He was a round-shouldered man of thirty-five with a sallow unhealthy skin and a scanty ill-kept beard. He had put aside his coat and wore only a faded, much mended cotton shirt and overalls—once blue, but now showing white at the seams—tucked carelessly into the tops of heavy boots. The woman peered out anxiously and fearfully at the stranger. The latter said by way of continuing the conversation: “Where are you bound for, pardner?” “Sunken River Valley. Got a brother there,” was the gruff response. The Bad Man looked him over carefully and critically, then the wagon, and last of all the horse. He noted that the wagon showed the effects of the roads and a long journey. The jingle it sent forth whenever the horse moved spoke eloquently for repairs. The horse, however, though it had been driven hard, was comparatively fresh and able. The gentleman from Las Vegas lived in a community where men were largely judged by their horses, and he decided that the animal before him was a recent purchase. “Where are you from?” he asked, when done with his scrutiny. “Western Kansas. It's a hell of a country. Grasshoppers one year and no water the next. About cleaned me out.” Then he added surlily: “If you are done looking me over, I guess I'll be moving.” Meantime the woman had disappeared from view, but she could be heard speaking to some one inside the wagon. Then a child's voice, fretful and tired, answered hers. The homesteader's manner, even more than his words, was an affront to the Bad Man, who was perhaps unduly sensitive in such matters. He was debating whether he should not interpose, some objections to his continuing on his road, when the woman called out querulously: “Do drive on, Joe. It seems as though we shall never get there!” The man saluted with his whip. “So long.” And the wagon with a creak and a rattle rolled off, jangling as it went. The Bad Man touched his horse with the spur. “I'm going your way,” he said. For a time they rode on in silence. Every now and then the homesteader stole a glance of doubt and mistrust at his insistent and evidently unwelcome companion. Clearly he was far from being at ease. Finally he said: “You weren't wanting to say anything in particular to me, were you?” The Bad Man regarded him with mild surprise. “I reckon not,” he answered. “I didn't know. Only you seemed so all-fired set on stickin' close to me, that's all; I didn't mean no offense.” There was a pause. The Bad Man turned the matter slowly over in his wind. He had formed a very unfavorable opinion of the homesteader, and was wondering whether it was not a duty he owed society to tell him so frankly. He allowed a certain latitude because of the different sense of humor different men have, but there was nothing funny about the homesteader. He was just plain uncivil.