Presently he passed a house bigger than the others with a porch attached.

A woman, young and pretty he thought, watched him from a door.
No one else appeared to notice him.
Presently the trail widened into a road, and that into a kind of square lined by a number of adobe and log buildings of rudest structure.
Within sight were horses, dogs, a couple of steers, Mexican women with children, and white men, all of whom appeared to be doing nothing.

His advent created no interest until he rode up to the white men, who were lolling in the shade of a house.

This place evidently was a store and saloon, and from the inside came a lazy hum of voices.
As Duane reined to a halt one of the loungers in the shade rose with a loud exclamation: "Bust me if thet ain't Luke's hoss!" The others accorded their interest, if not assent, by rising to advance toward Duane.
"How about it, Euchre?
Ain't thet Luke's bay ?" queried the first man.
"Plain as your nose," replied the fellow called Euchre.
"There ain't no doubt about thet, then," laughed another, "fer Bosomer's nose is shore plain on the landscape." These men lined up before Duane, and as he coolly regarded them he thought they could have been recognized anywhere as desperadoes.

The man called Bosomer, who had stepped forward, had a forbidding face which showed yellow eyes, an enormous nose, and a skin the color of dust, with a thatch of sandy hair.
"Stranger, who are you an' where in the hell did you git thet bay hoss ?" he demanded.