The stubbly blond beard on his face did not conceal the deep tan painted there by weeks of exposure in the mountains; he had opened his shirt at the throat, exposing a neck darkened by sun and wind; his eyes were of a keen, searching blue-gray, and they quested the country ahead of him now with the joyous intentness of the hunter and the adventurer.
Langdon was thirty-five.

A part of his life he spent in the wild places; the other part he spent in writing about the things he found there.

His companion was five years his junior in age, but had the better of him by six inches in length of anatomy, if those additional inches could be called an advantage.

Bruce thought they were not.

"The devil of it is I ain't done growin' yet!" he often explained.
He rode up now and unlimbered himself.