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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Lone Star Ranger, by Zane Grey
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Lone Star Ranger
+
+Author: Zane Grey
+
+Posting Date: July 27, 2008 [EBook #1027]
+Release Date: August 1997
+Last Updated: March 10, 2018
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LONE STAR RANGER ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Ken Smidge
+
+
+
+
+
+THE LONE STAR RANGER
+
+By Zane Grey
+
+
+
+          To
+          CAPTAIN JOHN HUGHES
+          and his Texas Rangers
+
+
+It may seem strange to you that out of all the stories I heard on the
+Rio Grande I should choose as first that of Buck Duane--outlaw and
+gunman.
+
+But, indeed, Ranger Coffee's story of the last of the Duanes has haunted
+me, and I have given full rein to imagination and have retold it in my
+own way. It deals with the old law--the old border days--therefore it is
+better first. Soon, perchance, I shall have the pleasure of writing of
+the border of to-day, which in Joe Sitter's laconic speech, “Shore is
+'most as bad an' wild as ever!”
+
+In the North and East there is a popular idea that the frontier of the
+West is a thing long past, and remembered now only in stories. As I
+think of this I remember Ranger Sitter when he made that remark, while
+he grimly stroked an unhealed bullet wound. And I remember the giant
+Vaughn, that typical son of stalwart Texas, sitting there quietly with
+bandaged head, his thoughtful eye boding ill to the outlaw who had
+ambushed him. Only a few months have passed since then--when I had my
+memorable sojourn with you--and yet, in that short time, Russell and
+Moore have crossed the Divide, like Rangers.
+
+Gentlemen,--I have the honor to dedicate this book to you, and the
+hope that it shall fall to my lot to tell the world the truth about a
+strange, unique, and misunderstood body of men--the Texas Rangers--who
+made the great Lone Star State habitable, who never know peaceful rest
+and sleep, who are passing, who surely will not be forgotten and will
+some day come into their own.
+
+ZANE GREY
+
+
+
+
+BOOK I. THE OUTLAW
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+So it was in him, then--an inherited fighting instinct, a driving
+intensity to kill. He was the last of the Duanes, that old fighting
+stock of Texas. But not the memory of his dead father, nor the pleading
+of his soft-voiced mother, nor the warning of this uncle who stood
+before him now, had brought to Buck Duane so much realization of
+the dark passionate strain in his blood. It was the recurrence, a
+hundred-fold increased in power, of a strange emotion that for the last
+three years had arisen in him.
+
+“Yes, Cal Bain's in town, full of bad whisky an' huntin' for you,”
+ repeated the elder man, gravely.
+
+“It's the second time,” muttered Duane, as if to himself.
+
+“Son, you can't avoid a meetin'. Leave town till Cal sobers up. He ain't
+got it in for you when he's not drinkin'.”
+
+“But what's he want me for?” demanded Duane. “To insult me again? I
+won't stand that twice.”
+
+“He's got a fever that's rampant in Texas these days, my boy. He wants
+gun-play. If he meets you he'll try to kill you.”
+
+Here it stirred in Duane again, that bursting gush of blood, like a
+wind of flame shaking all his inner being, and subsiding to leave him
+strangely chilled.
+
+“Kill me! What for?” he asked.
+
+“Lord knows there ain't any reason. But what's that to do with most of
+the shootin' these days? Didn't five cowboys over to Everall's kill
+one another dead all because they got to jerkin' at a quirt among
+themselves? An' Cal has no reason to love you. His girl was sweet on
+you.”
+
+“I quit when I found out she was his girl.”
+
+“I reckon she ain't quit. But never mind her or reasons. Cal's here,
+just drunk enough to be ugly. He's achin' to kill somebody. He's one of
+them four-flush gun-fighters. He'd like to be thought bad. There's a lot
+of wild cowboys who're ambitious for a reputation. They talk about how
+quick they are on the draw. They ape Bland an' King Fisher an' Hardin
+an' all the big outlaws. They make threats about joinin' the gangs along
+the Rio Grande. They laugh at the sheriffs an' brag about how they'd
+fix the rangers. Cal's sure not much for you to bother with, if you only
+keep out of his way.”
+
+“You mean for me to run?” asked Duane, in scorn.
+
+“I reckon I wouldn't put it that way. Just avoid him. Buck, I'm not
+afraid Cal would get you if you met down there in town. You've your
+father's eye an' his slick hand with a gun. What I'm most afraid of is
+that you'll kill Bain.”
+
+Duane was silent, letting his uncle's earnest words sink in, trying to
+realize their significance.
+
+“If Texas ever recovers from that fool war an' kills off these outlaws,
+why, a young man will have a lookout,” went on the uncle. “You're
+twenty-three now, an' a powerful sight of a fine fellow, barrin' your
+temper. You've a chance in life. But if you go gun-fightin', if you kill
+a man, you're ruined. Then you'll kill another. It'll be the same old
+story. An' the rangers would make you an outlaw. The rangers mean law
+an' order for Texas. This even-break business doesn't work with them. If
+you resist arrest they'll kill you. If you submit to arrest, then you go
+to jail, an' mebbe you hang.”
+
+“I'd never hang,” muttered Duane, darkly.
+
+“I reckon you wouldn't,” replied the old man. “You'd be like your
+father. He was ever ready to draw--too ready. In times like these, with
+the Texas rangers enforcin' the law, your Dad would have been driven to
+the river. An', son, I'm afraid you're a chip off the old block. Can't
+you hold in--keep your temper--run away from trouble? Because it'll only
+result in you gettin' the worst of it in the end. Your father was killed
+in a street-fight. An' it was told of him that he shot twice after a
+bullet had passed through his heart. Think of the terrible nature of a
+man to be able to do that. If you have any such blood in you, never give
+it a chance.”
+
+“What you say is all very well, uncle,” returned Duane, “but the only
+way out for me is to run, and I won't do it. Cal Bain and his outfit
+have already made me look like a coward. He says I'm afraid to come out
+and face him. A man simply can't stand that in this country. Besides,
+Cal would shoot me in the back some day if I didn't face him.”
+
+“Well, then, what're you goin' to do?” inquired the elder man.
+
+“I haven't decided--yet.”
+
+“No, but you're comin' to it mighty fast. That damned spell is workin'
+in you. You're different to-day. I remember how you used to be moody an'
+lose your temper an' talk wild. Never was much afraid of you then. But
+now you're gettin' cool an' quiet, an' you think deep, an' I don't like
+the light in your eye. It reminds me of your father.”
+
+“I wonder what Dad would say to me to-day if he were alive and here,”
+ said Duane.
+
+“What do you think? What could you expect of a man who never wore a
+glove on his right hand for twenty years?”
+
+“Well, he'd hardly have said much. Dad never talked. But he would have
+done a lot. And I guess I'll go down-town and let Cal Bain find me.”
+
+Then followed a long silence, during which Duane sat with downcast eyes,
+and the uncle appeared lost in sad thought of the future. Presently he
+turned to Duane with an expression that denoted resignation, and yet a
+spirit which showed wherein they were of the same blood.
+
+“You've got a fast horse--the fastest I know of in this country. After
+you meet Bain hurry back home. I'll have a saddle-bag packed for you and
+the horse ready.”
+
+With that he turned on his heel and went into the house, leaving Duane
+to revolve in his mind his singular speech. Buck wondered presently if
+he shared his uncle's opinion of the result of a meeting between himself
+and Bain. His thoughts were vague. But on the instant of final decision,
+when he had settled with himself that he would meet Bain, such a storm
+of passion assailed him that he felt as if he was being shaken with
+ague. Yet it was all internal, inside his breast, for his hand was like
+a rock and, for all he could see, not a muscle about him quivered. He
+had no fear of Bain or of any other man; but a vague fear of himself, of
+this strange force in him, made him ponder and shake his head. It was as
+if he had not all to say in this matter. There appeared to have been in
+him a reluctance to let himself go, and some voice, some spirit from a
+distance, something he was not accountable for, had compelled him.
+That hour of Duane's life was like years of actual living, and in it he
+became a thoughtful man.
+
+He went into the house and buckled on his belt and gun. The gun was a
+Colt.45, six-shot, and heavy, with an ivory handle. He had packed it,
+on and off, for five years. Before that it had been used by his father.
+There were a number of notches filed in the bulge of the ivory handle.
+This gun was the one his father had fired twice after being shot
+through the heart, and his hand had stiffened so tightly upon it in
+the death-grip that his fingers had to be pried open. It had never been
+drawn upon any man since it had come into Duane's possession. But the
+cold, bright polish of the weapon showed how it had been used. Duane
+could draw it with inconceivable rapidity, and at twenty feet he could
+split a card pointing edgewise toward him.
+
+Duane wished to avoid meeting his mother. Fortunately, as he thought,
+she was away from home. He went out and down the path toward the gate.
+The air was full of the fragrance of blossoms and the melody of birds.
+Outside in the road a neighbor woman stood talking to a countryman in a
+wagon; they spoke to him; and he heard, but did not reply. Then he began
+to stride down the road toward the town.
+
+Wellston was a small town, but important in that unsettled part of the
+great state because it was the trading-center of several hundred miles
+of territory. On the main street there were perhaps fifty buildings,
+some brick, some frame, mostly adobe, and one-third of the lot, and by
+far the most prosperous, were saloons. From the road Duane turned into
+this street. It was a wide thoroughfare lined by hitching-rails and
+saddled horses and vehicles of various kinds. Duane's eye ranged down
+the street, taking in all at a glance, particularly persons moving
+leisurely up and down. Not a cowboy was in sight. Duane slackened his
+stride, and by the time he reached Sol White's place, which was the
+first saloon, he was walking slowly. Several people spoke to him and
+turned to look back after they had passed. He paused at the door of
+White's saloon, took a sharp survey of the interior, then stepped
+inside.
+
+The saloon was large and cool, full of men and noise and smoke. The
+noise ceased upon his entrance, and the silence ensuing presently broke
+to the clink of Mexican silver dollars at a monte table. Sol White, who
+was behind the bar, straightened up when he saw Duane; then, without
+speaking, he bent over to rinse a glass. All eyes except those of the
+Mexican gamblers were turned upon Duane; and these glances were keen,
+speculative, questioning. These men knew Bain was looking for trouble;
+they probably had heard his boasts. But what did Duane intend to do?
+Several of the cowboys and ranchers present exchanged glances. 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. “Say, Sol, I hear there's a gent in
+town looking for me bad.”
+
+“Reckon there is, Buck,” replied White. “He came in heah aboot an
+hour ago. Shore he was some riled an' a-roarin' for gore. Told me
+confidential a certain party had given you a white silk scarf, an' he
+was hell-bent on wearin' it home spotted red.”
+
+“Anybody with him?” queried Duane.
+
+“Burt an' Sam Outcalt an' a little cowpuncher I never seen before.
+They-all was coaxin' trim to leave town. But he's looked on the flowin'
+glass, Buck, an' he's heah for keeps.”
+
+“Why doesn't Sheriff Oaks lock him up if he's that bad?”
+
+“Oaks went away with the rangers. There's been another raid at Flesher's
+ranch. The King Fisher gang, likely. An' so the town's shore wide open.”
+
+Duane stalked outdoors and faced down the street. He walked the whole
+length of the long block, meeting many people--farmers, ranchers,
+clerks, merchants, Mexicans, cowboys, and women. It was a singular fact
+that when he turned to retrace his steps the street was almost empty. He
+had not returned a hundred yards on his way when the street was wholly
+deserted. A few heads protruded from doors and around corners. That main
+street of Wellston saw some such situation every few days. If it was an
+instinct for Texans to fight, it was also instinctive for them to sense
+with remarkable quickness the signs of a coming gun-play. Rumor could
+not fly so swiftly. In less than ten minutes everybody who had been on
+the street or in the shops knew that Buck Duane had come forth to meet
+his enemy.
+
+Duane walked on. When he came to within fifty paces of a saloon he
+swerved out into the middle of the street, stood there for a moment,
+then went ahead and back to the sidewalk. He passed on in this way the
+length of the block. Sol White was standing in the door of his saloon.
+
+“Buck, I'm a-tippin' you off,” he said, quick and low-voiced. “Cal
+Bain's over at Everall's. If he's a-huntin' you bad, as he brags, he'll
+show there.”
+
+Duane crossed the street and started down. Notwithstanding White's
+statement Duane was wary and slow at every door. Nothing happened,
+and he traversed almost the whole length of the block without seeing a
+person. Everall's place was on the corner.
+
+Duane knew himself to be cold, steady. He was conscious of a strange
+fury that made him want to leap ahead. He seemed to long for this
+encounter more than anything he had ever wanted. But, vivid as were his
+sensations, he felt as if in a dream.
+
+Before he reached Everall's he heard loud voices, one of which was
+raised high. Then the short door swung outward as if impelled by a
+vigorous hand. A bow-legged cowboy wearing wooley chaps burst out upon
+the sidewalk. At sight of Duane he seemed to bound into the air, and he
+uttered a savage roar.
+
+Duane stopped in his tracks at the outer edge of the sidewalk, perhaps a
+dozen rods from Everall's door.
+
+If Bain was drunk he did not show it in his movement. He swaggered
+forward, rapidly closing up the gap. Red, sweaty, disheveled, and
+hatless, his face distorted and expressive of the most malignant intent,
+he was a wild and sinister figure. He had already killed a man, and this
+showed in his demeanor. His hands were extended before him, the right
+hand a little lower than the left. At every step he bellowed his rancor
+in speech mostly curses. Gradually he slowed his walk, then halted. A
+good twenty-five paces separated the men.
+
+“Won't nothin' make you draw, you--!” he shouted, fiercely.
+
+“I'm waitin' on you, Cal,” replied Duane.
+
+Bain's right hand stiffened--moved. Duane threw his gun as a boy throws
+a ball underhand--a draw his father had taught him. He pulled twice,
+his shots almost as one. Bain's big Colt boomed while it was pointed
+downward and he was falling. His bullet scattered dust and gravel at
+Duane's feet. He fell loosely, without contortion.
+
+In a flash all was reality for Duane. He went forward and held his gun
+ready for the slightest movement on the part of Bain. But Bain lay upon
+his back, and all that moved were his breast and his eyes. How strangely
+the red had left his face--and also the distortion! The devil that had
+showed in Bain was gone. He was sober and conscious. He tried to
+speak, but failed. His eyes expressed something pitifully human. They
+changed--rolled--set blankly.
+
+Duane drew a deep breath and sheathed his gun. He felt calm and cool,
+glad the fray was over. One violent expression burst from him. “The
+fool!”
+
+When he looked up there were men around him.
+
+“Plumb center,” said one.
+
+Another, a cowboy who evidently had just left the gaming-table, leaned
+down and pulled open Bain's shirt. He had the ace of spades in his hand.
+He laid it on Bain's breast, and the black figure on the card covered
+the two bullet-holes just over Bain's heart.
+
+Duane wheeled and hurried away. He heard another man say:
+
+“Reckon Cal got what he deserved. Buck Duane's first gunplay. Like
+father like son!”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+A thought kept repeating itself to Duane, and it was that he might have
+spared himself concern through his imagining how awful it would be to
+kill a man. He had no such feeling now. He had rid the community of a
+drunken, bragging, quarrelsome cowboy.
+
+When he came to the gate of his home and saw his uncle there with a
+mettlesome horse, saddled, with canteen, rope, and bags all in place,
+a subtle shock pervaded his spirit. It had slipped his mind--the
+consequence of his act. But sight of the horse and the look of his uncle
+recalled the fact that he must now become a fugitive. An unreasonable
+anger took hold of him.
+
+“The d--d fool!” he exclaimed, hotly. “Meeting Bain wasn't much, Uncle
+Jim. He dusted my boots, that's all. And for that I've got to go on the
+dodge.”
+
+“Son, you killed him--then?” asked the uncle, huskily.
+
+“Yes. I stood over him--watched him die. I did as I would have been done
+by.”
+
+“I knew it. Long ago I saw it comin'. But now we can't stop to cry over
+spilt blood. You've got to leave town an' this part of the country.”
+
+“Mother!” exclaimed Duane.
+
+“She's away from home. You can't wait. I'll break it to her--what she
+always feared.”
+
+Suddenly Duane sat down and covered his face with his hands.
+
+“My God! Uncle, what have I done?” His broad shoulders shook.
+
+“Listen, son, an' remember what I say,” replied the elder man,
+earnestly. “Don't ever forget. You're not to blame. I'm glad to see
+you take it this way, because maybe you'll never grow hard an' callous.
+You're not to blame. This is Texas. You're your father's son. These are
+wild times. The law as the rangers are laying it down now can't change
+life all in a minute. Even your mother, who's a good, true woman, has
+had her share in making you what you are this moment. For she was one of
+the pioneers--the fightin' pioneers of this state. Those years of wild
+times, before you was born, developed in her instinct to fight, to save
+her life, her children, an' that instinct has cropped out in you. It
+will be many years before it dies out of the boys born in Texas.”
+
+“I'm a murderer,” said Duane, shuddering.
+
+“No, son, you're not. An' you never will be. But you've got to be an
+outlaw till time makes it safe for you to come home.”
+
+“An outlaw?”
+
+“I said it. If we had money an' influence we'd risk a trial. But we've
+neither. An' I reckon the scaffold or jail is no place for Buckley
+Duane. Strike for the wild country, an' wherever you go an' whatever
+you do-be a man. Live honestly, if that's possible. If it isn't, be as
+honest as you can. If you have to herd with outlaws try not to become
+bad. There are outlaws who 're not all bad--many who have been driven to
+the river by such a deal as this you had. When you get among these men
+avoid brawls. Don't drink; don't gamble. I needn't tell you what to do
+if it comes to gun-play, as likely it will. You can't come home. When
+this thing is lived down, if that time ever comes, I'll get word into
+the unsettled country. It'll reach you some day. That's all. Remember,
+be a man. Goodby.”
+
+Duane, with blurred sight and contracting throat, gripped his uncle's
+hand and bade him a wordless farewell. Then he leaped astride the black
+and rode out of town.
+
+As swiftly as was consistent with a care for his steed, Duane put a
+distance of fifteen or eighteen miles behind him. With that he slowed
+up, and the matter of riding did not require all his faculties. He
+passed several ranches and was seen by men. This did not suit him, and
+he took an old trail across country. It was a flat region with a poor
+growth of mesquite and prickly-pear cactus. Occasionally he caught
+a glimpse of low hills in the distance. He had hunted often in that
+section, and knew where to find grass and water. When he reached
+this higher ground he did not, however, halt at the first favorable
+camping-spot, but went on and on. Once he came out upon the brow of a
+hill and saw a considerable stretch of country beneath him. It had the
+gray sameness characterizing all that he had traversed. He seemed to
+want to see wide spaces--to get a glimpse of the great wilderness lying
+somewhere beyond to the southwest. It was sunset when he decided to camp
+at a likely spot he came across. He led the horse to water, and then
+began searching through the shallow valley for a suitable place to camp.
+He passed by old camp-sites that he well remembered. These, however, did
+not strike his fancy this time, and the significance of the change in
+him did not occur at the moment. At last he found a secluded spot, under
+cover of thick mesquites and oaks, at a goodly distance from the old
+trail. He took saddle and pack off the horse. He looked among his
+effects for a hobble, and, finding that his uncle had failed to put one
+in, he suddenly remembered that he seldom used a hobble, and never on
+this horse. He cut a few feet off the end of his lasso and used that.
+The horse, unused to such hampering of his free movements, had to be
+driven out upon the grass.
+
+Duane made a small fire, prepared and ate his supper. This done, ending
+the work of that day, he sat down and filled his pipe. Twilight had
+waned into dusk. A few wan stars had just begun to show and brighten.
