Out of the Blue: A Western Novel

This rider, who looked out from under a gray Stetson hat, holding his reins in a buckskin-gloved hand, while he scanned the windows of the various establishments that fronted on the street, was plainly of the range. He was young and deeply tanned. He was armed, as men commonly were in those times. His saddle, bridle, and spurs were beautifully made, and the silver-inlaid steel clinked faintly, as his horse moved. The coiled-rawhide reata at his saddle fork was limber with much use. He might have been considered picturesque. That idea would never have occurred to him or his fellows. The seed of romance indubitably lay in the stout hearts of Rock Holloway and his like, living and moving and having their being on the fringes of an encroaching civilization, but they were practical in their activities, which had to do with a major industry, wherein there was doubtless romance, but also a considerable portion of hard work and long chances which the range man accepted as incidental to his calling. This long-limbed youth, with the keen eyes and pleasant face, could probably have told why he preferred the range to a university campus; but he was merely the occasional exception. And he may have had glimpses of the future, apart from cattle and trail herds and the wide pastures that were in process of reclamation from the bison and the Indian. But he would never have embodied such dreams in words. And he was not steeping his soul in the color and aspect of a little cow town when he rode along that street. He was looking for a certain place. Presently, and without very much trouble, he found it.