Every one is there for a purpose; to accomplish something; to get ahead
in the world; to make a new start; perhaps to live down something, or to
get out of the rut cut by ancestors; some may only want to drink, and
shout, and shoot, but even these do it with a vim--they mean it.
Of the many men who ran engines at the front, with me in the old days, I
recall few whose lives were purposeless; almost every one had a
life-story.
If there's anything that I enjoy, it's to sit down to a pipe and a
life-story--told by the subject himself. How many have I listened to,
out there, and every one of them worthy the pen of a Kipling!
The population of the frontier is never all made up of men, and the
women all have strong features, too--self-sacrifice, devotion,
degradation, or _something_, is written on every face. There are no
blanks in that lottery--there's little material there for homes of
feeble-minded.
It isn't strange, either, when you come to think of it; fools never go
anywhere, they are just born and raised. If they move it's because they
are "took"--you never heard of a pioneer fool.
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