There was nothing in his appearance that would have aroused a stranger's interest, or attracted more than a passing glance, as he stood before her in a very old fur coat, with a fur cap that was in keeping with it held in his hand.
His face had been bronzed almost to the color of a Blackfeet Indian's by frost and wind and sun, but it was of English type from the crisp fair hair above the broad forehead to the somewhat solid chin.

The mouth was hidden by the bronze-tinted mustache, and the eyes alone were noticeable.

They were gray, and there was a steadiness in them which was almost unusual even in that country where men look into long distances.

For the rest, he was of average stature, and stood impassively straight, looking down upon the girl, without either grace or awkwardness, while his hard brown hands suggested, as his attire did, strenuous labor for a very small reward.
"Well," said the girl, with Western frankness, "there's a kind of stamp on Lance that you haven't got.

I figure he brought it with him from the old country.