It was a dance that was like no dance that Aaron King had ever seen.
The artist--watching through the screen of cedar boughs beside the old wagon road and scarcely daring to breathe lest the beautiful vision should vanish--forgot his position--forgot what he was doing.

Fascinated by the scene to which he had been led, so unexpectedly by the music he had so often heard while at work in his studio, he was unmindful of the rude part he was playing.

He was brought suddenly to himself by a heavy hand upon his shoulder.

As he straightened, the hand whirled him half around and he found himself looking into a face that was tanned and seamed by many years in the open.
The man who had so unceremoniously commanded the artist's attention stood a little above six feet in height, and was of that deep-chested, lean, but full-muscled build that so often marks the mountain bred.

He wore no coat.
At his hip, a heavy Colt revolver hung in its worn holster from a full, loosely buckled, cartridge belt.