He was riding a magnificent half-bred animal—a roan. His bridle and saddle, as I remember—were silver mounted. A big pair of Mexican spurs were on his heels. With a close-fitting suit of tawny buckskin, a wide sombrero, cartridge-belt around the waist, and a long rifle hung neatly under the left leg he was a perfect picture of a plainsman,—such a picture as one sees in dime novels.
Behind him was an evil-looking customer, dressed in a slovenly manner, and scowling beneath a rather battered-in slouch hat. His horse, too, had nowhere near the breeding of the other. He frowned as he approached: the other smiled.
“Hello!” said Jerry Lane. “Dusty, isn’t it?”
“You bet,” said I. “Where you bound?”
“Montana.”
“Hunting?”
“No, just taking life easy.”
That was all the conversation that we had. He waved his hat to me, touched the spurs to his horse’s flanks, and was soon off down the divide. For a long time I stood and gazed after the lithe figure: young, beautiful, brimming over with health and exuberance,—the man who had found New York too tame for his hot blood. Could you blame him?
Three days later a cow-puncher rode into our camp, threw his saddle on the ground, hobbled his pony, and drew near the mess table.
“Too bad about Jerry, warn’t it?” said he, as he seated himself.