“I want nothing to do with the old hypocrite,” said Bob, as he and George went back to the train, “and by sending for two saddle horses I have made it possible for you and me to have a little private conversation with Mr. Evans. Uncle Bob and Arthur will have to occupy a seat in the wagon.”
When they reached Dixon Spring, which was as far as the track was laid at the time of which we write, their journey by rail was ended.
Now came a ride of a hundred and sixty miles, part of the way lying through the southwestern portion of New Mexico and the rest through Arizona.
Mr. Evans was on hand when the train stopped at Dixon Spring, and when Bob had greeted him cordially, he presented his friend, George Edwards. He paid no attention to Uncle Bob, but that gentleman was not to be put off in any such way.
He kept a sharp eye upon his nephew, and seeing him in the act of shaking hands with a roughly dressed man, who wore a brace of revolvers about his waist, he walked up and broke in upon the conversation without offering an apology for so doing, thereby committing a breach of etiquette, which, under different circumstances, would have been pretty certain to bring him into trouble.
“Have I the honor to speak to Mr. Evans?” inquired Uncle Bob, holding out his hand.
“You have,” replied the owner of that name, running his eye over Uncle Bob’s figure, and then over Arthur’s, taking in at a glance, their fine clothes, gloves, canes, patent-leather shoes, and all their ornaments, but making no move toward accepting the proffered hand.
Like all men of his calling, he heartily despised finery of every sort, and he was suspicious of it, too. There was only one class of persons in that country who dressed in that way, and they were rascals without a single exception.
“I supposed that my nephew would introduce me,” said Uncle Bob, throwing off a hint of his haughtiness and pomposity, and speaking in his ordinary tone of voice; “but as he seems to have forgotten me, I must do it myself. I am Robert Howard, at your service, the brother of the late Eben Howard, who, I believe, was—”
“Oh, why didn’t you say so?” interrupted Mr. Evans. “I received your telegram, and was looking for you when I found Bob; but I didn’t suppose that you were Mr. Howard.”