As he came near, what impressed me first were his clothes. He wore dark trousers of some strange material tucked into tall boots and held up at the waist by a belt, both of soft black leather tooled in obscure design. A coat of the same dark material as the trousers was neatly folded and strapped to his saddle-roll. His shirt was linen, rich in brown colour. The bandanna knotted loosely around his throat black silk. His hat was not the familiar grey or muddy brown but plain black, soft in texture but firm and rigid built, unlike any hat I had ever seen, with a creased top and a wide wavy brim sweeping down in front to shield his face.
All trace of freshness had long gone from these things but the sense of originality remained with them. The dust of distance was beaten into them. They were worn and stained and several neat patches showed on the shirt. Yet a kind of magnificence was left in them with the hint of men and manners which I could not see with my limited boy’s experience.
Then I forgot the clothes in the impact of the man himself. He was not much taller than 5ft 5, slight in build. He would have looked frail alongside father’s square, solid bulk. But even I could read the endurance lines of that dark figure and the quiet power in its effortless, unthinking adjustment to every movement on the tired horse.
He was clean shaven and his face was hard and burned from forehead to chin. His eyes seemed naturally alert as they endlessly searched form side to side and forward, examining off every item in view, and missing nothing. These hooded eyes gave me a sudden chill though I do not know why it struck all the way through me like the warm sun. He rode lazily relaxed in the saddle his weight swaying on both sides. But underneath all this there seemed to be some tension emerging as he drew nearer.
He stopped twenty feet in front of me. His glance hit me in less than a second and then continued to flick over our place. This was not much but what was there was good, you could trust father for that. The stranger didn’t speak but just took it all in, sitting easily in the saddle. I saw his eyes slow on the flowers mother had planted then his gaze stopped on the silver pump next to them. Turning back to me, I felt that chill again then the stranger spoke, he had a gently voice like someone who had been taught patience
‘I’d appreciate a chance at the pump for myself and the horse.’
I realised father was behind me and I kept silent to allow him to reply.
‘Use all the water you want stranger’
We watched the man dismount in an individual swift tilt of his body and lead the horse over to the trough. He pumped it nearly full for the horse to dip its nose in before he took the bucket for himself.
He took off his hat dusted it clean and hung it on the corner of the trough. With his hands he brushed the sand from his clothes. With a piece cloth from his saddle roll he carefully wiped his boots. Then he took the handkerchief round his neck washed it, softly wringing it dry of water. He rolled up his sleeves splashing water on his arms and rubbing thoroughly and splashing his face. He shook his hands dry and used the handkerchief to remove the last drops form his arms and face. He ran his fingers back through his long dark hair. All of these movements were skilled and sure, and with quick precision he flipped his hat on and re-knotted the handkerchief.
Striding directly towards the house he bent low and snapped the stem of mother’s flower and tucked it into his hatband. He swung gracefully into the saddle and set off. I was intrigued. None of the men I had ever met were as proud as this about their appearance. In that short time the kind of magnificence that seemed gone had been refreshed. Everything about him showed the effects of long hard use, but showing strength of quality and competence now all fear of him had gone and I was imagining myself in those boots and a hat and belt just like his.
He stopped the horse and looked down at us with all his attention I could feel the power of this man in the air I breathed.
‘Thank you’ he said in his gentle voice, with his back turned he moved down the road, before father spoke in his slow deliberate way.
‘Don’t be in such a hurry, stranger.’
