re you a son of that
Duane who was a gunfighter some years back?"

"Yes," replied Duane.

"Never met him, and glad I didn't," said Bland, with a grim humor. "So
you got in trouble and had to go on the dodge? What kind of trouble?"

"Had a fight."

"Fight? Do you mean gun-play?" questioned Bland. He seemed eager,
curious, speculative.

"Yes. It ended in gun-play, I'm sorry to say," answered Duane.

"Guess I needn't ask the son of Duane if he killed his man," went on
Bland, ironically. "Well, I'm sorry you bucked against trouble in my
camp. But as it is, I guess you'd be wise to make yourself scarce."

"Do you mean I'm politely told to move on?" asked Duane, quietly.

"Not exactly that," said Bland, as if irritated. "If this isn't a free
place there isn't one on earth. Every man is equal here. Do you want to
join my band?"

"No, I don't."

"Well, even if you did I imagine that wouldn't stop Bosomer. He's an
ugly fellow. He's one of the few gunmen I've met who wants to kill
somebody all the time. Most men like that are fourflushes. But Bosomer
is all one color, and that's red. Merely for your own sake I advise you
to hit the trail."

"Thanks. But if that's all I'll stay," returned Duane. Even as he spoke
he felt that he did not know himself.

Bosomer appeared at the door, pushing men who tried to detain him, and
as he jumped clear of a last reaching hand he uttered a snarl like an
angry dog. Manifestly the short while he had spent inside the saloon had
been devoted to drinking and talking himself into a frenzy. Bland and
the other outlaws quickly moved aside, letting Duane stand alone. When
Bosomer saw Duane standing motionless and watchful a strange change
passed quickly in him. He halted in his tracks, and as he did that the
men who had followed him out piled over one another in their hurry to
get to one side.

Duane saw all the swift action, felt intuitively the meaning of it, and
in Bosomer's sudden change of front. The outlaw was keen, and he had
expected a shrinking, or at least a frightened antagonist. Duane knew he
was neither. He felt like iron, and yet thrill after thrill ran through
him. It was almost as if this situation had been one long familiar to
him. Somehow he understood this yellow-eyed Bosomer. The outlaw had
come out to kill him. And now, though somewhat checked by the stand of
a stranger, he still meant to kill. Like so many desperadoes of his
ilk, he was victim of a passion to kill f