The big cowboy seemed to vibrate with a shock. All the ruddy warmth left his face; his jaw began to bulge; the corded veins in his neck stood out in knots. In an instant he had a hard, stern, strange look. He shot out a powerful hand that fastened in the front of Duane's blouse.
“Somethin' queer here. But if you're Duane you're sure in bad. Any fool ought to know that. You mean it, then?”
“Yes.”
“Rode in to shoot up the town, eh? Same old stunt of you gunfighters? Meant to kill the man who offered a reward? Wanted to see Jeff Aiken bad, huh?”
“No,” replied Duane. “Your citizen here misrepresented things. He seems a little off his head.”
“Reckon he is. Somebody is, that's sure. You claim Buck Duane, then, an' all his doings?”
“I'm Duane; yes. But I won't stand for the blame of things I never did. That's why I'm here. I saw that placard out there offering the reward. Until now I never was within half a day's ride of this town. I'm blamed for what I never did. I rode in here, told who I was, asked somebody to send for Jeff Aiken.”
“An' then you set down an' let this old guy throw your own gun on you?” queried the cowboy in amazement.
“I guess that's it,” replied Duane.
“Well, it's powerful strange, if you're really Buck Duane.”