When the heat of the day began to be oppressive, and hunger and thirst made themselves manifest, Duane began to look about him for a place to halt for the noon-hours. The trail led into a road which was hard packed and smooth from the tracks of cattle. He doubted not that he had come across one of the roads used by border raiders. He headed into it, and had scarcely traveled a mile when, turning a curve, he came point-blank upon a single horseman riding toward him. Both riders wheeled their mounts sharply and were ready to run and shoot back. Not more than a hundred paces separated them. They stood then for a moment watching each other. “Mawnin', stranger,” called the man, dropping his hand from his hip. “Howdy,” replied Duane, shortly. They rode toward each other, closing half the gap, then they halted again. “I seen you ain't no ranger,” called the rider, “an' shore I ain't none.” He laughed loudly, as if he had made a joke. “How'd you know I wasn't a ranger?” asked Duane, curiously. Somehow he had instantly divined that his horseman was no officer, or even a rancher trailing stolen stock. “Wal,” said the fellow, starting his horse forward at a walk, “a ranger'd never git ready to run the other way from one man.” He laughed again. He was small and wiry, slouchy of attire, and armed to the teeth, and he bestrode a fine bay horse. He had quick, dancing brown eyes, at once frank and bold, and a coarse, bronzed face. Evidently he was a good-natured ruffian. Duane acknowledged the truth of the assertion, and turned over in his mind how shrewdly the fellow had guessed him to be a hunted man. “My name's Luke Stevens, an' I hail from the river. Who're you?” said this stranger. Duane was silent. “I reckon you're Buck Duane,” went on Stevens. “I heerd you was a damn bad man with a gun.” This time Duane laughed, not at the doubtful compliment, but at the idea that the first outlaw he met should know him. Here was proof of how swiftly facts about gun-play traveled on the Texas border. “Wal, Buck,” said Stevens, in a friendly manner, “I ain't presumin' on your time or company. I see you're headin' fer the river. But will you stop long enough to stake a feller to a bite of grub?” “I'm out of grub, and pretty hungry myself,” admitted Duane. “Been pushin' your hoss, I see. Wal, I reckon you'd better stock up before you hit thet stretch of country.” He made a wide sweep of his right arm, indicating the southwest, and there was that in his action which seemed significant of a vast and barren region. “Stock up?” queried Duane, thoughtfully. “Shore. A feller has jest got to eat. I can rustle along without whisky, but not without grub. Thet's what makes it so embarrassin' travelin' these parts dodgin' your shadow. Now, I'm on my way to Mercer. It's a little two-bit town up the river a ways. I'm goin' to pack out some grub.”