Colorado Jim — Background and Themes

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Goodchild, George, 1888-1969 Project Gutenberg 2008 Not confirmed
Married people -- Fiction; Americans -- England -- Fiction; Klondike River Valley (Yukon) -- Gold discoveries -- Fiction Readers of public-domain and historical texts
Project Gutenberg digital edition en

Edition facts

Words 58,871
Reading time 256 min
Text sections 8

Colorado Jim — Background and Themes can be approached with a clearer sense of reading commitment from its source measurements: 58,871 words, 4 hr 16 min estimated reading time, and 8 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 11.9 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Married people -- Fiction,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

George Goodchild's 1922 novel follows Jim Conlan, a wealthy Colorado miner, as he navigates a strained marriage to the English Angela, set against the harsh Klondike goldfields. The excerpts reveal a man torn between primal desire and restraint, with tensions of possession, pride, and the unforgiving northern wilderness.
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Editorial Edition Score 4.7/5

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  • Title & short description10 pts
  • Source metadata20 pts
  • Text length15 pts
  • Chapters / structure15 pts
  • EPUB file integrity20 pts

Total of 100 points, scaled to a 2.5-5.0 range. Editions with an empty description or a missing EPUB file are not scored.

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Jim was getting his nerve back. It was the first time he had been in close proximity to a powdered back and rouged lips, and the sensation was curious. No man with blood in his veins could help admiring the soft lines of her neck and arms--and Jim had plenty of blood about him.

"Where'd you say you hailed from?" he queried.

"Rock Springs, Wyoming. D'you know it?"

"Know it? I should say! Wal, if that ain't the pink limit!"

"We ran a ranch there," she went on in a rich musical voice. "I wish I was there now, but there's a spell about cities. You'll find that out soon enough."

"I ain't seen much spell about this one," retorted Jim. "Gee! I've never seen such a bunch of blank-mangy-looking men. The wimmen ain't so bad."

"And cyards! Suffering Moses! I seen a guy deal a straight flush to himself and no one savvied he'd got the pack sandpapered. Out in Medicine Bow he'd hev' bin filled up with lead to his shoulder-blades. I guess this is a darn bad place."

"You're lovely!" she said merrily. "But when in Rome, do as Rome does. Do you go to dinner in that rig-out?"

Jim felt nervously at his throat.

"What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing. It suits you admirably. But the hotel won't like it."

"See here," he retorted, "I don't give a tinker's cuss what the hotel likes. Anyway, it's decent, which is considerably more'n some of the dresses I've seen. There's a gal with nothin' more'n a bit of muslin she could fold up and put in her mouth. She's got Mother Eve beaten to a frazzle."

They gossiped for half an hour, and then Edith (he heard a friend call her by that name) left him and went to dinner. The next meeting happened on the following day. Edith's company appealed to him. She certainly used a lot of "make-up," and creams that smelt like a chemist's shop; but all New York smelt vile to Jim, so he didn't complain.

Taking his courage in both hands, he invited her to dine with him. She accepted with as much eagerness as maidenly modesty would permit, and Jim went off to lunch in the best hotel in town, to take careful note of the proper procedure of a gentleman "standing treat" to a lady. He got it off fairly well, making notes on a sheet of paper. Then he went to his room and rehearsed it all. He started dressing himself about five o'clock, and had nearly got his clothes to his satisfaction by the appointed time--seven-thirty.

The dinner was a roaring success. Conversation was feeble because all his time was taken up in observing correct decorum. Edith sat and regarded him with curious eyes. She wondered, for good reasons, what the emotions of such a man might be. Behind those quiet, simple eyes of his there occasionally flashed something that made her afraid--dreadfully afraid. She had not wasted time that day. She knew this big, uncultured fellow was James Conlan, late of Topeka Mine--a millionaire.

Jim breathed a huge sigh of relief when they left the dining-hall and walked through the lounge into the wide balcony. He was standing looking out over the street when he noticed her totter and clutch a chair.

"What's wrong?" he gasped.

"I--I feel faint. I----"

She closed her eyes. Here was a situation that had not been rehearsed by Jim. He wondered whether he ought to ring the fire alarm or call the police. Edith solved the problem.

"If--you will assist me--to the elevator----"

He had never thought of that. He grabbed her arm and helped her to the elevator. She still looked pale and distressed.

"Fourteenth floor. No. 633!" she murmured.

They left the elevator at the fourteenth floor. No sooner had the lift disappeared than Edith collapsed on the floor. He looked round for a friend in need, but the corridor was deserted. The door near at hand was numbered 630. So 633 must be near by! He stooped and picked up the still figure as though she were a child. In half a dozen strides he was at 633. The door was unlocked, so he pushed it open and entered. He found the electric-light switch, and then placed his burden gently on the bed. He was drawing his arm from under her when she opened her eyes.

