The slight, olive-skinned young man who faced him was conscious of the sudden feeling of physical disadvantage that comes upon one in the presence of imposing natural objects, for the man was as august in his way as the cliffs and canyons.
“I am a—an artist,” said Carroll Forbes. “Is there any place hereabouts where I can get my meals and sometimes a bed, while I am sketching in the mountains?”
The man stared at him.
“Would it have been better if I had said I was a surveyor?” asked Forbes of his confused inner consciousness.
“We feed folks here sometimes—that is, my wife does. Mebbe you could have a shake-down in the loft. Or there’s Connor’s ranch off north a ways. But they don’t care about taking in folks up there.”
“Then, if you would ask your wife?” ventured Forbes, politely. “I shall not trouble you long,” he added.
“Ellen!”
A woman appeared at the door, then moving slowly forward, stood at her husband’s side, and the admiration Forbes had felt at the sight of the man flamed into sudden enthusiasm as he watched the wife. She was tall, with heavy, black hair, great eyes like unpolished jet, one of the thick white, smooth, perfectly colorless skins, which neither the sun nor the wind affect, and clear-cut, perfect features. Standing so, side by side, the two were singularly well worth looking at.
“What a regal pair!” was Forbes’s internal comment; and while they conferred together he watched them idly, wondering what their history was, for of course they had one. It is safe to affirm that every human creature cast in the mould of the beautiful has, or is to have, one.
“She says you c’n stay,” announced the man. “Just put those traps of yours inside, will you?” and, turning, he limped off the length of the platform at a call from somebody who had ridden up with jingling spurs.