"This trail splits up a ways from here, an' every branch of it leads to a hole where you'll find men--a few, mebbe, like yourself--some like me--an' gangs of no-good hoss-thieves, rustlers, an' such. It's easy livin', Buck. I reckon, though, that you'll not find it easy. You'll never mix in. You'll be a lone wolf. I seen that right off. Wal, if a man can stand the loneliness, an' if he's quick on the draw, mebbe lone-wolfin' it is the best. Shore I don't know. But these fellers in here will be suspicious of a man who goes it alone. If they get a chance they'll kill you."Stevens asked for water several times. He had forgotten or he did not want the whisky. His voice grew perceptibly weaker.
"Be quiet," said Duane. "Talking uses up your strength.""Aw, I'll talk till--I'm done," he replied, doggedly. "See here, pard, you can gamble on what I'm tellin' you. An' it'll be useful. From this camp we'll--you'll meet men right along.
An' none of them will be honest men. All the same, some are better'n others. I've lived along the river fer twelve years.
There's three big gangs of outlaws. King Fisher--you know him, I reckon, fer he's half the time livin' among respectable folks. King is a pretty good feller. It'll do to tie up with him ant his gang. Now, there's Cheseldine, who hangs out in the Rim Rock way up the river. He's an outlaw chief. I never seen him, though I stayed once right in his camp. Late years he's got rich an' keeps back pretty well hid. But Bland--I knowed Bland fer years. An' I haven't any use fer him. Bland has the biggest gang. You ain't likely to miss strikin' his place sometime or other. He's got a regular town, I might say. Shore there's some gamblin' an' gun-fightin' goin' on at Bland's camp all the time. Bland has killed some twenty men, an' thet's not countin' greasers."Here Stevens took another drink and then rested for a while.
"You ain't likely to get on with Bland," he resumed, presently.
"You're too strappin' big an' good-lookin' to please the chief.
Fer he's got women in his camp. Then he'd be jealous of your possibilities with a gun. Shore I reckon he'd be careful, though. Bland's no fool, an' he loves his hide. I reckon any of the other gangs would be better fer you when you ain't goin' it alone."Apparently that exhausted the fund of information and advice Stevens had been eager to impart. He lapsed into silence and lay with closed eyes. Meanwhile the sun rose warm; the breeze waved the mesquites; the birds came down to splash in the shallow stream; Duane dozed in a comfortable seat. By and by something roused him. Stevens was once more talking, but with a changed tone.
"Feller's name--was Brown," he rambled. "We fell out--over a hoss I stole from him--in Huntsville. He stole it fuss. Brown's one of them sneaks--afraid of the open--he steals an' pretends to be honest. Say, Buck, mebbe you'll meet Brown some day--You an' me are pards now.""I'll remember, if I ever meet him," said Duane.
That seemed to satisfy the outlaw. Presently he tried to lift his head, but had not the strength. A strange shade was creeping across the bronzed rough face.
"My feet are pretty heavy. Shore you got my boots off?"Duane held them up, but was not certain that Stevens could see them. The outlaw closed his eyes again and muttered incoherently. Then he fell asleep. Duane believed that sleep was final. The day passed, with Duane watching and waiting.
Toward sundown Stevens awoke, and his eyes seemed clearer.
Duane went to get some fresh water, thinking his comrade would surely want some. When he returned Stevens made no sign that he wanted anything. There was something bright about him, and suddenly Duane realized what it meant.
"Pard, you--stuck--to me!" the outlaw whispered.
Duane caught a hint of gladness in the voice; he traced a faint surprise in the haggard face. Stevens seemed like a little child.
To Duane the moment was sad, elemental, big, with a burden of mystery he could not understand.
Duane buried him in a shallow arroyo and heaped up a pile of stones to mark the grave. That done, he saddled his comrade's horse, hung the weapons over the pommel; and, mounting his own steed, he rode down the trail in the gathering twilight.
