“Wal, I reckon I do,” he replied, looking as if a storm had blown over him. “Stranger, I'll look you up the next time I come to town.”
Then he went out.
Laramie had eyes like flint striking fire.
He breathed a deep breath and looked around the room before his gaze fixed again on Duane.
“Wal,” he replied, speaking low. “You've picked the right men. Now, who in the hell are you?”
Reaching into the inside pocket of his buckskin vest, Duane turned the lining out. A star-shaped bright silver object flashed as he shoved it, pocket and all, under Jim's hard eyes.
“RANGER!” he whispered, cracking the table with his fist. “You sure rung true to me.”
“Laramie, do you know who's boss of this secret gang of rustlers hereabouts?” asked Duane, bluntly. It was characteristic of him to come sharp to the point. His voice—something deep, easy, cool about him—seemed to steady Laramie.
“No,” replied Laramie.
“Does anybody know?” went on Duane.