hood of their finding many bear in this locality and they all discussed that topic with enthusiasm.
“I’ve always lived in Vermont,” said the man who had pushed the coffee pot. “I’d like to kill a bear.”
Moran glanced at him in surprise. His instinctive move to warm the coffee had identified him with the west. The courtesy of an easterner might have been as instantaneous but it would never have taken just that form. The leathery complexions and sun-squinted eyes indicated that these men had spent their lives in the open. This was ne sporting camp. Holsters, belts and guns were old with wear as were their clothes. Every saddle which straddled a log nearby carried a battered saddle scabbard and the rifle butts which protruded from them were all the same—.30-.40 Winchester carbines. For some reason they wished him to believe that their object was solely that of hunting bear.
Moran smiled at them and they knew that here was a man of their own kind; one who knew they lied. But no man volunteered any information as to the real reason of their presence here nor inquired the reason for his own.
