As her eager eyes
traced the serrated peaks of a snow-clad mountain range, her heart
throbbed with anticipation of wonders yet to come. Homesickness was a
thing undreamed of; her active brain responded to each new impression.
She sat comfortably ensconced in the back seat of the old, battered red
coach, surrounded by cushions for protection from continual jouncing,
as the Jehu in charge urged his restive mules down the desolate valley
of the Bear Water. Her cheeks were flushed, her wide-open eyes filled
with questioning, her pale fluffy hair frolicking with the breeze, as
pretty a picture of young womanhood as any one could wish to see. Nor
was she unaware of this fact. During the final stage other long
journey she had found two congenial souls, sufficiently picturesque to
harmonize with her ideas of wild Western romance.
These two men were lolling in the less comfortable seat opposite,
secretly longing for a quiet smoke outside, yet neither willing to
desert this Eastern divinity to his rival. The big fellow, his arm run
carelessly through the leather sling, his bare head projecting half out
of the open window, was Jack Moffat, half-owner of the "Golden Rule,"
and enjoying a well-earned reputation as the most ornate and artistic
liar in the Territory.
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