XVII. IN THE BAD LANDS
XVIII. "WIN"
XIX. THE END OF THE TRAIL




THE TEXAN


A PROLOGUE

Exactly twenty minutes after young Benton dismounted from his big rangy
black before the door of a low adobe saloon that fronted upon one of the
narrow crooked streets of old Las Vegas, he glanced into the eyes of the
thin-lipped croupier and laughed. "You've got 'em. Seventy-four good
old Texas dollars." He held up a coin between his thumb and forefinger.
"I've got another one left, an' your boss is goin' to get that, too--but
he's goin' to get it in legitimate barter an' trade."

As the cowpuncher stepped to the bar that occupied one side of the room,
a group of Mexicans who had lounged back at his entrance crowded once
more about the wheel and began noisily to place their bets. He watched
them for a moment before turning his attention to the heavy-lidded,
flabby-jowled person who leaned ponderously against the sober side of the
bar.

"Who owns this joint?" he asked truculently, as he eyed with disfavour
the filthy shirt-sleeves rolled back from thick forearms, the sagging
vest, and the collarless shirt-band that buried itself in a fold of the