most typically the cowboy and therefore out of place--and
feeling it--as they sat stiffly in the leatherette-lined tonneau.
Miranda was in starched linen, destitute of all ornament, a dark red
ribbon at her throat the only touch of color, looking extremely
efficient and, as Sam whispered to Mormon, "a bit stand-offish." He
wanted to add, "'count of the Nicholson party," but dared not.

The train rolled in majestically, the private car gleaming with varnish
and polished glass and brass, with a white-coated darky flashing white
teeth on the platform as the fussy local engine took the detached luxury
to the side-track designated for its Hereford location. There,
forewarned by the agent, much of Hereford assembled to witness the
arrival of the magnate who had helped to place them more definitely on
the map and increased their revenues as supply depot for Casey Town. The
flivver was parked and Miranda, Mormon and Sam made one group a little
ahead of the others, recognized by the crowd as privileged. Sandy sat
Pronto, talking to the restive bay, proudly conscious of its new
trappings and the remarks of the onlookers.

If Wilson Keith, clad in tweeds tailored on Fifth Avenue, a little
portly, square-faced, confident, a trifle condescending, typified the
East, Sandy was the West. A good horse is the incarnation of symmetry,
grace and power. Sandy, erect in the saddle, lean and keen, matched all
of Pronto's fitness. Man and mount both eminently belonged to the land,
shimmering with sage, far-stretching to the mountains, a land that
demanded and bred such a combination.

Sandy's clean-shaven face was sharp with obstacles faced and overcome,
his eyes held clean fine spirit, his jaw showed determination and the
good lines of his mouth belied obstinacy. He wore the regalia of his
cow-punching holidays, soft-collared shirt of blue, silk bandanna of
dark weave in lieu of tie, leather gauntlets, leather chaps, fringed and
buttoned with leather and trimmed with disk of silver, silver spurs on
his high-heeled boots, trousers of dark gray stripe, a quirt with the
handle plaited in black and white diamonds of horsehair dangling from
one wrist, and the blue Colts in the twin holsters. He could not avoid
being picturesque, yet there was nothing of the masquerader, the
moving-picture cowboy. He held the eye, even of Hereford, but only
because they liked to gaze upon a good man on a good horse. His body
responded to every shift of Pronto, ji