His face was scrawny and bewhiskered; a bristly moustache streaked his upper lip. His nut-brown hair, unkempt, fell on the forehead. His shabby clothes were much the worse for a wear; a floppy shirt paired with an unconventional trouser that hung loosely on his waist and a slovenly apology for a muffler. His shoes were grubby and had taken a grey course about the heels. Such was his appearance – indeed a disreputable one; but the botheration never occurred to him. His thoughts were affixed on the destination that Providence yet had to decide for him.
As the stagecoach topped the low, pine-clad ridge, he looked towards the scorching, dry valley that stretched for miles before his very eyes. The glaring day was gradually losing its heat and the afternoon was dragging itself out in absolute discreteness. He approached a puzzling fork in the road and without contemplating on which path to take, he continued west-wards. Such had been the order of his journey ever since.
Despite the day’s exhaustion, he still felt a certain momentum to his activity.