settled into his fat shoulders somewhat in the manner of Denver's, Terry
thought.

Oregon Charlie looked the part of an Indian, with his broad nose and high
cheekbones, flat face, slanted dark eyes; but his skin was a dead and
peculiar white. He was a down-headed man, and one could rarely imagine
him opening his lips to speak; he merely grunted as he shook hands with
the stranger.

To finish the picture, there was a man as huge as Joe Pollard himself,
and as powerful, to judge by appearances. His face was burned to a jovial
red; his hair was red also, and there was red hair on the backs of his
freckled hands.

All these men met Terry with cordial nods, but there was a carelessness
about their demeanor which seemed strange to Terry. In his experience,
the men of the mountains were a timid or a blustering lot before
newcomers, uneasy, and anxious to establish their place. But these men
acted as if meeting unknown men were a part of their common, daily
experience. They were as much at their ease as social lions.

Pollard was explaining the presence of Terry.

"He's come up to clean out the varmints," he said to the others. "They
been getting pretty thick on the range, you know."

"You came in just wrong," complained Kate, while the men turned four
pairs of grave eyes upon Terry and seemed to be judging him. "I got
Oregon singing at last, and he was doing fine. Got a real voice, Charlie
has. Regular branded baritone, I'll tell a man."