strange, hot land. Texas Bill had just galloped home from the nearest
railroad station with a big package of Eastern mail; and the combined
attractions of letters, late magazines, and a box of New York candy so
engrossed us that we did not see the Kid until the gate clicked and he
stood before us, asking,

"Is this the double A, quart circ., bar H outfit?"

"The what?" I gasped, looking at the queer little figure in
astonishment. He was perhaps a dozen years old, though the slender,
childish figure and the experienced face belied each other and made
guessing difficult. He wore a man's sombrero, old and dirty, which
came down to his ears and flopped a wide, unstiffened brim around his
face. With tardy recollection of his manners,--learned who knows
where,--he doffed his head-gear after he had spoken, and stood with
serious face, but unable to repress a smile that twinkled in his great
blue child's eyes at my astonishment. A big rent across one shoulder
of his shirt showed a strip of sunburned flesh beneath and sent one
sleeve dangling over his hand. His baggy trousers--no, that is not the
word, they were "pants"--were held in place by a halter strap buckled
tightly about his waist, and his feet were concealed in shoes so much
too large for him that his toes were not visible in the mouths gaping
at their front ends. And on one foot clanked and jingled the pride and
glory of his attire--a huge spur, three inches long, silver-plated and
highly polished, and so heavy that that foot dragged as he walked.

He repeated his question, and the superintendent's wife leaned forward,
with a laughing aside to me:

"You tenderfoot! Haven't you learned our brand yet?" And to the boy: