“Lively place, I hear—Fairdale is?”
“Ain't so lively as Sanderson, but it's bigger.”
“Yes, I heard it was. Fellow down there was talking about two cowboys who were arrested.”
“Sure. I heered all about that. Joe Bean an' Brick Higgins—they belong heah, but they ain't heah much. Longstreth's boys.”
Duane did not want to appear over-inquisitive, so he turned the talk into other channels.
After getting supper Duane strolled up and down the main street. When darkness set in he went into a hotel, bought cigars, sat around, and watched. Then he passed out and went into the next place. This was of rough crude exterior, but the inside was comparatively pretentious and ablaze with lights. It was full of men coming and going—a dusty-booted crowd that smelled of horses and smoke. Duane sat down for a while, with wide eyes and open ears. Then he hunted up the bar, where most of the guests had been or were going. He found a great square room lighted by six huge lamps, a bar at one side, and all the floor-space taken up by tables and chairs. This was the only gambling place of any size in southern Texas in which he had noted the absence of Mexicans. There was some card-playing going on at this moment. Duane stayed in there for a while, and knew that strangers were too common in Fairdale to be conspicuous. Then he returned to the inn where he had engaged a room.
Duane sat down on the steps of the dingy little restaurant. Two men were conversing inside, and they had not noticed Duane.
“Laramie, what's the stranger's name?” asked one.
“He didn't say,” replied the other.
“Sure was a strappin' big man. Struck me a little odd, he did. No cattleman, him. How'd you size him?”