He was not big and burly, with arrogant eyes and the hint of leashed authority in his tone.

Instead, he was of medium height, owned a pair of shrewd gray eyes and an easy drawl, and was dressed in the half military style so popular with mining men, surveyors and others who can afford to choose what garb they will adopt for outdoor living.
He had shown a perfect familiarity with cooking over a campfire, and had fried the bacon in a manner which even Casey could not criticize.
Before the coffee was boiled he had told Casey that his name was Mack Nolan.

Immediately afterward he had grinned and added the superfluous information that he was Irish and didn't care who knew it.
"Well, I'm Irish, meself," Casey returned approvingly and with more than his usual brogue.

"You can ask anybody if Casey Ryan has ever showed shame fer the blood that's in' 'im.

'Tis the Irish that never backs up from a rough trail or a fight." He poured a fourth cup of coffee into a chipped enamel cup and took his courage in his two hands.
Mack Nolan, he assured himself optimistically, couldn't possibly know what lay hidden under the camp outfit in the Ford.