin’ cows for the Three Circle outfit. This was the only ranch within twenty-five miles. I’ve et here lots of times.”
“You knew the Bohms then?” I asked, trying as always to find the answer to the riddle of old Bohm’s personality.
“Sure, I knew the Bohms,” the stranger replied, his clear blue eyes meeting mine frankly. “I knowed everybody there was in the country, there wasn’t many in them days, jest the Bohms, the Mortons, the Bosmans and the La Montes. They’re most all gone now except Bosman. I heered old La Monte died last winter—but Lord, he’s been worse ’en dead for most twenty years. Did you folks know him?”
“Scarcely, we only saw him once,” and before me rose the picture of the desolate old place, the slowly opened door and that living ghost on the threshold.
The stranger again spoke.
“You folks bought from Bohm, so you knowed him, didn’t you?”
“Oh, yes, we knew him.” Owen answered for my thoughts were far away.
“Well, sir,” said the old cow-puncher, reaching for a toothpick, “Jim Bohm was a great one, he was the slickest man in this country. He didn’t have nothin’ but a little band of horses that he drove up from Texas when he came, but he kept gettin’ richer all the time.” I came back to the present with a start, his words were almost the same Mrs. Morton had used sixteen years before.
“Wasn’t he honest?” I asked, wondering what the reply would be.