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.