These men lined up before Duane, and as he coolly regarded them he thought they could have been recognized anywhere as desperadoes. The man called Bosomer, who had stepped forward, had a forbidding face which showed yellow eyes, an enormous nose, and a skin the color of dust, with a thatch of sandy hair.
“Stranger, who are you an' where in the hell did you git thet bay hoss?” he demanded. His yellow eyes took in Stevens's horse, then the weapons hung on the saddle, and finally turned their glinting, hard light upward to Duane.
Duane did not like the tone in which he had been addressed, and he remained silent. At least half his mind seemed busy with curious interest in regard to something that leaped inside him and made his breast feel tight. He recognized it as that strange emotion which had shot through him often of late, and which had decided him to go out to the meeting with Bain. Only now it was different, more powerful.
“Stranger, who are you?” asked another man, somewhat more civilly.
“My name's Duane,” replied Duane, curtly.
“An' how'd you come by the hoss?”
Duane answered briefly, and his words were followed by a short silence, during which the men looked at him. Bosomer began to twist the ends of his beard.
“Reckon he's dead, all right, or nobody'd hev his hoss an' guns,” presently said Euchre.
“Mister Duane,” began Bosomer, in low, stinging tones, “I happen to be Luke Stevens's side-pardner.”
Duane looked him over, from dusty, worn-out boots to his slouchy sombrero. That look seemed to inflame Bosomer.