and he heard, but did not reply. Then he began to stride down
the road toward the town.

Wellston was a small town, but important in that unsettled part
of the great state because it was the trading-center of several
hundred miles of territory. On the main street there were
perhaps fifty buildings, some brick, some frame, mostly adobe,
and one-third of the lot, and by far the most prosperous, were
saloons. From the road Duane turned into this street. It was a
wide thoroughfare lined by hitching-rails and saddled horses
and vehicles of various kinds. Duane's eye ranged down the
street, taking in all at a glance, particularly persons moving
leisurely up and down. Not a cowboy was in sight. Duane
slackened his stride, and by the time he reached Sol White's
place, which was the first saloon, he was walking slowly.
Several people spoke to him and turned to look back after they
had passed. He paused at the door of White's saloon, took a
sharp survey of the interior, then stepped inside.

The saloon was large and cool, full of men and noise and smoke.
The noise ceased upon his entrance, and the silence ensuing
presently broke to the clink of Mexican silver dollars at a
monte table. Sol White, who was behind the bar, straightened up
when he saw Duane; then, without speaking, he bent over to
rinse a glass. All eyes except those of the Mexican gamblers
were turned upon Duane; and these glances were keen,
speculative, questioning. These men knew Bain was looking for
trouble; they probably had heard his boasts. But what did Duane
intend to do? Several of the cowboys and ranchers present
exchanged glances. Duane had been weighed by unerring Texas