The journey to Mr. Wilson’s ranch occupied nearly a week, and during that time Guy learned something of the outdoor life he expected to lead all the rest of his days. The change from the close, cramped forecastle of the Santa Maria to the freedom of the country was a most agreeable one, and he thoroughly enjoyed his liberty. He talked to Mr. Wilson every day about Zeke, and made up his mind that he should like him. If he only proved to be a genial, talkative companion and as good a hunter as Flint was a sailor, Guy would ask nothing more of him. Every day he grew more and more impatient to meet him, and was glad indeed when Mr. Wilson pointed out a house in advance of them and informed him that when they reached it they would be at their journey’s end.
“All this land you see here,” said the ranchman, waving his whip toward the broad, level plain which stretched away on both sides of the road, “used to be Congress land. When I first squatted here I had it all to myself, but other fellers kept comin’ in all the while with their hosses an’ cattle an’ locatin’ their farms right in the best part of my pastur’, an’ at last they got to crowdin’ me so heavy that I had to send Zeke with the most of my stock about forty miles farther down the valley. I’m goin’ to send you down to him to-morrer with some supplies.”
“But what if I should get lost?” said Guy. “You must remember that I don’t know the country yet.”
“You can foller a plain trail, can’t you?”
“Yes, I can do that.”
“Then you needn’t get lost unless you’re a mind to, ’cause the road’s as plain as daylight. Besides, I’ll put the pack on the ole clay-bank, an’ she knows every step of the way.”
So saying, Mr. Wilson cracked his whip, and urging his tired horses into a trot brought his heavy wagon up before the door of the rancho in fine style.
The rancho was a roomy, rambling structure built of unplaned boards, and like the hotel at which Guy had stopped in San Francisco, gave promise of anything but comfortable accommodations. The inside proved on closer acquaintance to be quite as cheerless as the exterior. There was no stove, no fire-place, no chairs, not even a bedstead in the house that Guy could discover. It looked perfectly poverty-stricken. But nevertheless the rancho, and its occupants, too, were as clean as new pins. The earthen floor had evidently just been swept; the table and the benches which served in lieu of the chairs were as white as sand and water could make them; the Mexican wife of the proprietor was neatly dressed, and the children, who crowded about him as he jumped down from the wagon, had just received a thorough scrubbing in anticipation of their sire’s return.
Guy carried his rifle and pack into the house, and during the next half-hour worked hard enough to get up a splendid appetite for supper, although an unpleasant incident that happened drove it all away again.
The first thing Mr. Wilson did was to take a key from a nail under the porch, and open a door leading into a small room adjoining the main building. This proved to be the store of which he had spoken. Here the ranchman kept a variety of useful and salable articles; among the latter tobacco and grape brandy, which, as he told Guy, formed his principal stock in trade. He further informed his new hand that although the rancho was dull enough on week days, it was the very reverse on Sundays, for then it was the headquarters of all the ranchmen and Indians for fifteen miles around, who congregated there to drink, shoot, and run horses. Mr. Wilson liked to join in these sports, and he wanted somebody to take care of the store, so that he could give his undivided attention to them.