His bandanna today is a terrific yellow, set off with crimson half-moon and stars strewn liberally on it.

His shirt is merely white, but it is given some significance by having nearly half of a red silk handkerchief falling out of the breast pocket.

His sombrero is one of those works of art which Mexican families pass from father to son, only his was new and had not yet received that limp effect of age.

And, like the gaudiest Mexican head piece, the band of this sombrero was of purest gold, beaten into the forms of various saints.

Ronicky Doone knew nothing at all about saints, but he approved very much of the animation of the martyrdom scenes and felt reasonably sure that his hatband could not be improved upon in the entire length and breadth of Stillwater, and the young men of the town agreed with him, to say nothing of the girls.
They also admired his riding gloves which, a strange affectation in a country of buckskin, were always the softest and the smoothest and the most comfortable kid that could be obtained.
Truth to tell, he did not handle a rope.