“What’s beyond that?” Kramer wanted to know. He nodded toward the further end where he saw a partition of wide planks.
“Just another hole. I went in to see. These root houses used to be divided off. When I was a kid I played here one day, and explored this place. My dad said that the first hole was small, but every year a new section was added to hold more, and some of them were used in hot weather to keep things cool,” Summers explained.
“Great idea—”
“Who’s this?” Kramer asked, as he jumped back quickly.
“Pigeon Jute. You boys know him,” Carl chuckled. A tall slender Indian, wrapped in a grey blanket, had risen from the cot and stood staring at them gravely.
“Why sure we know him,” Jim laughed. “Haven’t seen you for a long time, Jute. How’re the pigeons?”
“Heap good,” the Indian grunted.
“When I first knew him he was trying to get a breed of birds that would be world beaters on long distance,” Jim explained.
“How did you make out, Jute?” Bob asked goodnaturedly, but the Indian merely grunted and shrugged.
“Real loquacious, isn’t he?” Kramer remarked softly, but he did feel as if he were getting a taste of the ancient west he had read of when he was a youngster.