+Above the low continuous hum of insects sounded the evening carol of
+robins. Presently the birds ceased their singing, and then the quiet
+was more noticeable. When night set in and the place seemed all the more
+isolated and lonely for that Duane had a sense of relief.
+
+It dawned upon him all at once that he was nervous, watchful, sleepless.
+The fact caused him surprise, and he began to think back, to take note
+of his late actions and their motives. The change one day had wrought
+amazed him. He who had always been free, easy, happy, especially when
+out alone in the open, had become in a few short hours bound, serious,
+preoccupied. The silence that had once been sweet now meant nothing
+to him except a medium whereby he might the better hear the sounds
+of pursuit. The loneliness, the night, the wild, that had always been
+beautiful to him, now only conveyed a sense of safety for the present.
+He watched, he listened, he thought. He felt tired, yet had no
+inclination to rest. He intended to be off by dawn, heading toward the
+southwest. Had he a destination? It was vague as his knowledge of that
+great waste of mesquite and rock bordering the Rio Grande. Somewhere out
+there was a refuge. For he was a fugitive from justice, an outlaw.
+
+This being an outlaw then meant eternal vigilance. No home, no rest, no
+sleep, no content, no life worth the living! He must be a lone wolf
+or he must herd among men obnoxious to him. If he worked for an honest
+living he still must hide his identity and take risks of detection. If
+he did not work on some distant outlying ranch, how was he to live? The
+idea of stealing was repugnant to him. The future seemed gray and somber
+enough. And he was twenty-three years old.
+
+Why had this hard life been imposed upon him?
+
+The bitter question seemed to start a strange iciness that stole
+along his veins. What was wrong with him? He stirred the few sticks of
+mesquite into a last flickering blaze. He was cold, and for some reason
+he wanted some light. The black circle of darkness weighed down upon
+him, closed in around him. Suddenly he sat bolt upright and then froze
+in that position. He had heard a step. It was behind him--no--on the
+side. Some one was there. He forced his hand down to his gun, and the
+touch of cold steel was another icy shock. Then he waited. But all
+was silent--silent as only a wilderness arroyo can be, with its low
+murmuring of wind in the mesquite. Had he heard a step? He began to
+breathe again.
+
+But what was the matter with the light of his camp-fire? It had taken
+on a strange green luster and seemed to be waving off into the outer
+shadows. Duane heard no step, saw no movement; nevertheless, there was
+another present at that camp-fire vigil. Duane saw him. He lay there in
+the middle of the green brightness, prostrate, motionless, dying. Cal
+Bain! His features were wonderfully distinct, clearer than any cameo,
+more sharply outlined than those of any picture. It was a hard face
+softening at the threshold of eternity. The red tan of sun, the coarse
+signs of drunkenness, the ferocity and hate so characteristic of Bain
+were no longer there. This face represented a different Bain, showed all
+that was human in him fading, fading as swiftly as it blanched white.
+The lips wanted to speak, but had not the power. The eyes held an agony
+of thought. They revealed what might have been possible for this man
+if he lived--that he saw his mistake too late. Then they rolled, set
+blankly, and closed in death.
+
+That haunting visitation left Duane sitting there in a cold sweat, a
+remorse gnawing at his vitals, realizing the curse that was on him.
+He divined that never would he be able to keep off that phantom. He
+remembered how his father had been eternally pursued by the furies of
+accusing guilt, how he had never been able to forget in work or in sleep
+those men he had killed.
+
+The hour was late when Duane's mind let him sleep, and then dreams
+troubled him. In the morning he bestirred himself so early that in the
+gray gloom he had difficulty in finding his horse. Day had just broken
+when he struck the old trail again.
+
+He rode hard all morning and halted in a shady spot to rest and graze
+his horse. In the afternoon he took to the trail at an easy trot. The
+country grew wilder. Bald, rugged mountains broke the level of the
+monotonous horizon. About three in the afternoon he came to a little
+river which marked the boundary line of his hunting territory.
+
+The decision he made to travel up-stream for a while was owing to two
+facts: the river was high with quicksand bars on each side, and he felt
+reluctant to cross into that region where his presence alone meant that
+he was a marked man. The bottom-lands through which the river wound to
+the southwest were more inviting than the barrens he had traversed. The
+rest or that day he rode leisurely up-stream. At sunset he penetrated
+the brakes of willow and cottonwood to spend the night. It seemed to
+him that in this lonely cover he would feel easy and content. But he
+did not. Every feeling, every imagining he had experienced the previous
+night returned somewhat more vividly and accentuated by newer ones of
+the same intensity and color.
+
+In this kind of travel and camping he spent three more days, during
+which he crossed a number of trails, and one road where cattle--stolen
+cattle, probably--had recently passed. Thus time exhausted his supply
+of food, except salt, pepper, coffee, and sugar, of which he had a
+quantity. There were deer in the brakes; but, as he could not get close
+enough to kill them with a revolver, he had to satisfy himself with a
+rabbit. He knew he might as well content himself with the hard fare that
+assuredly would be his lot.
+
+Somewhere up this river there was a village called Huntsville. It
+was distant about a hundred miles from Wellston, and had a reputation
+throughout southwestern Texas. He had never been there. The fact was
+this reputation was such that honest travelers gave the town a wide
+berth. Duane had considerable money for him in his possession, and he
+concluded to visit Huntsville, if he could find it, and buy a stock of
+provisions.
+
+The following day, toward evening, he happened upon a road which
+he believed might lead to the village. There were a good many fresh
+horse-tracks in the sand, and these made him thoughtful. Nevertheless,
+he followed the road, proceeding cautiously. He had not gone very far
+when the sound of rapid hoof-beats caught his ears. They came from his
+rear. In the darkening twilight he could not see any great distance back
+along the road. Voices, however, warned him that these riders, whoever
+they were, had approached closer than he liked. To go farther down the
+road was not to be thought of, so he turned a little way in among the
+mesquites and halted, hoping to escape being seen or heard. As he was
+now a fugitive, it seemed every man was his enemy and pursuer.
+
+The horsemen were fast approaching. Presently they were abreast of
+Duane's position, so near that he could hear the creak of saddles, the
+clink of spurs.
+
+“Shore he crossed the river below,” said one man.
+
+“I reckon you're right, Bill. He's slipped us,” replied another.
+
+Rangers or a posse of ranchers in pursuit of a fugitive! The knowledge
+gave Duane a strange thrill. Certainly they could not have been hunting
+him. But the feeling their proximity gave him was identical to what
+it would have been had he been this particular hunted man. He held
+his breath; he clenched his teeth; he pressed a quieting hand upon his
+horse. Suddenly he became aware that these horsemen had halted. They
+were whispering. He could just make out a dark group closely massed.
+What had made them halt so suspiciously?
+
+“You're wrong, Bill,” said a man, in a low but distinct voice.
+
+“The idee of hearin' a hoss heave. You're wuss'n a ranger. And you're
+hell-bent on killin' that rustler. Now I say let's go home and eat.”
+
+“Wal, I'll just take a look at the sand,” replied the man called Bill.
+
+Duane heard the clink of spurs on steel stirrup and the thud of boots on
+the ground. There followed a short silence which was broken by a sharply
+breathed exclamation.
+
+Duane waited for no more. They had found his trail. He spurred his horse
+straight into the brush. At the second crashing bound there came yells
+from the road, and then shots. Duane heard the hiss of a bullet close
+by his ear, and as it struck a branch it made a peculiar singing sound.
+These shots and the proximity of that lead missile roused in Duane a
+quick, hot resentment which mounted into a passion almost ungovernable.
+He must escape, yet it seemed that he did not care whether he did or
+not. Something grim kept urging him to halt and return the fire of these
+men. After running a couple of hundred yards he raised himself from over
+the pommel, where he had bent to avoid the stinging branches, and tried
+to guide his horse. In the dark shadows under mesquites and cottonwoods
+he was hard put to it to find open passage; however, he succeeded so
+well and made such little noise that gradually he drew away from his
+pursuers. The sound of their horses crashing through the thickets died
+away. Duane reined in and listened. He had distanced them. Probably they
+would go into camp till daylight, then follow his tracks. He started on
+again, walking his horse, and peered sharply at the ground, so that he
+might take advantage of the first trail he crossed. It seemed a long
+while until he came upon one. He followed it until a late hour, when,
+striking the willow brakes again and hence the neighborhood of the
+river, he picketed his horse and lay down to rest. But he did not sleep.
+His mind bitterly revolved the fate that had come upon him. He made
+efforts to think of other things, but in vain.
+
+Every moment he expected the chill, the sense of loneliness that yet
+was ominous of a strange visitation, the peculiarly imagined lights and
+shades of the night--these things that presaged the coming of Cal Bain.
+Doggedly Duane fought against the insidious phantom. He kept telling
+himself that it was just imagination, that it would wear off in time.
+Still in his heart he did not believe what he hoped. But he would not
+give up; he would not accept the ghost of his victim as a reality.
+
+Gray dawn found him in the saddle again headed for the river. Half an
+hour of riding brought him to the dense chaparral and willow thickets.
+These he threaded to come at length to the ford. It was a gravel bottom,
+and therefore an easy crossing. Once upon the opposite shore he
+reined in his horse and looked darkly back. This action marked his
+acknowledgment of his situation: he had voluntarily sought the refuge
+of the outlaws; he was beyond the pale. A bitter and passionate curse
+passed his lips as he spurred his horse into the brakes on that alien
+shore.
+
+He rode perhaps twenty miles, not sparing his horse nor caring whether
+or not he left a plain trail.
+
+“Let them hunt me!” he muttered.
+
+When the heat of the day began to be oppressive, and hunger and thirst
+made themselves manifest, Duane began to look about him for a place to
+halt for the noon-hours. The trail led into a road which was hard packed
+and smooth from the tracks of cattle. He doubted not that he had come
+across one of the roads used by border raiders. He headed into it, and
+had scarcely traveled a mile when, turning a curve, he came point-blank
+upon a single horseman riding toward him. Both riders wheeled their
+mounts sharply and were ready to run and shoot back. Not more than a
+hundred paces separated them. They stood then for a moment watching each
+other.
+
+“Mawnin', stranger,” called the man, dropping his hand from his hip.
+
+“Howdy,” replied Duane, shortly.
+
+They rode toward each other, closing half the gap, then they halted
+again.
+
+“I seen you ain't no ranger,” called the rider, “an' shore I ain't
+none.”
+
+He laughed loudly, as if he had made a joke.
+
+“How'd you know I wasn't a ranger?” asked Duane, curiously. Somehow
+he had instantly divined that his horseman was no officer, or even a
+rancher trailing stolen stock.
+
+“Wal,” said the fellow, starting his horse forward at a walk, “a
+ranger'd never git ready to run the other way from one man.”
+
+He laughed again. He was small and wiry, slouchy of attire, and armed to
+the teeth, and he bestrode a fine bay horse. He had quick, dancing brown
+eyes, at once frank and bold, and a coarse, bronzed face. Evidently he
+was a good-natured ruffian.
+
+Duane acknowledged the truth of the assertion, and turned over in his
+mind how shrewdly the fellow had guessed him to be a hunted man.
+
+“My name's Luke Stevens, an' I hail from the river. Who're you?” said
+this stranger.
+
+Duane was silent.
+
+“I reckon you're Buck Duane,” went on Stevens. “I heerd you was a damn
+bad man with a gun.”
+
+This time Duane laughed, not at the doubtful compliment, but at the
+idea that the first outlaw he met should know him. Here was proof of how
+swiftly facts about gun-play traveled on the Texas border.
+
+“Wal, Buck,” said Stevens, in a friendly manner, “I ain't presumin' on
+your time or company. I see you're headin' fer the river. But will you
+stop long enough to stake a feller to a bite of grub?”
+
+“I'm out of grub, and pretty hungry myself,” admitted Duane.
+
+“Been pushin' your hoss, I see. Wal, I reckon you'd better stock up
+before you hit thet stretch of country.”
+
+He made a wide sweep of his right arm, indicating the southwest, and
+there was that in his action which seemed significant of a vast and
+barren region.
+
+“Stock up?” queried Duane, thoughtfully.
+
+“Shore. A feller has jest got to eat. I can rustle along without whisky,
+but not without grub. Thet's what makes it so embarrassin' travelin'
+these parts dodgin' your shadow. Now, I'm on my way to Mercer. It's
+a little two-bit town up the river a ways. I'm goin' to pack out some
+grub.”
+
+Stevens's tone was inviting. Evidently he would welcome Duane's
+companionship, but he did not openly say so. Duane kept silence,
+however, and then Stevens went on.
+
+“Stranger, in this here country two's a crowd. It's safer. I never was
+much on this lone-wolf dodgin', though I've done it of necessity. It
+takes a damn good man to travel alone any length of time. Why, I've been
+thet sick I was jest achin' fer some ranger to come along an' plug me.
+Give me a pardner any day. Now, mebbe you're not thet kind of a
+feller, an' I'm shore not presumin' to ask. But I just declares myself
+sufficient.”
+
+“You mean you'd like me to go with you?” asked Duane.
+
+Stevens grinned. “Wal, I should smile. I'd be particular proud to be
+braced with a man of your reputation.”
+
+“See here, my good fellow, that's all nonsense,” declared Duane, in some
+haste.
+
+“Shore I think modesty becomin' to a youngster,” replied Stevens. “I
+hate a brag. An' I've no use fer these four-flush cowboys thet 're
+always lookin' fer trouble an' talkin' gun-play. Buck, I don't know much
+about you. But every man who's lived along the Texas border remembers a
+lot about your Dad. It was expected of you, I reckon, an' much of your
+rep was established before you thronged your gun. I jest heerd thet you
+was lightnin' on the draw, an' when you cut loose with a gun, why the
+figger on the ace of spades would cover your cluster of bullet-holes.
+Thet's the word thet's gone down the border. It's the kind of reputation
+most sure to fly far an' swift ahead of a man in this country. An' the
+safest, too; I'll gamble on thet. It's the land of the draw. I see now
+you're only a boy, though you're shore a strappin' husky one. Now,
+Buck, I'm not a spring chicken, an' I've been long on the dodge. Mebbe
+a little of my society won't hurt you none. You'll need to learn the
+country.”
+
+There was something sincere and likable about this outlaw.
+
+“I dare say you're right,” replied Duane, quietly. “And I'll go to
+Mercer with you.”
+
+Next moment he was riding down the road with Stevens. Duane had never
+been much of a talker, and now he found speech difficult. But his
+companion did not seem to mind that. He was a jocose, voluble fellow,
+probably glad now to hear the sound of his own voice. Duane listened,
+and sometimes he thought with a pang of the distinction of name and
+heritage of blood his father had left to him.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+Late that day, a couple of hours before sunset, Duane and Stevens,
+having rested their horses in the shade of some mesquites near the town
+of Mercer, saddled up and prepared to move.
+
+“Buck, as we're lookin' fer grub, an' not trouble, I reckon you'd better
+hang up out here,” Stevens was saying, as he mounted. “You see, towns
+an' sheriffs an' rangers are always lookin' fer new fellers gone bad.
+They sort of forget most of the old boys, except those as are plumb
+bad. Now, nobody in Mercer will take notice of me. Reckon there's been
+a thousand men run into the river country to become outlaws since yours
+truly. You jest wait here an' be ready to ride hard. Mebbe my besettin'
+sin will go operatin' in spite of my good intentions. In which case
+there'll be--”
+
+His pause was significant. He grinned, and his brown eyes danced with a
+kind of wild humor.
+
+“Stevens, have you got any money?” asked Duane.
+
+“Money!” exclaimed Luke, blankly. “Say, I haven't owned a two-bit piece
+since--wal, fer some time.”
+
+“I'll furnish money for grub,” returned Duane. “And for whisky, too,
+providing you hurry back here--without making trouble.”
+
+“Shore you're a downright good pard,” declared Stevens, in admiration,
+as he took the money. “I give my word, Buck, an' I'm here to say I never
+broke it yet. Lay low, an' look fer me back quick.”
+
+With that he spurred his horse and rode out of the mesquites toward the
+town. At that distance, about a quarter of a mile, Mercer appeared to be
+a cluster of low adobe houses set in a grove of cottonwoods. Pastures
+of alfalfa were dotted by horses and cattle. Duane saw a sheep-herder
+driving in a meager flock.
+
+Presently Stevens rode out of sight into the town. Duane waited, hoping
+the outlaw would make good his word. Probably not a quarter of an hour
+had elapsed when Duane heard the clear reports of a Winchester rifle,
+the clatter of rapid hoof-beats, and yells unmistakably the kind to mean
+danger for a man like Stevens. Duane mounted and rode to the edge of the
+mesquites.
+
+He saw a cloud of dust down the road and a bay horse running fast.
+Stevens apparently had not been wounded by any of the shots, for he had
+a steady seat in his saddle and his riding, even at that moment, struck
+Duane as admirable. He carried a large pack over the pommel, and he kept
+looking back. The shots had ceased, but the yells increased. Duane saw
+several men running and waving their arms. Then he spurred his horse and
+got into a swift stride, so Stevens would not pass him. Presently the
+outlaw caught up with him. Stevens was grinning, but there was now no
+fun in the dancing eyes. It was a devil that danced in them. His face
+seemed a shade paler.
+
+“Was jest comin' out of the store,” yelled Stevens. “Run plumb into a
+rancher--who knowed me. He opened up with a rifle. Think they'll chase
+us.”
+
+They covered several miles before there were any signs of pursuit, and
+when horsemen did move into sight out of the cottonwoods Duane and his
+companion steadily drew farther away.
+
+“No hosses in thet bunch to worry us,” called out Stevens.
+
+Duane had the same conviction, and he did not look back again. He rode
+somewhat to the fore, and was constantly aware of the rapid thudding of
+hoofs behind, as Stevens kept close to him. At sunset they reached the
+willow brakes and the river. Duane's horse was winded and lashed with
+sweat and lather. It was not until the crossing had been accomplished
+that Duane halted to rest his animal. Stevens was riding up the low,
+sandy bank. He reeled in the saddle. With an exclamation of surprise
+Duane leaped off and ran to the outlaw's side.
+
+Stevens was pale, and his face bore beads of sweat. The whole front of
+his shirt was soaked with blood.
+
+“You're shot!” cried Duane.
+
+“Wal, who 'n hell said I wasn't? Would you mind givin' me a lift--on
+this here pack?”
+
+Duane lifted the heavy pack down and then helped Stevens to dismount.
+The outlaw had a bloody foam on his lips, and he was spitting blood.
+
+“Oh, why didn't you say so!” cried Duane. “I never thought. You seemed
+all right.”
+
+“Wal, Luke Stevens may be as gabby as an old woman, but sometimes he
+doesn't say anythin'. It wouldn't have done no good.”
+
+Duane bade him sit down, removed his shirt, and washed the blood from
+his breast and back. Stevens had been shot in the breast, fairly low
+down, and the bullet had gone clear through him. His ride, holding
+himself and that heavy pack in the saddle, had been a feat little short
+of marvelous. Duane did not see how it had been possible, and he felt no
+hope for the outlaw. But he plugged the wounds and bound them tightly.
+
+“Feller's name was Brown,” Stevens said. “Me an' him fell out over a
+hoss I stole from him over in Huntsville. We had a shootin'-scrape then.
+Wal, as I was straddlin' my hoss back there in Mercer I seen this Brown,
+an' seen him before he seen me. Could have killed him, too. But I wasn't
+breakin' my word to you. I kind of hoped he wouldn't spot me. But he
+did--an' fust shot he got me here. What do you think of this hole?”
+
+“It's pretty bad,” replied Duane; and he could not look the cheerful
+outlaw in the eyes.
