In their eyes By-and-by was a man. He could feel and he could resent
insults. They did not class him as one of themselves, because he did
not have energy enough to demand and justify such classification. With
them he had a right to enjoy his life as he saw fit so long as he did
not trespass on or restrict the rights of others. They were not
analytic in temperament, neither were they moralists. He was not a
menace to society, because society had superb defenses. So they
vaguely recognized his many poor qualities and clearly saw his few
good ones. He could shoot, when permitted, with the best; no horse,
however refractory, had ever been known to throw him; he was an adept
at following the trails left by rustlers, and that was an asset; he
became of value to the community; he was an economic factor.
His ability to consume liquor with indifferent effects raised him another
notch in their estimation. He was not always talking when some one
else wished to-another count. There remained about him that stoical
indifference to the petty; that observant nonchalance of the Indian;
and there was a suggestion, faint, it was true, of a dignity common to
chieftains. He was a log of grave deference which tossed on their sea
of mischievous hilarity.
He wore a pair of corduroy trousers, known to the care-free as
"pants," which were held together by numerous patches of what had once
been brilliantly colored calico.
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