Tall, broad, and muscular, he carried in one hand a shotgun, while from his hip dangled a heavy navy revolver.

His long hair, unkempt but oiled, swept a greasy circle around his shoulders; his enormous mustache, dripping with wet, completely concealed his mouth.

His costume of fringed buckskin was wild and outre even for our frontier camp.

But what was more confirmative of our suspicions was that he was evidently in the habit of making an impression, and after a distinct pause at the doorway, with only a side glance at us, he strode toward the bar.
"As there don't seem to be no hotel hereabouts, I reckon I kin put up my mustang here and have a shakedown somewhere behind that counter," he said.

His voice seemed to have added to its natural depth the hoarseness of frequent overstraining.
"Ye ain't got no bunk to spare, you boys, hev ye ?" asked Mosby, evasively, glancing at Percy Briggs without looking at the stranger.
We all looked at Briggs also; it was HIS affair after all--HE had originated this opposition.