Only at home did he maintain what he considered a manly
independence of speech and habit. To-day, therefore, found him in
a favorite suit of baggy, wrinkled linen and with a week's stubble
of beard upon his chin. He was so plainly an outdoor man that the
air of erudition lent him by the pair of gold-rimmed spectacles
owlishly perched upon his sunburned nose was strangely
incongruous.
"So you're a Ranger, and got notches on your gun." Blaze rolled
and lit a tiny cigarette, scarcely larger than a wheat straw.
"Well, you'd ought to make a right able thief-catcher, Dave, only
for your size--you're too long for a man and you ain't long enough
for a snake. Still, I reckon a thief would have trouble getting
out of your reach, and once you got close to him--How many men
have you killed?"
"Counting Mexicans?" Law inquired, with a smile.
"Hell! Nobody counts them."
"Not many."
"That's good." Blaze nodded and relit his cigarette, which he had
permitted promptly to smolder out. "The Force ain't what it was.
Most of the boys nowadays join so they can ride a horse cross-
lots, pack a pair of guns, and give rein to the predilections of a
vicious ancestry.
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