were still
merely the members of a human wolf pack and much alike. Only this shrewd
leader stood out in personal relief.

But to this generalizing there must be one exception, and that was to be
found in the person of Curt Dawson. Until he came forward and drew his
chief aside, I had not noticed him and he had not emerged from his seat
in a darkened corner while we had chatted. When he did come forth it was
with a step at once indolent and suggestive of power. His movements were
all unhurried, even graceful, but every flexing and tensing of his
muscles carried a hint of potential swiftness and power. His face was
unshaven and dissolute, but it retained a keen and instinctive
intelligence. His gray eyes had a light in them that seemed to come from
some inner source.

Curt Dawson could hardly have been more than thirty and was in the full
prime of his youthful strength, hard as hickory and in the same rough
fashion as the pines among which he had grown, commanding in appearance
and pungent in personality. I found my eyes dwelling on him, and later
on this scrutiny bore results. No one who had once seen this young
desperado could fail to recognize him on second meeting. His manner of
addressing the judge carried the assurance of the confidential man, and
a certain arrogance of demeanor.

We had left our bags outside and I took up a position near the door
where I could watch the twisting ruts of the drab road. We talked, as we
waited, of the outside world and Garvin astonished me by his grasp on
general affairs.

At last Marcus arrived and his coming made a strange picture which
dwells still in my mind. The western sky was all ash of rose and the
higher clouds were dark masses edged with gold. The hills were gray and
frowning ramparts with bristling crests. Against this setting, around
the shoulder of the mountain, appeared a grotesque cortege.

A half-score of rough men mounted on unkempt horses came slowly and
gloomily into view. They maintained, as they rode, the slovenly
formation of a hollow square and across their pommels lay repeating
rifles. The battered rims of their felt hats drooped over sharp-featured
faces.

The only unarmed member of the group rode at the center of the square.
He was tall and unspeakably gaunt. One looked at his worn and rugged
face and thought of the earlier portraits of Abraham Lincoln; the
portraits of lean and battling days. The collar of his threadbare
overcoat was upturned, but a