But Bland–I knowed Bland fer years. An’ I haven’t any use fer him. Bland has the biggest gang. You ain’t likely to miss strikin’ his place sometime or other. He’s got a regular town, I might say. Shore there’s some gamblin’ an’ gun-fightin’ goin’ on at Bland’s camp all the time. Bland has killed some twenty men, an’ thet’s not countin’ greasers.”

Here Stevens took another drink and then rested for a while.

“You ain’t likely to get on with Bland,” he resumed, presently. “You’re too strappin’ big an’ good-lookin’ to please the chief. Fer he’s got women in his camp. Then he’d be jealous of your possibilities with a gun. Shore I reckon he’d be careful, though. Bland’s no fool, an’ he loves his hide. I reckon any of the other gangs would be better fer you when you ain’t goin’ it alone.”

Apparently that exhausted the fund of information and advice Stevens had been eager to impart. He lapsed into silence and lay with closed eyes. Meanwhile the sun rose warm; the breeze waved the mesquites; the birds came down to splash in the shallow stream; Duane dozed in a comfortable seat. By and by something roused him. Stevens was once more talking, but with a changed tone.

“Feller’s name–was Brown,” he rambled. “We fell out–over a hoss I stole from him–in Huntsville. He stole it fuss. Brown’s one of them sneaks–afraid of the open–he steals an’ pretends to be honest. Say, Buck, mebbe you’ll meet Brown some day–You an’ me are pards now.”

“I’ll remember, if I ever meet him,” said Duane.

That seemed to satisfy the outlaw. Presently he tried to lift his head, but had not the strength. A strange shade was creeping across the bronzed rough face.

“My feet are pretty heavy. Shore you got my boots off?”

Duane held them up, but was not certain that Stevens could see them. The outlaw closed his eyes again and muttered incoherently. Then he fell asleep. Duane believed that sleep was final. The day passed, with Duane watching and waiting. Toward sundown Stevens awoke, and his eyes seemed clearer. Duane went to get some fresh water, thinking his comrade would surely want some. When he returned Stevens made no sign that he wanted anything. There was something bright about him, and suddenly Duane realized what it meant.

“Pard, you–stuck–to me!” the outlaw whispered.

Duane caught a hint of gladness in the voice; he traced a faint surprise in the haggard face. Stevens seemed like a little child.

To Duane the moment was sad, elemental, big, with a burden of mystery he could not understand.

Duane buried him in a shallow arroyo and heaped up a pile of stones to mark the grave. That done, he saddled his comrade’s horse, hung the weapons over the pommel; and, mounting his own steed, he rode down the trail in the gathering twilight.

The Lone Star Ranger

CHAPTER IV

Two days later, about the middle of the forenoon, Duane dragged the two horses up the last ascent of an exceedingly rough trail and found himself on top of the Rim Rock, with a beautiful green valley at his feet, the yellow, sluggish Rio Grande shining in the sun, and the great, wild, mountainous barren of Mexico stretching to the south.

Duane had not fallen in with any travelers.