His eyes narrowed truculently.
But then, as the oddness of the situation struck him he laughed again.
But this time as he laughed he took stock of the young cowpuncher, who was again laughing with him.
The puncher was young--very young; not more than twenty-one or two.
There was a week's growth of beard on his face.

A saddle reposed by his side.

In spite of his laughter something about him spoke eloquently of trouble.

Calumet felt a sudden interest in him.

Any man who could laugh when the world was not doing well with him must be made of good stuff.