The Lone Star Ranger and the Mysterious Rider by Zane Grey Page B

half-hour a number of outlaws passed by Duane and Euchre, halted for a greeting or sat down for a moment. They were all gruff, loud-voiced, merry, and good-natured. Duane replied civilly and agreeably when he was personally addressed; but he refused all invitations to drink and gamble. Evidently he had been accepted, in a way, as one of their clan. No one made any hint of an allusion to his affair with Bosomer. Duane saw readily that Euchre was well liked. One outlaw borrowed money from him: another asked for tobacco.
    By the time it was dark the big room was full of outlaws and Mexicans, most of whom were engaged at monte. These gamblers, especially the Mexicans, were intense and quiet. The noise in the place came from the drinkers, the loungers. Duane had seen gambling-resorts—some of the famous ones in San Antonio and El Paso, a few in border towns where license went unchecked. But this place of Jackrabbit Benson’s impressed him as one where guns and knives were accessories to the game. To his perhaps rather distinguishing eye the most prominent thing about the gamesters appeared to be their weapons. On several of the tables were piles of silver—Mexican pesos —as large and high as the crown of his hat. There were also piles of gold and silver in United States coin. Duane needed no experienced eyes to see that betting was heavy and that heavy sums exchanged hands. The Mexicans showed a sterner obsession, an intenser passion. Some of the Americans staked freely, nonchalantly, as befitted men to whom money was nothing. These latter were manifestly winning, for there were brother outlaws there who wagered coin with grudging, sullen, greedy eyes. Boisterous talk and laughter among the drinking men drowned, except at intervals, the low, brief talk of the gamblers. The clink of coin sounded incessantly; sometimes just low, steady musical rings; and again, when a pile was tumbled quickly, there was a silvery crash. Here an outlaw pounded on a table with the butt of his gun; there another noisily palmed a roll of dollars while he studied his opponent’s face. The noises, however, in Benson’s den did not contribute to any extent to the sinister aspect of the place. That seemed to come from the grim and reckless faces, from the bent, intent heads, from the dark lights and shades. There were bright lights, but these served only to make the shadows. And in the shadows lurked unrestrained lust of gain, a spirit ruthless and reckless, a something at once suggesting lawlessness, theft, murder, and hell.
    â€œBland’s not here to-night,” Euchre was saying. “He left to-day on one of his trips, takin’ Alloway an’ some others. But his other man, Rugg, he’s here. See him standin’ with them three fellers, all close to Benson. Rugg’s the little bow-legged man with the half of his face shot off. He’s one-eyed. But he can shore see out of the one he’s got. An,’ darn me! there’s Hardin. You know him? He’s got an outlaw gang as big as Bland’s. Hardin is standin’ next to Benson. See how quiet an’ unassumin’ he looks. Yes, thet’s Hardin. He comes here once in a while to see Bland. They’re friends, which’s shore strange. Do you see thet Mexican there—the one with gold an’ lace on his sombrero? Thet’s Manuel, a Mexican bandit. He’s a great gambler. Comes here often to drop his coin. Next to him is Bill Marr—the feller with the bandana round his head. Bill rode in the other day with some fresh bullet-holes. He’s been shot more’n any feller I ever heard of. He’s full of lead. Funny, because Bill’s no trouble-hunter, an’, like me, he’d rather run than shoot. But he’s the best rustler Bland’s got—a grand rider, an’ a wonder with cattle. An’ see the tow-headed youngster. Thet’s Kid Fuller, the kid of Bland’s gang. Fuller has hit the pace hard,