He was a broad-chested, powerful-looking man
of medium height; his hands he kept concealed under the large cloth
_poncho_ he wore, and he had on a slouch hat that just allowed
his eyes to be seen under the rim. They were truculent, yellowish-green
eyes, that seemed to grow fiery and dim and fiery again by turns, yet
never for a single instant were they averted from my face. His black
hair hung to his shoulders, and he also had a bristly moustache, which
did not conceal his brutal mouth, nor was there any beard to hide his
broad, swarthy jowl. His jaws were the only part of him that had any
motion, while he stood there, still as a bronze statue, watching me.
At intervals he ground his teeth, after which he would slap his lips
together two or three times, while a slimy froth, most sickening to
see, gathered at the corners of his mouth.
"Gandara, you are not drinking," said one of the gauchos, turning to
him. He shook his head slightly without speaking or taking his eyes
off my face; whereupon the man who had spoken smiled and resumed his
conversation with the others.
The long, intense, soul-trying scrutiny this brutal wretch had subjected
me to came to a very sudden end. Quick as lightning a long, broad knife
flashed out from its concealment under his _poncho_, and with one
cat-like bound he was before me, the point of his horrid weapon touching
my _poncho_ just over the pit of my stomach.
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