“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.
“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. “Are you a son of that Duane who was a gunfighter some years back?”
“Never met him, and glad I didn't,” said Bland, with a grim humor. “So you got in trouble and had to go on the dodge? What kind of trouble?”
“Fight? Do you mean gun-play?” questioned Bland. He seemed eager, curious, speculative.
“Yes. It ended in gun-play, I'm sorry to say,” answered Duane.
“Guess I needn't ask the son of Duane if he killed his man,” went on Bland, ironically. “Well, I'm sorry you bucked against trouble in my camp. But as it is, I guess you'd be wise to make yourself scarce.”
“Do you mean I'm politely told to move on?” asked Duane, quietly.
“Not exactly that,” said Bland, as if irritated. “If this isn't a free place there isn't one on earth. Every man is equal here. Do you want to join my band?”
“Well, even if you did I imagine that wouldn't stop Bosomer. He's an ugly fellow. He's one of the few gunmen I've met who wants to kill somebody all the time. Most men like that are fourflushes. But Bosomer is all one color, and that's red. Merely for your own sake I advise you to hit the trail.”