Two men--one of them the tall man who had ridden away to return with the
news that Lawler and the sheriff were riding northward--were draped on
chairs watching the outlaw chief. They were expectant, eager; there was
covert satisfaction in their eyes.
Like Selden, the other man wore two guns. There was about both men an
atmosphere that suggested stealth and violence. It lurked over them,
hinting of something sinister and deadly.
Selden wore a mustache that drooped at the corners of his mouth. It was
the color of old straw--a faded, washed-out blonde, darkened here and
there from tobacco stains. His mouth was large, the lower lip sagging in
the center, giving it a satiric appearance, increased by the bleared,
narrowed eyes that always seemed to be glowing with a questioning,
leering light.
Krell, the other man, was smooth of face, with a strong, bold, thrusting
jaw and thick, pouting lips. His eyes were big, but they had a
disquieting habit of incessant watchfulness--a crafty alertness, as
though their owner was suspicious of the motives of those at whom he
looked.
Selden and Krell had been recruited from the southern border, they
represented an element that the ranger service was slowly and surely
eliminating--and driving northward into states whose laws were less
stringent for the evil-doer--the professional gunmen who took life for
the malicious thrill it gave them.
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