A month had passed, a swift-flying time full of new life. Wonderful it
was for me to think I was still in Diane Sampson's employ.

It was the early morning hour of a day in May. The sun had not yet grown
hot. Dew like diamond drops sparkled on the leaves and grass. The gentle
breeze was clear, sweet, with the song of larks upon it.

And the range, a sea of gray-green growing greener, swept away westward
in rolling ridges and hollows, like waves to meet the dark, low hills
that notched the horizon line of blue.

I was sitting on the top bar of the corral fence and before me stood
three saddled horses that would have gladdened any eye. I was waiting
to take the young ladies on their usual morning ride.

Once upon a time, in what seemed the distant past to this eventful
month, I had flattered myself there had been occasions for thought, but
scornfully I soliloquized that in those days I had no cue for thought
such as I had now.

This was one of the moments when my real self seemed to stand off and
skeptically regard the fictitious cowboy.

This gentleman of the range wore a huge sombrero with an ornamented
silver band, a silken scarf of red, a black velvet shirt, much affected
by the Indians, an embroidered buckskin vest, corduroys, and fringed
chaps with silver buttons, a big blue gun swinging low, high heeled
boots, and long spurs with silver rowels.