Welton drew up at a low, broad
structure set back from the street among some trees.
"We'll tackle the mountain to-morrow," said he.
Bob descended with a distinct feeling of pleasure at being able to use
his legs again. He and Welton and the baggage and everything about the
buckboard were powdered thick with the fine, white California dust. At
every movement he shook loose a choking cloud. Welton's face was a dull
gray, ludicrously streaked, and he suspected himself of being in the
same predicament. A boy took the horses, and the travellers entered the
picketed enclosure. Welton lifted up his great rumbling voice.
"O Auntie Belle!" he roared.
Within the dark depths of the house life stirred. In a moment a capable
and motherly woman had taken them in charge. Amid a rapid-fire of
greetings, solicitudes, jokes, questions, commands and admonitions Bob
was dusted vigorously and led to ice-cold water and clean towels. Ten
minutes later, much refreshed, he stood on the low verandah looking out
with pleasure on the little there was to see. Eight dogs squatted
themselves in front of him, ears slightly uplifted, in expectancy of
something Bob could not guess.
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