There was not a sawed board in all that structure, and some of the pine logs showed how they had been dropped from the bluff.
Brackton, a little old gray man, with scant beard, and eyes like those of a bird, came briskly out to meet an incoming freighter.

The wagon was minus a hind wheel, but the teamster had come in on three wheels and a pole.

The sweaty, dust-caked, weary, thin-ribbed mustangs, and the gray-and-red-stained wagon, and the huge jumble of dusty packs, showed something of what the journey had been.
"Hi thar, Red Wilson, you air some late gettin' in," greeted old Brackton.
Red Wilson had red eyes from fighting the flying sand, and red dust pasted in his scraggy beard, and as he gave his belt an upward hitch little red clouds flew from his gun-sheath.
"Yep.

An' I left a wheel an' part of the load on the trail," he said.
With him were Indians who began to unhitch the teams.

Riders lounging in the shade greeted Wilson and inquired for news.