," 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.

There were grizzled outlaws in that group, some of whom had many notches
on their gun-handles, and they, with their comrades, accorded Duane
silence that carried conviction of the regard in which he was held.

Duane could not recall any other instance where he had let fall a
familiar speech to these men, and certainly he had never before hinted
of his possibilities. He saw instantly that he could not have done
better.

"Orful hot, ain't it?" remarked Bill Black, presently. Bill could not
keep quiet for long. He was a typical Texas desperado, had never been
anything else. He was stoop-shouldered and bow-legged from much riding;
a wiry little man, all muscle, with a square head, a hard face partly
black from scrubby beard and red from sun, and a bright, roving, cruel
eye. His shirt was open at the neck, showing a grizzled breast.

"Is there any guy in this heah outfit sport enough to go swimmin'?" he
asked.

"My Gawd, Bill, you ain't agoin' to wash!" exclaimed a comrade.

This raised a laugh in which Black joined. But no o