instinct, by men who all packed guns. The boy was the son of
his father. Whereupon they greeted him and returned to their
drinks and cards. Sol White stood with his big red hands out
upon the bar; he was a tall, raw-boned Texan with a long
mustache waxed to sharp points.

"Howdy, Buck," was his greeting to Duane. He spoke carelessly
and averted his dark gaze for an instant.

"Howdy, Sol," replied Duane, slowly. "Say, Sol, I hear there's
a gent in town looking for me bad."

"Reckon there is, Buck," replied White. "He came in heah aboot
an hour ago. Shore he was some riled an' a-roarin' for gore.
Told me confidential a certain party had given you a white silk
scarf, an' he was hell-bent on wearin' it home spotted red."

"Anybody with him?" queried Duane.

"Burt an' Sam Outcalt an' a little cowpuncher I never seen
before. They-all was coaxin' trim to leave town. But he's
looked on the flowin' glass, Buck, an' he's heah for keeps."

"Why doesn't Sheriff Oaks lock him up if he's that bad?"

"Oaks went away with the rangers. There's been another raid at
Flesher's ranch. The King Fisher gang, likely. An' so the
town's shore wide open."

Duane stalked outdoors and faced down the street. He walked the