You spot a man who obviously does not belong in Denver. His leather jacket and jeans are clean and mended, and his beard is neatly trimmed. More than this, though, is the dangerous grace with which he glides across the ground. Even relaxed, he looks as though he is ready to lash out with deadly blows. His brows are knit with concentration and he never ceases scanning every-thing around him, up and down and side to side. His presence screams deadly competence; you see people move out of his way as he approaches. Far out of his way.You also see the man is a walking arsenal. He has knives strapped to both calves and one forearm, a sword at his hip, a bow and quiver across his back, and a pistol in a holster which slaps quietly against his right thigh as he walks. His pockets bulge with gear, and probably ammunition. He carries his bedroll and the rest of his gear in a dufle, ready to drop out of the way the instant a fight is about to break. Even the bandits who skulk ready to pounce on anyone who might have something of the slightest value, shy away his penetrating gaze and run away if he changes direction towards them.