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"Well, R.C.," I said, "this may be our canyon, and it may not. But to make sure we'll follow it up to the rim. Then we can locate camp." R.C. replied with weary disdain. "All right, my redskin brother, lead me to camp. As Loren says, I'm starved to death." Loren is my three-year-old boy, who bids fair to be like his brother Romer.
To look at him, still more to hear him, one would have sworn he was a good fellow, a trifle rough and noisy, perhaps, but all right at bottom. But the County Clerk of Dearborn County could have told you of agriculturists who knew Erastus from long and unhappy experience, and who held him to be even a tighter man than Loren Pierce in the matter of a mortgage.
She wasn't really interested in being tied down that way, and hoped to avoid it by going to the Academy, but on such a nice day, why not indulge her parents' more conventional desires? Loren of the Order was probably the best match genetically, and socially of course a mate in the Order was desirable. Still, though he was nice enough, he simply wasn't very bright.
The obvious leader of the party, Loren Pierce, a rich quarryman, was an old man of medium size and mean attire, with a square, beardless face as hard and impassive in expression as one of his blocks of limestone.
Better than the Lorens who are with Grim Hagen. Apparently, he drew his following from the weakest among them." "Aye," Val the Loren agreed. He had fought near Ato's side all through the night, and his lean left hand was rubbing two deep cuts across his chest. "They have already had enough.
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