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Page 44
It was early in the afternoon when they started, and the sun was just
dipping behind the mountain wall when they drove into the High Valley. It
was one of those natural parks, four miles long, which lie like
heaven-planted gardens among the Colorado ranges. The richest of grass
clothed it; fine trees grew in clumps and clusters here and there; and the
spaces about the house where fences of barbed wire defended the grass from
the cattle, seemed a carpet of wild-flowers.
Clover exclaimed with delight at the view. The ranges which lapped and
held the high, sheltered upland in embrace opened toward the south, and
revealed a splendid lonely peak, on whose summit a drift of freshly-fallen
snow was lying. The contrast with the verdure and bloom below was
charming.
The cabin--it was little more--stood facing this view, and was backed by a
group of noble red cedars. It was built of logs, long and low, with a rude
porch in front supported on unbarked tree trunks. Two fine collies rushed
to meet them, barking vociferously; and at the sound Clarence hurried to
the door. He met them with great enthusiasm, lifted out Mrs. Hope, then
Clover, and then began shouting for his chum, who was inside.
"Hollo, Geoff! where are you? Hurry up; they've come." Then, as he
appeared, "Ladies and gentleman, my partner!"
Geoffrey Templestowe was a tall, sinewy young Englishman, with ruddy hair
and beard, grave blue eyes, and an unmistakable air of good breeding. He
wore a blue flannel shirt and high boots like Clarence's, yet somehow he
made Clarence look a little rough and undistinguished. He was quiet in
speech, reserved in manner, and seemed depressed and under a cloud; but
Clover liked his face at once. He looked both strong and kind, she
thought.
The house consisted of one large square room in the middle, which served
as parlor and dining-room both, and on either side two bedrooms. The
kitchen was in a separate building. There was no lack of comfort, though
things were rather rude, and the place had a bare, masculine look. The
floor was strewn with coyote and fox skins. Two or three easy-chairs stood
around the fireplace, in which, July as it was, a big log was blazing.
Their covers were shabby and worn; but they looked comfortable, and were
evidently in constant use. There was not the least attempt at prettiness
anywhere. Pipes and books and old newspapers littered the chairs and
tables; when an extra seat was needed Clarence simply tipped a great pile
of these on to the floor. A gun-rack hung upon the wall, together with
sundry long stock-whips and two or three pairs of spurs, and a smell of
tobacco pervaded the place.
Clover's eyes wandered to a corner where stood a small parlor organ, and
over it a shelf of books. She rose to examine them. To her surprise they
were all hymnals and Church of England prayer-books. There were no others.
She wondered what it meant.
Clarence had given up his own bedroom to Phil, and was to chum with his
friend. Some little attempt had been made to adorn the rooms which were
meant for the ladies. Clean towels had been spread over the pine shelves
which did duty for dressing-tables, and on each stood a tumbler stuffed as
full as it could hold with purple pentstemons. Clover could not help
laughing, yet there was something pathetic to her in the clumsy, man-like
arrangement. She relieved the tumbler by putting a few of the flowers in
her dress, and went out again to the parlor, where Mrs. Hope sat by the
fire, quizzing the two partners, who were hard at work setting their
tea-table.
It was rather a droll spectacle,--the two muscular young fellows creaking
to and fro in their heavy boots, and taking such an infinitude of pains
with their operations. One would set a plate on the table, and the other
would forthwith alter its position slightly, or lift and scrutinize a
tumbler and dust it sedulously with a glass-towel. Each spoon was polished
with the greatest particularity before it was laid on the tray; each knife
passed under inspection. Visitors were not an every-day luxury in the High
Valley, and too much care could not be taken for their entertainment, it
seemed.
Supper was brought in by a Chinese cook in a pigtail, wooden shoes, and a
blue Mother Hubbard, Choo Loo by name. He was evidently a good cook, for
the corn-bread and fresh mountain trout and the ham and eggs were savory
to the last degree, and the flapjacks, with which the meal concluded, and
which were eaten with a sauce of melted raspberry jelly, deserved even
higher encomium.
"We are willing to be treated as company this first night," observed Mrs.
Hope; "but if you are going to keep us a week, you must let us make
ourselves useful, and set the table and arrange the rooms for you."
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