Volume II Part 14 (1/2)

”Yes,” I replied, ”that's his name.”

”Well, I think he's dead,” said he.

At this, I began to feel uneasy, and I could see that my wife shared my trouble.

Then the other farmer spoke up.

”I don't believe he's dead, Hiram,” said he to his companion. ”I heerd of him this spring. He's got a sheep-farm on the other side o' the mountain, and he's a livin' there. That's what I heerd, at any rate. But he don't live on this road any more,” he continued, turning to us. ”He used to keep tavern on this road, and the stages did used to stop fur supper--or else dinner. I don't jist ree-collect which. But he don't keep tavern on this road no more.”

”Of course not,” said his companion, ”if he's a livin' over the mountain. But I b'lieve he's dead.”

I asked the other farmer if he knew how long it had been since Dutton had left this part of the country.

”I don't know fur certain,” he said, ”but I know he was keeping tavern here two year' ago, this fall, fur I came along here, myself, and stopped there to git supper--or dinner, I don't jist ree-collect which.”

It had been three years since our friend had boarded at Dutton's house.

There was no doubt that the man was not living at his old place now. My wife and I now agreed that it was very foolish in us to come so far without making more particular inquiries. But we had had an idea that a man who had a place like Dutton's tavern would live there always.

”What are ye goin' to do?” asked the driver, very much interested, for it was not every day that he had pa.s.sengers who had lost their destination. ”Ye might go on to Lowry's. He takes boarders sometimes.”

But Lowry's did not attract us. An ordinary country-tavern, where stage-pa.s.sengers took supper, was not what we came so far to find.

”Do you know where this house o' Dutton's is?” said the driver, to the man who had once taken either dinner or supper there.

”Oh yes! I'd know the house well enough, if I saw it. It's the fust house this side o' Lowry's.”

”With a big pole in front of it?” asked the driver.

”Yes, there was a sign-pole in front of it.”

”An' a long porch?”

”Yes.”

”Oh! well!” said the driver, settling himself in his seat. ”I know all about that house. That's a empty house. I didn't think you meant that house. There's n.o.body lives there. An' yit, now I come to remember, I have seen people about, too. I tell ye what ye better do. Since ye're so set on staying on this side the ridge, ye better let me put ye down at Dan Carson's place. That's jist about quarter of a mile from where Dutton used to live. Dan's wife can tell ye all about the Duttons, an'

about everybody else, too, in this part o' the country, and if there aint n.o.body livin' at the old tavern, ye can stay all night at Carson's, and I'll stop an' take you back, to-morrow, when I come along.”

We agreed to this plan, for there was nothing better to be done, and, late in the afternoon, we were set down with our small trunk--for we were traveling under light weight--at Dan Carson's door. The stage was rather behind time, and the driver whipped up and left us to settle our own affairs. He called back, however, that he would keep a good look-out for us to-morrow.

Mrs. Carson soon made her appearance, and, very naturally, was somewhat surprised to see visitors with their baggage standing on her little porch. She was a plain, coa.r.s.ely dressed woman, with an ap.r.o.n full of chips and kindling wood, and a fine mind for detail, as we soon discovered.

”Jist so,” she said, putting down the chips and inviting us to seats on a bench. ”Dave Dutton's folks is all moved away. Dave has a good farm on the other side o' the mountain, an' it never did pay him to keep that tavern, 'specially as he didn't sell liquor. When he went away, his son Al come there to live with his wife, an' the old man left a good deal o'

furniture and things for him, but Al's wife aint satisfied here, and, though they've been here, off an' on, the house is shet up most o' the time. It's for sale an' to rent, both, ef enybody wants it. I'm sorry about you, too, fur it was a nice tavern, when Dave kept it.”

We admitted that we were also very sorry, and the kind-hearted woman showed a great deal of sympathy.

”You might stay here, but we haint got no fit room where you two could sleep.”

At this, Euphemia and I looked very blank.

”But you could go up to the house and stay, jist as well as not,” Mrs.

Carson continued. ”There's plenty o' things there, an' I keep the key.