There was nothing about him or his actions to
make her fear. On the contrary, Roaring Bill at close quarters
inspired confidence. Why she could not and did not attempt to
determine, psychological analysis being rather out of her line.
Physically, however, Roaring Bill measured up to a high standard. He
was young, probably twenty-seven or thereabouts. There was
power--plenty of it--in the wide shoulders and deep chest of him, with
arms in proportion. His hands, while smooth on the backs and well
cared for, showed when he exposed the palms the callouses of ax
handling. And his face was likable, she decided, full of character,
intensely masculine. In her heart every woman despises any hint of the
effeminate in man. Even though she may decry what she is pleased to
term the brute in man, whenever he discards the dominant, overmastering
characteristics of the male she will have none of him. Miss Hazel Weir
was no exception to her sex.
Consciously or otherwise she took stock of Bill Wagstaff. She knew him
to be in bad odor with Cariboo Meadows for some unknown reason. She
had seen him fight in the street, knock a man unconscious with his
fists. According to her conceptions of behavior that was brutal and
vulgar.
Pages:
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104