The Lone Star Ranger and the Mysterious Rider by Zane Grey

an’ gun-play he’d have a thousand men around him.”
    â€œHow many in his gang now?”
    â€œI reckon there’s short of a hundred now. The number varies. Then Bland has several small camps up an’ down the river. Also he has men back on the cattle-ranges.”
    â€œHow does he control such a big force?” asked Duane. “Especially when his band’s composed of bad men. Luke Stevens said he had no use for Bland. And I heard once somewhere that Bland was a devil.”
    â€œThet’s it. He is a devil. He’s as hard as flint, violent in temper, never made any friends except his right-hand men, Dave Rugg an’ Chess Alloway. Bland ’ll shoot at a wink. He’s killed a lot of fellers, an’ some fer nothin’. The reason thet outlaws gather round him an’ stick is because he’s a safe refuge, an’ then he’s well heeled. Bland is rich. They say he has a hundred thousand pesos hid somewhere, an’ lots of gold. But he’s free with money. He gambles when he’s not off with a shipment of cattle. He throws money around. An’ the fact is there’s always plenty of money where he is. Thet’s what holds the gang. Dirty, bloody money!”
    â€œIt’s a wonder he hasn’t been killed. All these years on the border!” exclaimed Duane.
    â€œWal,” replied Euchre, dryly, “he’s been quicker on the draw than the other fellers who hankered to kill him, thet’s all.”
    Euchre’s reply rather chilled Duane’s interest for the moment. Such remarks always made his mind revolve round facts pertaining to himself.
    â€œSpeakin’ of this here swift wrist game,” went on Euchre, “there’s been considerable talk in camp about your throwin’ of a gun. You know, Buck, thet among us fellers—us hunted men—there ain’t anythin’ calculated to rouse respect like a slick hand with a gun. I heard Bland say this afternoon—an’ he said it serious-like an’ speculative—thet he’d never seen your equal. He was watchin’ of you close, he said, an’ just couldn’t follow your hand when you drawed. All the fellers who seen you meet Bosomer had somethin’ to say. Bo was about as handy with a gun as any man in this camp, barrin’ Chess Alloway an’ mebbe Bland himself. Chess is the captain with a Colt—or he was. An’ he shore didn’t like the references made about your speed. Bland was honest in acknowledgin’ it, but he didn’t like it, neither. Some of the fellers allowed your draw might have been just accident. But most of them figgered different. An’ they all shut up when Bland told who an’ what your Dad was. ’Pears to me I once seen your Dad in a gunscrape over at Santone, years ago. Wal, I put my oar in to-day among the fellers, an’ I says: ‘What ails you locoed gents? Did young Duane budge an inch when Bo came roarin’ out, blood in his eye? Wasn’t he cool an’ quiet, steady of lips, an’ weren’t his eyes readin’ Bo’s mind? An’ thet lightnin’ draw—can’t you-all see thet’s a family gift?’”
    Euchre’s narrow eyes twinkled, and he gave the dough he was rolling a slap with his flour-whitened hand. Manifestly he had proclaimed himself a champion and partner of Duane’s, with all the pride an old man could feel in a young one whom he admired.
    â€œWal,” he resumed, presently, “thet’s your introduction to the border, Buck. An’ your card was a high trump. You’ll be let severely alone by real gun-fighters an’ men like Bland, Alloway, Rugg, an’ the bosses of the other gangs. After all, these real men are men, you know, an’ onless you cross them they’re no more likely to interfere with you than you are with them. But there’s a sight of fellers like Bosomer in the river