"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. An' the safest, too; I'll gamble on
thet. It's the land of the draw. I see now you're only a boy,
though you're shore a strappin' husky one. Now, Buck, I'm not a
spring chicken, an' I've been long on the dodge. Mebbe a little
of my society won't hurt you none. You'll need to learn the
country."

There was something sincere and likable about this outlaw.

"I dare say you're right," replied Duane, quietly. "And I'll go
to Mercer with you."

Next moment he was riding down the road with Stevens. Duane had
never been much of a talker, and now he found speech difficult.
But his companion did not seem to mind that. He was a jocose,
voluble fellow, probably glad now to hear the sound of his own