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children, and white men, all of whom appeared to be doing nothing. His advent created no interest until he rode up to the white men, who were lolling in the shade of a house. This place evidently was a 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:
    â€œBust me if thet ain’t Luke’s hoss!”
    The others accorded their interest, if not assent, by rising to advance toward Duane.
    â€œHow about it, Euchre? Ain’t thet Luke’s baby?” queried the first man.
    â€œPlain as your nose,” replied the fellow called Euchre.
    â€œThere ain’t no doubt about thet, then,” laughed another, “fer Bosomer’s nose is shore plain on the landscape.”
    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.
    â€œStranger, who are you an’ where in the hell did you git thet bay hoss?” he demanded. His yellow eyes took in Stevens’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.
    â€œStranger, who are you?” asked another man, somewhat more civilly.
    â€œMy name’s Duane,” replied Duane, curtly.
    â€œAn’ how’d you come by the hoss?”
    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.
    â€œReckon he’s dead, all right, or nobody’d hev his hoss an’ guns,” presently said Euchre.
    â€œMister Duane,” began Bosomer, in low, stinging tones, “I happen to be Luke Stevens’s side-pardner.”
    Duane looked him over, from dusty, worn-out boots to his slouchy sombrero. That look seemed to inflame Bosomer.
    â€œAn’ I want the hoss an’ them guns,” he shouted.
    â€œYou or anybody else can have them, for all I care. I just fetched them in. But the pack is mine,” replied Duane. “And say, I befriended your pard. If you can’t use a civil tongue you’d better cinch it.”
    â€œCivil? Haw, haw!” rejoined the outlaw. “I don’t know you. How do we know you didn’t plug Stevens, an’ stole his hoss, an’ jest happened to stumble down here?”
    â€œYou’ll have to take my word, that’s all,” replied Duane sharply.
    â€œGod damn! I ain’t takin’ your word! Savvy thet? An’ I was Luke’s pard!”
    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.
    â€œStranger, Bosomer is shore hot-headed,” 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.
    â€œI’m Bland,” said the tall man, authoritatively. “Who ’re you and what ’re you doing here?”
    Duane looked at Bland as he had at the