Next moment he was riding down the road with Stevens. Duane had never been much of a talker, and now he found speech difficult. But his companion did not seem to mind that. He was a jocose, voluble fellow, probably glad now to hear the sound of his own voice. Duane listened, and sometimes he thought with a pang of the distinction of name and heritage of blood his father had left to him.
CHAPTER III
Late that day, a couple of hours before sunset, Duane and Stevens, having rested their horses in the shade of some mesquites near the town of Mercer, saddled up and prepared to move.
“Buck, as we're lookin' fer grub, an' not trouble, I reckon you'd better hang up out here,” Stevens was saying, as he mounted. “You see, towns an' sheriffs an' rangers are always lookin' fer new fellers gone bad. They sort of forget most of the old boys, except those as are plumb bad. Now, nobody in Mercer will take notice of me. Reckon there's been a thousand men run into the river country to become outlaws since yours truly. You jest wait here an' be ready to ride hard. Mebbe my besettin' sin will go operatin' in spite of my good intentions. In which case there'll be—”
His pause was significant. He grinned, and his brown eyes danced with a kind of wild humor.
“Stevens, have you got any money?” asked Duane.
“Money!” exclaimed Luke, blankly. “Say, I haven't owned a two-bit piece since—wal, fer some time.”
“I'll furnish money for grub,” returned Duane. “And for whisky, too, providing you hurry back here—without making trouble.”
“Shore you're a downright good pard,” declared Stevens, in admiration, as he took the money. “I give my word, Buck, an' I'm here to say I never broke it yet. Lay low, an' look fer me back quick.”