“On the quiet, that is just why Jordan is sending him,” the night chief said. “Not to have him strung up, that is, but to put him in the way of ‘finding himself,’ so to speak.”
“He’ll certainly ‘find himself’ there, then—if there’s anything left to find when the ranch crew get through,” laughed the operator. “I’d give five real dollars to see that show, and walk back.”
“At that, you might have to walk back, if you wagered your money on the outcome,” responded the chief more gravely, turning to his desk. “Clothes don’t make a man—neither do they un-make one. The ‘Dude’ may surprise us yet.”
Whether the outcome of his appointment to the little watering station was to be a surprise or no, there was no doubt of Wilson Jennings’ surprise when the following morning he alighted from the train at Bonepile, and as the train sped on, awoke to the realization that he was entirely alone. Blankly he gazed at the little red-brown “drygoods-box” depot, the water-tank, the hills to the west, and to north, south and east the limitless stretching prairie. He had never imagined anything like this when he had decided on giving up a good position in the east to taste “some adventure” in the great west.
However, here he was; and picking up his two suitcases, the boy made his way in to the tiny operating-room, and on into the bunk-kitchen-living-room behind. For here, “a hundred miles from anywhere,” the operator’s board and lodging was provided by the railroad.
Early that evening Wilson was sitting somewhat disconsolately at the telegraph-room window when he was startled by a loud whoop. There was a second, then a rush of hoofs, and a party of cowboys came into view.
It was the “welcoming committee” of the Bar-O ranch, the “outfit” referred to by the operator at Exeter.
With a final whoop the cowmen thundered up to the station platform, and dismounted. Muskoka Jones, a huge, heavily-moustached ranchman over six feet in height, was first to reach the open window. Diving within to the waist, he brought a bottle down on the instrument table with a crash.
“Pardner, welcome to our city!” he shouted.
The response should have been instantaneous and hearty. Instead there was a strange quiet.