He
pulled himself together and drank the coffee and ate some bacon. From
time to time he glanced at Scott, fascinated by the miner's tremendous
forearms, his mighty chest and shoulders. Even Cheyenne, who was a
fair-sized man, appeared like a boy beside the miner. Bartley wondered
that such tremendous strength should be isolated, hidden back there
behind the foothills. Yet Scott himself, easy-going and dryly humorous,
was evidently content right where he was.
Later the miner showed Bartley about the diggings, quietly proud of his
establishment, and enthusiastic about the unfailing supply of water--in
fact, Scott talked more about water than he did about gold. Bartley
realized that the big miner would have been a misfit in town, that he
belonged in the rugged hills from which he wrested a scant six dollars a
day by herculean toil.
In a past age, Scott would have been a master builder of castles or of
triremes or a maker of armor, but never a fighting man. It was evident
that the miner was, despite his great strength, a man of peace. Bartley
rather regretted, for some romantic reason or other, that the big miner
was not a fighting man.
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