TwentyThey eased their way into the makeshift camp, conscious of the eyes boring into them. Mason, aware of the many guns, made sure his hands hung loose at his side. Forty or more g*n hands were not the sort of odds he ever wanted to face.
The man standing before him was slight, black hair set in a rolling wave shape across his head, a thick growth of beard covering his neck only, the remainder of his face clean-shaven, lending him an almost Biblical air. His eyes gleamed with an intensity Mason had rarely seen. With his feet planted wide apart, hands on hips, this man appeared tense, ready to spring into action and despite him not wearing a g*n, Mason decided, almost at once, that if trouble broke out, this man would be the first to die.
In an attempt to relieve the tension, Mason smil
