man put down the satchels, and
looked over the heads of the motley crowd into the still more motley
street beyond. Two short rows of one-story buildings, distinctive by
the brightness of new lumber on their sheltered side, bordered a
narrow street, half clogged by the teams of visiting farmers. Not the
faintest clue to a hostelry was visible, and the eyes of the man
wandered back, interrupting by the way another pair of eyes frankly
inquisitive.

The curious one was short; by comparison his face was still shorter,
and round. From his chin a tiny tuft of whiskers protruded, like the
handle of a gourd. Never was countenance more unmistakably labelled
good-humored, Americanized German.

The eyes of the tall man stopped.

"Is there a hotel in this"--he groped for a classification--"this
city?" he asked.

A rattling sound, startlingly akin to the agitated contents of
over-ripe vegetables, came from somewhere in the internal mechanism of
the small man. Inferentially, the inquiry was amusing to the
questioned, likewise the immediately surrounding listeners who became
suddenly silent, gazing at the stranger with the wonder of young
calves.

At length the innate spirit of courtesy in the German triumphed over
his amusement.

"Hans Becher up by the postoffice takes folks in." The inward
commotion showed indications of resumption. "I never heard, though,
that he called his place a hotel!"

"Thank you," and the circle of silence widened.

The man and the woman walked up the street. Beneath their feet the
cottonwood sidewalk, despite its newness, was warped in agony under
sun and storm. Big puddles of water from a recent rain stood in the
hollows of the roadway, side by side with tufts of native grasses
fighting bravely for life against the intruder--Man. A fresh,
indescribable odor was in their nostrils; an odor which puzzled them
then, but which later they learned to recognize and never forgot--the
pungent scent of buffalo grass. A stillness, deeper than of Sabbath,
unbelievable to urban ears, wrapped all things, and united with an
absence of broken sky line, to produce an all-pervading sense of
loneliness.

Hans Becher did not belie his name. He was very German. Likewise the
little woman who courtesied at his side. Ditto the choice assortment
of inquisitive tow-heads, who stared wide-eyed from various corners.
He shook hands at the door with each of his guests,--which action also
was unmistakably German.

"You wou