ful.

"Stranger, who are you?" asked another man, somewhat more civilly.

"My name's Duane," replied Duane, curtly.

"An' 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.

"Reckon he's dead, all right, or nobody'd hev his hoss an' guns,"
presently said Euchre.

"Mister 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.

"An' I want the hoss an' them guns," he shouted.

"You 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."

"Civil? 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?"

"You'll have to take my word, that's all," replied Duane, sharply.

"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.

"Stranger, 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.

"I'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 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.

"I believe you," replied Bland, at once. "Think I know when a fellow is
lying."

"I 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.

"You said Duane--Buck Duane?" queried Bland. "A