“Once in a while there is a dance in the hall over the drug-store, and on Sunday you can listen to a wretched sermon in the log church. The rest of the time you work or loaf in the saloons—or read. Old Nature has done her part here. But man—! Ever been in the Tyrol?”
“Yes.”
“Well, some day the people of the plains will have sense enough to use these mountains, these streams, the way they do over there.”
It required only a few hours for Norcross to size up the valley and its people. Aside from Nash and his associates, and one or two families connected with the mill to the north, the villagers were poor, thriftless, and uninteresting. They were lacking in the picturesque quality of ranchers and miners, and had not yet the grace of town-dwellers. They were, indeed, depressingly nondescript.
Early on the second morning he went to the post-office—which was also the telephone station—to get a letter or message from Meeker. He found neither; but as he was standing in the door undecided about taking the stage, Berea came into town riding a fine bay pony, and leading a blaze-face buckskin behind her.
Her face shone cordially, as she called out: “Well, how do you stack up this morning?”
“Tip-top,” he answered, in an attempt to match her cheery greeting.
“Do you like our town better?”
“Not a bit! But the hills are magnificent.”
“Anybody turned up from the mill?”