He lowered the front of the broad-brimmed hat the least bit, tightened his belt another notch and moved the holster to a better line.

He looked again.

From feet to head he was perfect.
Then, slightly crouching, he drew his revolver from the holster and held it forward from the hip, wrist and forearm rigidly straight.
"Throw up your hands!" He uttered the grim words in a low tone, but one facing him would not have been deceived by low tones.

Steely-eyed, grim of face, relentless in all his bearing, the most desperate adversary would have quailed.
Probably even Gashwiler himself would have quailed.

When Buck Benson looked and spoke thus he meant it.
He held it a long, breathless moment before relaxing.