It is true that other hotels, of the spick and span brick ugliness the New West delights in, flanked the motion picture houses and drug-stores, but we chose Frank’s, the oldest inhabitant,—a type of hotel fast becoming extinct. Downstairs, plain sheathing; upstairs the same. Our bedroom opened on a veranda which we had to traverse to reach the bath. It was a novelty to us, but the traveling salesman next door took it casually enough,—or else he had forgotten to pack his bath-robe.
Our hostess was the first of a long list of ladies young and old we were to meet, who knew well the gentle art of twirling a toothpick while she talked. Perhaps it is the badge of a waitress in these parts, like a fresh bush over ancient wine-houses, a silent, but eloquent testimonial to the gustatory treats of the hotel. I think we never met, from now on, a waitress in Texas, Arizona or New Mexico, who was not thus equipped. Ours did not flourish hers in vain. The flakiness of the biscuits, the fragrance of the wild honey, and the melting deliciousness of the river fish, caught fresh in the Rio Grande an hour before, caused us to see Del Rio with happy eyes. To this day, Toby speaks of it as if it were the third finest metropolis of the West, which must be attributed entirely to the seven biscuits which floated to her hungry mouth. I might as well admit at once our tendency, which I suspect other travelers share, to grade a town by the food it served.
I suspect that Del Rio, to one unfed, would seem a commonplace hamlet, save for its interest as a border settlement. Mexico, three miles away, held out the charm of a forbidden land. We circled next morning to its border, past thatched shanties of Mexicans and negroes, and took a glance at the desolate land beyond, barren, thorny, rolling away to faint blue hills. A camp of United States soldiers lay athwart our path, and two alert soldiers with a grin and a rifle apiece barred our progress.
Toby had been keen to cross the line, but when she saw them she said characteristically, “Mexico seems to me vastly overrated.” So ignoring the khaki, of our own free will and choice we turned back. I confess I was relieved. Toby has the post card habit to such an extent that I was prepared to have to fight our way across the border, dodging bullets and bandits, so that she might mail nonchalant cards to her friends, beginning, “We have just dropped into Mexico.”
Our curiosity as to Mexico gave us an early start. Soon we were on a high plateau, all the world rolling below us. Soft brown hills led out to faint blue mountains outlined on the horizon. With a thrill we realized we were viewing the beginnings of the Rockies. For the first time in my life, I felt I had all the room I wanted. We basked in the hot sun, expanding physically and spiritually in the immensity of the uncrowded landscape. The air in this high altitude was bracing, but not cold. From time to time we passed prosperous flocks of sheep, spotted with lively black goats. Occasionally a lonely group of steers held out against the encroaching mutton. We shared with them the state of Texas. At Comstock, a flat and uninteresting one-street town, we lunched, forgetting entirely to make a four-mile detour to view the highest bridge in the world. All day, we bent our energies to covering another half inch on the interminable map of Texas. We passed our last stopping place for the night. There was too much outdoors to waste; we decided to make our first camp in a live-oak grove somebody had described to us.
With a sense of adventure, we purchased supplies for our supper and breakfast at a little town we reached at glowing sundown. The grocery was closed, but the amiable proprietor left his house and opened his store for us. Rumors of deep sand ahead disturbed us, and against the emergency we purchased for “seven bits” a shovel which came jointed, so that it could be kept in the tool box under the seat. The fact that it was so short that it could easily repose there at full length did not mar our delight at this novel trick. It had the elemental charm for us of a toy which will do two things at once,—a charm which in other eras accounted for the vogue of poison rings, folding beds, celluloid collars and divided skirts. It was a perfectly useless little shovel, which made us happy whenever we looked at it, and swear whenever we used it.
Thus fortified we sped on, and it soon became pitch dark, and a windy night. The country suddenly stood on end, and we coasted down a surprising little canyon, to emerge into a long black road tangled with mesquite on both sides. When we almost despaired of finding a suitable camp, we came casually on a snug little grove, and heard nearby the rush of a stream. The black sky was radiant with stars. Orion stood on his head, and so did the dipper, surrounded by constellations unfamiliar to our Northern eyes.
In the chill dark we felt for a spot to pitch our tent. Spiky mesquite caught and tore our hair nets. Texas’ millions of untenanted acres brooded over our human unimportance, till a charred stick or empty tin can, stumbled over in the dark, became as welcome a signal as Friday’s footprint to Crusoe. Jointing our useless little spade, we dug a trench in the soft sand for our hips to rest in, hoisted our tent-rope over a thorny branch, folded blanket-wise our auto robes, undressed and crept inside our house. The lamps of the car gave us light to stow away our belongings, and its lumbering sides screened us from the road. With a sense of elation we looked at the circling stars through our tent windows, and heard the wind rise in gusts through the bare branches. The world becomes less fearsome with a roof over one’s head.
Dawn is the camper’s hour of trial. I woke from a dream that a mountain lion had entered our shelter, when Toby sat up excitedly.
“I just dreamed a bear was trying to get in,” she said. The coincidence was forboding, yet no menagerie appeared. Our aching hips, tumbled bedding and chilled bodies made us dread the long hours to breakfast. Toby hinted I had my share and more of the blanket. I had long entertained a similar suspicion of her, but was too noble to mention it. We portioned out the bedding afresh, vowed we never again would camp out, and in a moment it was eight o’clock of a cold, foggy morning.