The Killer | Page 4

had expected was permission to
stop, and a direction as to how to find the bunk house. Then a more or
less dull evening, and a return the following day to collect on my
"dare." I stepped into the dimness of the hallway; and immediately after
into a room beyond.
Again I must remind you that this was the Arizona of the 'nineties. All
the ranch houses with which I was acquainted, and I knew about all of
them, were very crudely done. They comprised generally a half dozen
rooms with adobe walls and rough board floors, with only such
furnishings as deal tables, benches, homemade chairs, perhaps a
battered old washstand or so, and bunks filled with straw. We had no
such things as tablecloths and sheets, of course. Everything was on a
like scale of simple utility.

All right, get that in your mind. The interior into which I now stepped,
with my clanking spurs, my rattling chaps, the dust of my
sweat-stained garments, was a low-ceilinged, dim abode with faint,
musty aromas. Carpets covered the floors; an old-fashioned hat rack
flanked the door on one side, a tall clock on the other. I saw in passing
framed steel engravings. The room beyond contained easy chairs, a
sofa upholstered with hair cloth, an upright piano, a marble fireplace
with a mantel, in a corner a triangular what-not filled with objects. It,
too, was dim and curtained and faintly aromatic as had been the house
of an old maiden aunt of my childhood, who used to give me cookies
on the Sabbath. I felt now too large, and too noisy, and altogether
mis-dressed and blundering and dirty. The little old man moved
without a sound, and the grandfather's clock outside ticked deliberately
in a hollow silence.
I sat down, rather gingerly, in the chair he indicated for me.
"I shall be very glad to offer you hospitality for the night," he said, as
though there had been no interim. "I feel honoured at the opportunity."
I murmured my thanks, and a suggestion that I should look after my
horse.
"Your horse, sir, has been attended to, and your _cantinas_[B] are
undoubtedly by now in your room, where, I am sure, you are anxious to
repair."
He gave no signal, nor uttered any command, but at his last words a
grave, elderly Mexican appeared noiselessly at my elbow. As a matter
of fact, he came through an unnoticed door at the back, but he might as
well have materialized from the thin air for the start that he gave me.
Hooper instantly arose.
"I trust, sir, you will find all to your liking. If anything is lacking, I trust
you will at once indicate the fact. We shall dine in a half hour----"
He seized a small implement consisting of a bit of wire screen attached
to the end of a short stick, darted across the room with the most

extraordinary agility, thwacked a lone house fly, and returned.
"--and you will undoubtedly be ready for it," he finished his speech,
calmly, as though he had not moved from his tracks.
I murmured my acknowledgments. My last impression as I left the
room was of the baleful, dead, challenging stare of the man's wildcat
eyes.
The Mexican glided before me. We emerged into the court, walked
along the verandah, and entered a bedroom. My guide slipped by me
and disappeared before I had the chance of a word with him. He may
have been dumb for all I know. I sat down and tried to take stock.
CHAPTER III
The room was small, but it was papered, it was rugged, its floor was
painted and waxed, its window--opening into the court, by the
way--was hung with chintz and net curtains, its bed was garnished with
sheets and counterpane, its chairs were upholstered and in perfect repair
and polish. It was not Arizona, emphatically not, but rather the sweet
and garnished and lavendered respectability of a Connecticut village.
My dirty old cantinas lay stacked against the washstand. At sight of
them I had to grin. Of course I travelled cowboy fashion. They
contained a toothbrush, a comb, and a change of underwear. The latter
item was sheer, rank pride of caste.
It was all most incongruous and strange. But the strangest part, of
course, was the fact that I found myself where I was at that moment.
Why was I thus received? Why was I, an ordinary and rather dirty
cowpuncher, not sent as usual to the men's bunk house? It could not be
possible that Old Man Hooper extended this sort of hospitality to every
chance wayfarer. Arizona is a democratic country, Lord knows: none
more so! But owners are not likely to invite in strange cowboys unless
they themselves mess with