“Ever been to the Yellowstone?”
At his abrupt question the old man chuckled.
“Boy,” said he, “I knew our West before you were born. I was one of the first whites into the Park, then a wilderness. Jane tells me you’re from Hellroaring. I was one of the party that named the region.”
“You don’t tell me that you are—Why, of course! I should have known. We have a peak named after you. Your hand, old scout!”
The grip that answered was one of the sort Pape understood, a strong, firm, promising pact to the West that had come East. Surer at least of his visible audience, he roweled into the subject of the moment.
“In terms of our Yellowstone, then, your daughter’s eyes remind me of Morning Glory Geyser. Could I say more for their color, sir?”
“No. The same sun that whitened the Glory’s spray seemed to make the deeps of its pool a stronger blue. And her hair, young man, is it——?”
“Black as the jade of Obsidian Cliffs,” Pape supplied, then corrected himself. “Yet that don’t seem an altogether proper simile, it is so soft. Of course, I’ve never touched it, sir, but I’ve an idea that the mountain moss, where we find the giant violets, would feel harsh to the hand that had smoothed your daughter’s hair.”
“It would that. Thank God they didn’t blind my sense of touch! My fingers never tire of seeing Jane’s soft hair.”
“Then your fingers must be able to see her lips, too, for they are as definitely dented as those of an antelope doe. And they’re as healthy a red as ever they could have been in her childhood—red as the sun when it gets over into Idaho. And the Teton Range itself can’t beat her for clean, strong lines. I’ve never seen a woman who was such a blend of delicacy and power as your Jane. Still or in movement, I admire to watch her.”