Last winter in the United States : $b being table talk collected during a tour through the late Southern Confederation, the Far West, the Rocky Mountains, &c.Zincke, F. Barham (Foster Barham)
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Last winter in the United States : $b being table talk collected during a tour through the late Southern Confederation, the Far West, the Rocky Mountains, &c.
Zincke, F. Barham (Foster Barham)
United States -- Description and travel; United States -- Social life and customs -- 1865-1918
and on looking in that quarter I saw a considerable hole in the wall,
which admitted of anyone observing from the next room what I was about.
This I stopped up with a Chicago newspaper I happened to have with me.
My last thought was to ascertain whether the window which opened at the
head of my bed had any fastening, and whether one could escape through
it in case of a fire—a matter that must always be attended to in these
wooden towns. I found that it opened into a back courtyard; that it had
no fastening of any kind; and that one might open it from the outside
with a single finger. I did not like this, nor anything that I had seen
in the house; but as Judge Lynch had hung up two men in the main street
of the town only a few nights before, I thought that all the good
effect had probably not yet evaporated, and so was soon asleep. The
next morning, when I offered payment, the landlord demurred accepting
it immediately, and beckoning to one of his men, sent him off to see if
all was right. On the man’s returning, and giving him a nod, he took
my money. I asked what was the meaning of this. ‘Oh,’ he replied, ‘it
is not the custom to settle accounts here till you are sure that none
of your blankets have been made away with in the night through the
window.’ Blankets here are hard to get, and of some value for camping
out.
I passed part of another night at Shyenne, on my return from the
mountains. The coach reached the chief hotel of the place at three
o’clock in the morning. I had expected at that hour to find things
tolerably quiet; but on entering, I had to pass, first some people in a
state of riotous drunkenness at the bar; then about twenty men sitting
or sleeping round the stove; and, lastly, a parcel of people playing
and rowing at two billiard-tables. Beyond all these was the clerk’s
counter. On entering my name, and asking whether I could have a room to
myself, I was assured that I could.
‘Give me a receipt, then,’ I said, ‘for my bag and rug, and let me be
shown to my room.’
‘Is there any other passenger on board the coach?’ the clerk enquired.
[Sidenote: _‘Hardest Place, Sir, on this Continent.’_]
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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