+
+“I reckon it is. Wal, I've had some bad wounds I lived over. Guess mebbe
+I can stand this one. Now, Buck, get me some place in the brakes, leave
+me some grub an' water at my hand, an' then you clear out.”
+
+“Leave you here alone?” asked Duane, sharply.
+
+“Shore. You see, I can't keep up with you. Brown an' his friends will
+foller us across the river a ways. You've got to think of number one in
+this game.”
+
+“What would you do in my case?” asked Duane, curiously.
+
+“Wal, I reckon I'd clear out an' save my hide,” replied Stevens.
+
+Duane felt inclined to doubt the outlaw's assertion. For his own part he
+decided his conduct without further speech. First he watered the horses,
+filled canteens and water bag, and then tied the pack upon his own
+horse. That done, he lifted Stevens upon his horse, and, holding him in
+the saddle, turned into the brakes, being careful to pick out hard or
+grassy ground that left little signs of tracks. Just about dark he ran
+across a trail that Stevens said was a good one to take into the wild
+country.
+
+“Reckon we'd better keep right on in the dark--till I drop,” concluded
+Stevens, with a laugh.
+
+All that night Duane, gloomy and thoughtful, attentive to the wounded
+outlaw, walked the trail and never halted till daybreak. He was tired
+then and very hungry. Stevens seemed in bad shape, although he was still
+spirited and cheerful. Duane made camp. The outlaw refused food, but
+asked for both whisky and water. Then he stretched out.
+
+“Buck, will you take off my boots?” he asked, with a faint smile on his
+pallid face.
+
+Duane removed them, wondering if the outlaw had the thought that he did
+not want to die with his boots on. Stevens seemed to read his mind.
+
+“Buck, my old daddy used to say thet I was born to be hanged. But I
+wasn't--an' dyin' with your boots on is the next wust way to croak.”
+
+“You've a chance to-to get over this,” said Duane.
+
+“Shore. But I want to be correct about the boots--an' say, pard, if I do
+go over, jest you remember thet I was appreciatin' of your kindness.”
+
+Then he closed his eyes and seemed to sleep.
+
+Duane could not find water for the horses, but there was an abundance
+of dew-wet grass upon which he hobbled them. After that was done he
+prepared himself a much-needed meal. The sun was getting warm when he
+lay down to sleep, and when he awoke it was sinking in the west. Stevens
+was still alive, for he breathed heavily. The horses were in sight. All
+was quiet except the hum of insects in the brush. Duane listened awhile,
+then rose and went for the horses.
+
+When he returned with them he found Stevens awake, bright-eyed, cheerful
+as usual, and apparently stronger.
+
+“Wal, Buck, I'm still with you an' good fer another night's ride,” he
+said. “Guess about all I need now is a big pull on thet bottle. Help
+me, will you? There! thet was bully. I ain't swallowin' my blood this
+evenin'. Mebbe I've bled all there was in me.”
+
+While Duane got a hurried meal for himself, packed up the little outfit,
+and saddled the horses Stevens kept on talking. He seemed to be in a
+hurry to tell Duane all about the country. Another night ride would put
+them beyond fear of pursuit, within striking distance of the Rio Grande
+and the hiding-places of the outlaws.
+
+When it came time for mounting the horses Stevens said, “Reckon you
+can pull on my boots once more.” In spite of the laugh accompanying the
+words Duane detected a subtle change in the outlaw's spirit.
+
+On this night travel was facilitated by the fact that the trail was
+broad enough for two horses abreast, enabling Duane to ride while
+upholding Stevens in the saddle.
+
+The difficulty most persistent was in keeping the horses in a walk. They
+were used to a trot, and that kind of gait would not do for Stevens.
+The red died out of the west; a pale afterglow prevailed for a while;
+darkness set in; then the broad expanse of blue darkened and the stars
+brightened. After a while Stevens ceased talking and drooped in his
+saddle. Duane kept the horses going, however, and the slow hours wore
+away. Duane thought the quiet night would never break to dawn, that
+there was no end to the melancholy, brooding plain. But at length a
+grayness blotted out the stars and mantled the level of mesquite and
+cactus.
+
+Dawn caught the fugitives at a green camping-site on the bank of a rocky
+little stream. Stevens fell a dead weight into Duane's arms, and one
+look at the haggard face showed Duane that the outlaw had taken his last
+ride. He knew it, too. Yet that cheerfulness prevailed.
+
+“Buck, my feet are orful tired packin' them heavy boots,” he said, and
+seemed immensely relieved when Duane had removed them.
+
+This matter of the outlaw's boots was strange, Duane thought. He made
+Stevens as comfortable as possible, then attended to his own needs. And
+the outlaw took up the thread of his conversation where he had left off
+the night before.
+
+“This trail splits up a ways from here, an' every branch of it leads
+to a hole where you'll find men--a few, mebbe, like yourself--some like
+me--an' gangs of no-good hoss-thieves, rustlers, an' such. It's easy
+livin', Buck. I reckon, though, that you'll not find it easy. You'll
+never mix in. You'll be a lone wolf. I seen that right off. Wal, if
+a man can stand the loneliness, an' if he's quick on the draw, mebbe
+lone-wolfin' it is the best. Shore I don't know. But these fellers in
+here will be suspicious of a man who goes it alone. If they get a chance
+they'll kill you.”
+
+Stevens asked for water several times. He had forgotten or he did not
+want the whisky. His voice grew perceptibly weaker.
+
+“Be quiet,” said Duane. “Talking uses up your strength.”
+
+“Aw, I'll talk till--I'm done,” he replied, doggedly. “See here, pard,
+you can gamble on what I'm tellin' you. An' it'll be useful. From this
+camp we'll--you'll meet men right along. An' none of them will be honest
+men. All the same, some are better'n others. I've lived along the river
+fer twelve years. There's three big gangs of outlaws. King Fisher--you
+know him, I reckon, fer he's half the time livin' among respectable
+folks. King is a pretty good feller. It'll do to tie up with him ant his
+gang. Now, there's Cheseldine, who hangs out in the Rim Rock way up
+the river. He's an outlaw chief. I never seen him, though I stayed once
+right in his camp. Late years he's got rich an' keeps back pretty well
+hid. But Bland--I knowed Bland fer years. An' I haven't any use fer him.
+Bland has the biggest gang. You ain't likely to miss strikin' his place
+sometime or other. He's got a regular town, I might say. Shore there's
+some gamblin' an' gun-fightin' goin' on at Bland's camp all the time.
+Bland has killed some twenty men, an' thet's not countin' greasers.”
+
+Here Stevens took another drink and then rested for a while.
+
+“You ain't likely to get on with Bland,” he resumed, presently. “You're
+too strappin' big an' good-lookin' to please the chief. Fer he's got
+women in his camp. Then he'd be jealous of your possibilities with a
+gun. Shore I reckon he'd be careful, though. Bland's no fool, an' he
+loves his hide. I reckon any of the other gangs would be better fer you
+when you ain't goin' it alone.”
+
+Apparently that exhausted the fund of information and advice Stevens had
+been eager to impart. He lapsed into silence and lay with closed eyes.
+Meanwhile the sun rose warm; the breeze waved the mesquites; the birds
+came down to splash in the shallow stream; Duane dozed in a comfortable
+seat. By and by something roused him. Stevens was once more talking, but
+with a changed tone.
+
+“Feller's name--was Brown,” he rambled. “We fell out--over a hoss I
+stole from him--in Huntsville. He stole it fuss. Brown's one of them
+sneaks--afraid of the open--he steals an' pretends to be honest. Say,
+Buck, mebbe you'll meet Brown some day--You an' me are pards now.”
+
+“I'll remember, if I ever meet him,” said Duane.
+
+That seemed to satisfy the outlaw. Presently he tried to lift his
+head, but had not the strength. A strange shade was creeping across the
+bronzed rough face.
+
+“My feet are pretty heavy. Shore you got my boots off?”
+
+Duane held them up, but was not certain that Stevens could see them.
+The outlaw closed his eyes again and muttered incoherently. Then he fell
+asleep. Duane believed that sleep was final. The day passed, with Duane
+watching and waiting. Toward sundown Stevens awoke, and his eyes seemed
+clearer. Duane went to get some fresh water, thinking his comrade would
+surely want some. When he returned Stevens made no sign that he wanted
+anything. There was something bright about him, and suddenly Duane
+realized what it meant.
+
+“Pard, you--stuck--to me!” the outlaw whispered.
+
+Duane caught a hint of gladness in the voice; he traced a faint surprise
+in the haggard face. Stevens seemed like a little child.
+
+To Duane the moment was sad, elemental, big, with a burden of mystery he
+could not understand.
+
+Duane buried him in a shallow arroyo and heaped up a pile of stones
+to mark the grave. That done, he saddled his comrade's horse, hung the
+weapons over the pommel; and, mounting his own steed, he rode down the
+trail in the gathering twilight.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+Two days later, about the middle of the forenoon, Duane dragged the
+two horses up the last ascent of an exceedingly rough trail and found
+himself on top of the Rim Rock, with a beautiful green valley at his
+feet, the yellow, sluggish Rio Grande shining in the sun, and the great,
+wild, mountainous barren of Mexico stretching to the south.
+
+Duane had not fallen in with any travelers. He had taken the
+likeliest-looking trail he had come across. Where it had led him he had
+not the slightest idea, except that here was the river, and probably the
+inclosed valley was the retreat of some famous outlaw.
+
+No wonder outlaws were safe in that wild refuge! Duane had spent the
+last two days climbing the roughest and most difficult trail he had ever
+seen. From the looks of the descent he imagined the worst part of his
+travel was yet to come. Not improbably it was two thousand feet down to
+the river. The wedge-shaped valley, green with alfalfa and cottonwood,
+and nestling down amid the bare walls of yellow rock, was a delight and
+a relief to his tired eyes. Eager to get down to a level and to find a
+place to rest, Duane began the descent.
+
+The trail proved to be the kind that could not be descended slowly. He
+kept dodging rocks which his horses loosed behind him. And in a short
+time he reached the valley, entering at the apex of the wedge. A stream
+of clear water tumbled out of the rocks here, and most of it ran into
+irrigation-ditches. His horses drank thirstily. And he drank with that
+fullness and gratefulness common to the desert traveler finding sweet
+water. Then he mounted and rode down the valley wondering what would be
+his reception.
+
+The valley was much larger than it had appeared from the high elevation.
+Well watered, green with grass and tree, and farmed evidently by good
+hands, it gave Duane a considerable surprise. Horses and cattle were
+everywhere. Every clump of cottonwoods surrounded a small adobe house.
+Duane saw Mexicans working in the fields and horsemen going to and
+fro. 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. His yellow eyes took in Stevens's horse, then the weapons
+hung on the saddle, and finally turned their glinting, hard light upward
+to Duane.
+
+Duane did not like the tone in which he had been addressed, and he
+remained silent. At least half his mind seemed busy with curious
+interest in regard to something that leaped inside him and made his
+breast feel tight. He recognized it as that strange emotion which had
+shot through him often of late, and which had decided him to go out to
+the meeting with Bain. Only now it was different, more powerful.
+
+“Stranger, who are you?” asked another man, somewhat more civilly.
+
+“My name's Duane,” replied Duane, curtly.
+
+“An' how'd you come by the hoss?”
+
+Duane answered briefly, and his words were followed by a short silence,
+during which the men looked at him. Bosomer began to twist the ends of
+his beard.
+
+“Reckon he's dead, all right, or nobody'd hev his hoss an' guns,”
+ presently said Euchre.
+
+“Mister Duane,” began Bosomer, in low, stinging tones, “I happen to be
+Luke Stevens's side-pardner.”
+
+Duane looked him over, from dusty, worn-out boots to his slouchy
+sombrero. That look seemed to inflame Bosomer.
+
+“An' I want the hoss an' them guns,” he shouted.
+
+“You or anybody else can have them, for all I care. I just fetched them
+in. But the pack is mine,” replied Duane. “And say, I befriended your
+pard. If you can't use a civil tongue you'd better cinch it.”
+
+“Civil? Haw, haw!” rejoined the outlaw. “I don't know you. How do we
+know you didn't plug Stevens, an' stole his hoss, an' jest happened to
+stumble down here?”
+
+“You'll have to take my word, that's all,” replied Duane, sharply.
+
+“I ain't takin' your word! Savvy thet? An' I was Luke's pard!”
+
+With that Bosomer wheeled and, pushing his companions aside, he stamped
+into the saloon, where his voice broke out in a roar.
+
+Duane dismounted and threw his bridle.
+
+“Stranger, Bosomer is shore hot-headed,” said the man Euchre. He did not
+appear unfriendly, nor were the others hostile.
+
+At this juncture several more outlaws crowded out of the door, and
+the one in the lead was a tall man of stalwart physique. His manner
+proclaimed him a leader. He had a long face, a flaming red beard, and
+clear, cold blue eyes that fixed in close scrutiny upon Duane. He was
+not a Texan; in truth, Duane did not recognize one of these outlaws as
+native to his state.
+
+“I'm Bland,” said the tall man, authoritatively. “Who're you and what're
+you doing here?”
+
+Duane looked at Bland as he had at the others. This outlaw chief
+appeared to be reasonable, if he was not courteous. Duane told his story
+again, this time a little more in detail.
+
+“I believe you,” replied Bland, at once. “Think I know when a fellow is
+lying.”
+
+“I reckon you're on the right trail,” put in Euchre. “Thet about Luke
+wantin' his boots took off--thet satisfies me. Luke hed a mortal dread
+of dyin' with his boots on.”
+
+At this sally the chief and his men laughed.
+
+“You said Duane--Buck Duane?” queried Bland. “Are you a son of that
+Duane who was a gunfighter some years back?”
+
+“Yes,” replied Duane.
+
+“Never met him, and glad I didn't,” said Bland, with a grim humor. “So
+you got in trouble and had to go on the dodge? What kind of trouble?”
+
+“Had a fight.”
+
+“Fight? Do you mean gun-play?” questioned Bland. He seemed eager,
+curious, speculative.
+
+“Yes. It ended in gun-play, I'm sorry to say,” answered Duane.
+
+“Guess I needn't ask the son of Duane if he killed his man,” went on
+Bland, ironically. “Well, I'm sorry you bucked against trouble in my
+camp. But as it is, I guess you'd be wise to make yourself scarce.”
+
+“Do you mean I'm politely told to move on?” asked Duane, quietly.
+
+“Not exactly that,” said Bland, as if irritated. “If this isn't a free
+place there isn't one on earth. Every man is equal here. Do you want to
+join my band?”
+
+“No, I don't.”
+
+“Well, even if you did I imagine that wouldn't stop Bosomer. He's an
+ugly fellow. He's one of the few gunmen I've met who wants to kill
+somebody all the time. Most men like that are fourflushes. But Bosomer
+is all one color, and that's red. Merely for your own sake I advise you
+to hit the trail.”
+
+“Thanks. But if that's all I'll stay,” returned Duane. Even as he spoke
+he felt that he did not know himself.
+
+Bosomer appeared at the door, pushing men who tried to detain him, and
+as he jumped clear of a last reaching hand he uttered a snarl like an
+angry dog. Manifestly the short while he had spent inside the saloon had
+been devoted to drinking and talking himself into a frenzy. Bland and
+the other outlaws quickly moved aside, letting Duane stand alone. When
+Bosomer saw Duane standing motionless and watchful a strange change
+passed quickly in him. He halted in his tracks, and as he did that the
+men who had followed him out piled over one another in their hurry to
+get to one side.
+
+Duane saw all the swift action, felt intuitively the meaning of it, and
+in Bosomer's sudden change of front. The outlaw was keen, and he had
+expected a shrinking, or at least a frightened antagonist. Duane knew he
+was neither. He felt like iron, and yet thrill after thrill ran through
+him. It was almost as if this situation had been one long familiar to
+him. Somehow he understood this yellow-eyed Bosomer. The outlaw had
+come out to kill him. And now, though somewhat checked by the stand of
+a stranger, he still meant to kill. Like so many desperadoes of his
+ilk, he was victim of a passion to kill for the sake of killing. Duane
+divined that no sudden animosity was driving Bosomer. It was just his
+chance. In that moment murder would have been joy to him. Very likely
+he had forgotten his pretext for a quarrel. Very probably his faculties
+were absorbed in conjecture as to Duane's possibilities.
+
+But he did not speak a word. He remained motionless for a long moment,
+his eyes pale and steady, his right hand like a claw.
+
+That instant gave Duane a power to read in his enemy's eyes the thought
+that preceded action. But Duane did not want to kill another man.
+Still he would have to fight, and he decided to cripple Bosomer. When
+Bosomer's hand moved Duane's gun was spouting fire. Two shots only--both
+from Duane's gun--and the outlaw fell with his right arm shattered.
+Bosomer cursed harshly and floundered in the dust, trying to reach the
+gun with his left hand. His comrades, however, seeing that Duane would
+not kill unless forced, closed in upon Bosomer and prevented any further
+madness on his part.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+Of the outlaws present Euchre appeared to be the one most inclined to
+lend friendliness to curiosity; and he led Duane and the horses away
+to a small adobe shack. He tied the horses in an open shed and removed
+their saddles. Then, gathering up Stevens's weapons, he invited his
+visitor to enter the house.
+
+It had two rooms--windows without coverings--bare floors. One room
+contained blankets, weapons, saddles, and bridles; the other a stone
+fireplace, rude table and bench, two bunks, a box cupboard, and various
+blackened utensils.
+
+“Make yourself to home as long as you want to stay,” said Euchre. “I
+ain't rich in this world's goods, but I own what's here, an' you're
+welcome.”
+
+“Thanks. I'll stay awhile and rest. I'm pretty well played out,” replied
+Duane.
+
+Euchre gave him a keen glance.
+
+“Go ahead an' rest. I'll take your horses to grass.” Euchre left Duane
+alone in the house. Duane relaxed then, and mechanically he wiped the
+sweat from his face. He was laboring under some kind of a spell or shock
+which did not pass off quickly. When it had worn away he took off his
+coat and belt and made himself comfortable on the blankets. And he had a
+thought that if he rested or slept what difference would it make on the
+morrow? No rest, no sleep could change the gray outlook of the future.
+He felt glad when Euchre came bustling in, and for the first time he
+took notice of the outlaw.
+
+Euchre was old in years. What little hair he had was gray, his face
+clean-shaven and full of wrinkles; his eyes were half shut from long
+gazing through the sun and dust. He stooped. But his thin frame denoted
+strength and endurance still unimpaired.
+
+“Hey a drink or a smoke?” he asked.
+
+Duane shook his head. He had not been unfamiliar with whisky, and he
+had used tobacco moderately since he was sixteen. But now, strangely, he
+felt a disgust at the idea of stimulants. He did not understand clearly
+what he felt. There was that vague idea of something wild in his blood,
+something that made him fear himself.
+
+Euchre wagged his old head sympathetically. “Reckon you feel a little
+sick. When it comes to shootin' I run. What's your age?”
+
+“I'm twenty-three,” replied Duane.
+
+Euchre showed surprise. “You're only a boy! I thought you thirty
+anyways. Buck, I heard what you told Bland, an' puttin' thet with my
+own figgerin', I reckon you're no criminal yet. Throwin' a gun in
+self-defense--thet ain't no crime!”
+
+Duane, finding relief in talking, told more about himself.
