Now the place is turning into another mountain city. But I suppose none of us owns this country, isn’t that right—Jim?”
“Yes, Jim—and yes, I guess you’re right.”
“I’d own it if it was available; not the town, but higher up, near timberline. That’s my country. I think this part of Colorado is one of the most beautiful spots on earth.”
“Why isn’t it available? I would think you could buy anything for a price.”
“The best of it is national forest land.”
Gould came in then with two tall glasses in his hand. He passed one to me and kept the other for himself, checked Max’s glass for level and returned to his spot near the fireplace. For a moment there was a strained silence, as though all were trying to think of something interesting to say.
“Have you been climbing yet, Willy?” I said.
“Once. I’ll go again in the morning. Care to join me?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On what you mean by mountain climbing. If you mean hiking, fine. But if you mean the works, with spiked shoes and picks and ropes, forget it. Sheer drops make me nervous.”
“There’s all kinds of country around here. Everyone can do his own thing. That’s what I like about it.”
“What do you do—for a living, I mean,” I said, wishing I had phrased the question differently.
“Nothing,” Max answered evenly.
There was another long silence. “Oh,” I said finally, and that was the end of that line of talk.
From the outer room I heard the sound of pots rattling. Harry Gould excused himself with something that sounded like “there’s no reason this should be an all-male affair,” and in a moment he returned, ushering her into the den. She was perhaps twenty-five, though she might have been thirty or as young as twenty-one. She was one of those people who for about fifteen years remain ageless, as unchanging as a painting. I thought she was beautiful, and it was obvious by the stiffening in Max’s back as she entered that he did too.
“Miss Sargent,” Gould said. “You know Mr. Max. This is Mr. Ryan from, ah, Virginia.”
“Jim,” I said, nodding.
“I saw you come in yesterday,” she said, offering her hand.
The hand was soft in mine. “I saw you seeing me,” I said, attempting laughter.
And she laughed too. “Yes, I know. I was trying not to be rude; that’s why I stepped back and closed the curtain. But I guess that might be considered as rude as simply staring.”
“I didn’t think anything of it.”
“That’s good. The reason I was staring is simply that I was surprised to see another guest arrive. I just got here yesterday myself; I was told in town that the place was completely deserted.”
“Even I don’t come up till March,” Gould said.
“And now it’s full of life,” Miss Sargent said. “People are everywhere these days, aren’t they, Mr. Ryan?”
“Willy here was just saying the same thing; I guess it’s true. He’s surely seen more of the world than I have.”
Max fidgeted and lighted his pipe.
“Are you drinking, Miss Sargent?” Gould said.
“I might be coaxed. What have you?”
“Bourbon and Scotch—and a few other things I don’t handle well. I’m not very good at mixed drinks, so you’ll have to take your chances.”
“If you will just mix a little Scotch with a lot of water, that will be fine for me.”
Gould, still moving with his slow limp, went out.
“Where are you from?” I asked her.
“I’m a born New Englander without the accent. Now I live in Bridgeport, Connecticut.”
“And what brings you way out here?”
“I’m a photojournalist. I have an assignment from a New York publisher to deliver a photo book on the last vestiges of the old West.”
“I think you can still find what you want in the high country,” Max said. “I’ve been coming here off and on for years. I know of several real ghost towns; I’d be delighted to show you.”
She smiled in a way that was noncommittal.
“Who did you say
“Yes, Jim—and yes, I guess you’re right.”
“I’d own it if it was available; not the town, but higher up, near timberline. That’s my country. I think this part of Colorado is one of the most beautiful spots on earth.”
“Why isn’t it available? I would think you could buy anything for a price.”
“The best of it is national forest land.”
Gould came in then with two tall glasses in his hand. He passed one to me and kept the other for himself, checked Max’s glass for level and returned to his spot near the fireplace. For a moment there was a strained silence, as though all were trying to think of something interesting to say.
“Have you been climbing yet, Willy?” I said.
“Once. I’ll go again in the morning. Care to join me?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On what you mean by mountain climbing. If you mean hiking, fine. But if you mean the works, with spiked shoes and picks and ropes, forget it. Sheer drops make me nervous.”
“There’s all kinds of country around here. Everyone can do his own thing. That’s what I like about it.”
“What do you do—for a living, I mean,” I said, wishing I had phrased the question differently.
“Nothing,” Max answered evenly.
There was another long silence. “Oh,” I said finally, and that was the end of that line of talk.
From the outer room I heard the sound of pots rattling. Harry Gould excused himself with something that sounded like “there’s no reason this should be an all-male affair,” and in a moment he returned, ushering her into the den. She was perhaps twenty-five, though she might have been thirty or as young as twenty-one. She was one of those people who for about fifteen years remain ageless, as unchanging as a painting. I thought she was beautiful, and it was obvious by the stiffening in Max’s back as she entered that he did too.
“Miss Sargent,” Gould said. “You know Mr. Max. This is Mr. Ryan from, ah, Virginia.”
“Jim,” I said, nodding.
“I saw you come in yesterday,” she said, offering her hand.
The hand was soft in mine. “I saw you seeing me,” I said, attempting laughter.
And she laughed too. “Yes, I know. I was trying not to be rude; that’s why I stepped back and closed the curtain. But I guess that might be considered as rude as simply staring.”
“I didn’t think anything of it.”
“That’s good. The reason I was staring is simply that I was surprised to see another guest arrive. I just got here yesterday myself; I was told in town that the place was completely deserted.”
“Even I don’t come up till March,” Gould said.
“And now it’s full of life,” Miss Sargent said. “People are everywhere these days, aren’t they, Mr. Ryan?”
“Willy here was just saying the same thing; I guess it’s true. He’s surely seen more of the world than I have.”
Max fidgeted and lighted his pipe.
“Are you drinking, Miss Sargent?” Gould said.
“I might be coaxed. What have you?”
“Bourbon and Scotch—and a few other things I don’t handle well. I’m not very good at mixed drinks, so you’ll have to take your chances.”
“If you will just mix a little Scotch with a lot of water, that will be fine for me.”
Gould, still moving with his slow limp, went out.
“Where are you from?” I asked her.
“I’m a born New Englander without the accent. Now I live in Bridgeport, Connecticut.”
“And what brings you way out here?”
“I’m a photojournalist. I have an assignment from a New York publisher to deliver a photo book on the last vestiges of the old West.”
“I think you can still find what you want in the high country,” Max said. “I’ve been coming here off and on for years. I know of several real ghost towns; I’d be delighted to show you.”
She smiled in a way that was noncommittal.
“Who did you say
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