Frosty Miller, though, was like a man with his mask off; he stood there looking the gentleman born, and I couldn't help staring at him.
"You've been broken to society harness, old man, and are bridle-wise," I said, slapping him on the shoulder.

He whirled on me savagely, and his face was paler than I'd ever seen it.
"And if I have--what the hell is it to you ?" he asked unpleasantly, and I stammered out some kind of apology.

Far be it from me to pry into a man's past.
I straightened Sandy Johnson's tie, turned up his sleeves another inch, and we started out.

And I will say we were a quaint-looking outfit.
Perhaps my meaning will be clearer when I say that every one of us wore the soft, white "Stetson" of the range-land, and a silk handkerchief knotted loosely around the throat, and spurs and riding-gloves.

I've often wondered if the range has ever seen just that wedding of the East and the West before in man's apparel.
We'd scarcely got started when the wind caught Frosty's coat-tails and slapped them down along the flanks of his horse--an incident that the horse met with stern disapproval.