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