It lurked over them, hinting of something sinister and deadly.
Selden wore a mustache that drooped at the corners of his mouth.

It was the color of old straw--a faded, washed-out blonde, darkened here and there from tobacco stains.

His mouth was large, the lower lip sagging in the center, giving it a satiric appearance, increased by the bleared, narrowed eyes that always seemed to be glowing with a questioning, leering light.
Krell, the other man, was smooth of face, with a strong, bold, thrusting jaw and thick, pouting lips.

His eyes were big, but they had a disquieting habit of incessant watchfulness--a crafty alertness, as though their owner was suspicious of the motives of those at whom he looked.
Selden and Krell had been recruited from the southern border, they represented an element that the ranger service was slowly and surely eliminating--and driving northward into states whose laws were less stringent for the evil-doer--the professional gunmen who took life for the malicious thrill it gave them.
Krell and Selden were "killers." They were Antrim's constant companions, except when the necessities of his trade drove the outlaw to work alone.
They knew his whims and understood his methods.
Now, as Antrim paused near the table and looked at them, Krell smiled evilly.
"I reckon we'll be settin' here twirlin' our thumbs till the outfit gits back ?" he suggested.
Antrim laughed.
"We're trailin' the outfit right now," he told the other.
Antrim extinguished the light, and the three went out and mounted their horses.

Their movements were deliberate, unhurried.