He was just another man arriving in Bennsonn on business of his own. Most of the people who looked his way didn’t find enough of interest to keep their eyes on him. Those who watched him longer than that were encouraged to turn another way when the man returned their stare with cold, dark eyes. He sat tall in his saddle, shifting his weight with every one of his horse’s steps as if he’d been riding one trail or another for most of his life. He was of average height and build, wrapped in dusty clothes and a long coat that draped across his horse’s back to partially conceal the Spencer rifle carried in his saddle’s boot. That wasn’t the only weapon on his person. A .45-caliber Smith & Wesson was strapped to his hip and a smaller .32 Colt was tucked in a holster under his left arm. The long, dark brown hair hanging to his shoulders looked more like a cropped mane while the patch of neatly trimmed whiskers covering his upper lip and a small portion of his chin gave him something of a distinguished appearance.
