"Two things woo me to this country: your wide open spaces, where seeing a human being is reduced to the very lowest limit; and second, I find that in playing vaudeville houses in the winter time, I develop a sinus trouble that sticks with me until I get back here to the mountains where it disappears entirely. Yes sir! When I hit the table lands of Denver, Pocatello, Casper, Rawling, Laramie, or this town, old Sinus passes right out of the system. For the last five years I have been planning to come to these Highlands and dig in—where humanity is the scarcest. Just awhile ago, you described the exact spot of my dreams. Now what's your reaction? Can I do it?"
"Do you mean that you would want to spend the winter with me, back in the hills?" The big man's question was quietly put but he stopped eating, awaiting the answer.
"Sure, that's what I mean. Next winter, next summer, and then some. I want to get away from this," waving his hand in a circle to include the showgrounds. "And get to that," and he pointed west. "I want to get out where I can wear overalls; have a dog—or maybe five dogs—out where I can ride a hoss and chaw scrap-tobacco and spit like a man. I want to get away from being gawked at during all my waking hours. This thing here, is getting on my nerves. I feel like I want to commit murder when a simpering Jane looks at me, snickers and says, 'ain't he cute?' I want a ball bat to club every country jake doctor that looks me over and asks about my pituitary gland. Gee, gosh, but I do want to get away from that. I want to exchange these human nitwits for cows, calves, sheep, hosses,—broncho hosses, pintos—but not little round-bellied shetlands. I want to boss around among chickens, geese, turkeys, pigs—"
"How about a couple of burros?" interrupted the listener.
"That's it! Burros! I hadn't thought of burros—me on one of 'em—slapping with my hat to get two miles to the gallon! That's it, burros! Two of them is better!"
"And how about snows? There may be a snow yet this month that is deeper than you are tall."
"Whoopee for the snow!" yelled the midget. "Me with a mackinaw and boots, and mittens and a shovel. Snow! Clean white snow! I love it! But I haven't seen any clean snow for years. All that you ever see now is the dirty slush that they scrape off the streetcar tracks. I sure would be disappointed, Mister Welborn, if you didn't have a lot of clean snow. And you have some sort of a shack, don't you? And we can cut a lot of wood, and have plenty of blankets—en books and magazines. And we can haul out a lot of grub, and a first-aid kit and such. And you don't have a big family, do you, Mister Welborn, and I wouldn't be much in the way, would I?"
"No, I am all alone," said Welborn trying as best he could to answer the many questions. "I have no family and I do have a shack that is very comfortable. It has a fireplace and a stove. I have plenty of blankets and wood and grub. But what about sickness—home-sickness! What about the terrors of loneliness that sometimes drive people mad! The wide open spaces have their handicaps, as I well know. For a year or more I have had just that experience. I have suffered, along with the joys of being wholly alone. Truly, I went into it with a bigger aversion to human society than you have, and I have not escaped.
"Yes, I have a shack, a good one, and a few score acres, but it's not a ranch. It's not stocked, has no barn or stables, and no crop but the native grass. It was a dreamer's plaything and I bought it with scant savings that should have been spent on another project. But it looked like I just had to own it in order to carry on."
"What's your other project?" asked Davy, curious to know why a man with a ranch would not be ranching.