THE PILGRIM
X. THE FLIGHT
XI. A RESCUE
XII. TEX DOES SOME SCOUTING
XIII. A BOTTLE OF "HOOCH"
XIV. ON ANTELOPE BUTTE
XV. THE TEXAN HEARS SOME NEWS
XVI. BACK IN CAMP
XVII. IN THE BAD LANDS
XVIII. "WIN"
XIX. THE END OF THE TRAIL
THE TEXAN
A PROLOGUE
Exactly twenty minutes after young Benton dismounted from his big rangy
black before the door of a low adobe saloon that fronted upon one of the
narrow crooked streets of old Las Vegas, he glanced into the eyes of the
thin-lipped croupier and laughed. "You've got 'em. Seventy-four good
old Texas dollars." He held up a coin between his thumb and forefinger.
"I've got another one left, an' your boss is goin' to get that, too--but
he's goin' to get it in legitimate barter an' trade."
As the cowpuncher stepped to the bar that occupied one side of the room,
a group of Mexicans who had lounged back at his entrance crowded once
more about the wheel and began noisily to place their bets. He watched
them for a moment before turning his attention to the heavy-lidded,
flabby-jowled person who leaned ponderously against the sober side of the
bar.
"Who owns this joint?" he asked truculently, as he eyed with disfavour
the filthy shirt-sleeves rolled back from thick forearms, the sagging
vest, and the collarless shirt-band that buried itself in a fold of the
fat neck.
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