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Updated: June 1, 2025
The men she had known had been bound by convention to respect a woman's wishes, but even her ignorance of his type made guess that this steel-eyed, close-knit young Westerner or was he a Southerner? would be impervious to appeals founded upon the rules of the society to which she had been accustomed.
"Well," growled Mortlake, "what have you got to say to me?" "Not much," snapped the mining man, "but I wish to read you something." He drew from his pocket a paper. "This is the confession of Joey Eccles," he said quietly. "I've another by Frederick Palmer." Mortlake leaped up and sprang toward the Westerner, but Mr. Bell held up his hand. "Don't try to destroy them," he said.
He spoke casually of the West, but instituted no comparisons. "You are really an exception," Clyde told him. "The average Westerner is such a superior mortal. He looks down on the East, and when he comes among Easterners he condescends." "It's a relief to have some one admit that Chicago is in the East," he laughed. "No, I don't brag about the West.
Even in her distress she had observed him when he had entered, for his height, breadth of shoulder, erectness of carriage together with the tan and a certain unconventional freedom of movement which, to the initiated, proclaimed him an outdoor westerner, made him noticeable. He was fifty more, possibly with hair well grayed and the face of a man to whom success had not come easily.
More of the woman than in the days when he had known her, perhaps less of the carefree maiden, she was essentially unchanged, was what he might confidently have expected her to be. Emerson Crawford was the same bluff, hearty Westerner, a friend to tie to in sunshine and in storm. Even little Keith, just escaping from his baby ways, had the same tricks and mannerisms.
Now, the Westerner crossed to Johnnie, bent, and with gentle fingers held under the boy's chin, studied those welts across the pale cheeks. "Crimini!" he murmured. "Crimini! Crimini!" "Look at his chest, and his back!" Cis advised. The cowboy lifted Johnnie forward in the morris chair, and held away the big shirt from breast and shoulders.
A fellow of ill-controlled temper, his thin-skinned vanity writhed at the condition which confronted him. He was engaged to a girl who preferred another and a better man, one against whom he had an unalterable grudge. He recognized in the Westerner an eager energy, a clean-cut resilience, and an abounding vitality he would have given a great deal to possess.
"Then you're not a Westerner by birth?" "No, I came from the East. I'll have to tell you my story some day. It's rather a curious one." Dave reflected that his own was, also, but he was not so sure he wanted to tell it. Every day had increased his admiration for Mr. Bellmore, but there are some facts that we keep even from our best friends.
A tall, lank, bespectacled "Westerner," nearly thirty-five years of age, the blue-eyed country boy had dragged himself up from the obscurity of a frontier American farm into the higher life. Uncouth, awkward, and yet resolute and untiring, he had justified his first instructor's prediction: "He has the head of a horse, and will make his mark!"
Born that way, just as my father was, though it's a different way, of course. Otherwise, I can't guess. But I'm wild to get at the shooting lessons. I hope the rest of you are, too. The first step to becoming a real 'wild westerner' is to know how to handle the 'irons. He's rippin', Lem is. But come on. He's getting away from us. I wish poor old Jim was here.
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