t 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.

"Hey a drink or a smoke?" 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. "Reckon you feel a little
sick. When it comes to shootin' I run. What's your age?"

"I'm twenty-three," replied Duane.

Euchre showed surprise. "You're only a boy! I thought you thirty
anyways. Buck, I heard what you told Bland, an' puttin' thet with my
own figgerin', I reckon you're no criminal yet. Throwin' a gun in
self-defense--thet ain't no crime!"

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

"Huh," replied the old man. "I've been on this river fer years, an' I've
seen hundreds of boys come in on the dodge. Most of them, though, was no
good. An' thet kind don't last long. This river country has been an' is
the refuge fer criminals from all over the states. I've bunked with
bank cashiers, forgers, plain thieves, an' out-an'-out murderers, all
of which had no bizness on the Texas border. Fellers like Bland are
exceptions. He's no Texan--you seen thet. The gang he rules here come
from all over, an' they're tough cusses, you can bet on thet. They live
fat an' easy. If it wasn't fer the fightin' among themselves they'd
shore grow populous. The Rim Rock is no place for a peaceable, decent
feller. I heard you tell Bland you wouldn't join his gang. Thet'll not
make him take a likin' to you. Have you any money?"

"Not much," replied Duane.

"Could you live by gamblin'? Are you any good at cards?"

"No."

"You wouldn't steal hosses or rustle cattle?"

"No."

"When your money's gone how'n hell will you live? There ain't any work
a decent feller could do. You can't herd with greasers. Why, Bland's men
would shoot at you in the fields. What'll you do, son?"

"God knows," replied Duane, hopelessly. "I'll make my money last as long
as possible--then starve."

"Wal, I'm pretty pore, but you'll never starve while I got anythin'."

Here it struck Duane again--that something human