VIII
THE LEASER
The only passenger in the car who really interested me was a burly young fellow who sat just ahead of me, and who seemed to be something more than a tourist, for the conductor greeted him pleasantly and the brakeman shook his hand. We were climbing to Cripple Creek by way of the Short Line, but as "the sceneries" were all familiar to me, I was able to study my fellow-passengers.
The man before me was very attractive, although he was by no interpretation a gentle type. On the contrary, he looked to be the rough and ready American, rough in phrase and ready to fight. His corduroy coat hunched about his muscular shoulders in awkward lines, and his broad face, inclining to fat, was stern and harsh. He appeared to be about thirty-five years of age.
The more I studied him the more I hankered to know his history. The conductor, coming through, hailed him with:
"Well, gettin' back, eh? Had a good trip?"
Once or twice the miner—he was evidently a miner—leaned from the window and waved his hat to some one on the crossing, shouted a cheery, "How goes it?" and the brakeman asked: