"Guess he don't
have to travel nights to get 'most anywhere," laughed Sundown. He
kicked back his blankets and rose stiffly. The luxury of his yawn was
stifled as he saw below him the ranchhouse with some strange kind of a
sign above its gate. "If that's the hotel," he said as he corded his
blankets, "she don't look much bigger than me own. But distances is
mighty deceivin' in this here open-face country." For a moment he
stood on the hillside, a gaunt, lonely figure, gazing out across the
limitless mesas. Then he jogged down the grade, whistling.
As he drew near the ranch his whistling ceased and his expression
changed to one of quizzical uncertainty. "That's the sign, all
right,--'American Hotel,'--but the hotel part ain't livin' up to the
sign. But some hotels is like that; mostly front."
He opened the ranch-house gate and strode to the door. He knocked
timidly. Then he dropped his blanket-roll and stepped to a window.
Through the grimy glass he saw an empty, board-walled room, a slant of
sunlight across the floor, and in the sunlight a rusted stove. He
walked back to the gateway and stood gazing at the sign.
Pages:
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33