“Sure. I know that,” Duane said. “And usually I don't talk. Then it's not well known that Longstreth owns the Hope So?”
“Reckon it's known in Pecos, all right. But Longstreth's name isn't connected with the Hope So. Blandy runs the place.”
“That Blandy. His faro game's crooked, or I'm a locoed bronch. Not that we don't have lots of crooked faro-dealers. A fellow can stand for them. But Blandy's mean, back-handed, never looks you in the eyes. That Hope So place ought to be run by a good fellow like you, Laramie.”
“Thanks,” replied he; and Duane imagined his voice a little husky. “Didn't you hear I used to run it?”
“No. Did you?” Duane said, quickly.
“I reckon. I built the place, made additions twice, owned it for eleven years.”
“Well, I'll be doggoned.” It was indeed Duane's turn to be surprised, and with the surprise came a glimmering. “I'm sorry you're not there now. Did you sell out?”
“No. Just lost the place.”
Laramie was bursting for relief now—to talk, to tell. Sympathy had made him soft.
“It was two years ago-two years last March,” he went on. “I was in a big cattle deal with Longstreth. We got the stock—an' my share, eighteen hundred head, was rustled off. I owed Longstreth. He pressed me. It come to a lawsuit—an' I—was ruined.”