He was a tall, singularly lithe man of twenty-four or five, clad in a suit of brown jeans. He wore his coat closely buttoned over his blue-checked cotton shirt, for the August days are chilly on Piomingo Bald. His broad-brimmed white wool hat was thrust back on his head, showing his tousled auburn hair that hung down upon his collar, curling like a cavalier’s. He had a keen, clear profile, a quickly glancing, dark eye, and his complexion was tanned to a rich tint that comported well with the out-door suggestions of his powder-horn and belt and shot-pouch, which he wore, although his rifle was at the cabin. He maintained the stolid gravity characteristic of the mountaineer, but there was a covert alertness about him, a certain sharpness of attention almost inimical, and slow and dawdling as he was he gave the impression of being endowed with many an agile unclassified mental faculty. His eyes followed the flight of a bird soaring in great circles high above the “bald,” sometimes balanced motionless in mid-air,—a pose of ineffable strength and buoyancy,—then majestically circling as before. “That thar buzzard ’pears ter be a-loungin’ around in the sky, a-waitin’ fur we-uns ter die,” he said, lugubriously. Doaks broke with an effort from his reverie, and turned his languid gaze on the malcontent herder. “In the name o’ heaven, Mink Lorey,” he said solemnly, “what is it ye _do_ like ter do?” Despite the spark of irritation in his eye, he seemed colorless, especially as contrasted with his comrade. He had a shock of fair hair and a light brown beard; the complexion which is the complement of this type had freckled in its exposure to the sun instead of tanning, and added its original pallor to the negative effect. He had good features, but insignificant in their lack of any marked peculiarity except for the honest, candid look in the serious gray eye. He too wore a broad white wool hat and a suit of brown jeans. Mink gazed at his companion with an expression of brightening interest. He found himself and his own idiosyncrasies, even when berated, more agreeable to contemplate than the mountains. He did not reply, perhaps appreciating that no answer was expected. “Ye don’t like ter herd up hyar, an’ the Lord knows I ain’t keerin’ ter hev ye. Ye hev gin me ez much trouble ez all the cattle an’ thar owners besides. When ye wanted ter kem so bad, an’ sorter go partners with me, I ’lowed ye’d be lively, an’ a toler’ble good critter ter hev along. An’ ye hev been ez lonesome an’ ez onconsiderate an’ ez ill-convenient ez a weanin’ baby,” he declared, rising to hyperbole. “What _do_ ye like ter do?”