But in the meantime they were advancing toward Mr. Weston’s office. Roy looked again, and was able to make out the sign: Real Estate—A. B. Weston. Dealer in Ranches, Mines and Farms.
“Ye ain’t a drummer?” exclaimed Mr. Weston.
Roy shook his head.
“I didn’t think ye was. Out fer yer health?”
Again the boy responded in the negative.
“Assumin’ ye didn’t drop off here fur fun, I give it up,” went on the genial agent. “I’ll bet a ten-spot ye need information. Don’t be skeered. I got apple land fur sale all right, but I ain’t agoin’ to chloroform ye. Come in and git started right.”
Unable longer to resist the breezy impulsiveness of the stranger, Roy climbed the stairs and found himself in a dusty little office scented with tobacco and littered with papers. Before he sat down and while Mr. Weston threw off his coat and filled a smoke begrimed cob pipe, Roy saw a large map of the county in which Dolores was situated hanging on the wall.
He walked to it at once and, for a few moments gazed at the road leading southwest down the mountain to Cortez. Then he saw the same road or trail continue south toward the Ute Indian reservation. At the northern edge of the reservation, a branch turned west and running off the map was apparently lost in the sands of Utah.
“Got some folks out hyar, mebbe?” volunteered the affable agent.