his town visits were the proper thing. He would not have had them
different--to look back on. They were inspiring--to write home about.
He recognised all the types--the miner, the gambler, the
saloon-keeper, the bad man, the cowboy, the prospector--just as though
they had stepped living from the pages of his classics. They had the
true slouch; they used the picturesque language. The log cabins squared
with his ideas. The broncos even exceeded them.

But now he had seen it all. There is no sense in draining an agreeable
cup to satiety. He was quite content to enjoy his rambles in the hills,
like the healthy youngster he was. But had he seen it all? On
reflection, he acknowledged he could not make this statement to himself
with a full consciousness of sincerity. One thing was lacking from the
preconceived picture his imagination had drawn. There had been no
Mountain Flowers. By that he meant girls.

Every one knows what a Western girl is. She is a beautiful creature,
always, with clear, tanned skin, bright eyes, and curly hair. She wears
a Tam o' Shanter. She rides a horse. Also, she talks deliciously, in a
silver voice, about "old pards." Altogether a charming vision--in
books.

This vision Bennington had not yet realized. The rest of the West came
up to specifications, but this one essential failed. In Spanish Gulch
he had, to be sure, encountered a number of girls. But they were
red-handed, big-boned, freckled-faced, rough-skinned, and there wasn't
a Tam o' Shanter in the lot. Plainly servants, Bennington thought. The
Mountain Flower must have gone on a visit. Come to think of it, there
never was more than one Mountain Flower to a town.