He was a desperado, one of the dashing, reckless kind--more famous along the Pecos and Rio Grande than more really desperate men.

His attire proclaimed a vanity seldom seen in any Westerner except of that unusual brand, yet it was neither gaudy or showy.
One had to be close to Blome to see the silk, the velvet, the gold, the fine leather.

When I envied a man's spurs then they were indeed worth coveting.
Blome had a short rifle and a gun in saddle-sheaths.

My sharp eye, running over him, caught a row of notches on the bone handle of the big Colt he packed.
It was then that the marshal, the Ranger in me, went hot under the collar.

The custom that desperadoes and gun-fighters had of cutting a notch on their guns for every man killed was one of which the mere mention made my gorge rise.
At the edge of town Blome doffed his sombrero again, said "_Adios_," and rode on ahead of us.