When we came to get ready, there was a dress-discussion that a lot of women would find it hard to beat.  Some of the boys wanted to play up to, the aristocrats’ expectations, and wear their gaudiest neckerchiefs, their chaps, spurs, and all the guns they could get their hands on; but I had an idea I thought beat theirs, and proselyted for all I was worth.  Rankin had packed a lot of dress suits in one of my trunks—­evidently he thought Montana was some sort of house-party—­and I wanted to build a surprise for the good people at King’s.  I wanted the boys to use those suits to the best advantage.

At first they hung back.  They didn’t much like the idea of wearing borrowed clothes—­which attitude I respected, but felt bound to overrule.  I told them it was no worse than borrowing guns, which a lot of them were doing.  In the end my oratory was rewarded as it deserved; it was decided that, as even my capacious trunks couldn’t be expected to hold thirty dress suits, part of the crowd should ride in full regalia.  I might “tog up” as many as possible, and said “togged” men must lend their guns to the others; for every man of the “reals” insisted on wearing a gun dangling over each hip.

So I went down into my trunks, and disinterred four dress suits and three Tuxedos, together with all the appurtenances thereto.  Oh, Rankin was certainly a wonder!  There was a gay-colored smoking-jacket and cap that one of the boys took a fancy to and insisted on wearing, but I drew the line at that.  We nearly had a fight over it, right there.

When we were dressed—­and I had to valet the whole lot of them, except Frosty, who seemed wise to polite apparel—­we were certainly a bunch of winners.  Modesty forbids explaining just how I appear in a dress suit.  I will only say that my tailor knew his business—­but the others were fearful and wonderful to look upon.  To begin with, not all of them stand six-feet-one in their stocking-feet, or tip the scales at a hundred and eighty odd; likewise their shoulders lacked the breadth that goes with the other measurements.  Hence my tailor would doubtless have wept at the sight; shoulders drooping spiritlessly, and sleeves turned up, and trousers likewise.  Frosty Miller, though, was like a man with his mask off; he stood there looking the gentleman born, and I couldn’t help staring at him.

“You’ve been broken to society harness, old man, and are bridle-wise,” I said, slapping him on the shoulder.  He whirled on me savagely, and his face was paler than I’d ever seen it.

“And if I have—­what the hell is it to you?” he asked unpleasantly, and I stammered out some kind of apology.  Far be it from me to pry into a man’s past.

I straightened Sandy Johnson’s tie, turned up his sleeves another inch, and we started out.  And I will say we were a quaint-looking outfit.  Perhaps my meaning will be clearer when I say that every one of us wore the soft, white “Stetson” of the range-land, and a silk handkerchief knotted loosely around the throat, and spurs and riding-gloves.  I’ve often wondered if the range has ever seen just that wedding of the East and the West before in man’s apparel.