left. He never wore a glove on that right hand!
He had dismounted before a ramshackle structure that bore upon its wide, high-boarded front the sign, 'Hotel.' There were horsemen coming and going down the wide street between its rows of old stores, saloons, and houses. Ord certainly did not look enterprising. Americans had manifestly assimilated much of the leisure of the Mexicans. The hotel had a wide platform in front, and this did duty as porch and sidewalk. Upon it, and leaning against a hitching-rail, were men of varying ages, most of them slovenly in old jeans and slouched sombreros. Some were booted, belted, and spurred. No man there wore a coat, but all wore vests. The guns in that group would have outnumbered the men.
It was a crowd seemingly too lazy to be curious. Good nature did not appear to be wanting, but it was not the frank and boisterous kind natural to the cowboy or rancher in town for a day. These men were idlers; what else, perhaps, was easy to conjecture. Certainly to this arriving stranger, who flashed a keen eye over them, they wore an atmosphere never associated with work.
Presently a tall man, with a drooping, sandy mustache, leisurely detached himself from the crowd.
'Howdy, stranger,' he said.
The stranger had bent over to loosen the cinches; he straightened up and nodded. Then: 'I'm thirsty!'
That brought a broad smile to faces. It was characteristic greeting. One and all trooped after the stranger into the hotel. It was a dark, ill-smelling barn of a place, with a bar as high as a short man's head. A bartender with a scarred face was serving drinks.
'Line up, gents,' said the stranger.
They piled over one another to get to the bar, with coarse jests and oaths and laughter. None of them noted that the stranger did not appear so thirsty as he had claimed to be. In fact, though he went through the motions, he did not drink at all.
'My name's Jim Fletcher,' said the tall man with the drooping, sandy mustache. He spoke laconically, nevertheless there was a tone that showed he expected to be known. Something went with that name. The stranger did not appear to be impressed.
'My name might be Blazes, but it ain't,' he replied. 'What do you call this burg?'
'Stranger, this heah me-tropoles bears the handle Ord. Is thet new to you?'
He leaned back against the bar, and now his little yellow eyes, clear as crystal, flawless as a hawk's, fixed on the stranger. Other men crowded close, forming a circle, curious, ready to be friendly or otherwise, according to how the tall interrogator marked the new-comer.
'Sure, Ord's a little strange to me. Off the railroad some, ain't it? Funny trails hereabouts.'
'How fur was you goin'?'
'I reckon I was goin' as far as I could,' replied the stranger, with a hard laugh.
His reply had subtle reaction on that listening circle. Some of the men exchanged glances. Fletcher stroked his drooping mustache, seemed thoughtful, but lost something of that piercing scrutiny.
'Wal, Ord's the jumpin'-off place,' he said, presently. 'Sure you've heerd of the Big Bend country?'
'I sure have, an' was makin' tracks fer it,' replied the stranger.
Fletcher turned toward a man in the outer edge of the group. 'Knell, come in heah.'
This individual elbowed his way in and was seen to be scarcely more than a boy, almost pale beside those bronzed men, with a long, expressionless face, thin and sharp.
'Knell, this heah's–' Fletcher wheeled to the stranger. 'What'd you call yourself?'
'I'd hate to mention what I've been callin' myself lately.'
This sally fetched another laugh. The stranger appeared cool, careless, indifferent. Perhaps he knew, as the others present knew, that this show of Fletcher's, this pretense of introduction, was merely talk while he was looked over.
Knell stepped up, and it was easy to see, from the way Fletcher relinquished his part in the situation, that a man greater than he had appeared upon the scene.
'Any business here?' he queried, curtly. When he spoke his expressionless face was in strange contrast with the ring, the quality, the cruelty of his voice. This voice betrayed an absence of humor, of friendliness, of heart.
'Nope,' replied the stranger.
'Know anybody hereabouts?'
'Nary one.'
'Jest ridin' through?'
'Yep.'
'Slopin' fer back country, eh?'
There came a pause. The stranger appeared to grow a little resentful and drew himself up disdainfully.
'Wal, considerin' you-all seem so damn friendly an' oncurious down here in this Big Bend country, I don't mind sayin' yes–I am in on the dodge,' he replied, with deliberate sarcasm.
'From west of Ord–out El Paso way, mebbe?'
'Sure.'
'A-huh! Thet so?' Knell's words cut the air, stilled the room. 'You're from way down the river. Thet's what they say down there–'on the dodge.' ... Stranger, you're a liar!'
With swift clink of spur and thump of boot the crowd split, leaving Knell and the stranger in the center.
Wild breed of that ilk never made a mistake in judging a man's nerve. Knell had cut out with the trenchant call, and stood ready. The stranger suddenly lost his every semblance to the rough and easy character before manifest in him. He became bronze. That situation seemed familiar to him. His eyes held a singular piercing light that danced like a compass-needle.
'Sure I lied,' he said; 'so I ain't takin' offense at the way you called me. I'm lookin' to make friends, not enemies. You don't strike me as one of them four-flushes, achin' to kill somebody. But if you are–go ahead an' open the ball.... You see, I never throw a gun on them fellers till they go fer theirs.'
Knell coolly eyed his antagonist, his strange face not changing in the least. Yet somehow it was evident in his look that here was metal which rang differently from what he had expected. Invited to start a fight or withdraw, as he chose, Knell proved himself big in the manner characteristic of only the genuine gunman.
'Stranger, I pass,' he said, and, turning to the bar, he ordered liquor.
The tension relaxed, the silence broke, the men filled up the gap; the incident seemed closed. Jim Fletcher attached himself to the stranger, and now both respect and friendliness tempered his asperity.
'Wal, fer want of a better handle I'll call you Dodge,' he said.
'Dodge's as good as any.... Gents, line up again–an' if you can't be friendly, be careful!'
Such was Buck Duane's debut in the little outlaw hamlet of Ord.
Duane had been three months out of the Nueces country. At El Paso he bought the finest horse he could find, and, armed and otherwise outfitted to suit him, he had taken to unknown trails. Leisurely he rode from town to town, village to village, ranch to ranch, fitting his talk and his occupation to the impression he wanted to make upon different people whom he met. He was in turn a cowboy, a rancher, a cattleman, a stock-buyer, a boomer, a land- hunter; and long before he reached the wild and inhospitable Ord he had acted the part of an outlaw, drifting into new territory. He passed on leisurely because he wanted to learn the lay of the country, the location of villages and ranches, the work, habit, gossip, pleasures, and fears of the people with whom he came in contact. The one subject most impelling to him–outlaws–he never mentioned; but by talking all around it, sifting the old ranch and cattle story, he acquired a knowledge calculated to aid his plot. In this game time was of no moment; if necessary he would take years to accomplish his task. The stupendous and perilous nature of it showed in the slow, wary preparation. When he heard Fletcher's name and faced Knell he knew he had reached the place he sought. Ord was a hamlet on the fringe of the grazing country, of doubtful honesty, from which, surely, winding trails led down into that free and never-disturbed paradise of outlaws–the Big Bend.
Duane made himself agreeable, yet not too much so, to Fletcher and several other men disposed to talk and drink and eat; and then, after having a care for his horse, he rode out of town a couple of miles to a grove he had marked, and there, well hidden, he prepared to spend the night. This proceeding served a double purpose–he was safer, and the habit would look well in the eyes of outlaws, who would be more inclined to see in him the lone-wolf fugitive.
Long since Duane had fought out a battle with himself, won a hard-earned victory. His outer life, the action, was much the same as it had been; but the inner life had tremendously changed. He could never become a happy
