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store and saloon, and from the inside came a lazy hum of voices.

As Duane reined to a halt one of the loungers in the shade rose with a loud exclamation:

ā€œBust me if thet ainā€™t Lukeā€™s hoss!ā€

The others accorded their interest, if not assent, by rising to advance toward Duane.

ā€œHow about it, Euchre? Ainā€™t thet Lukeā€™s bay?ā€ queried the first man.

ā€œPlain as your nose,ā€ replied the fellow called Euchre.

ā€œThere ainā€™t no doubt about thet, then,ā€ laughed another, ā€œfer Bosomerā€™s nose is shore plain on the landscape.ā€

These men lined up before Duane, and as he coolly regarded them he thought they could have been recognized anywhere as desperadoes. The man called Bosomer, who had stepped forward, had a forbidding face which showed yellow eyes, an enormous nose, and a skin the color of dust, with a thatch of sandy hair.

ā€œStranger, who are you anā€™ where in the hell did you git thet bay hoss?ā€ he demanded. His yellow eyes took in Stevensā€™s horse, then the weapons hung on the saddle, and finally turned their glinting, hard light upward to Duane.

Duane did not like the tone in which he had been addressed, and he remained silent. At least half his mind seemed busy with curious interest in regard to something that leaped inside him and made his breast feel tight. He recognized it as that strange emotion which had shot through him often of late, and which had decided him to go out to the meeting with Bain. Only now it was different, more powerful.

ā€œStranger, who are you?ā€ asked another man, somewhat more civilly.

ā€œMy nameā€™s Duane,ā€ replied Duane, curtly.

ā€œAnā€™ howā€™d you come by the hoss?ā€

Duane answered briefly, and his words were followed by a short silence, during which the men looked at him. Bosomer began to twist the ends of his beard.

ā€œReckon heā€™s dead, all right, or nobodyā€™d hev his hoss anā€™ guns,ā€ presently said Euchre.

ā€œMister Duane,ā€ began Bosomer, in low, stinging tones, ā€œI happen to be Luke Stevensā€™s side-pardner.ā€

Duane looked him over, from dusty, worn-out boots to his slouchy sombrero. That look seemed to inflame Bosomer.

ā€œAnā€™ I want the hoss anā€™ them guns,ā€ he shouted.

ā€œYou or anybody else can have them, for all I care. I just fetched them in. But the pack is mine,ā€ replied Duane. ā€œAnd say, I befriended your pard. If you canā€™t use a civil tongue youā€™d better cinch it.ā€

ā€œCivil? Haw, haw!ā€ rejoined the outlaw. ā€œI donā€™t know you. How do we know you didnā€™t plug Stevens, anā€™ stole his hoss, anā€™ jest happened to stumble down here?ā€

ā€œYouā€™ll have to take my word, thatā€™s all,ā€ replied Duane, sharply.

ā€œI ainā€™t takinā€™ your word! Savvy thet? Anā€™ I was Lukeā€™s pard!ā€

With that Bosomer wheeled and, pushing his companions aside, he stamped into the saloon, where his voice broke out in a roar.

Duane dismounted and threw his bridle.

ā€œStranger, Bosomer is shore hot-headed,ā€ said the man Euchre. He did not appear unfriendly, nor were the others hostile.

At this juncture several more outlaws crowded out of the door, and the one in the lead was a tall man of stalwart physique. His manner proclaimed him a leader. He had a long face, a flaming red beard, and clear, cold blue eyes that fixed in close scrutiny upon Duane. He was not a Texan; in truth, Duane did not recognize one of these outlaws as native to his state.

ā€œIā€™m Bland,ā€ said the tall man, authoritatively. ā€œWhoā€™re you and whatā€™re you doing here?ā€

Duane looked at Bland as he had at the others. This outlaw chief appeared to be reasonable, if he was not courteous. Duane told his story again, this time a little more in detail.

