“Ferry couldn't run ashore this mornin',” said Euchre. “River gettin' low an' sand-bars makin' it hard fer hosses. There's a greaser freight-wagon stuck in the mud. I reckon we might hear news from the freighters. Bland's supposed to be in Mexico.” Nearly all the outlaws in camp were assembled on the riverbank, lolling in the shade of the cottonwoods. The heat was oppressive. Not an outlaw offered to help the freighters, who were trying to dig a heavily freighted wagon out of the quicksand. Few outlaws would work for themselves, let alone for the despised Mexicans. Duane and Euchre joined the lazy group and sat down with them. Euchre lighted a black pipe, and, drawing his hat over his eyes, lay back in comfort after the manner of the majority of the outlaws. But Duane was alert, observing, thoughtful. He never missed anything. It was his belief that any moment an idle word might be of benefit to him. Moreover, these rough men were always interesting. “Bland's been chased across the river,” said one. “New, he's deliverin' cattle to thet Cuban ship,” replied another. “Big deal on, hey?” “Some big. Rugg says the boss hed an order fer fifteen thousand.” “Say, that order'll take a year to fill.” “New. Hardin is in cahoots with Bland. Between 'em they'll fill orders bigger 'n thet.” “Wondered what Hardin was rustlin' in here fer.” Duane could not possibly attend to all the conversation among the outlaws. He endeavored to get the drift of talk nearest to him. “Kid Fuller's goin' to cash,” said a sandy-whiskered little outlaw. “So Jim was tellin' me. Blood-poison, ain't it? Thet hole wasn't bad. But he took the fever,” rejoined a comrade. “Deger says the Kid might pull through if he hed nursin'.” “Wal, Kate Bland ain't nursin' any shot-up boys these days. She hasn't got time.” A laugh followed this sally; then came a penetrating silence. Some of the outlaws glanced good-naturedly at Duane. They bore him no ill will. Manifestly they were aware of Mrs. Bland's infatuation. “Pete, 'pears to me you've said thet before.” “Shore. Wal, it's happened before.” This remark drew louder laughter and more significant glances at Duane. He did not choose to ignore them any longer. “Boys, poke all the fun you like at me, but don't mention any lady's name again. My hand is nervous and itchy these days.” He smiled as he spoke, and his speech was drawled; but the good humor in no wise weakened it. Then his latter remark was significant to a class of men who from inclination and necessity practiced at gun-drawing until they wore callous and sore places on their thumbs and inculcated in the very deeps of their nervous organization a habit that made even the simplest and most innocent motion of the hand end at or near the hip. There was something remarkable about a gun-fighter's hand. It never seemed to be gloved, never to be injured, never out of sight or in an awkward position.