His hat was tilted back, the light revealing lines of weariness and a coating of the gray, powdery dust of the alkali desert, but beneath it appeared the brown, sun-scorched skin, while the gray eyes looking straight at her, were resolute and smiling.

His rough shirt, open at the throat, might have been the product of any sutler's counter; he wore no jacket, and the broad yellow stripe down the leg of the faded blue trousers alone proclaimed him a soldier.

He smiled across at her, and she lowered her eyes, while his glance wandered on toward the others.
"Don't seem to be very crowded to-day," he began, genially addressing Moylan.

"Not an extremely popular route at present, I reckon.

Mining, pardner ?" "No; post-trader at Fort Marcy." "Oh, that's it," his eyebrows lifting slightly.