It seems that Mr. Temple undertook this trip to Eagle City for the sole purpose of looking over this mountain pass, that was to give way to modern engineering and serve its end as a branch line for the railroad. The surveyors had secured a sort of agreement from one Ezra Knapp, a farmer, whose property ran parallel to Mr. Temple’s and which he wanted to procure so that the thing could be accomplished by extending the branch line through the distant pass and so on down the ravine. After the agreement had entered their possession the surveyors wired Mr. Temple for one of his representatives to come without delay and close the contract. He decided then to go himself, not only for the benefit of his fellow-stockholders but for his own personal satisfaction. Arriving at Eagle City, he found to his dismay that there wasn’t any hotel in the immediate vicinity. The station agent directed him to the general store about procuring some conveyance to ride in to the Inn, which was about fifteen miles distant and on the way to Eagle Pass, which was Mr. Temple’s destination. As he was strolling over leisurely, amusedly observing the quaint hitching posts outside, his attention was arrested by a picturesque figure emerging from the store. Mr. Temple stood contemplating this young-old man, who was in the act of lighting a pipe as unusual looking as himself. He judged him to be about sixty years of age, as his face was deeply lined, although he realized one could not tell definitely about that either, as the carriage and raiment of this strange figure bespoke the fact that he was ostensibly a trapper or guide and the outdoor life would in itself line his face indelibly, as a sequence of his continuous battle with the elements. His hair was snowy white and two shrewd eyes of deep blue twinkled out from under heavy brows and lashes. A drooping mustache of pure white also marked a vivid contrast to his brown, leather-like skin. Withal there was a vivacity and good-humor about him that was undeniably contagious. Looking up he saw Mr. Temple standing there watching him and with a genial smile of welcome on his face walked over. “I take it yure a stranger in these parts!” he said, cordially shaking Mr. Temple’s hand. “Yes, I am indeed,” Mr. Temple returned. “And with whom, may I ask, is it my good fortune to speak?” “Me?” he asked, his face wreathed with the light of the noonday sun. “Why, I’m probably what you Easterners call Old Timer.” He chuckled softly to himself. “Well, well,” Mr. Temple said laughingly. “Surely such an individual as you, should bear a name more in keeping with yourself.” “Yes, yes,” he laughed heartily this time. “I wuz born to the name of Jeremiah Rushmore and they call me Jeb for short. All the folks hereabouts has allus called me Uncle. I’m Uncle to everybody and yit I hev’n’t one relative in the world,” he concluded. “That, I should think,” Mr. Temple remarked, “is rather a mark of respect.”