+
+“Huh,” replied the old man. “I've been on this river fer years, an' I've
+seen hundreds of boys come in on the dodge. Most of them, though, was no
+good. An' thet kind don't last long. This river country has been an' is
+the refuge fer criminals from all over the states. I've bunked with
+bank cashiers, forgers, plain thieves, an' out-an'-out murderers, all
+of which had no bizness on the Texas border. Fellers like Bland are
+exceptions. He's no Texan--you seen thet. The gang he rules here come
+from all over, an' they're tough cusses, you can bet on thet. They live
+fat an' easy. If it wasn't fer the fightin' among themselves they'd
+shore grow populous. The Rim Rock is no place for a peaceable, decent
+feller. I heard you tell Bland you wouldn't join his gang. Thet'll not
+make him take a likin' to you. Have you any money?”
+
+“Not much,” replied Duane.
+
+“Could you live by gamblin'? Are you any good at cards?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“You wouldn't steal hosses or rustle cattle?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“When your money's gone how'n hell will you live? There ain't any work
+a decent feller could do. You can't herd with greasers. Why, Bland's men
+would shoot at you in the fields. What'll you do, son?”
+
+“God knows,” replied Duane, hopelessly. “I'll make my money last as long
+as possible--then starve.”
+
+“Wal, I'm pretty pore, but you'll never starve while I got anythin'.”
+
+Here it struck Duane again--that something human and kind and eager
+which he had seen in Stevens. Duane's estimate of outlaws had lacked
+this quality. He had not accorded them any virtues. To him, as to the
+outside world, they had been merely vicious men without one redeeming
+feature.
+
+“I'm much obliged to you, Euchre,” replied Duane. “But of course I won't
+live with any one unless I can pay my share.”
+
+“Have it any way you like, my son,” said Euchre, good-humoredly. “You
+make a fire, an' I'll set about gettin' grub. I'm a sourdough, Buck.
+Thet man doesn't live who can beat my bread.”
+
+“How do you ever pack supplies in here?” asked Duane, thinking of the
+almost inaccessible nature of the valley.
+
+“Some comes across from Mexico, an' the rest down the river. Thet river
+trip is a bird. It's more'n five hundred miles to any supply point.
+Bland has mozos, greaser boatmen. Sometimes, too, he gets supplies in
+from down-river. You see, Bland sells thousands of cattle in Cuba. An'
+all this stock has to go down by boat to meet the ships.”
+
+“Where on earth are the cattle driven down to the river?” asked Duane.
+
+“Thet's not my secret,” replied Euchre, shortly. “Fact is, I don't know.
+I've rustled cattle for Bland, but he never sent me through the Rim Rock
+with them.”
+
+Duane experienced a sort of pleasure in the realization that interest
+had been stirred in him. He was curious about Bland and his gang, and
+glad to have something to think about. For every once in a while he had
+a sensation that was almost like a pang. He wanted to forget. In the
+next hour he did forget, and enjoyed helping in the preparation and
+eating of the meal. Euchre, after washing and hanging up the several
+utensils, put on his hat and turned to go out.
+
+“Come along or stay here, as you want,” he said to Duane.
+
+“I'll stay,” rejoined Duane, slowly.
+
+The old outlaw left the room and trudged away, whistling cheerfully.
+
+Duane looked around him for a book or paper, anything to read; but
+all the printed matter he could find consisted of a few words on
+cartridge-boxes and an advertisement on the back of a tobacco-pouch.
+There seemed to be nothing for him to do. He had rested; he did not want
+to lie down any more. He began to walk to and fro, from one end of the
+room to the other. And as he walked he fell into the lately acquired
+habit of brooding over his misfortune.
+
+Suddenly he straightened up with a jerk. Unconsciously he had drawn his
+gun. Standing there with the bright cold weapon in his hand, he looked
+at it in consternation. How had he come to draw it? With difficulty
+he traced his thoughts backward, but could not find any that was
+accountable for his act. He discovered, however, that he had a
+remarkable tendency to drop his hand to his gun. That might have come
+from the habit long practice in drawing had given him. Likewise, it
+might have come from a subtle sense, scarcely thought of at all, of the
+late, close, and inevitable relation between that weapon and himself. He
+was amazed to find that, bitter as he had grown at fate, the desire to
+live burned strong in him. If he had been as unfortunately situated, but
+with the difference that no man wanted to put him in jail or take his
+life, he felt that this burning passion to be free, to save himself,
+might not have been so powerful. Life certainly held no bright prospects
+for him. Already he had begun to despair of ever getting back to his
+home. But to give up like a white-hearted coward, to let himself be
+handcuffed and jailed, to run from a drunken, bragging cowboy, or be
+shot in cold blood by some border brute who merely wanted to add another
+notch to his gun--these things were impossible for Duane because there
+was in him the temper to fight. In that hour he yielded only to fate and
+the spirit inborn in him. Hereafter this gun must be a living part
+of him. Right then and there he returned to a practice he had long
+discontinued--the draw. It was now a stern, bitter, deadly business with
+him. He did not need to fire the gun, for accuracy was a gift and had
+become assured. Swiftness on the draw, however, could be improved, and
+he set himself to acquire the limit of speed possible to any man. He
+stood still in his tracks; he paced the room; he sat down, lay down,
+put himself in awkward positions; and from every position he practiced
+throwing his gun--practiced it till he was hot and tired and his arm
+ached and his hand burned. That practice he determined to keep up every
+day. It was one thing, at least, that would help pass the weary hours.
+
+Later he went outdoors to the cooler shade of the cottonwoods. From
+this point he could see a good deal of the valley. Under different
+circumstances Duane felt that he would have enjoyed such a beautiful
+spot. Euchre's shack sat against the first rise of the slope of the
+wall, and Duane, by climbing a few rods, got a view of the whole valley.
+Assuredly it was an outlaw settle meet. He saw a good many Mexicans,
+who, of course, were hand and glove with Bland. Also he saw enormous
+flat-boats, crude of structure, moored along the banks of the river. The
+Rio Grande rolled away between high bluffs. A cable, sagging deep in
+the middle, was stretched over the wide yellow stream, and an old scow,
+evidently used as a ferry, lay anchored on the far shore.
+
+The valley was an ideal retreat for an outlaw band operating on a big
+scale. Pursuit scarcely need be feared over the broken trails of the Rim
+Rock. And the open end of the valley could be defended against almost
+any number of men coming down the river. Access to Mexico was easy and
+quick. What puzzled Duane was how Bland got cattle down to the river,
+and he wondered if the rustler really did get rid of his stolen stock by
+use of boats.
+
+Duane must have idled considerable time up on the hill, for when he
+returned to the shack Euchre was busily engaged around the camp-fire.
+
+“Wal, glad to see you ain't so pale about the gills as you was,” he
+said, by way of greeting. “Pitch in an' we'll soon have grub ready.
+There's shore one consolin' fact round this here camp.”
+
+“What's that?” asked Duane.
+
+“Plenty of good juicy beef to eat. An' it doesn't cost a short bit.”
+
+“But it costs hard rides and trouble, bad conscience, and life, too,
+doesn't it?”
+
+“I ain't shore about the bad conscience. Mine never bothered me none.
+An' as for life, why, thet's cheap in Texas.”
+
+“Who is Bland?” asked Duane, quickly changing the subject. “What do you
+know about him?”
+
+“We don't know who he is or where he hails from,” replied Euchre.
+“Thet's always been somethin' to interest the gang. He must have been
+a young man when he struck Texas. Now he's middle-aged. I remember how
+years ago he was soft-spoken an' not rough in talk or act like he is
+now. Bland ain't likely his right name. He knows a lot. He can doctor
+you, an' he's shore a knowin' feller with tools. He's the kind thet
+rules men. Outlaws are always ridin' in here to join his gang, an' if
+it hadn't been fer the gamblin' an' gun-play he'd have a thousand men
+around him.”
+
+“How many in his gang now?”
+
+“I 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.”
+
+“How 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.”
+
+“Thet'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!”
+
+“It's a wonder he hasn't been killed. All these years on the border!”
+ exclaimed Duane.
+
+“Wal,” 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.
+
+“Speakin' 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.
+
+“Wal,” 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
+country. They'll all want your game. An' every town you ride into will
+scare up some cowpuncher full of booze or a long-haired four-flush
+gunman or a sheriff--an' these men will be playin' to the crowd an'
+yellin' for your blood. Thet's the Texas of it. You'll have to hide fer
+ever in the brakes or you'll have to KILL such men. Buck, I reckon this
+ain't cheerful news to a decent chap like you. I'm only tellin' you
+because I've taken a likin' to you, an' I seen right off thet you ain't
+border-wise. Let's eat now, an' afterward we'll go out so the gang can
+see you're not hidin'.”
+
+When Duane went out with Euchre the sun was setting behind a blue range
+of mountains across the river in Mexico. The valley appeared to open to
+the southwest. It was a tranquil, beautiful scene. Somewhere in a house
+near at hand a woman was singing. And in the road Duane saw a little
+Mexican boy driving home some cows, one of which wore a bell. The
+sweet, happy voice of a woman and a whistling barefoot boy--these seemed
+utterly out of place here.
+
+Euchre presently led to the square and the row of rough houses Duane
+remembered. He almost stepped on a wide imprint in the dust where
+Bosomer had confronted him. And a sudden fury beset him that he should
+be affected strangely by the sight of it.
+
+“Let's have a look in here,” said Euchre.
+
+Duane had to bend his head to enter the door. He found himself in a very
+large room inclosed by adobe walls and roofed with brush. It was full of
+rude benches, tables, seats. At one corner a number of kegs and barrels
+lay side by side in a rack. A Mexican boy was lighting lamps hung on
+posts that sustained the log rafters of the roof.
+
+“The only feller who's goin' to put a close eye on you is Benson,”
+ said Euchre. “He runs the place an' sells drinks. The gang calls him
+Jackrabbit Benson, because he's always got his eye peeled an' his ear
+cocked. Don't notice him if he looks you over, Buck. Benson is scared to
+death of every new-comer who rustles into Bland's camp. An' the reason,
+I take it, is because he's done somebody dirt. He's hidin'. Not from
+a sheriff or ranger! Men who hide from them don't act like Jackrabbit
+Benson. He's hidin' from some guy who's huntin' him to kill him. Wal,
+I'm always expectin' to see some feller ride in here an' throw a gun on
+Benson. Can't say I'd be grieved.”
+
+Duane casually glanced in the direction indicated, and he saw a spare,
+gaunt man with a face strikingly white beside the red and bronze and
+dark skins of the men around him. It was a cadaverous face. The black
+mustache hung down; a heavy lock of black hair dropped down over the
+brow; deep-set, hollow, staring eyes looked out piercingly. The man had
+a restless, alert, nervous manner. He put his hands on the board that
+served as a bar and stared at Duane. But when he met Duane's glance he
+turned hurriedly to go on serving out liquor.
+
+“What have you got against him?” inquired Duane, as he sat down beside
+Euchre. He asked more for something to say than from real interest. What
+did he care about a mean, haunted, craven-faced criminal?
+
+“Wal, mebbe I'm cross-grained,” replied Euchre, apologetically. “Shore
+an outlaw an' rustler such as me can't be touchy. But I never stole
+nothin' but cattle from some rancher who never missed 'em anyway. Thet
+sneak Benson--he was the means of puttin' a little girl in Bland's way.”
+
+“Girl?” queried Duane, now with real attention.
+
+“Shore. Bland's great on women. I'll tell you about this girl when we
+get out of here. Some of the gang are goin' to be sociable, an' I can't
+talk about the chief.”
+
+During the ensuing 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.
+
+“Bland's not here to-night,” Euchre was saying. “He left today 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 greaser
+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 troublehunter, 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, an' he won't last the year
+out on the border. He killed his sweetheart's father, got run out of
+Staceytown, took to stealin' hosses. An' next he's here with Bland.
+Another boy gone wrong, an' now shore a hard nut.”
+
+Euchre went on calling Duane's attention to other men, just as he
+happened to glance over them. Any one of them would have been a marked
+man in a respectable crowd. Here each took his place with more or less
+distinction, according to the record of his past wild prowess and his
+present possibilities. Duane, realizing that he was tolerated there,
+received in careless friendly spirit by this terrible class of outcasts,
+experienced a feeling of revulsion that amounted almost to horror.
+Was his being there not an ugly dream? What had he in common with such
+ruffians? Then in a flash of memory came the painful proof--he was a
+criminal in sight of Texas law; he, too, was an outcast.
+
+For the moment Duane was wrapped up in painful reflections; but Euchre's
+heavy hand, clapping with a warning hold on his arm, brought him back to
+outside things.
+
+The hum of voices, the clink of coin, the loud laughter had ceased.
+There was a silence that manifestly had followed some unusual word or
+action sufficient to still the room. It was broken by a harsh curse and
+the scrape of a bench on the floor. Some man had risen.
+
+“You stacked the cards, you--!”
+
+“Say that twice,” another voice replied, so different in its cool,
+ominous tone from the other.
+
+“I'll say it twice,” returned the first gamester, in hot haste. “I'll
+say it three times. I'll whistle it. Are you deaf? You light-fingered
+gent! You stacked the cards!”
+
+Silence ensued, deeper than before, pregnant with meaning. For all that
+Duane saw, not an outlaw moved for a full moment. Then suddenly the room
+was full of disorder as men rose and ran and dived everywhere.
+
+“Run or duck!” yelled Euchre, close to Duane's ear. With that he dashed
+for the door. Duane leaped after him. They ran into a jostling mob.
+Heavy gun-shots and hoarse yells hurried the crowd Duane was with
+pell-mell out into the darkness. There they all halted, and several
+peeped in at the door.
+
+“Who was the Kid callin'?” asked one outlaw.
+
+“Bud Marsh,” replied another.
+
+“I reckon them fust shots was Bud's. Adios Kid. It was comin' to him,”
+ went on yet another.
+
+“How many shots?”
+
+“Three or four, I counted.”
+
+“Three heavy an' one light. Thet light one was the Kid's.38. Listen!
+There's the Kid hollerin' now. He ain't cashed, anyway.”
+
+At this juncture most of the outlaws began to file back into the room.
+Duane thought he had seen and heard enough in Benson's den for one night
+and he started slowly down the walk. Presently Euchre caught up with
+him.
+
+“Nobody hurt much, which's shore some strange,” he said. “The Kid--young
+Fuller thet I was tellin' you about--he was drinkin' an' losin'. Lost
+his nut, too, callin' Bud Marsh thet way. Bud's as straight at cards as
+any of 'em. Somebody grabbed Bud, who shot into the roof. An' Fuller's
+arm was knocked up. He only hit a greaser.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+Next morning Duane found that a moody and despondent spell had fastened
+on him. Wishing to be alone, he went out and walked a trail leading
+round the river bluff. He thought and thought. After a while he made out
+that the trouble with him probably was that he could not resign himself
+to his fate. He abhorred the possibility chance seemed to hold in store
+for him. He could not believe there was no hope. But what to do appeared
+beyond his power to tell.
+
+Duane had intelligence and keenness enough to see his peril--the
+danger threatening his character as a man, just as much as that which
+threatened his life. He cared vastly more, he discovered, for what he
+considered honor and integrity than he did for life. He saw that it was
+bad for him to be alone. But, it appeared, lonely months and perhaps
+years inevitably must be his. Another thing puzzled him. In the bright
+light of day he could not recall the state of mind that was his at
+twilight or dusk or in the dark night. By day these visitations became
+to him what they really were--phantoms of his conscience. He could
+dismiss the thought of them then. He could scarcely remember or believe
+that this strange feat of fancy or imagination had troubled him, pained
+him, made him sleepless and sick.
+
+That morning Duane spent an unhappy hour wrestling decision out of the
+unstable condition of his mind. But at length he determined to create
+interest in all that he came across and so forget himself as much as
+possible. He had an opportunity now to see just what the outlaw's
+life really was. He meant to force himself to be curious, sympathetic,
+clear-sighted. And he would stay there in the valley until its
+possibilities had been exhausted or until circumstances sent him out
+upon his uncertain way.
+
+When he returned to the shack Euchre was cooking dinner.
+
+“Say, Buck, I've news for you,” he said; and his tone conveyed either
+pride in his possession of such news or pride in Duane. “Feller named
+Bradley rode in this mornin'. He's heard some about you. Told about the
+ace of spades they put over the bullet holes in thet cowpuncher Bain
+you plugged. Then there was a rancher shot at a water-hole twenty miles
+south of Wellston. Reckon you didn't do it?”
+
+“No, I certainly did not,” replied Duane.
+
+“Wal, you get the blame. It ain't nothin' for a feller to be saddled
+with gun-plays he never made. An', Buck, if you ever get famous, as
+seems likely, you'll be blamed for many a crime. The border'll make an
+outlaw an' murderer out of you. Wal, thet's enough of thet. I've more
+news. You're goin' to be popular.”
+
+“Popular? What do you mean?”
+
+“I met Bland's wife this mornin'. She seen you the other day when you
+rode in. She shore wants to meet you, an' so do some of the other women
+in camp. They always want to meet the new fellers who've just come
+in. It's lonesome for women here, an' they like to hear news from the
+towns.”
+
+“Well, Euchre, I don't want to be impolite, but I'd rather not meet any
+women,” rejoined Duane.
+
+“I was afraid you wouldn't. Don't blame you much. Women are hell. I was
+hopin', though, you might talk a little to thet poor lonesome kid.”
+
+“What kid?” inquired Duane, in surprise.
+
+“Didn't I tell you about Jennie--the girl Bland's holdin' here--the one
+Jackrabbit Benson had a hand in stealin'?”
+
+“You mentioned a girl. That's all. Tell me now,” replied Duane,
+abruptly.
+
+“Wal, I got it this way. Mebbe it's straight, an' mebbe it ain't. Some
+years ago Benson made a trip over the river to buy mescal an' other
+drinks. He'll sneak over there once in a while. An' as I get it he run
+across a gang of greasers with some gringo prisoners. I don't know, but
+I reckon there was some barterin', perhaps murderin'. Anyway, Benson
+fetched the girl back. She was more dead than alive. But it turned out
+she was only starved an' scared half to death. She hadn't been harmed.
+I reckon she was then about fourteen years old. Benson's idee, he said,
+was to use her in his den sellin' drinks an' the like. But I never
+went much on Jackrabbit's word. Bland seen the kid right off and took
+her--bought her from Benson. You can gamble Bland didn't do thet from
+notions of chivalry. I ain't gainsayin, however, but thet Jennie was
+better off with Kate Bland. She's been hard on Jennie, but she's kept
+Bland an' the other men from treatin' the kid shameful. Late Jennie has
+growed into an all-fired pretty girl, an' Kate is powerful jealous of
+her. I can see hell brewin' over there in Bland's cabin. Thet's why
+I wish you'd come over with me. Bland's hardly ever home. His wife's
+invited you. Shore, if she gets sweet on you, as she has on--Wal, thet
+'d complicate matters. But you'd get to see Jennie, an' mebbe you could
+help her. Mind, I ain't hintin' nothin'. I'm just wantin' to put her
+in your way. You're a man an' can think fer yourself. I had a baby girl
+once, an' if she'd lived she be as big as Jennie now, an', by Gawd, I
+wouldn't want her here in Bland's camp.”
+
+“I'll go, Euchre. Take me over,” replied Duane. He felt Euchre's eyes
+upon him. The old outlaw, however, had no more to say.
+
+In the afternoon Euchre set off with Duane, and soon they reached
+Bland's cabin. Duane remembered it as the one where he had seen the
+pretty woman watching him ride by. He could not recall what she looked
+like. The cabin was the same as the other adobe structures in the
+valley, but it was larger and pleasantly located rather high up in a
+grove of cottonwoods. In the windows and upon the porch were evidences
+of a woman's hand. Through the open door Duane caught a glimpse of
+bright Mexican blankets and rugs.
+
+Euchre knocked upon the side of the door.
+
+“Is that you, Euchre?” asked a girl's voice, low, hesitatingly. The tone
+of it, rather deep and with a note of fear, struck Duane. He wondered
+what she would be like.
