He was a miserable object, naked, except a ragged, filthy breech-clout, his figure gaunt, and his legs absolutely scaly with dirt, starvation, and hard living of all sorts.
He might well be one of those outcasts who are in disfavor with their savage brethren, lead a precarious existence outside of the tribal organization, and are to the Apaches what the Texas Smiths are to decent Americans.
"One of the bachelor-beaver sort, you bet," continued Texas.

"Don't run with the rest of the crowd." "And there's that infernal coward of a ranchero," cried Coronado, as the runaway sentry sneaked back to the group.

"You cursed poltroon, why didn't you give the alarm?
Why didn't you fight ?" He struck the man, pulled his long hair, threw him down, kicked him, and spat on him.

Texas Smith looked on with an approving grin, and suggested, "Better shute the dam cuss." But Coronado was not bloodthirsty; having vented his spite, he let the fellow go.

"You saved my life," he said to Texas.