The men below shuffled uneasily, but none of them spoke.

The fire cracked cheerily.
Snake Anson stepped back from before the door with an action that expressed both doubt and caution.
The trotting horse had halted out there somewhere.
"Ho there, inside!" called a voice from the darkness.
"Ho yourself!" replied Anson.
"That you, Snake ?" quickly followed the query.
"Reckon so," returned Anson, showing himself.
The newcomer entered.

He was a large man, wearing a slicker that shone wet in the firelight.

His sombrero, pulled well down, shadowed his face, so that the upper half of his features might as well have been masked.
He had a black, drooping mustache, and a chin like a rock.

A potential force, matured and powerful, seemed to be wrapped in his movements.
"Hullo, Snake! Hullo, Wilson!" he said.