He searched and found a water decanter and a glass. She seemed too weak to sit up, so he helped her by placing one arm under her head. She sipped the liquid and looked into his eyes. Then to his utter amazement she clasped both her arms round his neck and pulled his face close to hers.

"I love you!" she said. "Don't you see I----"

The novel opens with Jim Conlan, a self-made millionaire from the West, watching dawn break over the Medicine Bow range. Goodchild establishes Jim as a man shaped by the land—'the product of primal Nature, unpolished, rough as the gaunt mountains'—yet one who has 'let go' his entire life. The narrative voice shifts between Jim's interior ache and the stark external landscape, a pattern that recurs throughout the excerpts.

Later, in the Klondike, Jim's marriage to Angela is marked by a 'thin canvas' partition and a 'hateful curtain' that symbolize their emotional distance. Goodchild repeatedly contrasts Jim's physical strength with his emotional vulnerability, as when he resists claiming Angela 'by purchase' despite his legal right. The tension between possession and respect, civilization and wilderness, drives the story forward.

The Language of Restraint and Desire

Goodchild's prose oscillates between raw, almost violent imagery and moments of deliberate control. Jim's love is described as 'burning, unrequited' and 'rend[ing] his heart in twain,' yet he refrains from acting on his 'mad desire to rise up and claim her as mate.' The narrator explicitly notes that 'the better part of him prevailed over these primal instincts.' This internal conflict is mirrored in the physical setting: the 'brooding darkness' of the dawn, the 'blood-red light,' and later the 'autumn-tinted country' where 'the great silence was settling down.'

The author uses the word 'ache' to describe Jim's mental state, linking it to the physical pain of unfulfilled longing. When Jim reflects that 'life might be beautiful enough if one only had the things one wants, but the gittin' of ’em is sure hell,' the colloquialism underscores his rough-hewn character while the sentiment reveals a universal frustration. The repetition of 'ache' and 'anguish' in the tent scene emphasizes the psychological torment beneath the stoic exterior.

Possession, Purchase, and the Marriage Contract

The excerpts frame marriage as a transaction: Angela is 'mine by purchase,' Jim thinks, yet he cannot bring himself to enforce his claim. The phrase 'in the sight of God' is met with a 'hard, guttural laugh,' suggesting the hollowness of such sanctity in the wilderness. Goodchild underscores the irony of Jim's power—he is a wealthy mine owner—and his powerlessness in love.

Angela's 'icy reserve' and 'pride' leave 'scant room for any sentiment,' and her missing clothes and a pile of cigar ash signal a betrayal that Jim reads without explicit confirmation. The author leaves the reader to infer the nature of her departure, focusing instead on Jim's reaction: he 'bade them a mute farewell' to the migrating birds, knowing he would 'miss their silvern voices.' The contrast between the transactional language of ownership and the emotional reality of loss is a central tension.

The Wilderness as Mirror and Antagonist

The Klondike setting is not merely backdrop but an active force in the narrative. Jim's claim 'Red Ruin' is a failure, and the future offers only 'suffering, misery' in 'the Great Alone.' Goodchild lists the hazards: 'blizzards,' 'intense cold,' 'wolves and all the ferocious starved things of the foodless wilderness.' The landscape is personified—'the great silence was settling down'—and the birds' southward flight mirrors Jim's own desire for escape.

Yet the wilderness also tests character. Jim's decision to let Angela go, despite his legal and physical power, is framed as a moral choice: 'just because he was a man he didn't.' The 'thin canvas' tent wall becomes a symbol of the fragile barrier between civilization and savagery, between restraint and instinct. Goodchild uses the natural world to externalize Jim's internal state, from the 'blood-red' dawn of the opening to the 'autumn glory' that precedes the novel's crisis.

Readers should attend to the way Goodchild uses the physical environment—the tent, the curtain, the migrating birds—as extensions of character. The excerpts offer a portrait of a man caught between two worlds: the rough West that made him and the civilized expectations of marriage. The incomplete narrative leaves key questions open: What exactly has Angela done? Will Jim follow her? The tension between Jim's primal nature and his moral code is the engine of the story, and the wilderness is both his refuge and his prison.

I keep thinking about how Jim’s restraint in the Klondike felt less like choice and more like weather—something that just settles on you. Reading that somehow reminded me of the quiet weight in Colorado Jim, the way pride can outlast tenderness. It’s the same ache I found later in The Dark Tower — Inside the Classic, a story that lingers like frost on glass, patient and cold.

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