Of the outlaws present Euchre appeared to be the one most inclined to lend friendliness to curiosity; and he led Duane and the horses away to a small adobe shack. He tied the horses in an open shed and removed their saddles. Then, gathering up Stevens's weapons, he invited his visitor to enter the house.
It had two rooms--windows without coverings--bare floors. One room contained blankets, weapons, saddles, and bridles; the other a stone fireplace, rude table and bench, two bunks, a box cupboard, and various blackened utensils.
"Make yourself to home as long as you want to stay," said Euchre. "I ain't rich in this world's goods, but I own what's here, an' you're welcome.""Thanks. I'll stay awhile and rest. I'm pretty well played out," replied Duane.
Euchre gave him a keen glance.
"Go ahead an' rest. I'll take your horses to grass."Euchre left Duane alone in the house. Duane relaxed then, and mechanically he wiped the sweat from his face. He was laboring under some kind of a spell or shock which did not pass off quickly. When it had worn away he took off his coat and belt and made himself comfortable on the blankets. And he had a thought that if he rested or slept what difference would it make on the morrow? No rest, no sleep could change the gray outlook of the future. He felt glad when Euchre came bustling in, and for the first time he took notice of the outlaw.
Euchre was old in years. What little hair he had was gray, his face clean-shaven and full of wrinkles; his eyes were half shut from long gazing through the sun and dust. He stooped. But his thin frame denoted strength and endurance still unimpaired.
"Hey a drink or a smoke?" he asked.
Duane shook his head. He had not been unfamiliar with whisky, and he had used tobacco moderately since he was sixteen. But now, strangely, he felt a disgust at the idea of stimulants. He did not understand clearly what he felt. There was that vague idea of something wild in his blood, something that made him fear himself.
Euchre wagged his old head sympathetically. "Reckon you feel a little sick. When it comes to shootin' I run. What's your age?""I'm twenty-three," replied Duane.
Euchre showed surprise. "You're only a boy! I thought you thirty anyways. Buck, I heard what you told Bland, an' puttin' thet with my own figgerin', I reckon you're no criminal yet.
Throwin' a gun in self-defense--thet ain't no crime!"Duane, finding relief in talking, told more about himself.
"Huh," replied the old man. "I've been on this river fer years, an' I've seen hundreds of boys come in on the dodge. Most of them, though, was no good. An' thet kind don't last long. This river country has been an' is the refuge fer criminals from all over the states. I've bunked with bank cashiers, forgers, plain thieves, an' out-an'-out murderers, all of which had no bizness on the Texas border. Fellers like Bland are exceptions. He's no Texan--you seen thet. The gang he rules here come from all over, an' they're tough cusses, you can bet on thet. They live fat an' easy. If it wasn't fer the fightin' among themselves they'd shore grow populous. The Rim Rock is no place for a peaceable, decent feller. I heard you tell Bland you wouldn't join his gang. Thet'll not make him take a likin' to you. Have you any money?""Not much," replied Duane.
"Could you live by gamblin'? Are you any good at cards?""No."
"You wouldn't steal hosses or rustle cattle?""No."
"When your money's gone how'n hell will you live? There ain't any work a decent feller could do. You can't herd with greasers. Why, Bland's men would shoot at you in the fields.
What'll you do, son?"
"God knows," replied Duane, hopelessly. "I'll make my money last as long as possible--then starve.""Wal, I'm pretty pore, but you'll never starve while I got anythin'."Here it struck Duane again--that something human and kind and eager which he had seen in Stevens. Duane's estimate of outlaws had lacked this quality. He had not accorded them any virtues.
To him, as to the outside world, they had been merely vicious men without one redeeming feature.
"I'm much obliged to you, Euchre," replied Duane. "But of course I won't live with any one unless I can pay my share.""Have it any way you like, my son," said Euchre, good-humoredly. "You make a fire, an' I'll set about gettin' grub. I'm a sourdough, Buck. Thet man doesn't live who can beat my bread.""How do you ever pack supplies in here?" asked Duane, thinking of the almost inaccessible nature of the valley.
"Some comes across from Mexico, an' the rest down the river.
Thet river trip is a bird. It's more'n five hundred miles to any supply point. Bland has mozos, greaser boatmen. Sometimes, too, he gets supplies in from down-river. You see, Bland sells thousands of cattle in Cuba. An' all this stock has to go down by boat to meet the ships.""Where on earth are the cattle driven down to the river?" asked Duane.
"Thet's not my secret," replied Euchre, shortly. "Fact is, Idon't know. I've rustled cattle for Bland, but he never sent me through the Rim Rock with them."Duane experienced a sort of pleasure in the realization that interest had been stirred in him. He was curious about Bland and his gang, and glad to have something to think about. For every once in a while he had a sensation that was almost like a pang. He wanted to forget. In the next hour he did forget, and enjoyed helping in the preparation and eating of the meal.
Euchre, after washing and hanging up the several utensils, put on his hat and turned to go out.
"Come along or stay here, as you want," he said to Duane.
"I'll stay," rejoined Duane, slowly.
The old outlaw left the room and trudged away, whistling cheerfully.