CHAPTER XVIII—“SILENT” OLLIE BAXTER Late twilight had thrown a gorgeous cloak of purple mist over the whole surrounding country as the trio of weary scouts ambled up the stone steps into the long, low room which served as a lobby, dining-room and ballroom all in one. There were few balls or parties held in that rustic Inn except on festive occasions, such as weddings, etc., when the farm and ranch folk would gather there. “Ol’ Pop Burrows,” pioneer and crony of Uncle Jeb’s, who owned the place, greeted them with all the warm hospitality so characteristic of the real, honest-to-goodness Westerner. By the time Westy and Artie, with their miscellaneous baggage, had been shown to their room, the aroma of a delicious dinner was emanating from the kitchen below them. “Boy, but that smells good!” Westy exclaimed, in the process of washing up. “Now, that’s what I’d call an instance of mental ‘telegraphy,’” Artie remarked, smiling through the folds of a face-towel. “You mean mental telepathy,” said the ever-serious Westy. “You go to the head of the class for that,” laughed Artie. “Whatever you call it, it smells good.” “Let’s snap into it! I’m as hungry as the proverbial grizzly,” Westy said, walking toward the door. “You’ve got nothing on me and I’ll be right with you, Wes.” They descended the stairs and found Uncle Jeb already awaiting them. He led them to a table at the far corner of the room where the steaming food was being placed by a little wizened-looking man, whose agile step and manner belied somewhat the immobile expression of his face. Indeed, he was an unusual looking man; swarthy skin with “the smallest eyes.” As Artie remarked, “You’d almost wonder how he could see out of them.” “Evidently, no one could say they were the windows of his soul,” said Westy. “They’re not big enough for a fellow to tell whether he’s looking your way or not.” “Maybe he hasn’t any soul,” put in Artie, who afterward had good cause to remember this jesting remark. “Now, boys,” drawled Uncle Jeb, who had been eating in silent contemplation while Westy and Artie were talking, “you hain’t doin’ Ollie Baxter justice when yuh talk ’bout him thet way. He wouldn’t hurt a flea, ’n I guess he’s shure ’nough got a soul, fer he never says nuthin’, jes cooks fer Ol’ Pop, waits on table when them tourists come in summer, ’n does all the chores thet’s asked o’ him on the place. I reckon thar hain’t a man livin’ thet minds his bizness like Ollie Baxter; no, sir!”