I judged him to be a man of middle years; handsome in a rugged kind of way, with close cropped hair and an impressive walrus moustache salted with gray. His eyes, mostly hidden in the shadow under his hatbrim, nevertheless glittered with intelligence and grim will. His face was burned dark by what must have been years in the sun and wind, and he sported a scar under his left eye that lifted the corner of his mouth towards a perpetual smirk. He wore a very American string tie over a gray waistcoat… and I found myself astonished to realize I could see the butt of a revolver carried at his waist, and that what had appeared to be decorative pieces upon his belt when seen from the rear were indeed the glint of brass cartridges contained in loops sewn to the leather.