IN WHICH WE TAKE A VACATION AND LOOK FOR DAVID DUTTON.
It was about noon of a very fair July day, in the next summer, when Euphemia and myself arrived at the little town where we were to take the stage up into the mountains. We were off for a two weeks'
vacation and our minds were a good deal easier than when we went away before, and left Pomona at the helm. We had enlarged the boundaries of Rudder Grange, having purchased the house, with enough adjoining land to make quite a respectable farm. Of course I could not attend to the manifold duties on such a place, and my wife seldom had a happier thought than when she proposed that we should invite Pomona and her husband to come and live with us.
Pomona was delighted, and Jonas was quite willing to run our farm.
So arrangements were made, and the young couple were established in apartments in our back building, and went to work as if taking care of us and our possessions was the ultimate object of their lives.
Jonas was such a steady fellow that we feared no trouble from tree-man or lightning rodder during this absence.
Our destination was a country tavern on the stage-road, not far from the point where the road crosses the ridge of the mountain-range, and about sixteen miles from the town. We had heard of this tavern from a friend of ours, who had spent a summer there. The surrounding country was lovely, and the house was kept by a farmer, who was a good soul, and tried to make his guests happy. These were generally passing farmers and wagoners, or stage-passengers, stopping for a meal, but occasionally a person from the cities, like our friend, came to spend a few weeks in the mountains.
So hither we came, for an out-of-the-world spot like this was just what we wanted. When I took our places at the stage-office, Iinquired for David Dutton, the farmer tavern-keeper before mentioned, but the agent did not know of him.
"However," said he, "the driver knows everybody on the road, and he'll set you down at the house."So, off we started, having paid for our tickets on the basis that we were to ride about sixteen miles. We had seats on top, and the trip, although slow,--for the road wound uphill steadily,--was a delightful one. Our way lay, for the greater part of the time, through the woods, but now and then we came to a farm, and a turn in the road often gave us lovely views of the foot-hills and the valleys behind us.
But the driver did not know where Dutton's tavern was. This we found out after we had started. Some persons might have thought it wiser to settle this matter before starting, but I am not at all sure that it would have been so. We were going to this tavern, and did not wish to go anywhere else. If people did not know where it was, it would be well for us to go and look for it. We knew the road that it was on, and the locality in which it was to be found.
Still, it was somewhat strange that a stage-driver, passing along the road every week-day,--one day one way, and the next the other way,--should not know a public-house like Dutton's.
"If I remember rightly," I said, "the stage used to stop there for the passengers to take supper.""Well, then, it aint on this side o' the ridge," said the driver;"we stop for supper, about a quarter of a mile on the other side, at Pete Lowry's. Perhaps Dutton used to keep that place. Was it called the 'Ridge House'?"I did not remember the name of the house, but I knew very well that it was not on the other side of the ridge.
"Then," said the driver, "I'm sure I don't know where it is. But I've only been on the road about a year, and your man may 'a' moved away afore I come. But there aint no tavern this side the ridge, arter ye leave Delhi, and, that's nowhere's nigh the ridge."There were a couple of farmers who were sitting by the driver, and who had listened with considerable interest to this conversation.
Presently, one of them turned around to me and said:
"Is it Dave Dutton ye're askin' about?"
"Yes," I replied, "that's his name."
"Well, I think he's dead," said he.
At this, I began to feel uneasy, and I could see that my wife shared my trouble.
Then the other farmer spoke up.
"I don't believe he's dead, Hiram," said he to his companion "Iheered of him this spring. He's got a sheep-farm on the other side o' the mountain, and he's a livin' there. That's what I heered, at any rate. But he don't live on this road any more," he continued, turning to us. "He used to keep tavern on this road, and the stages did used to stop fur supper--or else dinner, I don't jist ree-collect which. But he don't keep tavern on this road no more.""Of course not," said his companion, "if he's a livin' over the mountain. But I b'lieve he's dead."I asked the other farmer if he knew how long it had been since Dutton had left this part of the country.
"I don't know fur certain," he said, "but I know he was keeping tavern here two year' ago, this fall, fur I came along here, myself, and stopped there to git supper--or dinner, I don't jist ree-collect which."It had been three years since our friend had boarded at Dutton's house. There was no doubt that the man was not living at his old place now. My wife and I now agreed that it was very foolish in us to come so far without making more particular inquiries. But we had had an idea that a man who had a place like Dutton's tavern would live there always.
"What are ye goin' to do?" asked the driver, very much interested, for it was not every day that he had passengers who had lost their destination. "Ye might go on to Lowry's. He takes boarders sometimes."But Lowry's did not attract us. An ordinary country-tavern, where stage-passengers took supper, was not what we came so far to find.
"Do you know where this house o' Dutton's is?" said the driver, to the man who had once taken either dinner or supper there.
"Oh yes! I'd know the house well enough, if I saw it. It's the fust house this side o' Lowry's.""With a big pole in front of it?" asked the driver.
"Yes, there was a sign-pole in front of it.""An a long porch?"
"Yes."
