There was no hurry; those days had no hurry in them, and I bless their memory for it. I sat on a stump, smoking a “Missouri meerschaum,” and unfolding to him my plans. To the geography of my route he listened intently—very intently.
“So you’re going to keep over the other side the mountains?” he said.
“Even to Idaho,” I answered, “and home that way.”
“Not back this way?”
“Not this year.”
He thought a little while. “You’re settled as to that?”
“Quite.”
He rose, and put some wood into the stove in his cabin; then he returned to me where I sat on the stump. “Sure you’re quite settled you’ll keep on the west side of the Divide?”
“Goodness!” I laughed, “why should I lie to you?”
Again he pondered in silence, and I could not imagine what he had in his mind. What had my being east or being west of the mountains to do with him?