two-bit piece since--wal, fer some time."

"I'll furnish money for grub," returned Duane. "And for whisky,
too, providing you hurry back here--without making trouble."

"Shore you're a downright good pard," declared Stevens, in
admiration, as he took the money. "I give my word, Buck, an'
I'm here to say I never broke it yet. Lay low, an' look fer me
back quick."

With that he spurred his horse and rode out of the mesquites
toward the town. At that distance, about a quarter of a mile,
Mercer appeared to be a cluster of low adobe houses set in a
grove of cottonwoods. Pastures of alfalfa were dotted by horses
and cattle. Duane saw a sheep-herder driving in a meager flock.

Presently Stevens rode out of sight into the town. Duane
waited, hoping the outlaw would make good his word. Probably
not a quarter of an hour had elapsed when Duane heard the clear
reports of a Winchester rifle, the clatter of rapid hoof-beats,
and yells unmistakably the kind to mean danger for a man like
Stevens. Duane mounted and rode to the edge of the mesquites.

He saw a cloud of dust down the road and a bay horse running
fast. Stevens apparently had not been wounded by any of the
shots, for he had a steady seat in his saddle and his riding,
even at that moment, struck Duane as admirable. He carried a
large pack over the pommel, and he kept looking back. The shots
had ceased, but the yells increased. Duane saw several men
running and waving their arms. Then he spurred his horse and