"He's game enough, and I'd ask the boys to my funeral if I meant to drive him at night over the lake trail.
After being most kicked into wood-pulp Carter hasn't any more use for him, and I'll lay you a dollar, Alton, you and your partner can't put the pack on him." Perhaps the Cayuse was tired, or desirous of watching for an opportunity, for it came to a standstill, snorting, with its wicked eyes upon the man, who laughed a little and shoved back the broad hat from his forehead as he straightened himself.

The laugh rang pleasantly, and the faint twinkle in Alton's eyes was in keeping with it.

They were grey, and steady when the light sank out of them, and the rest of the bronzed face was shrewd and quietly masterful.

He wore a deerskin jacket fancifully embroidered, blue canvas overalls, and gum boots to the knee, while, though all of them needed repair, the attire was picturesque, and showed its wearer's lean symmetry.

The man's age was apparently twenty-five, and eight years' use of the axe had set a stamp of springy suppleness upon him.