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A Western Memory
(Path6 Fr^res)
By RICHARD LESTER WALLACE
Bill Johnson's wife had dreams far beyond her own limited horizon when she named her daughter, Violet.
"Her eyes are not blue," she had said to her husband, as they stood looking at the smiling, dimpled child who had come to brighten their Western home. ' ' They are like velvet — almost purple. They remind me of the pansies at home. 'Spose we name her Violet ?"
The landlord of the Johnson House, tho he lacked sentiment himself, was quite willing that his wife should yield to its influence.
"Well," he remarked, dubiously, "I uster know a girl named Rose an' I've hearn tell of a few Lilies, so I 'spose Violet or Geranium's jest as good."
From that day the child with the beautiful eyes was referred to as "Little Violet."
Fifteen years passed. Little Violet, in that wild, free life of the West, had grown up rapidly. The beauty, promised in infancy, matured and developed. Don Antonio, the wealthy Mexican rancher, watched the girl's growing grace and loveliness with an interest all too surely merging into a deep affection. His trips over to the Johnson House were becoming more and more frequent, and every cowboy for miles around laid bets upon the outcome of his wooing.
"She wont marry no greaser," declared Texas Pete, as he alternately chewed tobacco and played "Home, Sweet Home," with many wonderful frills, flourishes and variations, on a mouth organ. "Little Violet ain't that kind of a girl."
The majority of the cowboys, sitting under the shed adjoining the hotel, were inclined to share Pete's view. "Irish" differed.
"Dont you fool yerself," he re
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marked, squinting up his eyes and gazing off into the distance ; ' ' that little gurrl will do just what her dad wants her to. Bill Johnson dont 'low nobody to cross him, an' he ain't no use fer a man 'thout money."
Everybody knew that "Irish" had long ago fallen a victim to Violet's eyes and been spurned by her father for lack of wealth.
"TV trouble with Bill," commented Brainy Morris, "is that he's so plumb alkalied he don't know a greaser when he sees one. Even a tenderfoot "
"Speakin' of tenderfeet," interrupted Pete, rising slowly and with awakened interest, ' ' Buck 's sure got a load this trip. What d'ye make that thing out to be an' where 'd it come from?"
Instantly every idler sidled around to the front of the hotel to get a better view. The train from Santa Fe and the stage from Willets never failed to receive a cordial welcome, even when they brought no passengers. When strangers did arrive, interest in them varied, according to the novelty of their personal appearance, local acquaintance and general renown.
"Irish" looked long and earnestly at .the subject of Pete's queries. What he saw was a tall, sickly-looking youth leaning on a cane, and accompanied by a stern-faced man, evidently his father.
"Looks like Philydelph'a to me," he commented, with a grin, "or mebbe Boston."
"That's right," chuckled Brainy Morris, always pleased with his own wit; "it's nothin' but beans — Boston baked beans; th' young feller's been raised on' em, an' this is th' result."
' ' Shut up. Here comes Bill. Watch how he ropes 'em in. ' '
The proprietor of the Johnson