The trail boss was a character to demand attention wherever he might be. Over the medium height, he was so heavily and solidly built that he appeared to be well under it when standing alone; he had the barrel-like chest that stands for strength, and his sloping shoulders were a little rounded from a careless saddle seat of many years. His rugged face was brown, the skin tough as parchment, and the faded blue eyes peered out in a direct, unwavering gaze between lids narrowed by the suns and winds, rains and dusts of a life spent in the open. His head was massive and the iron-gray hair, falling almost to his shoulders, gave it a leonine appearance. He wore no chaps, for his riding took him into few thickets and there was no reason for him to bear their discomforts. His clothing was simple and loose: black, heavy, woolen trousers thrust into soft, high boots with moderate heels, and bearing no spurs, for he depended on his quirt; a blade, woolen vest, buttoned at the bottom, from an upper pocket of which protruded the well-chewed stem of a pipe; a heavy, faded, blue flannel shirt, open over the bronzed, hairy chest and throat; a faded blue kerchief, knotted loosely about his neck; a heavy, gray sombrero, moderate in height of crown, but with a wide brim. He rode a Cheyenne saddle, devoid of ornamentation, its housings covering the horse from rump to withers, and the reins of the bridle, contrary to the prevailing fashion of that southern range at that time, were short. A .44 Winchester lay in its sheath under his right leg; a braided hair lariat was coiled at the pommel; a heavy, plain six-shooter rested in an open holster; and behind him was rolled the everlasting yellow slicker. He rode a magnificent bay horse whose spirit was shown in every movement, and which would follow him about like a dog. Over all was dust, gray, thick, impalpable dust. "Hello, Huff!" he bellowed. "Come down to see if I got lost? Join up with us; I'm figgerin' that Triangle herd may be up at this end of th' crick, an' if it is, it's got to move. Them long-laigged cattle of mine ain't had a drink since yesterday mornin', an' they'll shore rush that crick. We'll have some cuttin' out to do if th' other herd is in their path. How 'bout it?" "You can pull up, then," replied Big Tom. "They're well to th' south of th' bunkhouse--you got plenty of room for ten times that little bunch yo're so peart about I heard they are th' leavin's of four Greaser ranches." "Glad to learn they ain't there," said McCullough. "They're such leavin's an' scourin's," smiled one of his companions, "that I'm advisin' Mac to double th' night guard while he's within' forty miles of this bunch of ranches." "We'll count that Triangle bunch right away," said the trail boss. "Where's yourn?" "It's on its way," answered Big Tom. "It'll be on hand soon enough. Goin' to count that, too, tonight?"