“Eh?” exclaimed the ranchman, as if he did not quite understand his request.
“I say I should like to go to my room,” repeated Guy. “I want to see if I can’t sleep off this headache.”
“Oh, you want to go to bed, do you? All right.”
As Mr. Wilson said this, he walked out into the yard to light his pipe at the fire over which the supper had been cooked, and when he came back he carried over his shoulder a saddle, which he placed at one end of the porch. Then he went into the house and brought out Guy’s blanket and poncho; and when he had spread them beside the saddle, the bed was made.
“Thar you are,” said he, “an’ you can tumble down as soon as you please.”
Guy was astonished. The porch was the only room he was to occupy while he remained in that house, and his saddle and blankets were to form, his bed. This was rather a primitive way of living, but it was the style at Mr. Wilson’s rancho, as he found when the rest of the family were ready to retire. The farmer’s wife and children stowed themselves away somewhere in the house, but the man himself made his bed a short distance from Guy’s, while two Indian herdsmen found sleeping apartments at the opposite end of the porch.
The first part of the night Guy passed in anything but an agreeable manner. The saddle proved to be a hard, uncomfortable pillow for an aching head and, moreover, one of the small army of dogs, which Mr. Wilson kept about the house, insisted on occupying a portion of his bed, and showed a disposition to be snappish if the boy happened to crowd him as he tossed uneasily about. Guy stood the imposition for a while, but becoming angry at last, he kicked the dog off the porch, rearranged his bed, folded his jacket and spread it over the saddle, and then lay down again and slept soundly until he was awakened by footsteps and the continued murmur of conversation.
He opened his eyes to find that it was broad daylight, and that preparations were being made to start him off on his journey. There was the “old clay-bank,” a cream-colored mare, which was to carry the supplies to Zeke, the buffalo hunter, and act as Guy’s guide at the same time. A large pack-saddle was strapped on her back, and if one might judge by the appearance of it, it was well filled. The buck-jumper was there, too, standing quietly by the horse-trough, saddled and bridled, and waiting for his rider. Guy’s rifle leaned against the wall at the head of his bed, with his powder-horn, game-bag, a pair of spurs, and a long rawhide hanging from the muzzle.
“Halloo! you’re awake at last, are you?” exclaimed the ranchman, who just then stepped out of the house to arouse Guy. “I thought that seein’ you had the headache I’d let you sleep this mornin’, but it’s time to get up now.”
Guy scrambled to his feet, looking none the worse for his accident of the night before, and when he had dipped his head in the horse-trough a few times, he felt as sprightly and vigorous as though he had never told a lie, and received in consequence the hardest fall of his life.