Who else could make a poncho look so damned tough? And the way he sat his small, grey horse, not so much balanced as melded. A perfect rider.The new guy working the express lane at Rosauer’s was similarly beautiful, though there was little apparent likeness. Maybe it was his eyes, something Clint-ish about them. His were almond-shaped. Hazel, I guess you’d call them, though their lightness reminded me more of gold-littered creek beds, undisturbed and cool. They danced with audacity and intelligence. He looked to be, not so much predicting your next move, as knowing with absolute certainty what you would do.Long, slender sideburns framed his face. His hair was dark in a way “brown” doesn’t describe. There was more luster, more darkness, more richness. There was a shine, a crow-feather quality to its shifting color. On his neck was a tattoo of a salmon in mid-jump, styled like a totemic figure. The guy was young, like me, but he seemed time-mellowed. His stare had none of Clint’s sneering calculation.
