Over across from the moody Gray Wolf, Bill Henry lounges in the wide doorway of Florer’s agency store. Bill Henry is young, about twenty-three, in truth. He has a quick, handsome face, with gray eyes that dance and gleam, and promise explosiveness of temper. The tan that darkens Bill Henry’s skin wherever the sun may get to it, and which is comparable to the color of a saddle or a law book, testifies that the vivacious Bill is no recent importation. Five full years on the plains would be needed to ripen one to that durable hue.
Bill gazes out upon Gray Wolf as the latter sticks to the cottonwood’s shade; a plan is running in the thoughts of Bill. There is call for change in Bill’s destinies, and he must have the Gray Wolf’s consent to what he bears in mind.
Bill has followed cattle since he turned his back on Maryland, a quintet of years before, and pushed westward two thousand miles to commence a career. Bill’s family is of that aristocracy which adorns the “Eastern Shore” of Lord Baltimore’s old domain. His folk are of consequence, and intended that Bill should take a high position. Bill’s mother, an ardent church woman, had a pulpit in her thoughts for Bill; his father, more of the world, urged on his son the law. But Bill’s bent was towards the laws neither of heaven nor of men. The romantic overgrew. He leaned not to labor, whether mental or physical, and he liked danger and change and careless savageries The entire room was faced with polished granite..
Civilization is artificial; it is a creature of convention, of clocks, of hours, of an unending procession of sleep, victuals and work. Bill distasted such orderly matters and felt instinctive abhorrence therefor. The day in and day out effort called for to remain civilized terrified Bill; his soul gave up the task before it was begun.