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news from the freighters. Bland's supposed to be in Mexico."



Nearly all the outlaws in camp were assembled on the riverbank,

lolling in the shade of the cottonwoods. The heat was



oppressive. Not an outlaw offered to help the freighters, who

were trying to dig a heavily freighted wagon out of the



quicksand. Few outlaws would work for themselves, let alone for

the despised Mexicans.



Duane and Euchre joined the lazy group and sat down with them.

Euchre lighted a black pipe, and, drawing his hat over his



eyes, lay back in comfort after the manner of the majority of

the outlaws. But Duane was alert, observing, thoughtful. He



never missed anything. It was his belief that any moment an

idle word might be of benefit to him. Moreover, these rough men



were always interesting.

"Bland's been chased across the river," said one.



"New, he's deliverin' cattle to thet Cuban ship," replied

another.



"Big deal on, hey?"

"Some big. Rugg says the boss hed an order fer fifteen



thousand."

"Say, that order'll take a year to fill."



"New. Hardin is in cahoots with Bland. Between 'em they'll fill

orders bigger 'n thet."



"Wondered what Hardin was rustlin' in here fer."

Duane could not possibly attend to all the conversation among



the outlaws. He endeavored to get the drift of talk nearest to

him.



"Kid Fuller's goin' to cash," said a sandy-whiskered little

outlaw.



"So Jim was tellin' me. Blood-poison, ain't it? Thet hole

wasn't bad. But he took the fever," rejoined a comrade.



"Deger says the Kid might pull through if he hed nursin'."

"Wal, Kate Bland ain't nursin' any shot-up boys these days. She



hasn't got time."

A laugh followed this sally; then came a penetrating silence.



Some of the outlaws glanced good-naturedly at Duane. They bore

him no ill will. Manifestly they were aware of Mrs. Bland's



infatuation.

"Pete, 'pears to me you've said thet before."



"Shore. Wal, it's happened before."

This remark drew louder laughter and more significant glances



at Duane. He did not choose to ignore them any longer.

"Boys, poke all the fun you like at me, but don't mention any



lady's name again. My hand is nervous and itchy these days."

He smiled as he spoke, and his speech was drawled; but the good



humor in no wise weakened it. Then his latter remark was

significant to a class of men who from inclination and



necessity practiced at gun-drawing until they wore callous and

sore places on their thumbs and inculcated in the very deeps of



their nervous organization a habit that made even the simplest

and most innocentmotion of the hand end at or near the hip.



There was something remarkable about a gun-fighter's hand. It

never seemed to be gloved, never to be injured, never out of



sight or in an awkward position.

There were grizzled outlaws in that group, some of whom had



many notches on their gun-handles, and they, with their

comrades, accorded Duane silence that carried conviction of the



regard in which he was held.

Duane could not recall any other instance where he had let fall



a familiar speech to these men, and certainly he had never

before hinted of his possibilities. He saw instantly that he



could not have done better.

"Orful hot, ain't it?" remarked Bill Black, presently. Bill



could not keep quiet for long. He was a typical Texas

desperado, had never been anything else. He was



stoop-shouldered and bow-legged from much riding; a wiry little

man, all muscle, with a square head, a hard face partly black



from scrubby beard and red from sun, and a bright, roving,

cruel eye. His shirt was open at the neck, showing a grizzled



breast.

"Is there any guy in this heah outfit sport enough to go



swimmin'?" he asked.

"My Gawd, Bill, you ain't agoin' to wash!" exclaimed a comrade.



This raised a laugh in which Black joined. But no one seemed

eager to join him in a bath.



"Laziest outfit I ever rustled with," went on Bill,

discontentedly. "Nuthin' to do! Say, if nobody wants to swim






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