THE END OF THE TRAIL 293 



When Button was made snug we entered the 

 cabin, and I stood in the door while he lighted 

 a bit of rag floating in oil in a tin dish. The 

 weird flicker displayed a very filthy room with 

 a cook stove in which a wood fire burned. 



"Now make yourself t' home," he exclaimed. 

 "Mighty glad to have you come. I get plumb 

 lonesome here sometimes. That's why I was 

 over t' th' preacher's. I reckon you'd like a 

 cup of coffee," he continued, immersing a fin- 

 ger in a tomato can on the stove to test the tem- 

 perature of the coffee it contained. "Set up t' 

 th' table and have a bite." 



With a finger he wiped the stale grounds 

 from an enameled cup, filled it with coffee, set 

 out some bread, and I accepted his hospitality. 

 Bill, he told me, was his name, and Bill, to say 

 the least, was as eccentric as he was hospitable. 

 We sat until midnight, while he related blood- 

 curdling tales of personal experiences and ad- 

 ventures with Indians and wild animals. 



"Why," said Bill, waving his arms in wild 

 gestures, "maybe you wouldn't believe it, but 

 I've spent a hull year t' a slap out on th' plains 

 killing buffalo fer hides, without ever clappin' 

 eyes on a petticoat." 



I had brought neither blanket nor baggage, 

 from Emigrant, and my bed that night was 



