Finally, because we were hungry and not by reason of any inviting charm at that particular point of the earth’s most dreary surface, we stopped for luncheon. We had just about spread out our food paraphernalia when, turning at the sound of a galloping hoofed animal, we saw a horseman tearing across the plains toward us. He rode as a brigand might, and as only a Westerner can. Standing in his stirrups rather than sitting in his saddle, and seemingly unaffected by the rocking motion of his mount, his body was poised level with the horizon.
Was he a highwayman, one of those notorious bad men that the Southwest is said to be infested with, or was he just a cowboy? His outline fitted into any sort of a part your fear or delight might imagine. The wide-brimmed hat, bandanna handkerchief around his neck, leather cuffs on his shirt and murderous-looking cartridge belt and revolver, suited equally a make-up for good or bad.
My heart thumped with the excitement of a possible hold up, and yet I was far too fascinated to feel either fear or inclination to escape. As he came nearer, he came slower, and when quite close he brought his horse to a leisurely walk that had no longer any hold-up suggestion in it and I took a bite out of my hitherto untouched sandwich. When almost beside us, he leaned a little sideways in his saddle and glanced at our State license number, and then at us, with a manner as casual and unconcerned as though we might have been an inanimate hillock of the landscape.
Then, “Howdy, strangers!” he said. The tone of his voice was friendly enough, in spite of his taciturn and utterly unsmiling expression. It has struck us all through the West how seldom anyone has smiled.
“How are you!” echoed E. M., matching manner for manner. His tone, too, had a friendly ring, but he went on opening a tin of potted meat as though no one else were present.
“Come all the way from back East in that machine?” the Westerner asked, with a little more interest. “How long you been comin’?”
E. M. glanced up from his tin-opening and the two exchanged a few remarks on the subject of roads and horses and motors and then, as nearly as I can remember, the Westerner said:
“It’d be a mighty long ride on a cayuse! Which them machines shorely disregards distance a whole lot.”
E. M. asked the Westerner, “Won’t you have some lunch with us? Awfully glad if you will!”
“Thank you,” but he moved a little away from us, as though for the first time embarrassed. “Thank you!” he said again. “I et dinner ’bout an hour ago!”