long boots, laced-leather wrist guards and the loosely buckled
cartridge belt with its long forty-five, his very dress expressed
the easy freedom of the wild lands, while the dark, thin face,
accented by jet black hair and a long, straight mustache, had the
look of the wide, sun-burned plains.

With a grunt that might have expressed either approval or contempt,
the Irishman turned and groping about in the wagon found a sorry
wreck of a hat. Again he stooped and this time, from between the
bales of hay, lifted a coat, fit companion to the hat. Carefully he
felt through pocket after pocket. His search was rewarded by a
short-stemmed clay pipe and the half of a match--nothing more. With
an effort he explored the pockets of his trousers. Then again he
searched the coat; muttering to himself broken sentences, not the
less expressive because incomplete: "Where the divil--Now don't that
bate--Well, I'll be--" With a temper not improved by his loss he
threw down the garment in disgust and looked up angrily. The silent
driver was holding toward him a sack of tobacco.

The Irishman, with another grunt, crawled under the empty seat and
climbing heavily over the back of the seat in front, planted himself
stolidly by the driver's side. Filling his pipe with care and
deliberation he returned the sack to its owner and struck the half-
match along one post-like leg. Shielding the tiny flame with his
hands before applying the light he remarked thoughtfully: "Ye are a
danged reckless fool to be so dishturbin' me honest slape by
explodin' that cannon ye carry. 'Tis on me mind to discipline ye for
sich outrageous conduct." The last word was followed by loud,
smacking puffs, as he started the fire in the pipe-bowl under his
nose.