The Morgan Trail by W.C. Tuttle

Along a sandy road, which leads northward from Cañonville, came two cowboys that afternoon. They were not traveling fast, because of the fact that both horses were footsore and weary. The fact of the matter was, they were cowboy ‘tourists,' heading south for the winter.

The one on the tall, gray horse whistled unmusically between his teeth and surveyed the landscape through a pair of level, gray eyes. He was also tall, thin, with a long, rather serious face, generous nose and a wide mouth. His well-worn Stetson was tilted forward over his eyes, shading his face from the western sun. He wore a pale blue shirt, a nondescript vest, which was little more than a drape on each side of his chest, and a pair of bat-wing chaps. Around his waist was a weathered, hand-made cartridge belt, supporting an old holster, from which protruded the black handle of a big Colt gun. His boots were extra high of heel, and his spurs had been dulled until there was little left except a circle of steel.