By a mental process, unnecessary to trace here, he modified his first
views, and permitted Old Mizzou to get the mail. Spanish Gulch saw him
no more.
After all, it was quite as good Western experience to wander in the
hills. He did not regret the other. In fact, as he cast in review his
research in Wild West literature, he perceived that the incidents of
his town visits were the proper thing. He would not have had them
different--to look back on. They were inspiring--to write home about.
He recognised all the types--the miner, the gambler, the
saloon-keeper, the bad man, the cowboy, the prospector--just as though
they had stepped living from the pages of his classics. They had the
true slouch; they used the picturesque language. The log cabins squared
with his ideas. The broncos even exceeded them.
But now he had seen it all. There is no sense in draining an agreeable
cup to satiety. He was quite content to enjoy his rambles in the hills,
like the healthy youngster he was. But had he seen it all? On
reflection, he acknowledged he could not make this statement to himself
with a full consciousness of sincerity.
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