Indeed, a feminine grace and softness marked him; his wrists were as round as a girl’s, and his hands as slender and as delicately finished.  Whether it be the white-hot sun of summer or the hurricane snows of winter, the climate of the mountain-desert roughens the skin, and it cuts away spare flesh, hewing out the face in angles; but with this man there were no rough edges, but all was smoothed over and rounded with painful care; as if nature had concentrated in that birth to show what she could do.  Such fine workmanship, perhaps, would be appreciated more by women than by men; for men like a certain weight and bulk of bone and muscle—­whereas this fellow seemed as light of body as he was of hand.  He sat now watching Strann with the utmost gravity.  He had very large brown eyes of a puzzling quality; perhaps that was because there seemed to be no thought behind them and one caught the mystery and the wistfulness of some animals from a glance at him.

The effect of that glance on Strann was to make him grin again, and he at once banished the frown from his forehead and put away his gun; the big dog had slunk deeper into the shadow and closer to his master.

“I’m Strann.  Maybe you’ve heard of me.”

“My name is Barry,” said the other.  “I’m sorry that I haven’t heard of you before.”

And the sound of his voice made Jerry Strann grin again; it was such a low, soft voice with the velvet of a young girl’s tone in it; moreover, the brown eyes seemed to apologise for the ignorance concerning Strann’s name.

“You got a hoss out in front.”

A nod of agreement.

“What’s your price?”

“None.”

“No price?  Look here,” argued Strann, “everything’s got a price, and I got to have that hoss, understand? Got to!  I ain’t bargaining.  I won’t try to beat you down.  You just set a figger and I’ll cover it.  I guess that’s square!”

“He ain’t a gentle hoss,” said Barry.  “Maybe you wouldn’t like him.’

“Oh, that’s all right about being gentle,” chuckled Strann.  Then he checked his mirth and stared piercingly at the other to make out if there were a secret mockery.  It could not, however, be possible.  The eyes were as gravely apologetic as ever.  He continued:  “I seen the hell-fire in him.  That’s what stopped me like a bullet.  I like ’em that way.  Much rather have ’em with a fight.  Well, let’s have your price.  Hey, O’Brien, trot out your red-eye; I’m going to do some business here!”

O’Brien came hastily, with drinks, and while they waited Strann queried politely:  “Belong around these parts?”

“No,” answered the other softly.

“No?  Where you come from?”

“Over there,” said Barry, and waved a graceful hand towards half the points of the compass.

“H-m-m!” muttered Strann, and once more he bent a keen gaze upon his companion.  The drinks were now placed before them.  “Here,” he concluded, “is to the black devil outside!” And he swallowed the liquor at a gulp, but as he replaced the empty glass on the table he observed, with breathless amazement, that the whiskey glass of the stranger was still full; he had drunk his chaser!