She stepped closer to the window.
Certainly that pony had been cruelly handled for the little grey gelding swayed in rhythm with his panting; from his belly sweat dripped steadily into the dust and the reins had chafed his neck to a lather.

Marianne flashed into indignation and that, of course, made her scrutinize the rider more narrowly.

He was perfect of that type of cowboy which she detested most: handsome, lithe, childishly vain in his dress.

About his sombrero ran a heavy width of gold-braid; his shirt was blue silk; his bandana was red; his boots were shop-made beauties, soft and flexible; and on his heels glittered--_gilded spurs_! "And I'll wager," thought the indignant Marianne, "that he hasn't ten dollars in the world!" He unknotted the cinches and drew off the saddle, propping it against one hip while he surveyed his mount.

In spite of all his vainglory he was human enough to show some concern, it appeared.