A piece of rope calls up in his mind the stout lines which hold the masts steady and the yards true in the gale, the comfortable cable which moors the ship at the end of the dreary voyage, and a thousand things between.
To the Westerner a rope is a different thing.

It is not so much a useful material as a weapon.

An Italian, fighting man to man, would choose a knife; a Westerner would take in preference that same harmless piece of rope.

In his hands it takes on life, it gains a strange and sinister quality.

One instant it lies passive, or slowly whirled in a careless circle--the next its noose darts out like the head of a striking cobra, the coil falls and fastens, and then it draws tighter and tighter, remorselessly as a boa constrictor, paralyzing life.
Something of all this went through the mind of Bard as he lay watching the limp noose of the cowboy's lariat, and then he nodded smiling.
"I suppose that seems an odd habit to some men, but I sympathize with it.