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Lin McLean

How Lin Mclean Went East
In the old days, the happy days, when Wyoming was a Territory with a future
instead of a State with a past, and the unfenced cattle grazed upon her ranges
by prosperous thousands, young Lin McLean awaked early one morning in cow
camp, and lay staring out of his blankets upon the world. He would be twenty-two
this week. He was the youngest cow-puncher in camp. But because he could
break wild horses, he was earning more dollars a month than any man there,
except one. The cook was a more indispensable person. None save the cook
was up, so far, this morning. Lin's brother punchers slept about him on the
ground, some motionless, some shifting their prone heads to burrow deeper from
the increasing day. The busy work of spring was over, that of the fall, or beef
round-up, not yet come. It was mid-July, a lull for these hard-riding bachelors of
the saddle, and many unspent dollars stood to Mr. McLean's credit on the ranch
books.
"What's the matter with some variety?" muttered the boy in his blankets.
The long range of the mountains lifted clear in the air. They slanted from the
purple folds and furrows of the pines that richly cloaked them, upward into rock
and grassy bareness until they broke remotely into bright peaks, and filmed into
the distant lavender of the north and the south. On their western side the streams
ran into Snake or into Green River, and so at length met the Pacific. On this side,
Wind River flowed forth from them, descending out of the Lake of the Painted
Meadows. A mere trout-brook it was up there at the top of the divide, with easy
riffles and stepping-stones in many places; but down here, outside the
mountains, it was become a streaming avenue, a broadening course, impetuous
between its two tall green walls of cottonwood-trees. And so it wound away like a
vast green ribbon across the lilac-gray sage-brush and the yellow, vanishing
plains.
"Variety, you bet!" young Lin repeated, aloud.
He unrolled himself from his bed, and brought from the garments that made his
pillow a few toilet articles. He got on his long boy legs and limped blithely to the
margin. In the mornings his slight lameness was always more visible. The camp
was at Bull Lake Crossing, where the fork from Bull Lake joins Wind River. Here
Lin found some convenient shingle-stones, with dark, deepish water against
them, where he plunged his face and energetically washed, and came up with
the short curly hair shining upon his round head. After enough looks at himself in
the dark water, and having knotted a clean, jaunty handkerchief at his throat, he
returned with his slight limp to camp, where they were just sitting at breakfast to
the rear of the cook-shelf of the wagon.
"Bugged up to kill!" exclaimed one, perceiving Lin's careful dress.
"He sure has not shaved again?" another inquired, with concern.
"I ain't got my opera-glasses on," answered a third.
"He has spared that pansy-blossom mustache," said a fourth.
"My spring crop," remarked young Lin, rounding on this last one, "has juicier
prospects than that rat-eaten catastrophe of last year's hay which wanders out of
your face."
 
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