Without further words he led Hollis toward a building–the one he had occupied previous to the death of the elder Hollis. There were three rooms in the building and in the front one were several articles of furniture and some boxes. One of these boxes Norton opened, taking therefrom several articles of wearing apparel, consisting of a pair of corduroy trousers, a pair of leathern chaps, boots, spurs, two woolen shirts, a blue neckerchief, a broad felt hat, and last, with a grin of amusement over Hollis’s astonished expression, a cartridge belt to which was attached a holster containing a Colt .45.
“I bought this outfit over at Santa Fé two months ago,” he informed Hollis, who was gravely contemplating the lay-out, “expectin’ to wear them myself some day. But when I got home I found they didn’t quite fit.” He surveyed Hollis with a critical eye. “I’ve been thinkin’ ever since you come that you’d fit pretty snug in them.” He raised a protesting hand as Hollis was about to speak. “I ain’t givin’ them to you,” he grinned. “But you can’t wear no tenderfoot clothes out here. Some day when we’re together an’ we’ve got time you can blow me to another outfit; I won’t hesitate about takin’ it.” He leaned over and tapped the butt of the Colt. “You ever handle one of them?” he questioned.
Hollis nodded. Once during a shooting tournament he had done good work with a pistol. But Norton laughed at his nod.
“Mebbe we do it a little different out here,” he smiled. “You hop into them duds an’ we’ll go out into the cottonwood yonder an’ try out your gun.” He pointed through the door to a small clump of cottonwoods beyond the bunkhouse.
He went out and fifteen minutes later Hollis joined him, looking thoroughly at home in his picturesque rigging. An hour later they returned to the corral fence, where Norton caught up his pony and another, saddling the latter for Hollis. He commented briefly upon the new owner’s ability with the six-shooter.
“You use your fists a little better than you use a gun,” he remarked with his peculiar drawl, “but I reckon that on the whole you’ll be able to take care of yourself–after you’ve had a little practise gettin’ your gun out.” He laughed with a grim humor. “More men have been killed in this country on account of bein’ slow on the draw than for any other reason. Don’t never monkey with it unless you intend to use it, an’ then see that you get it out middlin’ rapid. That’s the recipe,” he advised.
The pony that he had selected for Hollis was a slant-eyed beast, larger than the average, with rangy limbs, black in color with a white muzzle and fetlocks. Hollis voted him a “beaut” after he had ridden him a mile or two and found that he had an easy, steady stride.
Together they made a round of the basin, returning to the ranchhouse for dinner. Hollis was saddle weary and when Norton proposed another trip during the afternoon he was met with the response that the new owner purposed enjoying the cool of the ranchhouse porch for the remainder of the day.
The next morning Hollis was up with the dawn and out on the porch splashing water over his face from the wash basin that stood outside the door. For a long time after washing he stood on the porch, looking out over the big basin at this new and strange world. Endless it seemed, lying before him in its solemn silence; a world of peace, of eternal sunlight, smiling skies, and infinite distance. It seemed unreal to him. Did this same planet hold the busy cities to which he had been accustomed? The stuffy room, with its smell of damp ink, its litter of papers–his room in the newspaper offices, filled with desks and the clatter of typewriters? Through whose windows came the incessant clamor that welled up from the streets below? He laughed at the thought and turned to see Norton standing in the doorway looking at him with a smile.
“Comparin’ her with your little old East?” inquired the latter.