His buckskin shirt, seasoned by sun, rain, and sweat, smelled stale and old. His jeans had long since faded to a neutral color that lost itself against the desert. He was a big man, wide-shouldered, with the lean, hard-boned face of the desert rider. There was no softness in him. His toughness was ingrained and deep, without cruelty, yet quick, hard, and dangerous. Whatever wells of gentleness might lie within him were guarded and deep. An hour passed and there was no more dust, so he knew he was in trouble. He had drawn up short of the crest where his eyes could just see over the ridge, his horse crowded against a dark clump of juniper where he was invisible to any eye not in the immediate vicinity. The day was still and hot. Sweat trickled down his cheeks and down his body under the shirt. Dust meant a dust devil or riders ... and this had been no dust devil. The dust had shown itself, continued briefly, then vanished, and that meant that he also had been seen. If they were white men fearful of attack, they were now holed up in some arroyo.
