His hair, thinning at the temples, vigorous at the ears, was crisply white.

A short and lately trimmed mustache held a smile in ambush; above it towered such a nose as Wellington loved.
It was broad at the base; deep creases ran from the corners of it, flanking the white mustache, to a mouth strong, full-lipped and undeniably large, ready alike for laughter or for sternness.
The nose--to follow the creases back again--was fleshy and beaked at the tip; it narrowed at the level bridge and broadened again where it joined the forehead, setting the eyes well apart.

The eyes themselves were blue, just a little faded--for the man was sixty-two--and there were wind-puckers at the corners of them.

But they were keen eyes, steady, sparkling and merry eyes, for all that; they were deep-set and long, and they sloped a trifle, high on the inside corners; pent in by pepper-and-salt brows, bushy, tufted and thick, roguishly aslant from the outer corners up to where they all but met above the Wellingtonian nose.
A merry face, a forceful face: Pete was a little man, five feet seven, and rather slender than otherwise; but no one, in view of that face, ever thought of him as a small man or an old one.
The faint path merged with another and another, the angles of convergence giving the direction of the unknown water hole; they came at last to the main trail, a trunk line swollen by feeders from every ridge and arroyo.
It bore away to the northeast, swerving, curving to pitch and climb in faultless following of the rule of roads--the greatest progress with the least exertion.

Your cow is your best surveyor.
They came on the ranch suddenly, rounding a point into a small natural amphitheater.