The Tuttle person I had half expected to
appear garbed in his native dress--Mrs. Effie had once more referred
to "that Indian Jeff Tuttle"--but he wore instead, as did his two
assistants, the outing or lounge suit of the Western desperado, nor,
though I listened closely, could I hear him exclaim, "Ugh! Ugh!" in
moments of emotional stress as my reading had informed me that the
Indian frequently does.
The two assistants, solemn-faced, ill-groomed fellows, bore the
curious American names of Hank and Buck, and furiously chewed the
tobacco plant at all times. After betraying a momentary interest in my
smart riding-suit, they paid me little attention, at which I was well
pleased, for their manners were often repellent and their abrupt,
direct fashion of speech quite disconcerting.
The Tuttle person welcomed me heartily and himself adjusted the saddle
to my mount, expressing the hope that I would "get my fill of
scenery," and volunteering the information that my destination was
"one sleep" away.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Although fond of rural surroundings and always interested in nature,
the adventure in which I had become involved is not one I can
recommend to a person of refined tastes. I found it little enough to
my own taste even during the first two hours of travel when we kept to
the beaten thoroughfare, for the sun was hot, the dust stifling, and
the language with which the goods-animals were berated coarse in the
extreme.
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