“No.”
“When your money's gone how'n hell will you live? There ain't any work a decent feller could do. You can't herd with greasers. Why, Bland's men would shoot at you in the fields. What'll you do, son?”
“God knows,” replied Duane, hopelessly. “I'll make my money last as long as possible—then starve.”
“Wal, I'm pretty pore, but you'll never starve while I got anythin'.”
Here it struck Duane again—that something human and kind and eager which he had seen in Stevens. Duane's estimate of outlaws had lacked this quality. He had not accorded them any virtues. To him, as to the outside world, they had been merely vicious men without one redeeming feature.
“I'm much obliged to you, Euchre,” replied Duane. “But of course I won't live with any one unless I can pay my share.”
“Have it any way you like, my son,” said Euchre, good-humoredly. “You make a fire, an' I'll set about gettin' grub. I'm a sourdough, Buck. Thet man doesn't live who can beat my bread.”
“How do you ever pack supplies in here?” asked Duane, thinking of the almost inaccessible nature of the valley.
“Some comes across from Mexico, an' the rest down the river. Thet river trip is a bird. It's more'n five hundred miles to any supply point. Bland has mozos, greaser boatmen. Sometimes, too, he gets supplies in from down-river. You see, Bland sells thousands of cattle in Cuba. An' all this stock has to go down by boat to meet the ships.”
“Where on earth are the cattle driven down to the river?” asked Duane.