+
+“Yes, it's me, Jennie. Where's Mrs. Bland?” answered Euchre.
+
+“She went over to Deger's. There's somebody sick,” replied the girl.
+
+Euchre turned and whispered something about luck. The snap of the
+outlaw's eyes was added significance to Duane.
+
+“Jennie, come out or let us come in. Here's the young man I was tellin'
+you about,” Euchre said.
+
+“Oh, I can't! I look so--so--”
+
+“Never mind how you look,” interrupted the outlaw, in a whisper. “It
+ain't no time to care fer thet. Here's young Duane. Jennie, he's no
+rustler, no thief. He's different. Come out, Jennie, an' mebbe he'll--”
+
+Euchre did not complete his sentence. He had spoken low, with his glance
+shifting from side to side.
+
+But what he said was sufficient to bring the girl quickly. She appeared
+in the doorway with downcast eyes and a stain of red in her white cheek.
+She had a pretty, sad face and bright hair.
+
+“Don't be bashful, Jennie,” said Euchre. “You an' Duane have a chance to
+talk a little. Now I'll go fetch Mrs. Bland, but I won't be hurryin'.”
+
+With that Euchre went away through the cottonwoods.
+
+“I'm glad to meet you, Miss--Miss Jennie,” said Duane. “Euchre didn't
+mention your last name. He asked me to come over to--”
+
+Duane's attempt at pleasantry halted short when Jennie lifted her lashes
+to look at him. Some kind of a shock went through Duane. Her gray eyes
+were beautiful, but it had not been beauty that cut short his speech. He
+seemed to see a tragic struggle between hope and doubt that shone in her
+piercing gaze. She kept looking, and Duane could not break the silence.
+It was no ordinary moment.
+
+“What did you come here for?” she asked, at last.
+
+“To see you,” replied Duane, glad to speak.
+
+“Why?”
+
+“Well--Euchre thought--he wanted me to talk to you, cheer you up a bit,”
+ replied Duane, somewhat lamely. The earnest eyes embarrassed him.
+
+“Euchre's good. He's the only person in this awful place who's been good
+to me. But he's afraid of Bland. He said you were different. Who are
+you?”
+
+Duane told her.
+
+“You're not a robber or rustler or murderer or some bad man come here to
+hide?”
+
+“No, I'm not,” replied Duane, trying to smile.
+
+“Then why are you here?”
+
+“I'm on the dodge. You know what that means. I got in a shooting-scrape
+at home and had to run off. When it blows over I hope to go back.”
+
+“But you can't be honest here?”
+
+“Yes, I can.”
+
+“Oh, I know what these outlaws are. Yes, you're different.” She kept the
+strained gaze upon him, but hope was kindling, and the hard lines of her
+youthful face were softening.
+
+Something sweet and warm stirred deep in Duane as he realized the
+unfortunate girl was experiencing a birth of trust in him.
+
+“O God! Maybe you're the man to save me--to take me away before it's too
+late.”
+
+Duane's spirit leaped.
+
+“Maybe I am,” he replied, instantly.
+
+She seemed to check a blind impulse to run into his arms. Her cheek
+flamed, her lips quivered, her bosom swelled under her ragged dress.
+Then the glow began to fade; doubt once more assailed her.
+
+“It can't be. You're only--after me, too, like Bland--like all of them.”
+
+Duane's long arms went out and his hands clasped her shoulders. He shook
+her.
+
+“Look at me--straight in the eye. There are decent men. Haven't you a
+father--a brother?”
+
+“They're dead--killed by raiders. We lived in Dimmit County. I was
+carried away,” Jennie replied, hurriedly. She put up an appealing hand
+to him. “Forgive me. I believe--I know you're good. It was only--I live
+so much in fear--I'm half crazy--I've almost forgotten what good men are
+like, Mister Duane, you'll help me?”
+
+“Yes, Jennie, I will. Tell me how. What must I do? Have you any plan?”
+
+“Oh no. But take me away.”
+
+“I'll try,” said Duane, simply. “That won't be easy, though. I must
+have time to think. You must help me. There are many things to consider.
+Horses, food, trails, and then the best time to make the attempt. Are
+you watched--kept prisoner?”
+
+“No. I could have run off lots of times. But I was afraid. I'd only have
+fallen into worse hands. Euchre has told me that. Mrs. Bland beats me,
+half starves me, but she has kept me from her husband and these other
+dogs. She's been as good as that, and I'm grateful. She hasn't done it
+for love of me, though. She always hated me. And lately she's growing
+jealous. There was' a man came here by the name of Spence--so he called
+himself. He tried to be kind to me. But she wouldn't let him. She was
+in love with him. She's a bad woman. Bland finally shot Spence, and
+that ended that. She's been jealous ever since. I hear her fighting with
+Bland about me. She swears she'll kill me before he gets me. And Bland
+laughs in her face. Then I've heard Chess Alloway try to persuade Bland
+to give me to him. But Bland doesn't laugh then. Just lately before
+Bland went away things almost came to a head. I couldn't sleep. I wished
+Mrs. Bland would kill me. I'll certainly kill myself if they ruin me.
+Duane, you must be quick if you'd save me.”
+
+“I realize that,” replied he, thoughtfully. “I think my difficulty will
+be to fool Mrs. Bland. If she suspected me she'd have the whole gang of
+outlaws on me at once.”
+
+“She would that. You've got to be careful--and quick.”
+
+“What kind of woman is she?” inquired Duane.
+
+“She's--she's brazen. I've heard her with her lovers. They get drunk
+sometimes when Bland's away. She's got a terrible temper. She's vain.
+She likes flattery. Oh, you could fool her easy enough if you'd lower
+yourself to--to--”
+
+“To make love to her?” interrupted Duane.
+
+Jennie bravely turned shamed eyes to meet his.
+
+“My girl, I'd do worse than that to get you away from here,” he said,
+bluntly.
+
+“But--Duane,” she faltered, and again she put out the appealing hand.
+“Bland will kill you.”
+
+Duane made no reply to this. He was trying to still a rising strange
+tumult in his breast. The old emotion--the rush of an instinct to kill!
+He turned cold all over.
+
+“Chess Alloway will kill you if Bland doesn't,” went on Jennie, with her
+tragic eyes on Duane's.
+
+“Maybe he will,” replied Duane. It was difficult for him to force a
+smile. But he achieved one.
+
+“Oh, better take me off at once,” she said. “Save me without risking so
+much--without making love to Mrs. Bland!”
+
+“Surely, if I can. There! I see Euchre coming with a woman.”
+
+“That's her. Oh, she mustn't see me with you.”
+
+“Wait--a moment,” whispered Duane, as Jennie slipped indoors. “We've
+settled it. Don't forget. I'll find some way to get word to you, perhaps
+through Euchre. Meanwhile keep up your courage. Remember I'll save you
+somehow. We'll try strategy first. Whatever you see or hear me do, don't
+think less of me--”
+
+Jennie checked him with a gesture and a wonderful gray flash of eyes.
+
+“I'll bless you with every drop of blood in my heart,” she whispered,
+passionately.
+
+It was only as she turned away into the room that Duane saw she was lame
+and that she wore Mexican sandals over bare feet.
+
+He sat down upon a bench on the porch and directed his attention to the
+approaching couple. The trees of the grove were thick enough for him to
+make reasonably sure that Mrs. Bland had not seen him talking to Jennie.
+When the outlaw's wife drew near Duane saw that she was a tall,
+strong, full-bodied woman, rather good-looking with a fullblown, bold
+attractiveness. Duane was more concerned with her expression than with
+her good looks; and as she appeared unsuspicious he felt relieved. The
+situation then took on a singular zest.
+
+Euchre came up on the porch and awkwardly introduced Duane to Mrs.
+Bland. She was young, probably not over twenty-five, and not quite so
+prepossessing at close range. Her eyes were large, rather prominent, and
+brown in color. Her mouth, too, was large, with the lips full, and she
+had white teeth.
+
+Duane took her proffered hand and remarked frankly that he was glad to
+meet her.
+
+Mrs. Bland appeared pleased; and her laugh, which followed, was loud and
+rather musical.
+
+“Mr. Duane--Buck Duane, Euchre said, didn't he?” she asked.
+
+“Buckley,” corrected Duane. “The nickname's not of my choosing.”
+
+“I'm certainly glad to meet you, Buckley Duane,” she said, as she took
+the seat Duane offered her. “Sorry to have been out. Kid Fuller's lying
+over at Deger's. You know he was shot last night. He's got fever to-day.
+When Bland's away I have to nurse all these shot-up boys, and it
+sure takes my time. Have you been waiting here alone? Didn't see that
+slattern girl of mine?”
+
+She gave him a sharp glance. The woman had an extraordinary play of
+feature, Duane thought, and unless she was smiling was not pretty at
+all.
+
+“I've been alone,” replied Duane. “Haven't seen anybody but a
+sick-looking girl with a bucket. And she ran when she saw me.”
+
+“That was Jen,” said Mrs. Bland. “She's the kid we keep here, and she
+sure hardly pays her keep. Did Euchre tell you about her?”
+
+“Now that I think of it, he did say something or other.”
+
+“What did he tell you about me?” bluntly asked Mrs. Bland.
+
+“Wal, Kate,” replied Euchre, speaking for himself, “you needn't worry
+none, for I told Buck nothin' but compliments.”
+
+Evidently the outlaw's wife liked Euchre, for her keen glance rested
+with amusement upon him.
+
+“As for Jen, I'll tell you her story some day,” went on the woman. “It's
+a common enough story along this river. Euchre here is a tender-hearted
+old fool, and Jen has taken him in.”
+
+“Wal, seein' as you've got me figgered correct,” replied Euchre, dryly,
+“I'll go in an' talk to Jennie if I may.”
+
+“Certainly. Go ahead. Jen calls you her best friend,” said Mrs. Bland,
+amiably. “You're always fetching some Mexican stuff, and that's why, I
+guess.”
+
+When Euchre had shuffled into the house Mrs. Bland turned to Duane with
+curiosity and interest in her gaze.
+
+“Bland told me about you.”
+
+“What did he say?” queried Duane, in pretended alarm.
+
+“Oh, you needn't think he's done you dirt Bland's not that kind of a
+man. He said: 'Kate, there's a young fellow in camp--rode in here on the
+dodge. He's no criminal, and he refused to join my band. Wish he would.
+Slickest hand with a gun I've seen for many a day! I'd like to see him
+and Chess meet out there in the road.' Then Bland went on to tell how
+you and Bosomer came together.”
+
+“What did you say?” inquired Duane, as she paused.
+
+“Me? Why, I asked him what you looked like,” she replied, gayly.
+
+“Well?” went on Duane.
+
+“Magnificent chap, Bland said. Bigger than any man in the valley. Just a
+great blue-eyed sunburned boy!”
+
+“Humph!” exclaimed Duane. “I'm sorry he led you to expect somebody worth
+seeing.”
+
+“But I'm not disappointed,” she returned, archly. “Duane, are you going
+to stay long here in camp?”
+
+“Yes, till I run out of money and have to move. Why?”
+
+Mrs. Bland's face underwent one of the singular changes. The smiles and
+flushes and glances, all that had been coquettish about her, had lent
+her a certain attractiveness, almost beauty and youth. But with some
+powerful emotion she changed and instantly became a woman of discontent,
+Duane imagined, of deep, violent nature.
+
+“I'll tell you, Duane,” she said, earnestly, “I'm sure glad if you mean
+to bide here awhile. I'm a miserable woman, Duane. I'm an outlaw's wife,
+and I hate him and the life I have to lead. I come of a good family in
+Brownsville. I never knew Bland was an outlaw till long after he married
+me. We were separated at times, and I imagined he was away on business.
+But the truth came out. Bland shot my own cousin, who told me. My family
+cast me off, and I had to flee with Bland. I was only eighteen then.
+I've lived here since. I never see a decent woman or man. I never hear
+anything about my old home or folks or friends. I'm buried here--buried
+alive with a lot of thieves and murderers. Can you blame me for being
+glad to see a young fellow--a gentleman--like the boys I used to go
+with? I tell you it makes me feel full--I want to cry. I'm sick for
+somebody to talk to. I have no children, thank God! If I had I'd not
+stay here. I'm sick of this hole. I'm lonely--”
+
+There appeared to be no doubt about the truth of all this. Genuine
+emotion checked, then halted the hurried speech. She broke down and
+cried. It seemed strange to Duane that an outlaw's wife--and a woman
+who fitted her consort and the wild nature of their surroundings--should
+have weakness enough to weep. Duane believed and pitied her.
+
+“I'm sorry for you,” he said.
+
+“Don't be SORRY for me,” she said. “That only makes me see the--the
+difference between you and me. And don't pay any attention to what these
+outlaws say about me. They're ignorant. They couldn't understand me.
+You'll hear that Bland killed men who ran after me. But that's a lie.
+Bland, like all the other outlaws along this river, is always looking
+for somebody to kill. He SWEARS not, but I don't believe him. He
+explains that gunplay gravitates to men who are the real thing--that it
+is provoked by the four-flushes, the bad men. I don't know. All I know
+is that somebody is being killed every other day. He hated Spence before
+Spence ever saw me.”
+
+“Would Bland object if I called on you occasionally?” inquired Duane.
+
+“No, he wouldn't. He likes me to have friends. Ask him yourself when he
+comes back. The trouble has been that two or three of his men fell in
+love with me, and when half drunk got to fighting. You're not going to
+do that.”
+
+“I'm not going to get half drunk, that's certain,” replied Duane.
+
+He was surprised to see her eyes dilate, then glow with fire. Before
+she could reply Euchre returned to the porch, and that put an end to the
+conversation.
+
+Duane was content to let the matter rest there, and had little more to
+say. Euchre and Mrs. Bland talked and joked, while Duane listened.
+He tried to form some estimate of her character. Manifestly she had
+suffered a wrong, if not worse, at Bland's hands. She was bitter,
+morbid, overemotional. If she was a liar, which seemed likely enough,
+she was a frank one, and believed herself. She had no cunning. The thing
+which struck Duane so forcibly was that she thirsted for respect.
+In that, better than in her weakness of vanity, he thought he had
+discovered a trait through which he could manage her.
+
+Once, while he was revolving these thoughts, he happened to glance into
+the house, and deep in the shadow of a corner he caught a pale gleam
+of Jennie's face with great, staring eyes on him. She had been watching
+him, listening to what he said. He saw from her expression that she had
+realized what had been so hard for her to believe. Watching his chance,
+he flashed a look at her; and then it seemed to him the change in her
+face was wonderful.
+
+Later, after he had left Mrs. Bland with a meaning “Adios--manana,” and
+was walking along beside the old outlaw, he found himself thinking of
+the girl instead of the woman, and of how he had seen her face blaze
+with hope and gratitude.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+That night Duane was not troubled by ghosts haunting his waking and
+sleeping hours. He awoke feeling bright and eager, and grateful to
+Euchre for having put something worth while into his mind. During
+breakfast, however, he was unusually thoughtful, working over the idea
+of how much or how little he would confide in the outlaw. He was aware
+of Euchre's scrutiny.
+
+“Wal,” began the old man, at last, “how'd you make out with the kid?”
+
+“Kid?” inquired Duane, tentatively.
+
+“Jennie, I mean. What'd you An' she talk about?”
+
+“We had a little chat. You know you wanted me to cheer her up.”
+
+Euchre sat with coffee-cup poised and narrow eyes studying Duane.
+
+“Reckon you cheered her, all right. What I'm afeared of is mebbe you
+done the job too well.”
+
+“How so?”
+
+“Wal, when I went in to Jen last night I thought she was half crazy.
+She was burstin' with excitement, an' the look in her eyes hurt me. She
+wouldn't tell me a darn word you said. But she hung onto my hands,
+an' showed every way without speakin' how she wanted to thank me fer
+bringin' you over. Buck, it was plain to me thet you'd either gone the
+limit or else you'd been kinder prodigal of cheer an' hope. I'd hate to
+think you'd led Jennie to hope more'n ever would come true.”
+
+Euchre paused, and, as there seemed no reply forthcoming, he went on:
+
+“Buck, I've seen some outlaws whose word was good. Mine is. You can
+trust me. I trusted you, didn't I, takin' you over there an' puttin' you
+wise to my tryin' to help thet poor kid?”
+
+Thus enjoined by Euchre, Duane began to tell the conversations with
+Jennie and Mrs. Bland word for word. Long before he had reached an end
+Euchre set down the coffee-cup and began to stare, and at the conclusion
+of the story his face lost some of its red color and beads of sweat
+stood out thickly on his brow.
+
+“Wal, if thet doesn't floor me!” he ejaculated, blinking at Duane.
+“Young man, I figgered you was some swift, an' sure to make your mark on
+this river; but I reckon I missed your real caliber. So thet's what
+it means to be a man! I guess I'd forgot. Wal, I'm old, an' even if my
+heart was in the right place I never was built fer big stunts. Do you
+know what it'll take to do all you promised Jen?”
+
+“I haven't any idea,” replied Duane, gravely.
+
+“You'll have to pull the wool over Kate Bland's eyes, ant even if she
+falls in love with you, which's shore likely, thet won't be easy.
+An' she'd kill you in a minnit, Buck, if she ever got wise. You ain't
+mistaken her none, are you?”
+
+“Not me, Euchre. She's a woman. I'd fear her more than any man.”
+
+“Wal, you'll have to kill Bland an' Chess Alloway an' Rugg, an' mebbe
+some others, before you can ride off into the hills with thet girl.”
+
+“Why? Can't we plan to be nice to Mrs. Bland and then at an opportune
+time sneak off without any gun-play?”
+
+“Don't see how on earth,” returned Euchre, earnestly. “When Bland's
+away he leaves all kinds of spies an' scouts watchin' the valley trails.
+They've all got rifles. You couldn't git by them. But when the boss is
+home there's a difference. Only, of course, him an' Chess keep their
+eyes peeled. They both stay to home pretty much, except when they're
+playin' monte or poker over at Benson's. So I say the best bet is to
+pick out a good time in the afternoon, drift over careless-like with a
+couple of hosses, choke Mrs. Bland or knock her on the head, take Jennie
+with you, an' make a rush to git out of the valley. If you had luck you
+might pull thet stunt without throwin' a gun. But I reckon the best
+figgerin' would include dodgin' some lead an' leavin' at least Bland or
+Alloway dead behind you. I'm figgerin', of course, thet when they come
+home an' find out you're visitin' Kate frequent they'll jest naturally
+look fer results. Chess don't like you, fer no reason except you're
+swift on the draw--mebbe swifter 'n him. Thet's the hell of this
+gun-play business. No one can ever tell who's the swifter of two gunmen
+till they meet. Thet fact holds a fascination mebbe you'll learn some
+day. Bland would treat you civil onless there was reason not to, an'
+then I don't believe he'd invite himself to a meetin' with you. He'd set
+Chess or Rugg to put you out of the way. Still Bland's no coward, an' if
+you came across him at a bad moment you'd have to be quicker 'n you was
+with Bosomer.”
+
+“All right. I'll meet what comes,” said Duane, quickly. “The great point
+is to have horses ready and pick the right moment, then rush the trick
+through.”
+
+“Thet's the ONLY chance fer success. An' you can't do it alone.”
+
+“I'll have to. I wouldn't ask you to help me. Leave you behind!”
+
+“Wal, I'll take my chances,” replied Euchre, gruffly. “I'm goin' to help
+Jennie, you can gamble your last peso on thet. There's only four men in
+this camp who would shoot me--Bland, an' his right-hand pards, an' thet
+rabbit-faced Benson. If you happened to put out Bland and Chess, I'd
+stand a good show with the other two. Anyway, I'm old an' tired--what's
+the difference if I do git plugged? I can risk as much as you, Buck,
+even if I am afraid of gun-play. You said correct, 'Hosses ready, the
+right minnit, then rush the trick.' Thet much 's settled. Now let's
+figger all the little details.”
