And Hazel sat looking across the way
with considerable interest at the specimen of a type which hitherto she
had encountered in the pages of fiction--a fighting man, what the West
called a "bad actor." She had, however, no wish for closer study of
that particular type. The men of her world had been altogether
different, and the few frontier specimens she had met at the Briggs'
dinner table had not impressed her with anything except their shyness
and manifest awkwardness in her presence. The West itself appealed to
her, its bigness, its nearness to the absolutely primeval, but not the
people she had so far met. They were not wrapped in a glamor of
romance; she was altogether too keen to idealize them. They were not
her kind, and while she granted their worth, they were more picturesque
about their own affairs than when she came in close contact with them.
Those were her first impressions. And so she looked at Roaring Bill
Wagstaff, over the way, with a quite impersonal interest.
He came into Briggs' place for supper. Mrs. Briggs was her own
waitress. Briggs himself sat beside Hazel. She heard him grunt, and
saw a mild look of surprise flit over his countenance when Roaring Bill
walked in and coolly took a seat.
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