The two men faced each other across the little table in the living-room of the Circle Spade ranch-house, in the light of a single oil lamp. The younger of the two men was Jack McCoy, known as "Angel," while the other was Rance McCoy, his father, and owner of the Circle Spade ranch. Angel McCoy was rather tall, well muscled, with features as clean-cut as a cameo. His skin was almost as white as milk, his hair as black as jet, and he wore it long in front of his ears—a swinging curl of inky-black against his white cheek. His eyes were brown, shaded by sharpcut brows. There was no denying the fact that he was handsome. Just now he wore a white silk shirt, with a red handkerchief knotted around his throat, black trousers tucked into the tops of a pair of fancy, high-heeled boots—and about him was an odor of perfume. Rance McCoy's appearance had nothing in common with his son's. He was about fifty years of age, grizzled, hard-faced, with a skin the color of jerked venison. His eyes were gray, and there were scars on his face, which showed lighter than the rest of his skin; scars of many battles. Rance McCoy had been a fighter in his time. There were other scars, which did not show, where hot lead had scored him time and again.
