“I heerd you was a damn bad man with a gun.”

This time Duane laughed, not at the doubtful compliment, but at the idea that the first outlaw he met should know him. Here was proof of how swiftly facts about gun-play traveled on the Texas border.

“Wal, Buck,” said Stevens, in a friendly manner, “I ain’t presumin’ on your time or company. I see you’re headin’ fer the river. But will you stop long enough to stake a feller to a bite of grub?”

“I’m out of grub, and pretty hungry myself,” admitted Duane.

“Been pushin’ your hoss, I see. Wal, I reckon you’d better stock up before you hit thet stretch of country.”

He made a wide sweep of his right arm, indicating the southwest, and there was that in his action which seemed significant of a vast and barren region.

“Stock up?” queried Duane, thoughtfully.

“Shore. A feller has jest got to eat. I can rustle along without whisky, but not without grub. Thet’s what makes it so embarrassin’ travelin’ these parts dodgin’ your shadow. Now, I’m on my way to Mercer. It’s a little two-bit town up the river a ways. I’m goin’ to pack out some grub.”

Stevens’s tone was inviting. Evidently he would welcome Duane’s companionship, but he did not openly say so. Duane kept silence, however, and then Stevens went on.

“Stranger, in this here country two’s a crowd. It’s safer. 1 never was much on this lone-wolf dodgin’, though I’ve done it of necessity. It takes a damn good man to travel alone any length of time. Why, I’ve been thet sick I was jest achin’ fer some ranger to come along an’ plug me. Give me a pardner any day. Now, mebbe you’re not thet kind of a feller, an’ I’m shore not presumin’ to ask. But I just declares myself sufficient.”

“You mean you’d like me to go with you?” asked Duane.

Stevens grinned. “Wal, I should smile. I’d be particular proud to be braced with a man of your reputation.”

“See here, my good fellow, that’s all nonsense,” declared Duane, in some haste.

“Shore I think modesty becomin’ to a youngster,” replied Stevens. “I hate a brag. An’ I’ve no use fer these four-flush cowboys thet ‘re always lookin’ fer trouble an’ talkin’ gun-play. Buck, I don’t know much about you. But every man who’s lived along the Texas border remembers a lot about your Dad. It was expected of you, I reckon, an’ much of your rep was established before you thronged your gun. I jest heerd thet you was lightnin’ on the draw, an’ when you cut loose with a gun, why the figger on the ace of spades would cover your cluster of bullet-holes. Thet’s the word thet’s gone down the border. It’s the kind of reputation most sure to fly far an’ swift ahead of a man in this country.