It was received in a grim, not to say stony, silence. Like a tenderfoot, I rushed in where an angel would [[39]]have sought the cyclone cellar. Cooks were employed monthly, and it was midway in the month. That night I gave the cook her time.
Now, having ended one dynasty, it behooved me to create another. I went to the Chief.
“When can I have the transportation necessary to my duties as maître d’hôtel hereabouts? I’ll drive in to the railroad town.”
“Do you know the road?” the Boss asked, doubtfully.
“That doesn’t bother me. When do I get a team?”
“To-morrow,” he replied, and left me to my fate.
Now I had traversed the road but once, when coming in a month before. The doubtful tone in his voice disturbed me. Perhaps the route-finding would not be so easy as a trick with cards. I sought out the pleasantest of the range men, and asked his advice concerning the matter.
“It’s as plain as the nose on your face,” he assured, and as this would have been very plain indeed, it heartened me. “Keep to the main-traveled road, and take all the turns to the right—going in.”
This seemed a very simple matter, and I gave no thought to the turns I might encounter coming out. I was then, of course,—and because of some mental defect am yet,—notoriously the worst road-finder in all the Southwest. And when I departed next day, with “the old woman’s team,” there was no one to crowd additional information on me.