+
+They talked and planned, though in truth it was Euchre who planned,
+Duane who listened and agreed. While awaiting the return of Bland and
+his lieutenants it would be well for Duane to grow friendly with the
+other outlaws, to sit in a few games of monte, or show a willingness
+to spend a little money. The two schemers were to call upon Mrs. Bland
+every day--Euchre to carry messages of cheer and warning to Jennie,
+Duane to blind the elder woman at any cost. These preliminaries decided
+upon, they proceeded to put them into action.
+
+No hard task was it to win the friendship of the most of those
+good-natured outlaws. They were used to men of a better order than
+theirs coming to the hidden camps and sooner or later sinking to their
+lower level. Besides, with them everything was easy come, easy go. That
+was why life itself went on so carelessly and usually ended so cheaply.
+There were men among them, however, that made Duane feel that terrible
+inexplicable wrath rise in his breast. He could not bear to be near
+them. He could not trust himself. He felt that any instant a word,
+a deed, something might call too deeply to that instinct he could no
+longer control. Jackrabbit Benson was one of these men. Because of
+him and other outlaws of his ilk Duane could scarcely ever forget
+the reality of things. This was a hidden valley, a robbers' den, a
+rendezvous for murderers, a wild place stained red by deeds of wild men.
+And because of that there was always a charged atmosphere. The merriest,
+idlest, most careless moment might in the flash of an eye end in
+ruthless and tragic action. In an assemblage of desperate characters it
+could not be otherwise. The terrible thing that Duane sensed was this.
+The valley was beautiful, sunny, fragrant, a place to dream in; the
+mountaintops were always blue or gold rimmed, the yellow river slid
+slowly and majestically by, the birds sang in the cottonwoods, the
+horses grazed and pranced, children played and women longed for love,
+freedom, happiness; the outlaws rode in and out, free with money and
+speech; they lived comfortably in their adobe homes, smoked, gambled,
+talked, laughed, whiled away the idle hours--and all the time life there
+was wrong, and the simplest moment might be precipitated by that evil
+into the most awful of contrasts. Duane felt rather than saw a dark,
+brooding shadow over the valley.
+
+Then, without any solicitation or encouragement from Duane, the Bland
+woman fell passionately in love with him. His conscience was never
+troubled about the beginning of that affair. She launched herself. It
+took no great perspicuity on his part to see that. And the thing which
+evidently held her in check was the newness, the strangeness, and for
+the moment the all-satisfying fact of his respect for her. Duane exerted
+himself to please, to amuse, to interest, to fascinate her, and always
+with deference. That was his strong point, and it had made his part
+easy so far. He believed he could carry the whole scheme through without
+involving himself any deeper.
+
+He was playing at a game of love--playing with life and deaths Sometimes
+he trembled, not that he feared Bland or Alloway or any other man, but
+at the deeps of life he had come to see into. He was carried out of his
+old mood. Not once since this daring motive had stirred him had he
+been haunted by the phantom of Bain beside his bed. Rather had he been
+haunted by Jennie's sad face, her wistful smile, her eyes. He never was
+able to speak a word to her. What little communication he had with her
+was through Euchre, who carried short messages. But he caught glimpses
+of her every time he went to the Bland house. She contrived somehow to
+pass door or window, to give him a look when chance afforded. And Duane
+discovered with surprise that these moments were more thrilling to
+him than any with Mrs. Bland. Often Duane knew Jennie was sitting just
+inside the window, and then he felt inspired in his talk, and it was
+all made for her. So at least she came to know him while as yet she was
+almost a stranger. Jennie had been instructed by Euchre to listen, to
+understand that this was Duane's only chance to help keep her mind from
+constant worry, to gather the import of every word which had a double
+meaning.
+
+Euchre said that the girl had begun to wither under the strain, to burn
+up with intense hope which had flamed within her. But all the difference
+Duane could see was a paler face and darker, more wonderful eyes. The
+eyes seemed to be entreating him to hurry, that time was flying, that
+soon it might be too late. Then there was another meaning in them, a
+light, a strange fire wholly inexplicable to Duane. It was only a flash
+gone in an instant. But he remembered it because he had never seen it in
+any other woman's eyes. And all through those waiting days he knew that
+Jennie's face, and especially the warm, fleeting glance she gave him,
+was responsible for a subtle and gradual change in him. This change
+he fancied, was only that through remembrance of her he got rid of his
+pale, sickening ghosts.
+
+One day a careless Mexican threw a lighted cigarette up into the brush
+matting that served as a ceiling for Benson's den, and there was a fire
+which left little more than the adobe walls standing. The result was
+that while repairs were being made there was no gambling and drinking.
+Time hung very heavily on the hands of some two-score outlaws. Days
+passed by without a brawl, and Bland's valley saw more successive hours
+of peace than ever before. Duane, however, found the hours anything but
+empty. He spent more time at Mrs. Bland's; he walked miles on all the
+trails leading out of the valley; he had a care for the condition of his
+two horses.
+
+Upon his return from the latest of these tramps Euchre suggested that
+they go down to the river to the boat-landing.
+
+“Ferry couldn't run ashore this mornin',” said Euchre. “River gettin'
+low an' sand-bars makin' it hard fer hosses. There's a greaser
+freight-wagon stuck in the mud. I reckon we might hear news from the
+freighters. Bland's supposed to be in Mexico.”
+
+Nearly all the outlaws in camp were assembled on the riverbank, lolling
+in the shade of the cottonwoods. The heat was oppressive. Not an
+outlaw offered to help the freighters, who were trying to dig a heavily
+freighted wagon out of the quicksand. Few outlaws would work for
+themselves, let alone for the despised Mexicans.
+
+Duane and Euchre joined the lazy group and sat down with them. Euchre
+lighted a black pipe, and, drawing his hat over his eyes, lay back in
+comfort after the manner of the majority of the outlaws. But Duane
+was alert, observing, thoughtful. He never missed anything. It was
+his belief that any moment an idle word might be of benefit to him.
+Moreover, these rough men were always interesting.
+
+“Bland's been chased across the river,” said one.
+
+“New, he's deliverin' cattle to thet Cuban ship,” replied another.
+
+“Big deal on, hey?”
+
+“Some big. Rugg says the boss hed an order fer fifteen thousand.”
+
+“Say, that order'll take a year to fill.”
+
+“New. Hardin is in cahoots with Bland. Between 'em they'll fill orders
+bigger 'n thet.”
+
+“Wondered what Hardin was rustlin' in here fer.”
+
+Duane could not possibly attend to all the conversation among the
+outlaws. He endeavored to get the drift of talk nearest to him.
+
+“Kid Fuller's goin' to cash,” said a sandy-whiskered little outlaw.
+
+“So Jim was tellin' me. Blood-poison, ain't it? Thet hole wasn't bad.
+But he took the fever,” rejoined a comrade.
+
+“Deger says the Kid might pull through if he hed nursin'.”
+
+“Wal, Kate Bland ain't nursin' any shot-up boys these days. She hasn't
+got time.”
+
+A laugh followed this sally; then came a penetrating silence. Some of
+the outlaws glanced good-naturedly at Duane. They bore him no ill will.
+Manifestly they were aware of Mrs. Bland's infatuation.
+
+“Pete, 'pears to me you've said thet before.”
+
+“Shore. Wal, it's happened before.”
+
+This remark drew louder laughter and more significant glances at Duane.
+He did not choose to ignore them any longer.
+
+“Boys, poke all the fun you like at me, but don't mention any lady's
+name again. My hand is nervous and itchy these days.”
+
+He smiled as he spoke, and his speech was drawled; but the good humor in
+no wise weakened it. Then his latter remark was significant to a class
+of men who from inclination and necessity practiced at gun-drawing until
+they wore callous and sore places on their thumbs and inculcated in
+the very deeps of their nervous organization a habit that made even the
+simplest and most innocent motion of the hand end at or near the hip.
+There was something remarkable about a gun-fighter's hand. It never
+seemed to be gloved, never to be injured, never out of sight or in an
+awkward position.
+
+There were grizzled outlaws in that group, some of whom had many notches
+on their gun-handles, and they, with their comrades, accorded Duane
+silence that carried conviction of the regard in which he was held.
+
+Duane could not recall any other instance where he had let fall a
+familiar speech to these men, and certainly he had never before hinted
+of his possibilities. He saw instantly that he could not have done
+better.
+
+“Orful hot, ain't it?” remarked Bill Black, presently. Bill could not
+keep quiet for long. He was a typical Texas desperado, had never been
+anything else. He was stoop-shouldered and bow-legged from much riding;
+a wiry little man, all muscle, with a square head, a hard face partly
+black from scrubby beard and red from sun, and a bright, roving, cruel
+eye. His shirt was open at the neck, showing a grizzled breast.
+
+“Is there any guy in this heah outfit sport enough to go swimmin'?” he
+asked.
+
+“My Gawd, Bill, you ain't agoin' to wash!” exclaimed a comrade.
+
+This raised a laugh in which Black joined. But no one seemed eager to
+join him in a bath.
+
+“Laziest outfit I ever rustled with,” went on Bill, discontentedly.
+“Nuthin' to do! Say, if nobody wants to swim maybe some of you'll
+gamble?”
+
+He produced a dirty pack of cards and waved them at the motionless
+crowd.
+
+“Bill, you're too good at cards,” replied a lanky outlaw.
+
+“Now, Jasper, you say thet powerful sweet, an' you look sweet, er I
+might take it to heart,” replied Black, with a sudden change of tone.
+
+Here it was again--that upflashing passion. What Jasper saw fit to reply
+would mollify the outlaw or it would not. There was an even balance.
+
+“No offense, Bill,” said Jasper, placidly, without moving.
+
+Bill grunted and forgot Jasper. But he seemed restless and dissatisfied.
+Duane knew him to be an inveterate gambler. And as Benson's place was
+out of running-order, Black was like a fish on dry land.
+
+“Wal, if you-all are afraid of the cairds, what will you bet on?” he
+asked, in disgust.
+
+“Bill, I'll play you a game of mumbly peg fer two bits.” replied one.
+
+Black eagerly accepted. Betting to him was a serious matter. The game
+obsessed him, not the stakes. He entered into the mumbly peg contest
+with a thoughtful mien and a corded brow. He won. Other comrades tried
+their luck with him and lost. Finally, when Bill had exhausted their
+supply of two-bit pieces or their desire for that particular game, he
+offered to bet on anything.
+
+“See thet turtle-dove there?” he said, pointing. “I'll bet he'll scare
+at one stone or he won't. Five pesos he'll fly or he won't fly when some
+one chucks a stone. Who'll take me up?”
+
+That appeared to be more than the gambling spirit of several outlaws
+could withstand.
+
+“Take thet. Easy money,” said one.
+
+“Who's goin' to chuck the stone?” asked another.
+
+“Anybody,” replied Bill.
+
+“Wal, I'll bet you I can scare him with one stone,” said the first
+outlaw.
+
+“We're in on thet, Jim to fire the darnick,” chimed in the others.
+
+The money was put up, the stone thrown. The turtle-dove took flight, to
+the great joy of all the outlaws except Bill.
+
+“I'll bet you-all he'll come back to thet tree inside of five minnits,”
+ he offered, imperturbably.
+
+Hereupon the outlaws did not show any laziness in their alacrity to
+cover Bill's money as it lay on the grass. Somebody had a watch, and
+they all sat down, dividing attention between the timepiece and the
+tree. The minutes dragged by to the accompaniment of various jocular
+remarks anent a fool and his money. When four and three-quarter minutes
+had passed a turtle-dove alighted in the cottonwood. Then ensued an
+impressive silence while Bill calmly pocketed the fifty dollars.
+
+“But it hadn't the same dove!” exclaimed one outlaw, excitedly. “This
+'n'is smaller, dustier, not so purple.”
+
+Bill eyed the speaker loftily.
+
+“Wal, you'll have to ketch the other one to prove thet. Sabe, pard? Now
+I'll bet any gent heah the fifty I won thet I can scare thet dove with
+one stone.”
+
+No one offered to take his wager.
+
+“Wal, then, I'll bet any of you even money thet you CAN'T scare him with
+one stone.”
+
+Not proof against this chance, the outlaws made up a purse, in no wise
+disconcerted by Bill's contemptuous allusions to their banding together.
+The stone was thrown. The dove did not fly. Thereafter, in regard to
+that bird, Bill was unable to coax or scorn his comrades into any kind
+of wager.
+
+He tried them with a multiplicity of offers, and in vain. Then he
+appeared at a loss for some unusual and seductive wager. Presently a
+little ragged Mexican boy came along the river trail, a particularly
+starved and poor-looking little fellow. Bill called to him and gave him
+a handful of silver coins. Speechless, dazed, he went his way hugging
+the money.
+
+“I'll bet he drops some before he gits to the road,” declared Bill.
+“I'll bet he runs. Hurry, you four-flush gamblers.”
+
+Bill failed to interest any of his companions, and forthwith became
+sullen and silent. Strangely his good humor departed in spite of the
+fact that he had won considerable.
+
+Duane, watching the disgruntled outlaw, marveled at him and wondered
+what was in his mind. These men were more variable than children, as
+unstable as water, as dangerous as dynamite.
+
+“Bill, I'll bet you ten you can't spill whatever's in the bucket thet
+peon's packin',” said the outlaw called Jim.
+
+Black's head came up with the action of a hawk about to swoop.
+
+Duane glanced from Black to the road, where he saw a crippled peon
+carrying a tin bucket toward the river. This peon was a half-witted
+Indian who lived in a shack and did odd jobs for the Mexicans. Duane had
+met him often.
+
+“Jim, I'll take you up,” replied Black.
+
+Something, perhaps a harshness in his voice, caused Duane to whirl. He
+caught a leaping gleam in the outlaw's eye.
+
+“Aw, Bill, thet's too fur a shot,” said Jasper, as Black rested an elbow
+on his knee and sighted over the long, heavy Colt. The distance to the
+peon was about fifty paces, too far for even the most expert shot to hit
+a moving object so small as a bucket.
+
+Duane, marvelously keen in the alignment of sights, was positive that
+Black held too high. Another look at the hard face, now tense and dark
+with blood, confirmed Duane's suspicion that the outlaw was not aiming
+at the bucket at all. Duane leaped and struck the leveled gun out of his
+hand. Another outlaw picked it up.
+
+Black fell back astounded. Deprived of his weapon, he did not seem the
+same man, or else he was cowed by Duane's significant and formidable
+front. Sullenly he turned away without even asking for his gun.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+What a contrast, Duane thought, the evening of that day presented to the
+state of his soul!
+
+The sunset lingered in golden glory over the distant Mexican mountains;
+twilight came slowly; a faint breeze blew from the river cool and sweet;
+the late cooing of a dove and the tinkle of a cowbell were the only
+sounds; a serene and tranquil peace lay over the valley.
+
+Inside Duane's body there was strife. This third facing of a desperate
+man had thrown him off his balance. It had not been fatal, but it
+threatened so much. The better side of his nature seemed to urge him
+to die rather than to go on fighting or opposing ignorant, unfortunate,
+savage men. But the perversity of him was so great that it dwarfed
+reason, conscience. He could not resist it. He felt something dying in
+him. He suffered. Hope seemed far away. Despair had seized upon him and
+was driving him into a reckless mood when he thought of Jennie.
+
+He had forgotten her. He had forgotten that he had promised to save her.
+He had forgotten that he meant to snuff out as many lives as might stand
+between her and freedom. The very remembrance sheered off his morbid
+introspection. She made a difference. How strange for him to realize
+that! He felt grateful to her. He had been forced into outlawry; she had
+been stolen from her people and carried into captivity. They had met in
+the river fastness, he to instil hope into her despairing life, she to
+be the means, perhaps, of keeping him from sinking to the level of her
+captors. He became conscious of a strong and beating desire to see her,
+talk with her.
+
+These thoughts had run through his mind while on his way to Mrs. Bland's
+house. He had let Euchre go on ahead because he wanted more time
+to compose himself. Darkness had about set in when he reached his
+destination. There was no light in the house. Mrs. Bland was waiting for
+him on the porch.
+
+She embraced him, and the sudden, violent, unfamiliar contact sent such
+a shock through him that he all but forgot the deep game he was playing.
+She, however, in her agitation did not notice his shrinking. From her
+embrace and the tender, incoherent words that flowed with it he gathered
+that Euchre had acquainted her of his action with Black.
+
+“He might have killed you,” she whispered, more clearly; and if Duane
+had ever heard love in a voice he heard it then. It softened him. After
+all, she was a woman, weak, fated through her nature, unfortunate in
+her experience of life, doomed to unhappiness and tragedy. He met her
+advance so far that he returned the embrace and kissed her. Emotion such
+as she showed would have made any woman sweet, and she had a certain
+charm. It was easy, even pleasant, to kiss her; but Duane resolved that,
+whatever her abandonment might become, he would not go further than the
+lie she made him act.
+
+“Buck, you love me?” she whispered.
+
+“Yes--yes,” he burst out, eager to get it over, and even as he spoke
+he caught the pale gleam of Jennie's face through the window. He felt
+a shame he was glad she could not see. Did she remember that she had
+promised not to misunderstand any action of his? What did she think of
+him, seeing him out there in the dusk with this bold woman in his
+arms? Somehow that dim sight of Jennie's pale face, the big dark eyes,
+thrilled him, inspired him to his hard task of the present.
+
+“Listen, dear,” he said to the woman, and he meant his words for the
+girl. “I'm going to take you away from this outlaw den if I have to kill
+Bland, Alloway, Rugg--anybody who stands in my path. You were dragged
+here. You are good--I know it. There's happiness for you somewhere--a
+home among good people who will care for you. Just wait till--”
+
+His voice trailed off and failed from excess of emotion. Kate Bland
+closed her eyes and leaned her head on his breast. Duane felt her heart
+beat against his, and conscience smote him a keen blow. If she loved
+him so much! But memory and understanding of her character hardened him
+again, and he gave her such commiseration as was due her sex, and no
+more.
+
+“Boy, that's good of you,” she whispered, “but it's too late. I'm done
+for. I can't leave Bland. All I ask is that you love me a little and
+stop your gun-throwing.”
+
+The moon had risen over the eastern bulge of dark mountain, and now the
+valley was flooded with mellow light, and shadows of cottonwoods wavered
+against the silver.
+
+Suddenly the clip-clop, clip-clop of hoofs caused Duane to raise his
+head and listen. Horses were coming down the road from the head of
+the valley. The hour was unusual for riders to come in. Presently the
+narrow, moonlit lane was crossed at its far end by black moving objects.
+Two horses Duane discerned.
+
+“It's Bland!” whispered the woman, grasping Duane with shaking hands.
+“You must run! No, he'd see you. That 'd be worse. It's Bland! I know
+his horse's trot.”
+
+“But you said he wouldn't mind my calling here,” protested Duane.
+“Euchre's with me. It'll be all right.”
+
+“Maybe so,” she replied, with visible effort at self-control. Manifestly
+she had a great fear of Bland. “If I could only think!”
+
+Then she dragged Duane to the door, pushed him in.
+
+“Euchre, come out with me! Duane, you stay with the girl! I'll tell
+Bland you're in love with her. Jen, if you give us away I'll wring your
+neck.”
+
+The swift action and fierce whisper told Duane that Mrs. Bland was
+herself again. Duane stepped close to Jennie, who stood near the window.
