The station men wore pantaloons of coarse, country woven stuff

The station men wore pantaloons of coarse, country woven stuff and into the seat and the inside of the legs were sewed ample additions of buckskin, to do the duty in place of leggings, when the man rode horseback so the pants were half dull blue and half yellow, and unspeakably picturesque. The pants were stuffed into the tops of high boots, the heels whereof were armed with great Spanish spurs, whose little iron clogs and chains jingled every step . The man wore a huge beard and mustachios, and old slouch hat, a blue woolen shirt, no suspenders, no vest, no coat – in a leathern sheath in his belt, a great long “navy” revolver (slung on the right side, hammer to the front), and projecting from his boot a horn handled bowie knife. The furniture of the hut was neither gorgeous nor much in the way. The rocking chairs and sofas were not present, and never had been, but they were represented by two three legged stools, a pine board bench four feet long, and two empty candle boxes . the table was a greasy board on stilts and the tablecloth and napkins had not come – and they were not looking for them either. A battered tin platter, a knife and fork, and a tin pint cup, were at each man’s place, and the driver had a queens ware saucer that had seen better days. Of course this duke sat at the head of the table. There was one isolated piece of table furniture that bore about it a touching air of grandeur in misfortune. This was the caster. It was German silver, and crippled and rusty, but it was so preposterously out of place there that it was suggestive if a tattered exiled king among barbarians, and the majesty of its native position compelled respect even in its degradation. There was one cruet left, and that was a stopperless, fly speckled , broken necked thing, with two inches of vinegar in it, and a dozen preserved flies with their heels up and looking sorry they had invested there.
From the book “Roughing it” written by “Mark Twain.”