“It can’t be one of our men,” said the latter; “we’d better see who it is.”
As the stranger came into plain view, heading straight for them, McKenna gave a grunt of recognition and displeasure.
“That’s Shan McCane!”
“Never heard of him,” said Joe carelessly.
“You don’t miss much,” the walking boss commented. “‘Rough Shan,’ they call him. The name fits.”
Mr. McCane was no beauty. He was big, and looked fleshy, but was not. A deceptive slouchiness of carriage covered the quickness of a cat when necessary. His cheeks and chin bristled with a beard of the texture and colour of a worn-out blacking brush; his nose had a cant to the northeast, and his left eye was marred by a sinister cast. Add to these a chronic, ferocious scowl and subtract two front teeth, and you have the portrait of Rough Shan McCane, as Joe saw him. For attire he wore a greasy flannel shirt, open in front so that his great, mossy chest was bare to the winds, short trousers held in place by a frayed leather strap, and a pair of fourteen-inch larrigans. He and McKenna greeted each other without enthusiasm.
“Cruisin’?” asked the walking boss.
“Nope,” replied McCane. “I got a camp over here a ways. I’m cuttin’ Clancys’ limit.”
“Clancys’!” said Joe in surprise, for Clancy Brothers had purchased the next limit in the name of a third party a couple of years before and their interest did not appear. “Do they own timber here?”
“Their limit butts on your east line,” McCane told him.