So Bob Birnie went away to confer with his wife, and Bud was
left alone to nurse his hurt while he packed his few
belongings. It did hurt him to be told in that calm, cold-
blooded manner that, now he was of legal age, he would not be
expected to stay on at the Tomahawk. Until his father had
spoken to him about it, Bud had not thought much about what
he would do when his school days were over. He had taken life
as it was presented to him week by week, month by month. He
had fulfilled his mother's hopes and had learned to make
music. He had lived up to his father's unspoken standards of
a cowman. He had made a "Hand" ever since his legs were long
enough to reach the stirrups of a saddle. There was not a
better rider, not a better roper on the range than Bud
Birnie. Morally he was cleaner than most young fellows of his
age. He hated trickery, he reverenced all good women; the bad
ones he pitied because he believed that they sorrowed
secretly because they were not good, because they had missed
somehow their real purpose in life, which was to be wife and
mother. He had, in fact grown up clean and true to type. He
was Buddy, grown to be Bud.
And Buddy, now that he was a man, had been told that he was
not expected to stay at home and help his father, and be a
comfort to his mother.
Pages:
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83