The woman was of slight build, with a few strands of hair that hung down over her forehead. Those strands were a dishwater blonde with a few streaks of grey. I suppose they were a brilliant gold once. Her cheeks were flushed, perhaps with rosacea, and it caught the right corner of her forehead beneath the strands. Her eyes were a plain brown, as brisk and as fleeting as the autumn that was sure to come.

She had both hands planted on a bar that would have come right out of a western saloon. She looked equally capable of pouring you a drink or showing you the door, which ever the situation require. Twain would have said she had sand, and that she did. She had it figuratively in the grit he implied, and literally in miles of the sand’s rolling hills covered in grass in Brewster, Nebraska.

It was late there, and true to her word she had kept the light on for us. It was a dim one. Three other men sported cans of beer at the far end, that spilled into the living room of this woman and her husband.

“You folks will be in Room One. Here’s the key. I have already unlocked the door for you. Can I make you a drink before you go to bed?”

“Thanks,” I said, “but no. We will head on up.”

“Where are you folks coming from?”

“We were supposed to stay in Valentine and go down the Niobrara in the morning. The hotels were booked.”

“That’s extremely odd for Valentine.”

“We were told it was graduation weekend, and the last hurrah for everyone wanting to do something outside before school starts.”

“How did you find us?”

“Lowell Minert brought a group of us here once, on a cattle tour.”

“Oh,” she said and looked down slightly out of the corner of her eye. “What time will you two take breakfast in the morning?”

“I’m afraid we will have to be up early to make it back in time,” I said hiding my surprise that breakfast was included.

“That’s no bother.”

“How about a quarter after 7?”

“That will work fine, you folks have a good evening.”

In the morning, on our way back down, we found the staircase covered with old black and white photos from the heyday of Brewster. There were town panoramas, they were building a new church, there was a minister with a hundred of his faithful gathered in front of a old sod one, and there were seven boys in uniform as the Brewster Coronet Band. As I continued on down, I was calculating the odds of how many of the seven could actually play, or how many that came here could actually ranch.

The bar was now dimly lit by the early morning sun, and the sun seemed to have the place to itself. Beyond the bar, opposite the living room, the ceiling gave way to a large open hall with a view of the North Loup. Game trophies adorned the wall, along with more photographs, and a Christmas tree hid in an upper corner of the room.

Kitchen tables line the floor, each covered in white tablecloths. Display cases hugged the walls. We browsed them all.

In one corner of the room was a black and white photo, and in the corner of that photo was written “Wolf Hunt at Chamberlain Ranch.” In the middle were two young gals on horseback, with black riding dresses hoisting rifles. On the far left, in a derby hat, was a man with a couple of wolves hanging from his saddle and a look as though he was determined to keep one of the ladies or impress them.

On the right side another young woman looked directly up at the camera. Her cheeks bubbled, her eyes were bright, and she smiled as though she had no care for tomorrow.

“It’s unusual,” Shannon said, “to see someone in that old of a photograph smile like that.”

Eventually, across from a wide patio door, we found a table set for two.

“This must be ours,” Shannon said. As if on cue, as soon as we sat our hostess appeared.

“Would either of you care for some coffee?” Two nods. “And I forgot to ask last night how each of you would like your eggs.”

“One scrambled, one sunny side up.”

“You mentioned Lowell last night. You heard he passed away a few years ago.”

“Yes. I had heard that. He was a good host to our group.”

“Do you have cattle as well then?” she continued.

“Yes. We used to come out here for the Summitcrest Bull Sale years ago.”

“Yes. Fred and Betty. What wonderful people. Now is Betty still alive?”

“I afraid she’s passed as well.”

“Oh. You know when we had the restaurant, Fred used to bring me a hat full of mushrooms every year that he wanted me to cook him for dinner. I’d tell him I didn’t know, they aren’t really my specialty, and I wouldn’t want to kill him.

‘Oh,’ he’d assure me, ‘I think you are going to do just fine.’ Such a character.”

Like the night before, she spoke in a softer way, and often her eyes would drift down to the corner of her face. Not in an unfriendly way. Perhaps it was with a touch of sadness, or perhaps it was looking back to a different time.

“How big of a town is Brewster?” I asked, partially knowing the answer. I had told Shannon the night before I thought it was 70 or so.

“Well, I guess it varies by the day, but I think officially they list us at 13.”

“13?” I echoed. “Aren’t you the county seat?”

“Oh yes. Blaine County, Nebraska. Smallest county seat in the United States.”

Small in terms of population, I suppose.