A pair of suspenders, torn into two
separate straps, made a belt for himself and a collar for his dog. The
trousers had probably been secured during a fit of absent-mindedness
on his part when their former owner had not been looking. Tucked at
intervals in the top of the corduroys (the exceptions making
convenient shelves for alkali dust) was what at one time had been a
stiff-bosomed shirt. This was open down the front and back, the weight
of the trousers on the belt holding it firmly on the square shoulders
of the wearer, thus precluding the necessity of collar buttons. A pair
of moccasins, beautifully worked with wampum, protected his feet from
the onslaughts of cacti and the inquisitive and pugnacious sand flies;
and lying across his lap was a repeating Winchester rifle, not
dangerous because it was empty, a condition due to the wisdom of the
citizens in forbidding any one to sell, trade or give to him those
tubes of concentrated trouble, because he could get drunk.
The two were contented and happy. They had no cares nor duties, and
their pleasures were simple and easily secured, as they consisted of
sleep and a proneness to avoid moving. Like the untrammeled coyote,
their bed was where sleep overtook them; their food, what the night
wrapped in a sense of security, or the generosity of the cowboys of
the Bar-20. No tub-ridden Diogenes ever knew so little of
responsibility or as much unadulterated content.
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