armed to the teeth, and he bestrode a fine bay horse. He had
quick, dancing brown eyes, at once frank and bold, and a
coarse, bronzed face. Evidently he was a good-natured ruffian.

Duane acknowledged the truth of the assertion, and turned over
in his mind how shrewdly the fellow had guessed him to be a
hunted man.

"My name's Luke Stevens, an' I hail from the river. Who're
you?" said this stranger.

Duane was silent.

"I reckon you're Buck Duane," went on Stevens. "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."