above middle height, every mold and line of him slender and fine and
strong. His face was resolute, vivacious, intelligent; his eyes were
large and brown, pleasant and fearless. A wide black hat, pushed back
now, showed a broad forehead white against crisp coal-black hair and
the pleasant tan of neck and cheek. But it was not his dark, forceful
face alone that lent him such distinction. Rather it was the perfect
poise and balance of the man, the ease and unconscious grace of every
swift and sure motion. He wore a working garb now--blue overalls and a
blue rowdy. But he wore them with an air that made him well dressed.

Foy paused for a second; Applegate rose.

"Well, Chris!" he laughed. "There has been a time when you might not
have fancied this particular bunch--hey? All over now, please the
pigs. Come in and give it a name. Beer for mine."

"I'll smoke," said Foy.

"Me too," said Espalin.

He lit a cigar and returned to his chair. Ben Creagan passed behind
the bar and handed over a sixshooter and a cartridge belt.

"Here, Chris--here's the gun I borrowed of you when I broke mine. Much
obliged."

Foy twirled the cylinder to make sure the hammer was on an empty
chamber and buckled the belt under his rowdy.

"My hardware is mostly plows and scrappers and irrigating hoes