Duane had been weighed by unerring Texas instinct, by men who all packed guns.

The boy was the son of his father.

Whereupon they greeted him and returned to their drinks and cards.

Sol White stood with his big red hands out upon the bar; he was a tall, raw-boned Texan with a long mustache waxed to sharp points.
"Howdy, Buck," was his greeting to Duane.

He spoke carelessly and averted his dark gaze for an instant.
"Howdy, Sol," replied Duane, slowly.