Even to his pards, he was . . .
A MARKED MAN
“Five years swingin’ a hammer sure has built you up,” the guard observed.
Adams turned his head and the sunlight streaming through the dusty window highlighted the deep, puckered scar that ran across his left cheek for several inches. There was no expression at all on his face or in his voice when he said;
“Stands to reason, Fred.”
“Well, don’t worry about it. We’ve got a slop chest here from fellers who never quite made it to the end of their sentence.” He went behind the wire door and dragged out a crude pine chest with rope handles, flinging back the lid. “Take what you want. Long as you ain’t superstitious about wearin’ dead men’s clothes.”
“Long as they’re not still in ’em, it don’t bother me.”