No Western lead that _I_ ever saw would act like that.

Why, he didn't even want to ride home with me, that day.
"And Bob Warfield and his Ford are incidents of the past, and not one soul at the Sawtooth seems to give a darn whether I'm in the country or out of it.

Soon as they found out where I belonged, they brought me over here and dropped me and forgot all about me.

And that, I suppose, is what they call in fiction the Western spirit! "Dad looked exactly as if he'd opened the door to a book agent when I came.

He--he _tolerates_ my presence, Ket! And Frank Johnson's pipe smells to high heaven, and I hate him in the house and 'the boys'-- hmhm! The _boys_--Ket, it would be terribly funny, if I didn't have to stay here." She had reached the corral and stood balancing the cat on a warped top rail, staring disconsolately at Yellowjacket, who stood in a far corner switching at flies and shamelessly displaying all the angularity of his bones under a yellowish hide with roughened hair that was shedding dreadfully, as Lorraine had discovered to her dismay when she removed her green corduroy skirt after riding him.