In fact, he surveyed the world with approval. For the Cactus Kid, christened Nesselrode Clay, had but an hour before he closed a sale for one thousand head of beef cattle, and the check reposed in his pocket. Moreover, the Kid was young, the Kid was debonair, and the Kid walked the earth with a lighthearted step and song on his lips. His suit was of tailored gray broadcloth, his hat of spotless white felt, his shirt was white, his tie black and his black perfectly polished hand-tooled boots were a miracle of Spanish leather work Out of sight behind the black silk sash was a Smith and Wesson .44, one of the guns for whose skillful handling the Kid was renowned in places other than this. He was handsome, he was immaculate, he was alive in this best of all possible worlds, and before him lay the expected pleasure of an excellent meal and a bottle of wine, and afterward a cigar. Surely, this was the life! The wild grass ranges of Texas, Arizona, and Nevada were a dim memory, and lost with them was the smell of dust and cattle and singed hair and all the memories that attended the punching of cows.
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