ā€œI believe you,ā€ replied Bland, at once. ā€œThink I know when a fellow is lying.ā€

ā€œI reckon youā€™re on the right trail,ā€ put in Euchre. ā€œThet about Luke wantinā€™ his boots took offā€”thet satisfies me. Luke hed a mortal dread of dyinā€™ with his boots on.ā€

At this sally the chief and his men laughed.

ā€œYou said Duaneā€”Buck Duane?ā€ queried Bland. ā€œAre you a son of that Duane who was a gunfighter some years back?ā€

ā€œYes,ā€ replied Duane.

ā€œNever met him, and glad I didnā€™t,ā€ said Bland, with a grim humor. ā€œSo you got in trouble and had to go on the dodge? What kind of trouble?ā€

ā€œHad a fight.ā€

ā€œFight? Do you mean gunplay?ā€ questioned Bland. He seemed eager, curious, speculative.

ā€œYes. It ended in gunplay, Iā€™m sorry to say,ā€ answered Duane,

ā€œGuess I neednā€™t ask the son of Duane if he killed his man,ā€ went on Bland, ironically. ā€œWell, Iā€™m sorry you bucked against trouble in my camp. But as it is, I guess youā€™d be wise to make yourself scarce.ā€

ā€œDo you mean Iā€™m politely told to move on?ā€ asked Duane, quietly.

ā€œNot exactly that,ā€ said Bland, as if irritated. ā€œIf this isnā€™t a free place there isnā€™t one on earth. Every man is equal here. Do you want to join my band?ā€

ā€œNo, I donā€™t.ā€

ā€œWell, even if you did I imagine that wouldnā€™t stop Bosomer. Heā€™s an ugly fellow. Heā€™s one of the few gunmen Iā€™ve met who wants to kill somebody all the time. Most men like that are fourflushes. But Bosomer is all one color, and thatā€™s red. Merely for your own sake I advise you to hit the trail.ā€

ā€œThanks. But if thatā€™s all Iā€™ll stay,ā€ returned Duane. Even as he spoke he felt that he did not know himself.

Bosomer appeared at the door, pushing men who tried to detain him, and as he jumped clear of a last reaching hand he uttered a snarl like an angry dog. Manifestly the short while he had spent inside the saloon had been devoted to drinking and talking himself into a frenzy. Bland and the other outlaws quickly moved aside, letting Duane stand alone. When Bosomer saw Duane standing motionless and watchful a strange change passed quickly in him. He halted in his tracks, and as he did that the men who had followed him out piled over one another in their hurry to get to one side.

Duane saw all the swift action, felt intuitively the meaning of it, and in Bosomerā€™s sudden change of front. The outlaw was keen, and he had expected a shrinking, or at least a frightened antagonist. Duane knew he was neither. He felt like iron, and yet thrill after thrill ran through him. It was almost as if this situation had been one long familiar to him. Somehow he understood this yellow-eyed Bosomer. The outlaw had come out to kill him. And now, though somewhat checked by the stand of a stranger, he still meant to kill. Like so many desperadoes of his ilk, he was victim of a passion to kill for the sake of killing. Duane divined that no sudden animosity was driving Bosomer. It was just his chance. In that moment murder would have been joy to him. Very likely he had forgotten his pretext for a quarrel. Very probably his faculties were absorbed in conjecture as to Duaneā€™s possibilities.

But he did not speak a word. He remained motionless for a long moment, his eyes pale and steady, his right hand like a claw.

That instant gave Duane a power to read in his enemyā€™s eyes the thought that preceded action. But Duane did not want to kill another man. Still he would have to fight, and he decided to cripple Bosomer. When Bosomerā€™s hand moved Duaneā€™s gun was spouting fire. Two shots onlyā€”both from Duaneā€™s gunā€”and the outlaw fell with his right arm shattered. Bosomer cursed harshly and floundered in the dust, trying to reach the gun with his left hand. His comrades, however, seeing that Duane would not kill unless forced, closed in upon Bosomer and prevented any further madness on his part.

CHAPTER V

Of the outlaws present Euchre appeared to be the one most inclined to lend friendliness to curiosity; and he led Duane and the horses away to a small adobe shack. He tied the horses in an open shed and removed their saddles. Then, gathering up Stevensā€™s weapons, he invited his visitor to enter the house.

