Page:Weird Tales Volume 6 Number 6 (1925-12).djvu/64

wild or otherwise, that might lead to a story.

"Oh, I hardly know." My friend glanced up at the mountain, his brows still wrinkled in perplexity. "A few adventurous fellows have run him down, and rumor has it that he always says 'Howdy' and invites them in to dinner. I fancy it's his way of getting rid of them. They always vamoose at that, their curiosity satisfied, having found nothing romantic or mysterious in just an ordinary man in an ordinary cabin living a step aside from the beaten track. But I have an idea he's a strange old cuss."

Just an ordinary man in an ordinary cabin living—at the timber line. Imagine! I rose to go into the house for my mackinaw and hiking boots, asking: "How do you get there?"

My friend grinned. "Oh, you've decided to go, have you? Well, it's a bit farther than across the street—about four or five miles farther," he answered dryly. Then his face sobered and he went on with enthusiasm. "I believe it's worth looking into, anyhow. You go up over Larch Trail. It's not traveled very much and you'll find it heavy going. Better not tackle it today. Wait till tomorrow and get an early start."

"That's hardly necessary," I told him, taking a quick glance at the sun. It wasn't more than 10 o'clock, and at that time of year it doesn't get dark till 8 or 9 in the evening. My muscles were rather well trail-seasoned then, and I knew I could make four or five miles easily, and have an hour or so with the hermit, and get back before night. I explained my thoughts on the subject and he answered: "Well, go to it, old son. I hope your trip isn't for nothing."

I told him if it was I'd have him drawn, quartered and boiled in oil: then I made for the house.

Half an hour later I was well on my way to Larch Trail. I found it pleasant traveling until I reached the base of Old Baldy, and struck into the trail. There I came to the real labor of climbing, and it developed into mighty nasty going. The trail ran circuitously up the mountain through heavy forest and rank underbrush. There was a good deal of clay in the soil, and the path itself, though clearly enough defined to be followed easily, was mucky and slippery.

I traveled as swiftly as I could, but to my dismay my friend's four or five miles lengthened into seven or eight, and it was early evening before I reached the timber line, where at the edge of the bald space the trail turned sharply to sharply to the right. I stopped abruptly and stared at the scene before me. It stamped itself indelibly upon my mind. Now, after fifteen years, it's as clear as though it were something I had seen but yesterday.

Flanked on both sides by the stunted timber indigenous to that altitude, unpainted and weathered a deep gray, facing a small cleared space, stood a log cabin. Directly in front of it was a garden outlined with small whitewashed stones, a garden of flowers brilliant in color and profuse in bloom. I don't know exactly what I had expected, you understand; some sort of eccentric squalor, I think. But certainly I hadn't expected a flower garden! And the cabin itself—it had a queer dignity, a kind of architectural individuality that gave me the impression of having found a soul where I had thought to find a skeleton.

I walked up to the door and gave the old iron knocker a single sharp rap, keenly conscious, as I did so, of the atmosphere of the place. As though my knock were a signal which someone within had been expecting, the door swung instantly