One rainy afternoon I was sitting with my friend Carter, in his log
house. Through the open door we could see the road, all cut up by
wagon-tracks, running with water; lumps of mud thrust their black heads
up in it everywhere; the bordering grass was wet and heavy. And down by
the creek the fringe of trees made only a gray blur.
We had talked ourselves pretty near out when a rider splashed up to
the door. His ragged beard stuck out stiff, full of rain-drops, and
his slouch hat had an unpleasant tilt forward. To Carter's invitation
to enter he shook his head, asked if such-and-such a person had passed
within the hour, and, receiving an affirmative reply, pulled his hat
down tighter and galloped away west. "Who is that?" I inquired.
"That! Why, that's Borden. It's easy to see you're new out here. His
hand holds the river from Saint Joe to Omaha, and men think twice
before trying to break his grip." He drew out his pipe and tobacco,
stuffed the bowl thoughtfully, and struck a match. "If you want to hear
about the first time I saw him at work, I'll tell you."