The man was tall, wide-shouldered, powerful-looking. His face was youthful, but his eyes were not.
They seemed to reflect years of hard living and hard riding, years in which he had looked death in the face too often, but had always come out standing when the gunsmoke cleared.
No, the man they called Waco didn’t like a man to be trifled with. Even if you overlooked the fact that he was a Ranger in the troubled Territory of Arizona.