+Neither spoke, but her hands were outstretched to meet his own. They
+were small, trembling hands, cold as ice. He held them close, trying to
+convey what he felt--that he would protect her. She leaned against him,
+and they looked out of the window. Duane felt calm and sure of himself.
+His most pronounced feeling besides that for the frightened girl was a
+curiosity as to how Mrs. Bland would rise to the occasion. He saw the
+riders dismount down the lane and wearily come forward. A boy led away
+the horses. Euchre, the old fox, was talking loud and with remarkable
+ease, considering what he claimed was his natural cowardice.
+
+“--that was way back in the sixties, about the time of the war,” he
+was saying. “Rustlin' cattle wasn't nuthin' then to what it is now. An'
+times is rougher these days. This gun-throwin' has come to be a disease.
+Men have an itch for the draw same as they used to have fer poker. The
+only real gambler outside of greasers we ever had here was Bill, an' I
+presume Bill is burnin' now.”
+
+The approaching outlaws, hearing voices, halted a rod or so from the
+porch. Then Mrs. Bland uttered an exclamation, ostensibly meant to
+express surprise, and hurried out to meet them. She greeted her husband
+warmly and gave welcome to the other man. Duane could not see well
+enough in the shadow to recognize Bland's companion, but he believed it
+was Alloway.
+
+“Dog-tired we are and starved,” said Bland, heavily. “Who's here with
+you?”
+
+“That's Euchre on the porch. Duane is inside at the window with Jen,”
+ replied Mrs. Bland.
+
+“Duane!” he exclaimed. Then he whispered low--something Duane could not
+catch.
+
+“Why, I asked him to come,” said the chief's wife. She spoke easily and
+naturally and made no change in tone. “Jen has been ailing. She gets
+thinner and whiter every day. Duane came here one day with Euchre, saw
+Jen, and went loony over her pretty face, same as all you men. So I let
+him come.”
+
+Bland cursed low and deep under his breath. The other man made a violent
+action of some kind and apparently was quieted by a restraining hand.
+
+“Kate, you let Duane make love to Jennie?” queried Bland, incredulously.
+
+“Yes, I did,” replied the wife, stubbornly. “Why not? Jen's in love with
+him. If he takes her away and marries her she can be a decent woman.”
+
+Bland kept silent a moment, then his laugh pealed out loud and harsh.
+
+“Chess, did you get that? Well, by God! what do you think of my wife?”
+
+“She's lyin' or she's crazy,” replied Alloway, and his voice carried an
+unpleasant ring.
+
+Mrs. Bland promptly and indignantly told her husband's lieutenant to
+keep his mouth shut.
+
+“Ho, ho, ho!” rolled out Bland's laugh.
+
+Then he led the way to the porch, his spurs clinking, the weapons he was
+carrying rattling, and he flopped down on a bench.
+
+“How are you, boss?” asked Euchre.
+
+“Hello, old man. I'm well, but all in.”
+
+Alloway slowly walked on to the porch and leaned against the rail.
+He answered Euchre's greeting with a nod. Then he stood there a dark,
+silent figure.
+
+Mrs. Bland's full voice in eager questioning had a tendency to ease
+the situation. Bland replied briefly to her, reporting a remarkably
+successful trip.
+
+Duane thought it time to show himself. He had a feeling that Bland and
+Alloway would let him go for the moment. They were plainly non-plussed,
+and Alloway seemed sullen, brooding. “Jennie,” whispered Duane, “that
+was clever of Mrs. Bland. We'll keep up the deception. Any day now be
+ready!”
+
+She pressed close to him, and a barely audible “Hurry!” came breathing
+into his ear.
+
+“Good night, Jennie,” he said, aloud. “Hope you feel better to-morrow.”
+
+Then he stepped out into the moonlight and spoke. Bland returned the
+greeting, and, though he was not amiable, he did not show resentment.
+
+“Met Jasper as I rode in,” said Bland, presently. “He told me you made
+Bill Black mad, and there's liable to be a fight. What did you go off
+the handle about?”
+
+Duane explained the incident. “I'm sorry I happened to be there,” he
+went on. “It wasn't my business.”
+
+“Scurvy trick that 'd been,” muttered Bland. “You did right. All the
+same, Duane, I want you to stop quarreling with my men. If you were one
+of us--that'd be different. I can't keep my men from fighting. But
+I'm not called on to let an outsider hang around my camp and plug my
+rustlers.”
+
+“I guess I'll have to be hitting the trail for somewhere,” said Duane.
+
+“Why not join my band? You've got a bad start already, Duane, and if I
+know this border you'll never be a respectable citizen again. You're
+a born killer. I know every bad man on this frontier. More than one of
+them have told me that something exploded in their brain, and when sense
+came back there lay another dead man. It's not so with me. I've done a
+little shooting, too, but I never wanted to kill another man just to
+rid myself of the last one. My dead men don't sit on my chest at night.
+That's the gun-fighter's trouble. He's crazy. He has to kill a new
+man--he's driven to it to forget the last one.”
+
+“But I'm no gun-fighter,” protested Duane. “Circumstances made me--”
+
+“No doubt,” interrupted Bland, with a laugh. “Circumstances made me a
+rustler. You don't know yourself. You're young; you've got a temper;
+your father was one of the most dangerous men Texas ever had. I don't
+see any other career for you. Instead of going it alone--a lone wolf,
+as the Texans say--why not make friends with other outlaws? You'll live
+longer.”
+
+Euchre squirmed in his seat.
+
+“Boss, I've been givin' the boy egzactly thet same line of talk. Thet's
+why I took him in to bunk with me. If he makes pards among us there
+won't be any more trouble. An' he'd be a grand feller fer the gang. I've
+seen Wild Bill Hickok throw a gun, an' Billy the Kid, an' Hardin, an'
+Chess here--all the fastest men on the border. An' with apologies to
+present company, I'm here to say Duane has them all skinned. His draw is
+different. You can't see how he does it.”
+
+Euchre's admiring praise served to create an effective little silence.
+Alloway shifted uneasily on his feet, his spurs jangling faintly, and
+did not lift his head. Bland seemed thoughtful.
+
+“That's about the only qualification I have to make me eligible for your
+band,” said Duane, easily.
+
+“It's good enough,” replied Bland, shortly. “Will you consider the
+idea?”
+
+“I'll think it over. Good night.”
+
+He left the group, followed by Euchre. When they reached the end of the
+lane, and before they had exchanged a word, Bland called Euchre back.
+Duane proceeded slowly along the moonlit road to the cabin and sat down
+under the cottonwoods to wait for Euchre. The night was intense and
+quiet, a low hum of insects giving the effect of a congestion of life.
+The beauty of the soaring moon, the ebony canyons of shadow under the
+mountain, the melancholy serenity of the perfect night, made Duane
+shudder in the realization of how far aloof he now was from enjoyment of
+these things. Never again so long as he lived could he be natural. His
+mind was clouded. His eye and ear henceforth must register impressions
+of nature, but the joy of them had fled.
+
+Still, as he sat there with a foreboding of more and darker work ahead
+of him there was yet a strange sweetness left to him, and it lay in
+thought of Jennie. The pressure of her cold little hands lingered in
+his. He did not think of her as a woman, and he did not analyze his
+feelings. He just had vague, dreamy thoughts and imaginations that were
+interspersed in the constant and stern revolving of plans to save her.
+
+A shuffling step roused him. Euchre's dark figure came crossing the
+moonlit grass under the cottonwoods. The moment the outlaw reached
+him Duane saw that he was laboring under great excitement. It scarcely
+affected Duane. He seemed to be acquiring patience, calmness, strength.
+
+“Bland kept you pretty long,” he said.
+
+“Wait till I git my breath,” replied Euchre. He sat silent a little
+while, fanning himself with a sombrero, though the night was cool, and
+then he went into the cabin to return presently with a lighted pipe.
+
+“Fine night,” he said; and his tone further acquainted Duane with
+Euchre's quaint humor. “Fine night for love-affairs, by gum!”
+
+“I'd noticed that,” rejoined Duane, dryly.
+
+“Wal, I'm a son of a gun if I didn't stand an' watch Bland choke his
+wife till her tongue stuck out an' she got black in the face.”
+
+“No!” ejaculated Duane.
+
+“Hope to die if I didn't. Buck, listen to this here yarn. When I got
+back to the porch I seen Bland was wakin' up. He'd been too fagged out
+to figger much. Alloway an' Kate had gone in the house, where they lit
+up the lamps. I heard Kate's high voice, but Alloway never chirped. He's
+not the talkin' kind, an' he's damn dangerous when he's thet way. Bland
+asked me some questions right from the shoulder. I was ready for them,
+an' I swore the moon was green cheese. He was satisfied. Bland always
+trusted me, an' liked me, too, I reckon. I hated to lie black thet
+way. But he's a hard man with bad intentions toward Jennie, an' I'd
+double-cross him any day.
+
+“Then we went into the house. Jennie had gone to her little room,
+an' Bland called her to come out. She said she was undressin'. An' he
+ordered her to put her clothes back on. Then, Buck, his next move was
+some surprisin'. He deliberately thronged a gun on Kate. Yes sir, he
+pointed his big blue Colt right at her, an' he says:
+
+“'I've a mind to blow out your brains.'
+
+“'Go ahead,' says Kate, cool as could be.
+
+“'You lied to me,' he roars.
+
+“Kate laughed in his face. Bland slammed the gun down an' made a grab
+fer her. She fought him, but wasn't a match fer him, an' he got her by
+the throat. He choked her till I thought she was strangled. Alloway made
+him stop. She flopped down on the bed an' gasped fer a while. When she
+come to them hardshelled cusses went after her, trying to make her give
+herself away. I think Bland was jealous. He suspected she'd got thick
+with you an' was foolin' him. I reckon thet's a sore feelin' fer a man
+to have--to guess pretty nice, but not to BE sure. Bland gave it up
+after a while. An' then he cussed an' raved at her. One sayin' of his is
+worth pinnin' in your sombrero: 'It ain't nuthin' to kill a man. I don't
+need much fer thet. But I want to KNOW, you hussy!'
+
+“Then he went in an' dragged poor Jen out. She'd had time to dress. He
+was so mad he hurt her sore leg. You know Jen got thet injury fightin'
+off one of them devils in the dark. An' when I seen Bland twist
+her--hurt her--I had a queer hot feelin' deep down in me, an' fer the
+only time in my life I wished I was a gun-fighter.
+
+“Wal, Jen amazed me. She was whiter'n a sheet, an' her eyes were big and
+stary, but she had nerve. Fust time I ever seen her show any.
+
+“'Jennie,' he said, 'my wife said Duane came here to see you. I believe
+she's lyin'. I think she's been carryin' on with him, an' I want to
+KNOW. If she's been an' you tell me the truth I'll let you go. I'll send
+you out to Huntsville, where you can communicate with your friends. I'll
+give you money.'
+
+“Thet must hev been a hell of a minnit fer Kate Bland. If evet I seen
+death in a man's eye I seen it in Bland's. He loves her. Thet's the
+strange part of it.
+
+“'Has Duane been comin' here to see my wife?' Bland asked, fierce-like.
+
+“'No,' said Jennie.
+
+“'He's been after you?'
+
+“'Yes.'
+
+“'He has fallen in love with you? Kate said thet.'
+
+“'I--I'm not--I don't know--he hasn't told me.'
+
+“'But you're in love with him?'
+
+“'Yes,' she said; an', Buck, if you only could have seen her! She
+thronged up her head, an' her eyes were full of fire. Bland seemed dazed
+at sight of her. An' Alloway, why, thet little skunk of an outlaw cried
+right out. He was hit plumb center. He's in love with Jen. An' the look
+of her then was enough to make any feller quit. He jest slunk out of the
+room. I told you, mebbe, thet he'd been tryin' to git Bland to marry Jen
+to him. So even a tough like Alloway can love a woman!
+
+“Bland stamped up an' down the room. He sure was dyin' hard.
+
+“'Jennie,' he said, once more turnin' to her. 'You swear in fear of your
+life thet you're tellin' truth. Kate's not in love with Duane? She's let
+him come to see you? There's been nuthin' between them?'
+
+“'No. I swear,' answered Jennie; an' Bland sat down like a man licked.
+
+“'Go to bed, you white-faced--' Bland choked on some word or other--a
+bad one, I reckon--an' he positively shook in his chair.
+
+“Jennie went then, an' Kate began to have hysterics. An' your Uncle
+Euchre ducked his nut out of the door an' come home.”
+
+Duane did not have a word to say at the end of Euchre's long harangue.
+He experienced relief. As a matter of fact, he had expected a good deal
+worse. He thrilled at the thought of Jennie perjuring herself to save
+that abandoned woman. What mysteries these feminine creatures were!
+
+“Wal, there's where our little deal stands now,” resumed Euchre,
+meditatively. “You know, Buck, as well as me thet if you'd been some
+feller who hadn't shown he was a wonder with a gun you'd now be full of
+lead. If you'd happen to kill Bland an' Alloway, I reckon you'd be as
+safe on this here border as you would in Santone. Such is gun fame in
+this land of the draw.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+Both men were awake early, silent with the premonition of trouble ahead,
+thoughtful of the fact that the time for the long-planned action was at
+hand. It was remarkable that a man as loquacious as Euchre could hold
+his tongue so long; and this was significant of the deadly nature of
+the intended deed. During breakfast he said a few words customary in the
+service of food. At the conclusion of the meal he seemed to come to an
+end of deliberation.
+
+“Buck, the sooner the better now,” he declared, with a glint in his eye.
+“The more time we use up now the less surprised Bland'll be.”
+
+“I'm ready when you are,” replied Duane, quietly, and he rose from the
+table.
+
+“Wal, saddle up, then,” went on Euchre, gruffly. “Tie on them two packs
+I made, one fer each saddle. You can't tell--mebbe either hoss will be
+carryin' double. It's good they're both big, strong hosses. Guess thet
+wasn't a wise move of your Uncle Euchre's--bringin' in your hosses an'
+havin' them ready?”
+
+“Euchre, I hope you're not going to get in bad here. I'm afraid you are.
+Let me do the rest now,” said Duane.
+
+The old outlaw eyed him sarcastically.
+
+“Thet 'd be turrible now, wouldn't it? If you want to know, why, I'm in
+bad already. I didn't tell you thet Alloway called me last night. He's
+gettin' wise pretty quick.”
+
+“Euchre, you're going with me?” queried Duane, suddenly divining the
+truth.
+
+“Wal, I reckon. Either to hell or safe over the mountain! I wisht I was
+a gun-fighter. I hate to leave here without takin' a peg at Jackrabbit
+Benson. Now, Buck, you do some hard figgerin' while I go nosin' round.
+It's pretty early, which 's all the better.”
+
+Euchre put on his sombrero, and as he went out Duane saw that he wore
+a gun-and-cartridge belt. It was the first time Duane had ever seen the
+outlaw armed.
+
+Duane packed his few belongings into his saddlebags, and then carried
+the saddles out to the corral. An abundance of alfalfa in the corral
+showed that the horses had fared well. They had gotten almost fat during
+his stay in the valley. He watered them, put on the saddles loosely
+cinched, and then the bridles. His next move was to fill the two canvas
+water-bottles. That done, he returned to the cabin to wait.
+
+At the moment he felt no excitement or agitation of any kind. There was
+no more thinking and planning to do. The hour had arrived, and he was
+ready. He understood perfectly the desperate chances he must take.
+His thoughts became confined to Euchre and the surprising loyalty and
+goodness in the hardened old outlaw. Time passed slowly. Duane kept
+glancing at his watch. He hoped to start the thing and get away before
+the outlaws were out of their beds. Finally he heard the shuffle of
+Euchre's boots on the hard path. The sound was quicker than usual.
+
+When Euchre came around the corner of the cabin Duane was not so
+astounded as he was concerned to see the outlaw white and shaking. Sweat
+dripped from him. He had a wild look.
+
+“Luck ours--so-fur, Buck!” he panted.
+
+“You don't look it,” replied Duane.
+
+“I'm turrible sick. Jest killed a man. Fust one I ever killed!”
+
+“Who?” asked Duane, startled.
+
+“Jackrabbit Benson. An' sick as I am, I'm gloryin' in it. I went nosin'
+round up the road. Saw Alloway goin' into Deger's. He's thick with the
+Degers. Reckon he's askin' questions. Anyway, I was sure glad to see him
+away from Bland's. An' he didn't see me. When I dropped into Benson's
+there wasn't nobody there but Jackrabbit an' some greasers he was
+startin' to work. Benson never had no use fer me. An' he up an' said he
+wouldn't give a two-bit piece fer my life. I asked him why.
+
+“'You're double-crossin' the boss an' Chess,' he said.
+
+“'Jack, what 'd you give fer your own life?' I asked him.
+
+“He straightened up surprised an' mean-lookin'. An' I let him have it,
+plumb center! He wilted, an' the greasers run. I reckon I'll never sleep
+again. But I had to do it.”
+
+Duane asked if the shot had attracted any attention outside.
+
+“I didn't see anybody but the greasers, an' I sure looked sharp. Comin'
+back I cut across through the cottonwoods past Bland's cabin. I meant to
+keep out of sight, but somehow I had an idee I might find out if Bland
+was awake yet. Sure enough I run plumb into Beppo, the boy who tends
+Bland's hosses. Beppo likes me. An' when I inquired of his boss he said
+Bland had been up all night fightin' with the Senora. An', Buck, here's
+how I figger. Bland couldn't let up last night. He was sore, an' he went
+after Kate again, tryin' to wear her down. Jest as likely he might have
+went after Jennie, with wuss intentions. Anyway, he an' Kate must have
+had it hot an' heavy. We're pretty lucky.”
+
+“It seems so. Well, I'm going,” said Duane, tersely.
+
+“Lucky! I should smiler Bland's been up all night after a most draggin'
+ride home. He'll be fagged out this mornin', sleepy, sore, an' he won't
+be expectin' hell before breakfast. Now, you walk over to his house.
+Meet him how you like. Thet's your game. But I'm suggestin', if he comes
+out an' you want to parley, you can jest say you'd thought over his
+proposition an' was ready to join his band, or you ain't. You'll have
+to kill him, an' it 'd save time to go fer your gun on sight. Might be
+wise, too, fer it's likely he'll do thet same.”
+
+“How about the horses?”
+
+“I'll fetch them an' come along about two minnits behind you. 'Pears to
+me you ought to have the job done an' Jennie outside by the time I git
+there. Once on them hosses, we can ride out of camp before Alloway or
+anybody else gits into action. Jennie ain't much heavier than a rabbit.
+Thet big black will carry you both.”
+
+“All right. But once more let me persuade you to stay--not to mix any
+more in this,” said Duane, earnestly.
+
+“Nope. I'm goin'. You heard what Benson told me. Alloway wouldn't give
+me the benefit of any doubts. Buck, a last word--look out fer thet Bland
+woman!”
+
+Duane merely nodded, and then, saying that the horses were ready, he
+strode away through the grove. Accounting for the short cut across grove
+and field, it was about five minutes' walk up to Bland's house. To
+Duane it seemed long in time and distance, and he had difficulty in
+restraining his pace. As he walked there came a gradual and subtle
+change in his feelings. Again he was going out to meet a man in
+conflict. He could have avoided this meeting. But despite the fact of
+his courting the encounter he had not as yet felt that hot, inexplicable
+rush of blood. The motive of this deadly action was not personal, and
+somehow that made a difference.
+
+No outlaws were in sight. He saw several Mexican herders with cattle.
+Blue columns of smoke curled up over some of the cabins. The fragrant
+smell of it reminded Duane of his home and cutting wood for the stove.
+He noted a cloud of creamy mist rising above the river, dissolving in
+the sunlight.
