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Updated: May 10, 2025
He was a tough-looking customer of nearly fifty. From out of his leathery sun-and-wind beaten face, hard eyes looked without expression. "Bad Bill" Cranston he was called, and the man looked as if he had earned his sobriquet. "And what if he ain't here?" snarled the fourth. "Are you aiming to sit down and wait for him?" "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Bad Bill answered.
He was deliberately lifting a broad horseman's hat from a rather round, high forehead and disclosing a head of inoffensive-looking sandy hair, very much sun-and-wind bleached. His smooth face, his ears and neck and open throat, were colored by a strictly uniform pigment tinctured by many mountain winds into a reddish brown and burnt by many mountain suns into a seemingly immutable bronze.
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