had it like I wanted it. So now I’m happy and set in my ways just like any old city bachelor, only I’m up here in the pines and alone. I like being alone. I’ll always like it after what I’ve gone through in Hollywood. I’ve got a town, this Leesburg, just over the mountain range. It’s close enough, twenty-one miles through the Cut. I get to town maybe once a month for supplies, less often if I can manage it.
“The rest of the time I spend right around here, taking care of myself, the house, old Goldie and myflowers. I guess you’re kind of surprised at my having so many flowers, now that you know I’m color-blind. But there’s nothing wrong with my nose. I can still smell. And that makes up for my not being able to appreciate their beauty.
“Of course, I’m away a lot, too. Goldie and I know our way around most of these woods, the mountains and the desert country. We go out prospecting for gold and silver.”
Gordon’s clear eyes were always bright when he spoke of his journeys. “I’m no hermit, but a prospector. Think of me as that, McGregor.” And then he would go on, spending hours telling of his far wanderings through high and low country, searching for his elusive strike. “There was a time in a deep canyon I call the Gory Rut that … And another time over beyond the Red Monument … Then back a few years ago I spent a month on Buckskin Ridge and there … But you can’t ignore the desert so let me tell you about the time …”
For most of the week the boy listened to Gordon tell in detail of his years on the trail with Goldie. He listened, and forgot for a while his own problems in the story of the man’s quest for gold and silver. But at last he came to realize that Gordon actually cared nothing at all about acquiring new wealth. His interest was in the constant search that took him away even from the simple comforts he had here in his meadow home, an endless search that led through canyons, gorges and valleys, across wastelands, woods and ridges. All these mysterious, untouched lands Gordon loved. He was eager to see them with his own eyes, and then to look at what lay beyond.
But the following week Gordon spoke little of himself, his journeys or his life in the pines. It was as if he had talked his fill, and now wanted to be left alone again. Once he even forgot why the boy was there, for he said, “Your face is familiar, McGregor. Have you ever been in Hollywood?” Not until he saw the whiteness come to the boy’s face did he remember. Not until he heard him say “
I don’t know
” did he mumble an abrupt apology for his own forgetfulness, and go outside to tend to his flowers.
It was during this week that the boy was most miserable. His body had regained its strength and he felt completely well except for the headaches that came perhaps once or twice a day to remind him of his injury. But he lived with the bitter torment that while his physical condition had improved considerably his mind hadn’t. There was no sign of mental recovery, nothing that encouraged him to think, to hope that in time his memory would return.
Conscious of the boy’s mental agony, Gordon tried to do everything he could to help him. He talked a little more during the week that followed. Again he veered from the set pattern of his bachelor life to make the boy more comfortable. He offered him his bed again instead of the living-room couch. But the boy refused. Gordon told him every night to use the big leather chair in the living room, and to feel free to read any of his books. But always the boy refused, saying that he was all right, that he didn’t want to get in the way at all, and that he appreciated everything Gordon had done for him.
So Gordon resigned himself to helping the boy inthe only way left. He spent longer hours in the kitchen, cooking the most nourishing meals he knew … stewed young chicken with hot broth and potatoes and green vegetables, roast lamb and beef and
“The rest of the time I spend right around here, taking care of myself, the house, old Goldie and myflowers. I guess you’re kind of surprised at my having so many flowers, now that you know I’m color-blind. But there’s nothing wrong with my nose. I can still smell. And that makes up for my not being able to appreciate their beauty.
“Of course, I’m away a lot, too. Goldie and I know our way around most of these woods, the mountains and the desert country. We go out prospecting for gold and silver.”
Gordon’s clear eyes were always bright when he spoke of his journeys. “I’m no hermit, but a prospector. Think of me as that, McGregor.” And then he would go on, spending hours telling of his far wanderings through high and low country, searching for his elusive strike. “There was a time in a deep canyon I call the Gory Rut that … And another time over beyond the Red Monument … Then back a few years ago I spent a month on Buckskin Ridge and there … But you can’t ignore the desert so let me tell you about the time …”
For most of the week the boy listened to Gordon tell in detail of his years on the trail with Goldie. He listened, and forgot for a while his own problems in the story of the man’s quest for gold and silver. But at last he came to realize that Gordon actually cared nothing at all about acquiring new wealth. His interest was in the constant search that took him away even from the simple comforts he had here in his meadow home, an endless search that led through canyons, gorges and valleys, across wastelands, woods and ridges. All these mysterious, untouched lands Gordon loved. He was eager to see them with his own eyes, and then to look at what lay beyond.
But the following week Gordon spoke little of himself, his journeys or his life in the pines. It was as if he had talked his fill, and now wanted to be left alone again. Once he even forgot why the boy was there, for he said, “Your face is familiar, McGregor. Have you ever been in Hollywood?” Not until he saw the whiteness come to the boy’s face did he remember. Not until he heard him say “
I don’t know
” did he mumble an abrupt apology for his own forgetfulness, and go outside to tend to his flowers.
It was during this week that the boy was most miserable. His body had regained its strength and he felt completely well except for the headaches that came perhaps once or twice a day to remind him of his injury. But he lived with the bitter torment that while his physical condition had improved considerably his mind hadn’t. There was no sign of mental recovery, nothing that encouraged him to think, to hope that in time his memory would return.
Conscious of the boy’s mental agony, Gordon tried to do everything he could to help him. He talked a little more during the week that followed. Again he veered from the set pattern of his bachelor life to make the boy more comfortable. He offered him his bed again instead of the living-room couch. But the boy refused. Gordon told him every night to use the big leather chair in the living room, and to feel free to read any of his books. But always the boy refused, saying that he was all right, that he didn’t want to get in the way at all, and that he appreciated everything Gordon had done for him.
So Gordon resigned himself to helping the boy inthe only way left. He spent longer hours in the kitchen, cooking the most nourishing meals he knew … stewed young chicken with hot broth and potatoes and green vegetables, roast lamb and beef and
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