It had two roomsā€”windows without coveringsā€”bare floors. One room contained blankets, weapons, saddles, and bridles; the other a stone fireplace, rude table and bench, two bunks, a box cupboard, and various blackened utensils.

ā€œMake yourself to home as long as you want to stay,ā€ said Euchre. ā€œI ainā€™t rich in this worldā€™s goods, but I own whatā€™s here, anā€™ youā€™re welcome.ā€

ā€œThanks. Iā€™ll stay awhile and rest. Iā€™m pretty well played out,ā€ replied Duane.

Euchre gave him a keen glance.

ā€œGo ahead anā€™ rest. Iā€™ll take your horses to grass.ā€ Euchre left Duane alone in the house. Duane relaxed then, and mechanically he wiped the sweat from his face. He was laboring under some kind of a spell or shock which did not pass off quickly. When it had worn away he took off his coat and belt and made himself comfortable on the blankets. And he had a thought that if he rested or slept what difference would it make on the morrow? No rest, no sleep could change the gray outlook of the future. He felt glad when Euchre came bustling in, and for the first time he took notice of the outlaw.

Euchre was old in years. What little hair he had was gray, his face clean-shaven and full of wrinkles; his eyes were half shut from long gazing through the sun and dust. He stooped. But his thin frame denoted strength and endurance still unimpaired.

ā€œHey a drink or a smoke?ā€ he asked.

Duane shook his head. He had not been unfamiliar with whisky, and he had used tobacco moderately since he was sixteen. But now, strangely, he felt a disgust at the idea of stimulants. He did not understand clearly what he felt. There was that vague idea of something wild in his blood, something that made him fear himself.

Euchre wagged his old head sympathetically. ā€œReckon you feel a little sick. When it comes to shootinā€™ I run. Whatā€™s your age?ā€

ā€œIā€™m twenty-three,ā€ replied Duane.

Euchre showed surprise. ā€œYouā€™re only a boy! I thought you thirty anyways. Buck, I heard what you told Bland, anā€™ puttinā€™ thet with my own figgerinā€™, I reckon youā€™re no criminal yet. Throwinā€™ a gun in self-defenseā€”thet ainā€™t no crime!ā€

Duane, finding relief in talking, told more about himself.

ā€œHuh,ā€ replied the old man. ā€œIā€™ve been on this river fer years, anā€™ Iā€™ve seen hundreds of boys come in on the dodge. Most of them, though, was no good. Anā€™ thet kind donā€™t last long. This river country has been anā€™ is the refuge fer criminals from all over the states. Iā€™ve bunked with bank cashiers, forgers, plain thieves, anā€™ out-anā€™-out murderers, all of which had no bizness on the Texas border. Fellers like Bland are exceptions. Heā€™s no Texanā€”you seen thet. The gang he rules here come from all over, anā€™ theyā€™re tough cusses, you can bet on thet. They live fat anā€™ easy. If it wasnā€™t fer the fightinā€™ among themselves theyā€™d shore grow populous. The Rim Rock is no place for a peaceable, decent feller. I heard you tell Bland you wouldnā€™t join his gang. Thetā€™ll not make him take a likinā€™ to you. Have you any money?ā€

ā€œNot much,ā€ replied Duane.

ā€œCould you live by gamblinā€™? Are you any good at cards?ā€

ā€œNo.ā€

ā€œYou wouldnā€™t steal hosses or rustle cattle?ā€

ā€œNo.ā€

ā€œWhen your moneyā€™s gone howā€™n hell will you live? There ainā€™t any work a decent feller could do. You canā€™t herd with greasers. Why, Blandā€™s men would shoot at you in the fields. Whatā€™ll you do, son?ā€

ā€œGod knows,ā€ replied Duane, hopelessly. ā€œIā€™ll make my money last as long as possibleā€”then starve.ā€

ā€œWal, Iā€™m pretty pore, but youā€™ll never starve while I got

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