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THE MOTION PICTURE STORY MAGAZINE
BOB LEWIS
lighted window, and of other love as sternly repressed by a man who held few things sacred, as tho he had been clean-sonled Galahad — but perhaps he does not know, and certainly his hearers would not understand. You, however, shall listen, and judge Joe "Wayne, miner, at the bar of the heart, not by the rules of convention as laid down by little men. If by his act he brought her whom, above all things earthly, he loved to the danger of committing a sin against churchmade and law-made prohibitions, do you dare say that his thought, for her, was not near the living truth? Or are the codes in dusty books the greater things ?
What brought Bob Lewis — that was the name he gave, and it is quite possible it was really his — to Sulphur Mountain, was a subject not introduced by him nor referred to by the miners, who were used to hastily arriving strangers who never asked for mail and who seemed to regard the present and future as better worthy of discussion than the past. Things are different now, of course ; that was
as long ago as takes a pretty maid to grow up. So when Bob dropped down from the stage in front of the hotel — not the one where the giggling girls go — he was promptly accepted at his face value — and Bob certainly looked as tho he should assay about one hundred per cent, man in a showdown. Even his clothes, ultra Eastern, and even to the most woolly toiler on a grub-stake something better than "store bought," did not weigh against him. Briefly, Bob had a way with him, and the charm he exercised fell on most men so that they at once called him friend; and on women it fell heavily, so that they followed him with glowing eyes — all except one. Mary 's eyes glowed and narrowed for no man but Joe. On Bob they rested with smiling, calm friendship. If it was ever in his heart to cause that look to change, it passed away when he came to know the clean soul of her, and that what she gave him was the frank friendship of open day, and no more, and never would be more, because her heart, like her hand, had been given to another.
Bob had not been ten minutes off the stage when the miners — we were mostly miners in those days — decided that they made no mistake in taking him at face value. He had put down his grips in the saloon, and was arranging for a room with Dickerson, who ran the place from behind the bar ; and Jose, the greaser the Strangles had let off because of the way he could play his battered old fiddle, just let his real instincts get the upper hand and tried to sneak a silver flask out of one of the satchels that Bob had opened and failed to close. Quick as a cat jumps, Bob was across the floor and had Jose by the collar. For an instant he hesitated, then with a contemptuous laugh, hurled Jose across a table with no more effort than it takes to draw a cork. There was a howl of laughter, everybody being relieved that Bob hadn't regarded the incident as worthy of any more serious consideration than a good kick. Jose slunk out, muttering greaser curses, and mighty sore in his dig