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<h2 id="id00420" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER VIII</h2> <h4 id="id00421" style="margin-top: 2em">MARTY WILKES</h4> The motion of the train, during those first two days gave Anthony Bard a strange feeling that he was travelling from the present into the past. He felt as if it was not miles that he placed behind him, but days, weeks, months, years, that unrolled and carried him nearer and nearer to the beginning of himself. He heard nothing about him; he saw nothing of the territory which whirled past the window. They were already far West before a man boarded the train and carried to Bard the whole atmosphere of the mountain desert. He got on the train at a Nebraska station and Anthony sat up to watch, for a man of importance does not need size in order to have a mien. Napoleon struck awe through the most gallant of his hero marshals, and even the porter treated this little brown man with a respect that was ludicrous at first glimpse. He was so ugly that one smiled on glancing at him. His face, built on the plan of a wedge, was extremely narrow in front, with a long, high-bridged nose, slanting forehead, thin-lipped mouth, and a chin that jutted out to a point, but going back all the lines flared out like a reversed vista. A ridge of muscle crested each side of the broad jaws and the ears flaunted out behind so that he seemed to have been built for travelling through the wind. The same wind, perhaps, had blown the hair away from the upper part of his forehead, leaving him quite bald half way back on his head, where a veritable forest of hair began, and continued, growing thicker and longer, until it brushed the collar of his coat behind. When he entered the car he stood eying his seat for a long moment like a dog choosing the softest place on the floor before it lies down. Then he took his place and sat with his hands folded in his lap, moveless, speechless, with the little keen eyes straight before him—three hours that state continued. Then he got up and Anthony followed him to the diner. They sat at the same table. "The journey," said Anthony, "is pretty tiresome through monotonous scenery like this." The little keen eyes surveyed him a moment before the man spoke. "There was buffalo on them plains once." If someone had said to an ignorant questioner, "This little knoll is called Bunker Hill," he could not have been more abashed than was Anthony, who glanced through the window at the dreary prospect, looked back again, and found that the sharp eyes once more looked straight ahead without the slightest light of triumph in his coup. Silence, apparently, did not in the least abash this man. "Know a good deal about buffaloes?" "Yes." It was not the insulting curtness of one who wishes to be left in peace, but simply a statement of bald fact. "Really?" queried Anthony. "I didn't think you were as old as that!" It appeared that this remark was worthy of no answer whatever. The little man turned his attention to his order of ham and eggs, cut off the first egg, manoeuvred it carefully into position on his knife, and raised it toward a mouth that stretched to astonishing proportions; but at the critical moment the egg slipped and flopped back on the plate. "Missed!" said Anthony. He couldn't help it; the ejaculation popped out of its own accord. The other regarded him with grave displeasure. "If you had your bead drawed an' somebody jogged your arm jest as you pulled the trigger, would you call it a miss?" "Excuse me. I've no doubt you're extremely accurate." "I ne'er miss," said the other, and proved it by disposing of the egg at the next imposing mouthful. "I should like to know you. My name is Anthony Bard." "I'm Marty Wilkes. H'ware ye?" They shook hands. "Westerner, Mr. Wilkes?" "This is my furthest East." "Have a pleasant time?" A gesture indicated the barren, brown waste of prairie. "Too much civilization." "Really?" "Even the cattle got no fight in 'em." He added, "That sounds like I'm a fighter. I ain't." "Till you're stirred up, Mr. Wilkes?" "Heat me up an' I'll burn. Soil wood." "You're pretty familiar with the Western country?" "I get around." "Perhaps you'd recognize this." He took a scroll from his breast pocket and unrolled the photograph of the forest and the ranchhouse with the two mountains in the distance. Wilkes considered it unperturbed. "Them are the Little Brothers." "Ah! Then all I have to do is to travel to the foot of the Little Brothers?" "No, about sixty miles from 'em." "Impossible! Why, the mountains almost overhang that house." Wilkes handed back the picture and resumed his eating without reply. It was not a sullen resentment; it was hunger and a lack of curiosity. He was not "heated up." "Any one," said Anthony, to lure the other on, "could see that." "Sure; any one with bad eyes." "But how can you tell it's sixty miles?" "I've been there." "Well, at least the big tree there and the ranchhouse will not be very hard to find. But I suppose I'll have to travel in a circle around the Little Brothers, keeping a sixty-mile radius?" "If you want to waste a pile of time. Yes." "I suppose you could lead me right to the spot?" "I could." "How?" "That's about fifty-five miles straight north-east of the Little Brothers." "How the devil can you tell that, man?" "That ain't hard. They's a pretty steady north wind that blows in them parts. It's cold and it's strong. Now when you been out there long enough and get the idea that the only things that live is because God loves 'em. Mostly it's jest plain sand and rock. The trees live because they got protection from that north wind. Nature puts moss on 'em on the north side to shelter 'em from that same wind. Look at that picture close. You see that rough place on the side of that tree—jest a shadow like the whiskers of a man that ain't shaved for a week? That's the moss. Now if that's north, the rest is easy. That place is north-east of the Little Brothers." "By Jove! how did you get such eyes?" "Used 'em." "The reason I'd like to find the house is because—" "Reasons ain't none too popular with me." "Well, you're pretty sure that your suggestion will take me to the spot?" "I'm sure of nothing except my gun when the weather's hot." "Reasonably sure, however? The pine trees and the house—if I don't find one I'll find the other." "The house'll be in ruins, probably." "Why?" "That picture was taken a long time ago." "Do you read the mind of a picture, Mr. Wilkes?" "No." "The tree, however, will be there." "No, that's chopped down." "That's going a bit too far. Do you mean to say you know that this particular tree is down?" "That's first growth. All that country's been cut over. D'you think they'd pass up a tree the size of that?" "It's going to be hard," said Anthony with a frown, "for me to get used to the West." "Maybe not." "I can ride and shoot pretty well, but I don't know the people, I haven't worn their clothes, and I can't talk their lingo." "The country's mostly rocks when it ain't ground; the people is pretty generally men and women; the clothes they wear is cotton and wool, the lingo they talk is English." It was like a paragraph out of some book of ultimate knowledge. He was not entirely contented with his statement, however, for now he qualified it as follows: "Maybe some of 'em don't talk good book English. Quite a pile ain't had much eddication; in fact there ain't awful many like me. But they can tell you how much you owe 'em an' they'll understand you when you say you're hungry. What's your business? Excuse me; I don't generally ask questions." "That's all right. You've probably caught the habit from me. I'm simply going out to look about for excitement." "A feller gener'ly finds what he's lookin' for. Maybe you won't be disappointed. I've knowed places on the range where excitement growed like fruit on a tree. It was like that there manna in the Bible. You didn't have to work none for it. You jest laid still an' it sort of dropped in your mouth." He added with a sigh: "But them times ain't no more." "That's hard on me, eh?" "Don't start complainin' till you miss your feed. Things are gettin' pretty crowded, but there's ways of gettin' elbow room—even at a bar." "And you really think there's nothing which distinguishes the Westerner from the Easterner?" "Just the Western feeling, partner. Get that an' you'll be at home." "If you were a little further East and said that, people might be inclined to smile a bit." "Partner, if they did, they wouldn't finish their smile. But I heard a feller say once that the funny thing about men east and west of the Rockies was that they was all—" He paused as if trying to remember. "Well?" "Americans, Mr. Bard." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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