it to almost stone-like solidity.

Saddles, lariats, rifles, high boots, and all the trappings and harness
belonging to a cowboy's outfit littered the place, and stretched out on
the robes and furs, in easy, careless attitudes, lay some half-dozen
men.

Jim Cummings and Dan Moriarity were of the number. Thick clouds of
tobacco smoke curled and eddied to the low ceiling, and seated near the
fire to get the benefit of the light were a couple of card-playing
ranchmen, indulging in a game of California Jack.

Standing with his back to the blaze, his feet spread apart, and his
hands deep in his pockets, stood the owner of the ranche--Swanson. Cast
in a Herculean mold, he stood over six feet tall, his broad shoulders
surmounted by a neck like a bull, and his red, cunning face, almost hid
from sight by the thick, bushy whiskers which covered it.

He had been relating, with great gusto, some adventure in which he had
played a prominent part, and raising his broad hand in the air he
brought it down on a table near him, as he exclaimed:

"And if any detective comes skulking around this shanty, I swear I'll
cut out his sneaking heart, and make him eat it raw"--when the sound of
horses broke the thread of his discourse, and a voice was heard
shouting:

"Hello-o-o, the house!"

"Yes, an be right smart about it, dis chile most froze."