They could do that sort of insolence as well as the driver they copied it from--for, let it be borne in mind, the overland driver had but little less contempt for his passengers than he had for his hostlers.
The hostlers and station-keepers treated the really powerful conductor of the coach merely with the best of what was their idea of civility, but the driver was the only being they bowed down to and worshipped.How admiringly they would gaze up at him in his high seat as he gloved himself with lingering deliberation, while some happy hostler held the bunch of reins aloft, and waited patiently for him to take it! And how they would bombard him with glorifying ejaculations as he cracked his long whip and went careering away.
The station buildings were long, low huts, made of sundried, mud-colored bricks, laid up without mortar (adobes, the Spaniards call these bricks, and Americans shorten it to 'dobies).The roofs, which had no slant to them worth speaking of, were thatched and then sodded or covered with a thick layer of earth, and from this sprung a pretty rank growth of weeds and grass.It was the first time we had ever seen a man's front yard on top of his house.The building consisted of barns, stable-room for twelve or fifteen horses, and a hut for an eating-room for passengers.
This latter had bunks in it for the station-keeper and a hostler or two.
You could rest your elbow on its eaves, and you had to bend in order to get in at the door.In place of a window there was a square hole about large enough for a man to crawl through, but this had no glass in it.
There was no flooring, but the ground was packed hard.There was no stove, but the fire-place served all needful purposes.There were no shelves, no cupboards, no closets.In a corner stood an open sack of flour, and nestling against its base were a couple of black and venerable tin coffee-pots, a tin teapot, a little bag of salt, and a side of bacon.
By the door of the station-keeper's den, outside, was a tin wash-basin, on the ground.Near it was a pail of water and a piece of yellow bar soap, and from the eaves hung a hoary blue woolen shirt, significantly--but this latter was the station-keeper's private towel, and only two persons in all the party might venture to use it--the stage-driver and the conductor.The latter would not, from a sense of decency; the former would not, because did not choose to encourage the advances of a station-keeper.We had towels--in the valise; they might as well have been in Sodom and Gomorrah.We (and the conductor) used our handkerchiefs, and the driver his pantaloons and sleeves.By the door, inside, was fastened a small old-fashioned looking-glass frame, with two little fragments of the original mirror lodged down in one corner of it.This arrangement afforded a pleasant double-barreled portrait of you when you looked into it, with one half of your head set up a couple of inches above the other half.From the glass frame hung the half of a comb by a string--but if Ihad to describe that patriarch or die, I believe I would order some sample coffins.
It had come down from Esau and Samson, and had been accumulating hair ever since--along with certain impurities.In one corner of the room stood three or four rifles and muskets, together with horns and pouches of ammunition.The station-men wore pantaloons of coarse, country-woven stuff, and into the seat and the inside of the legs were sewed ample additions of buckskin, to do duty in place of leggings, when the man rode horseback--so the pants were half dull blue and half yellow, and unspeakably picturesque.The pants were stuffed into the tops of high boots, the heels whereof were armed with great Spanish spurs, whose little iron clogs and chains jingled with every step.The man wore a huge beard and mustachios, an old slouch hat, a blue woolen shirt, no suspenders, no vest, no coat--in a leathern sheath in his belt, a great long "navy" revolver (slung on right side, hammer to the front), and projecting from his boot a horn-handled bowie-knife.The furniture of the hut was neither gorgeous nor much in the way.The rocking-chairs and sofas were not present, and never had been, but they were represented by two three-legged stools, a pine-board bench four feet long, and two empty candle-boxes.The table was a greasy board on stilts, and the table-cloth and napkins had not come--and they were not looking for them, either.A battered tin platter, a knife and fork, and a tin pint cup, were at each man's place, and the driver had a queens-ware saucer that had seen better days.Of course this duke sat at the head of the table.
There was one isolated piece of table furniture that bore about it a touching air of grandeur in misfortune.This was the caster.It was German silver, and crippled and rusty, but it was so preposterously out of place there that it was suggestive of a tattered exiled king among barbarians, and the majesty of its native position compelled respect even in its degradation.
There was only one cruet left, and that was a stopperless, fly-specked, broken-necked thing, with two inches of vinegar in it, and a dozen preserved flies with their heels up and looking sorry they had invested there.
The station-keeper upended a disk of last week's bread, of the shape and size of an old-time cheese, and carved some slabs from it which were as good as Nicholson pavement, and tenderer.
He sliced off a piece of bacon for each man, but only the experienced old hands made out to eat it, for it was condemned army bacon which the United States would not feed to its soldiers in the forts, and the stage company had bought it cheap for the sustenance of their passengers and employees.We may have found this condemned army bacon further out on the plains than the section I am locating it in, but we found it--there is no gainsaying that.