and kind and eager
which he had seen in Stevens. Duane's estimate of outlaws had lacked
this quality. He had not accorded them any virtues. To him, as to the
outside world, they had been merely vicious men without one redeeming
feature.

"I'm much obliged to you, Euchre," replied Duane. "But of course I won't
live with any one unless I can pay my share."

"Have it any way you like, my son," said Euchre, good-humoredly. "You
make a fire, an' I'll set about gettin' grub. I'm a sourdough, Buck.
Thet man doesn't live who can beat my bread."

"How do you ever pack supplies in here?" asked Duane, thinking of the
almost inaccessible nature of the valley.

"Some comes across from Mexico, an' the rest down the river. Thet river
trip is a bird. It's more'n five hundred miles to any supply point.
Bland has mozos, greaser boatmen. Sometimes, too, he gets supplies in
from down-river. You see, Bland sells thousands of cattle in Cuba. An'
all this stock has to go down by boat to meet the ships."

"Where on earth are the cattle driven down to the river?" asked Duane.

"Thet's not my secret," replied Euchre, shortly. "Fact is, I don't know.
I've rustled cattle for Bland, but he never sent me through the Rim Rock
with them."

Duane experienced a sort of pleasure in the realization that interest
had been stirred in him. He was curious about Bland and his gang, and
glad to have something to think about. For every once in a while he had
a sensation that was almost like a pang. He wanted to forget. In the
next hour he did forget, and enjoyed helping in the preparation and
eating of the meal. Euchre, after washing and hanging up the several
utensils, put on his hat and turned to go out.

"Come along or stay here, as you want," he said to Duane.

"I'll stay," rejoined Duane, slowly.

The old outlaw left the room and trudged away, whistling cheerfully.

Duane looked around him for a book or paper, anything to read; but
all the printed matter he could find consisted of a few words on
cartridge-boxes and an advertisement on the back of a tobacco-pouch.
There seemed to be nothing for him to do. He had rested; he did not want
to lie down any more. He began to walk to and fro, from one end of the
room to the other. And as he walked he fell into the lately acquired
habit of brooding over his misfortune.

Suddenly he straightened up with a jerk. Unconsciously he had drawn his
gun. Standing there with the bright cold weapon in his hand, h