The man before the fire made no movement other than to hitch his belt around so that a lean bronzed hand rested upon the worn butt of a pistol. He sat there looking into the fire, though he could hear the sound of feet stumbling through the underbrush. The night was chill, and with his free hand he pulled his patched leather jacket across his chest.
"Hello." The visitor stood before him smiling a cold smile—a little man with wide, drooping shoulders and eyes as blue as chilled steel.
The man before the fire grunted and motioned with his head for the newcomer to be seated.
"Smells good," said the visitor as he sat down and looked into the steaming pot. "That was white of you to build the fire. I'd never've landed without it. Not much power left, either." He sighed.