Scrub oaks, young pines and chaparral
covered the ground. Among this growth Bob made out the ancient stumps of
great trees. The ranch houses were built of sawn lumber, and possessed
brick chimneys. In appearance they seemed midway between the farm houses
of the older settled plains and the rougher cabins of the mountaineers.
Bob continued on a dusty road until he rode into a little town which he
knew must be Durham. Its main street contained three stores, two
saloons, a shady tree, a windmill and watering trough and a dozen
chair-tilted loafers. A wooden sidewalk shaded by a wooden awning ran
the entire length of this collection of commercial enterprises. A
redwood hitching rail, much chewed, flanked it. Three saddle horses, and
as many rigs, dozed in the sun.
Bob tied his saddle horse to the rail, leaving the pack animal to its
own devices. Without attention to the curious stares of the loafers, he
pushed into the first store, and asked directions of the proprietor. The
man, a type of the transplanted Yankee, pushed the spectacles up over
his forehead, and coolly surveyed his questioner from head to foot
before answering.
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