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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.
    â€œI believe you,” replied Bland, at once. “Think I know when a fellow is lying.”
    â€œI reckon you’re on the right trail,” put in Euchre. “Thet about Luke wantin’ his boots took off—thet satisfies me. Luke hed a mortal dread of dyin’ with his boots on.”
    At this sally the chief and his men laughed.
    â€œYou said Duane—Buck Duane?” queried Bland. “Are you a son of that Duane who was a gun-fighter some years back?”
    â€œYes,” replied Duane.
    â€œNever met him, and glad I didn’t,” said Bland, with a grim humor. “So you got in trouble and had to go on the dodge? What kind of trouble?”
    â€œHad a fight.”
    â€œFight? Do you mean gun-play?” questioned Bland. He seemed eager, curious, speculative.
    â€œYes. It ended in gun-play, I’m sorry to say,” answered Duane.
    â€œGuess I needn’t ask the son of Duane if he killed his man,” went on Bland, ironically. “Well, I’m sorry you bucked against trouble in my camp. But as it is, I guess you’d be wise to make yourself scarce.”
    â€œDo you mean I’m politely told to move on?” asked Duane, quietly.
    â€œNot exactly that,” said Bland, as if irritated. “If this isn’t a free place there isn’t one on earth. Every man is equal here. Do you want to join my band?”
    â€œNo, I don’t.”
    â€œWell, even if you did I imagine that wouldn’t stop Bosomer. He’s an ugly fellow. He’s one of the few gunmen I’ve met who wants to kill somebody all the time. Most men like that are four-flushes. But Bosomer is all one color, and that’s red. Merely for your own sake I advise you to hit the trail.”
    â€œThanks. But if that’s all I’ll stay,” 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 Bosomer’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 Duane’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 enemy’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 Bosomer’s hand moved Duane’s gun was spouting fire. Two shots only—both from Duane’s