“Not by a long shot!” exclaimed the ranchman, suddenly jumping up and seizing Oscar by the arm. “Thompson, you turn your pony loose and unhitch that mule. You come into my den with me, Mr.—Mr.—What’s your name?”
“Preston—Oscar Preston. But I don’t want to go into your den.”
“Well, you’ll go, all the same. What sort of a man do you suppose I am, anyhow—a heathen?”
Before Oscar could reply, the ranchman, having tightened his grasp on his arm, dragged rather than led him down the stairs, ushered him into the dug-out, and seated him on an inverted dry-goods box that stood in the corner near the stove.
“There!” said he. “Sit down and talk to me, while I go on getting supper. I didn’t expect company to-night; and, as I have sent most of my grub and all my sheep off to the hills, I can’t give you as good a meal as I could if you had come a week ago. I should have been on the way to the hills myself by this time, if it hadn’t been for that note I found fastened to my door. How is everything in the States? Got any late papers with you?”
The friendly tone in which these words were spoken surprised Oscar. Could this be the same man who had pointed a loaded gun at his head a few minutes before?
While his host was speaking, Oscar had leisure to look about him. He had never before seen the inside of a dug-out, and he was not a little astonished at the appearance of it.
It was really a comfortable dwelling, and not the dirty hole he had expected to find it. There was plenty of room in it; and the furniture it contained, although of the rudest description, showed that it had been fitted up as a permanent abode.
There were two bunks beside the door; and in one of them a comfortable bed was made up. The other was empty. The walls were covered by blankets and buffalo robes; two small dry-goods boxes did duty as chairs, and a larger one served as the table.
There was a small cupboard on each side of the stove, one of which contained a few tin dishes, while the other, Oscar noticed with some surprise, was filled with books.