But the man upon whom Sanderson's gaze rested was the compelling figure.
He was big--rugged, muscular, massive.

He saw Sanderson at about the instant Sanderson saw him, and he faced the latter, his chin thrusting, his lips pouting, his eyes gleaming with cold belligerence.

He wore a gray woolen shirt, open at the throat, revealing a strong, wide chest.
He was a tawny giant, exuding a force and virility and a compelling magnetism that gripped one instantly.

It affected Sanderson; the sight of the man caused Sanderson's eyes to glow with reluctant admiration.
And yet Sanderson disliked the man; he know instantly that this was Alva Dale, concerning whom the Drifter had spoken; and the glow died out of Sanderson's eyes and was replaced by the steady gleam of premeditated and deliberate hostility.
For an instant there was no word spoken; the glances of the two men met, crossed, and neither man's eyes wavered.
Then the big man spoke, gruffly, shortly, coldly: "What do you want ?" Sanderson smiled faintly.

"You runnin' things here ?" he said, slowly.
"Hell!" snarled the other, and stepped forward.
"Because if you are," resumed Sanderson, his voice bringing the big man to a halt, "you're the man I'm wantin' to do my gassin' to.