Self-parody is the first portent of age.

Bunk! Pure bunk! For all I know Yellow Hand died of old age.

When he walked out into the lots to catch his horse, he felt grown and complete for the first time in his life.

You expect far too much of a first sentence. Think of it as analogous to a good country breakfast: what we want is something simple, but nourishing to the imagination.

It was wearying, trying to adjust to all the paces life required.

It seemed to him harder, as he got older, to find a simple way of life.