CHAPTER XVII
Duane left the hall, elbowed his way through the crowd, and went down the street. He was certain that on the faces of some men he had seen ill-concealed wonder and satisfaction. He had struck some kind of a hot trait, and he meant to see where it led. It was by no means unlikely that Cheseldine might be at the other end. Duane controlled a mounting eagerness. But ever and anon it was shot through with a remembrance of Ray Longstreth. He suspected her father of being not what he pretended. He might, very probably would, bring sorrow and shame to this young woman. The thought made him smart with pain. She began to haunt him, and then he was thinking more of her beauty and sweetness than of the disgrace he might bring upon her. Some strange emotion, long locked inside Duane's heart, knocked to be heard, to be let out. He was troubled.
Upon returning to the inn he found Laramie there, apparently none the worse for his injury.
“How are you, Laramie?” he asked.
“Reckon I'm feelin' as well as could be expected,” replied Laramie. His head was circled by a bandage that did not conceal the lump where he had been struck. He looked pale, but was bright enough.
“That was a good crack Snecker gave you,” remarked Duane.
“I ain't accusin' Bo,” remonstrated Laramie, with eyes that made Duane thoughtful.
“Well, I accuse him. I caught him—took him to Longstreth's court. But they let him go.”
Laramie appeared to be agitated by this intimation of friendship.