Many stories of the Bald Knobber days, when the law of the land
was the law of rifle and rope, were drifting about the country
side, and always, when these tales were recited, the name of Jim
Lane was whispered; while the bolder ones wondered beneath their
breath where Jim went so much with that Wash Gibbs, whose daddy
was killed by the Government.

Mr. Lane was a tall man, well set up, with something in his face
and bearing that told of good breeding; southern blood, one would
say, by the dark skin, and the eyes, hair, and drooping mustache
of black.

His companion, Wash Gibbs, was a gigantic man; taller and heavier,
even, than the elder Matthews, but more loosely put together than
Old Matt; with coarse, heavy features, and, as Grandma Bowles
said, "the look of a sheep killin' dog." Grandma, being very near
her journey's end, could tell the truth even about Wash Gibbs, but
others spoke of the giant only in whispers, save when they spoke
in admiration of his physical powers.

As the two men swung stiffly from their saddles, Sammy came
running to greet her father with a kiss of welcome; this little
exhibition of affection between parent and child was one of the
many things that marked the Lanes as different from the natives of
that region. Your true backwoodsman carefully hides every sign of
his love for either family or friends. Wash Gibbs stood looking on
with an expression upon his brutal face that had very little of
the human in it.