For a moment he had
forgotten the first glimpse he had caught of Joe that evening, bent
double over the block of yellow paper--a glimpse which still seemed
funny and yet not very funny either.
"He comes of a very old family," he replied. "Old as they are reckoned
in this country." And his answer held a question.
Joe shook his head.
"That ain't quite what I mean. I've seen lots of the younger sons of
them old families. I've run into them in Yokohoma and Buenos Ayres;
I've met up with them along the Yukon and down on the Mexican border.
They're scattered all around, out through the Panhandle, ridin' calico
ponies, with jingly spurs and more than a bushel of doo-dads on the
saddle. They all come from old families, and I suppose after all it
was a blessing that they had that much in their favor. Because if most
of them hadn't had a family tree to lean up against at times, they
never could have kept their feet at all."
"No, that wasn't what I meant, Steve. I figured he was kind of a
regular chap--the hero guy that's too hot proud to bat an eye, you
know, even when he's--well, I just can't get it straight in words, but
this is what I'm driving at. The first night after you had gone he was
settin' right here where I'm settin' now, looking quiet into the fire.
I didn't ask him what was on his mind, not because I've learned not to
go trackin' across other men's mental preserves, but simply because I
didn't even have to guess more than once.
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