Beyond one limited section of the mountain desert he was not as
yet known, but he had one of those personalities which are called
electric. Whatever he did seemed greater because he, Ronicky Doone,
had done it.

Not that he had done a great many things as yet. But there was a
peculiar feeling in the air that Ronicky Doone was capable of great
and strange performances. Men older than he were willing to accept him
as their leader; men younger than he idolized him.

Ronicky Doone, then, the admired of all beholders, is leaning in the
doorway of Stillwater's second and best hotel. His bandanna today is
a terrific yellow, set off with crimson half-moon and stars strewn
liberally on it. His shirt is merely white, but it is given some
significance by having nearly half of a red silk handkerchief falling
out of the breast pocket. His sombrero is one of those works of art
which Mexican families pass from father to son, only his was new and
had not yet received that limp effect of age. And, like the gaudiest
Mexican head piece, the band of this sombrero was of purest gold,
beaten into the forms of various saints. Ronicky Doone knew nothing at
all about saints, but he approved very much of the animation of the
martyrdom scenes and felt reasonably sure that his hatband could not
be improved upon in the entire length and breadth of Stillwater, and
the young men of the town agreed with him, to say nothing of the
girls.

They also admired his riding gloves which, a strange affectation in a
country of buckskin, were always the softest and the smoothest and the
most comfortable kid that could be obtained.