+
+Then he entered Bland's lane.
+
+While yet some distance from the cabin he heard loud, angry voices of
+man and woman. Bland and Kate still quarreling! He took a quick survey
+of the surroundings. There was now not even a Mexican in sight. Then
+he hurried a little. Halfway down the lane he turned his head to peer
+through the cottonwoods. This time he saw Euchre coming with the horses.
+There was no indication that the old outlaw might lose his nerve at the
+end. Duane had feared this.
+
+Duane now changed his walk to a leisurely saunter. He reached the porch
+and then distinguished what was said inside the cabin.
+
+“If you do, Bland, by Heaven I'll fix you and her!” That was panted out
+in Kate Bland's full voice.
+
+“Let me looser I'm going in there, I tell you!” replied Bland, hoarsely.
+
+“What for?”
+
+“I want to make a little love to her. Ha! ha! It'll be fun to have the
+laugh on her new lover.”
+
+“You lie!” cried Kate Bland.
+
+“I'm not saying what I'll do to her AFTERWARD!” His voice grew hoarser
+with passion. “Let me go now!”
+
+“No! no! I won't let you go. You'll choke the--the truth out of
+her--you'll kill her.”
+
+“The TRUTH!” hissed Bland.
+
+“Yes. I lied. Jen lied. But she lied to save me. You needn't--murder
+her--for that.”
+
+Bland cursed horribly. Then followed a wrestling sound of bodies in
+violent straining contact--the scrape of feet--the jangle of spurs--a
+crash of sliding table or chair, and then the cry of a woman in pain.
+
+Duane stepped into the open door, inside the room. Kate Bland lay half
+across a table where she had been flung, and she was trying to get to
+her feet. Bland's back was turned. He had opened the door into Jennie's
+room and had one foot across the threshold. Duane caught the girl's low,
+shuddering cry. Then he called out loud and clear.
+
+With cat-like swiftness Bland wheeled, then froze on the threshold.
+His sight, quick as his action, caught Duane's menacing unmistakable
+position.
+
+Bland's big frame filled the door. He was in a bad place to reach for
+his gun. But he would not have time for a step. Duane read in his eyes
+the desperate calculation of chances. For a fleeting instant Bland
+shifted his glance to his wife. Then his whole body seemed to vibrate
+with the swing of his arm.
+
+Duane shot him. He fell forward, his gun exploding as it hit into the
+floor, and dropped loose from stretching fingers. Duane stood over him,
+stooped to turn him on his back. Bland looked up with clouded gaze, then
+gasped his last.
+
+“Duane, you've killed him!” cried Kate Bland, huskily. “I knew you'd
+have to!”
+
+She staggered against the wall, her eyes dilating, her strong hands
+clenching, her face slowly whitening. She appeared shocked, half
+stunned, but showed no grief.
+
+“Jennie!” called Duane, sharply.
+
+“Oh--Duane!” came a halting reply.
+
+“Yes. Come out. Hurry!”
+
+She came out with uneven steps, seeing only him, and she stumbled over
+Bland's body. Duane caught her arm, swung her behind him. He feared
+the woman when she realized how she had been duped. His action was
+protective, and his movement toward the door equally as significant.
+
+“Duane,” cried Mrs. Bland.
+
+It was no time for talk. Duane edged on, keeping Jennie behind him. At
+that moment there was a pounding of iron-shod hoofs out in the lane.
+Kate Bland bounded to the door. When she turned back her amazement was
+changing to realization.
+
+“Where 're you taking Jen?” she cried, her voice like a man's. “Get out
+of my way,” replied Duane. His look perhaps, without speech, was enough
+for her. In an instant she was transformed into a fury.
+
+“You hound! All the time you were fooling me! You made love to me! You
+let me believe--you swore you loved me! Now I see what was queer about
+you. All for that girl! But you can't have her. You'll never leave here
+alive. Give me that girl! Let me--get at her! She'll never win any more
+men in this camp.”
+
+She was a powerful woman, and it took all Duane's strength to ward off
+her onslaughts. She clawed at Jennie over his upheld arm. Every second
+her fury increased.
+
+“HELP! HELP! HELP!” she shrieked, in a voice that must have penetrated
+to the remotest cabin in the valley.
+
+“Let go! Let go!” cried Duane, low and sharp. He still held his gun in
+his right hand, and it began to be hard for him to ward the woman off.
+His coolness had gone with her shriek for help. “Let go!” he repeated,
+and he shoved her fiercely.
+
+Suddenly she snatched a rifle off the wall and backed away, her strong
+hands fumbling at the lever. As she jerked it down, throwing a shell
+into the chamber and cocking the weapon, Duane leaped upon her. He
+struck up the rifle as it went off, the powder burning his face.
+
+“Jennie, run out! Get on a horse!” he said.
+
+Jennie flashed out of the door.
+
+With an iron grasp Duane held to the rifle-barrel. He had grasped it
+with his left hand, and he gave such a pull that he swung the crazed
+woman off the floor. But he could not loose her grip. She was as strong
+as he.
+
+“Kate! Let go!”
+
+He tried to intimidate her. She did not see his gun thrust in her face,
+or reason had given way to such an extent to passion that she did not
+care. She cursed. Her husband had used the same curses, and from her
+lips they seemed strange, unsexed, more deadly. Like a tigress she
+fought him; her face no longer resembled a woman's. The evil of that
+outlaw life, the wildness and rage, the meaning to kill, was even in
+such a moment terribly impressed upon Duane.
+
+He heard a cry from outside--a man's cry, hoarse and alarming.
+
+It made him think of loss of time. This demon of a woman might yet block
+his plan.
+
+“Let go!” he whispered, and felt his lips stiff. In the grimness of that
+instant he relaxed his hold on the rifle-barrel.
+
+With sudden, redoubled, irresistible strength she wrenched the rifle
+down and discharged it. Duane felt a blow--a shock--a burning agony
+tearing through his breast. Then in a frenzy he jerked so powerfully
+upon the rifle that he threw the woman against the wall. She fell and
+seemed stunned.
+
+Duane leaped back, whirled, flew out of the door to the porch. The sharp
+cracking of a gun halted him. He saw Jennie holding to the bridle of his
+bay horse. Euchre was astride the other, and he had a Colt leveled,
+and he was firing down the lane. Then came a single shot, heavier, and
+Euchre's ceased. He fell from the horse.
+
+A swift glance back showed to Duane a man coming down the lane. Chess
+Alloway! His gun was smoking. He broke into a run. Then in an instant he
+saw Duane, and tried to check his pace as he swung up his arm. But that
+slight pause was fatal. Duane shot, and Alloway was falling when his gun
+went off. His bullet whistled close to Duane and thudded into the cabin.
+
+Duane bounded down to the horses. Jennie was trying to hold the plunging
+bay. Euchre lay flat on his back, dead, a bullet-hole in his shirt, his
+face set hard, and his hands twisted round gun and bridle.
+
+“Jennie, you've nerve, all right!” cried Duane, as he dragged down
+the horse she was holding. “Up with you now! There! Never mind--long
+stirrups! Hang on somehow!”
+
+He caught his bridle out of Euchre's clutching grip and leaped astride.
+The frightened horses jumped into a run and thundered down the lane into
+the road. Duane saw men running from cabins. He heard shouts. But
+there were no shots fired. Jennie seemed able to stay on her horse, but
+without stirrups she was thrown about so much that Duane rode closer and
+reached out to grasp her arm.
+
+Thus they rode through the valley to the trail that led up over, the
+steep and broken Rim Rock. As they began to climb Duane looked back. No
+pursuers were in sight.
+
+“Jennie, we're going to get away!” he cried, exultation for her in his
+voice.
+
+She was gazing horror-stricken at his breast, as in turning to look back
+he faced her.
+
+“Oh, Duane, your shirt's all bloody!” she faltered, pointing with
+trembling fingers.
+
+With her words Duane became aware of two things--the hand he
+instinctively placed to his breast still held his gun, and he had
+sustained a terrible wound.
+
+Duane had been shot through the breast far enough down to give him grave
+apprehension of his life. The clean-cut hole made by the bullet bled
+freely both at its entrance and where it had come out, but with no signs
+of hemorrhage. He did not bleed at the mouth; however, he began to cough
+up a reddish-tinged foam.
+
+As they rode on, Jennie, with pale face and mute lips, looked at him.
+
+“I'm badly hurt, Jennie,” he said, “but I guess I'll stick it out.”
+
+“The woman--did she shoot you?”
+
+“Yes. She was a devil. Euchre told me to look out for her. I wasn't
+quick enough.”
+
+“You didn't have to--to--” shivered the girl.
+
+“No! no!” he replied.
+
+They did not stop climbing while Duane tore a scarf and made compresses,
+which he bound tightly over his wounds. The fresh horses made fast
+time up the rough trail. From open places Duane looked down. When they
+surmounted the steep ascent and stood on top of the Rim Rock, with
+no signs of pursuit down in the valley, and with the wild, broken
+fastnesses before them, Duane turned to the girl and assured her that
+they now had every chance of escape.
+
+“But--your--wound!” she faltered, with dark, troubled eyes. “I see--the
+blood--dripping from your back!”
+
+“Jennie, I'll take a lot of killing,” he said.
+
+Then he became silent and attended to the uneven trail. He was aware
+presently that he had not come into Bland's camp by this route. But
+that did not matter; any trail leading out beyond the Rim Rock was safe
+enough. What he wanted was to get far away into some wild retreat where
+he could hide till he recovered from his wound. He seemed to feel a fire
+inside his breast, and his throat burned so that it was necessary for
+him to take a swallow of water every little while. He began to suffer
+considerable pain, which increased as the hours went by and then gave
+way to a numbness. From that time on he had need of his great strength
+and endurance. Gradually he lost his steadiness and his keen sight; and
+he realized that if he were to meet foes, or if pursuing outlaws should
+come up with him, he could make only a poor stand. So he turned off on a
+trail that appeared seldom traveled.
+
+Soon after this move he became conscious of a further thickening of his
+senses. He felt able to hold on to his saddle for a while longer, but he
+was failing. Then he thought he ought to advise Jennie, so in case she
+was left alone she would have some idea of what to do.
+
+“Jennie, I'll give out soon,” he said. “No-I don't mean--what you think.
+But I'll drop soon. My strength's going. If I die--you ride back to
+the main trail. Hide and rest by day. Ride at night. That trail goes
+to water. I believe you could get across the Nueces, where some rancher
+will take you in.”
+
+Duane could not get the meaning of her incoherent reply. He rode on,
+and soon he could not see the trail or hear his horse. He did not
+know whether they traveled a mile or many times that far. But he was
+conscious when the horse stopped, and had a vague sense of falling and
+feeling Jennie's arms before all became dark to him.
+
+When consciousness returned he found himself lying in a little hut of
+mesquite branches. It was well built and evidently some years old. There
+were two doors or openings, one in front and the other at the back.
+Duane imagined it had been built by a fugitive--one who meant to keep an
+eye both ways and not to be surprised. Duane felt weak and had no desire
+to move. Where was he, anyway? A strange, intangible sense of time,
+distance, of something far behind weighed upon him. Sight of the two
+packs Euchre had made brought his thought to Jennie. What had become of
+her? There was evidence of her work in a smoldering fire and a little
+blackened coffee-pot. Probably she was outside looking after the horses
+or getting water. He thought he heard a step and listened, but he felt
+tired, and presently his eyes closed and he fell into a doze.
+
+Awakening from this, he saw Jennie sitting beside him. In some way
+she seemed to have changed. When he spoke she gave a start and turned
+eagerly to him.
+
+“Duane!” she cried.
+
+“Hello. How're you, Jennie, and how am I?” he said, finding it a little
+difficult to talk.
+
+“Oh, I'm all right,” she replied. “And you've come to--your wound's
+healed; but you've been sick. Fever, I guess. I did all I could.”
+
+Duane saw now that the difference in her was a whiteness and tightness
+of skin, a hollowness of eye, a look of strain.
+
+“Fever? How long have we been here?” he asked.
+
+She took some pebbles from the crown of his sombrero and counted them.
+
+“Nine. Nine days,” she answered.
+
+“Nine days!” he exclaimed, incredulously. But another look at her
+assured him that she meant what she said. “I've been sick all the time?
+You nursed me?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Bland's men didn't come along here?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Where are the horses?”
+
+“I keep them grazing down in a gorge back of here. There's good grass
+and water.”
+
+“Have you slept any?”
+
+“A little. Lately I couldn't keep awake.”
+
+“Good Lord! I should think not. You've had a time of it sitting here day
+and night nursing me, watching for the outlaws. Come, tell me all about
+it.”
+
+“There's nothing much to tell.”
+
+“I want to know, anyway, just what you did--how you felt.”
+
+“I can't remember very well,” she replied, simply. “We must have ridden
+forty miles that day we got away. You bled all the time. Toward evening
+you lay on your horse's neck. When we came to this place you fell out of
+the saddle. I dragged you in here and stopped your bleeding. I thought
+you'd die that night. But in the morning I had a little hope. I had
+forgotten the horses. But luckily they didn't stray far. I caught them
+and kept them down in the gorge. When your wounds closed and you began
+to breathe stronger I thought you'd get well quick. It was fever that
+put you back. You raved a lot, and that worried me, because I couldn't
+stop you. Anybody trailing us could have heard you a good ways. I don't
+know whether I was scared most then or when you were quiet, and it was
+so dark and lonely and still all around. Every day I put a stone in your
+hat.”
+
+“Jennie, you saved my life,” said Duane.
+
+“I don't know. Maybe. I did all I knew how to do,” she replied. “You
+saved mine--more than my life.”
+
+Their eyes met in a long gaze, and then their hands in a close clasp.
+
+“Jennie, we're going to get away,” he said, with gladness. “I'll be well
+in a few days. You don't know how strong I am. We'll hide by day and
+travel by night. I can get you across the river.”
+
+“And then?” she asked.
+
+“We'll find some honest rancher.”
+
+“And then?” she persisted.
+
+“Why,” he began, slowly, “that's as far as my thoughts ever got. It
+was pretty hard, I tell you, to assure myself of so much. It means your
+safety. You'll tell your story. You'll be sent to some village or town
+and taken care of until a relative or friend is notified.”
+
+“And you?” she inquired, in a strange voice.
+
+Duane kept silence.
+
+“What will you do?” she went on.
+
+“Jennie, I'll go back to the brakes. I daren't show my face among
+respectable people. I'm an outlaw.”
+
+“You're no criminal!” she declared, with deep passion.
+
+“Jennie, on this border the little difference between an out law and a
+criminal doesn't count for much.”
+
+“You won't go back among those terrible men? You, with your gentleness
+and sweetness--all that's good about you? Oh, Duane, don't--don't go!”
+
+“I can't go back to the outlaws, at least not Bland's band. No, I'll go
+alone. I'll lone-wolf it, as they say on the border. What else can I do,
+Jennie?”
+
+“Oh, I don't know. Couldn't you hide? Couldn't you slip out of Texas--go
+far away?”
+
+“I could never get out of Texas without being arrested. I could hide,
+but a man must live. Never mind about me, Jennie.”
+
+In three days Duane was able with great difficulty to mount his horse.
+During daylight, by short relays, he and Jennie rode back to the main
+trail, where they hid again till he had rested. Then in the dark they
+rode out of the canyons and gullies of the Rim Rock, and early in the
+morning halted at the first water to camp.
+
+From that point they traveled after nightfall and went into hiding
+during the day. Once across the Nueces River, Duane was assured of
+safety for her and great danger for himself. They had crossed into
+a country he did not know. Somewhere east of the river there were
+scattered ranches. But he was as liable to find the rancher in touch
+with the outlaws as he was likely to find him honest. Duane hoped his
+good fortune would not desert him in this last service to Jennie. Next
+to the worry of that was realization of his condition. He had gotten
+up too soon; he had ridden too far and hard, and now he felt that any
+moment he might fall from his saddle. At last, far ahead over a barren
+mesquite-dotted stretch of dusty ground, he espied a patch of green and
+a little flat, red ranch-house. He headed his horse for it and turned a
+face he tried to make cheerful for Jennie's sake. She seemed both happy
+and sorry.
+
+When near at hand he saw that the rancher was a thrifty farmer. And
+thrift spoke for honesty. There were fields of alfalfa, fruit-trees,
+corrals, windmill pumps, irrigation-ditches, all surrounding a neat
+little adobe house. Some children were playing in the yard. The way
+they ran at sight of Duane hinted of both the loneliness and the fear
+of their isolated lives. Duane saw a woman come to the door, then a man.
+The latter looked keenly, then stepped outside. He was a sandy-haired,
+freckled Texan.
+
+“Howdy, stranger,” he called, as Duane halted. “Get down, you an' your
+woman. Say, now, air you sick or shot or what? Let me--”
+
+Duane, reeling in his saddle, bent searching eyes upon the rancher. He
+thought he saw good will, kindness, honesty. He risked all on that one
+sharp glance. Then he almost plunged from the saddle.
+
+The rancher caught him, helped him to a bench.
+
+“Martha, come out here!” he called. “This man's sick. No; he's shot, or
+I don't know blood-stains.”
+
+Jennie had slipped off her horse and to Duane's side. Duane appeared
+about to faint.
+
+“Air you his wife?” asked the rancher.
+
+“No. I'm only a girl he saved from outlaws. Oh, he's so paler Duane,
+Duane!”
+
+“Buck Duane!” exclaimed the rancher, excitedly. “The man who killed
+Bland an' Alloway? Say, I owe him a good turn, an' I'll pay it, young
+woman.”
+
+The rancher's wife came out, and with a manner at once kind and
+practical essayed to make Duane drink from a flask. He was not so far
+gone that he could not recognize its contents, which he refused, and
+weakly asked for water. When that was given him he found his voice.
+
+“Yes, I'm Duane. I've only overdone myself--just all in. The wounds I
+got at Bland's are healing. Will you take this girl in--hide her awhile
+till the excitement's over among the outlaws?”
+
+“I shore will,” replied the Texan.
+
+“Thanks. I'll remember you--I'll square it.”
+
+“What 're you goin' to do?”
+
+“I'll rest a bit--then go back to the brakes.”
+
+“Young man, you ain't in any shape to travel. See here--any rustlers on
+your trail?”
+
+“I think we gave Bland's gang the slip.”
+
+“Good. I'll tell you what. I'll take you in along with the girl, an'
+hide both of you till you get well. It'll be safe. My nearest neighbor
+is five miles off. We don't have much company.”
+
+“You risk a great deal. Both outlaws and rangers are hunting me,” said
+Duane.
+
+“Never seen a ranger yet in these parts. An' have always got along with
+outlaws, mebbe exceptin' Bland. I tell you I owe you a good turn.”
+
+“My horses might betray you,” added Duane.
+
+“I'll hide them in a place where there's water an' grass. Nobody goes to
+it. Come now, let me help you indoors.”
+
+Duane's last fading sensations of that hard day were the strange feel of
+a bed, a relief at the removal of his heavy boots, and of Jennie's soft,
+cool hands on his hot face.
+
+He lay ill for three weeks before he began to mend, and it was another
+week then before he could walk out a little in the dusk of the evenings.
+After that his strength returned rapidly. And it was only at the end
+of this long siege that he recovered his spirits. During most of his
+illness he had been silent, moody.
+
+“Jennie, I'll be riding off soon,” he said, one evening. “I can't impose
+on this good man Andrews much longer. I'll never forget his kindness.
+His wife, too--she's been so good to us. Yes, Jennie, you and I will
+have to say good-by very soon.”
+
+“Don't hurry away,” she replied.
+
+Lately Jennie had appeared strange to him. She had changed from the
+girl he used to see at Mrs. Bland's house. He took her reluctance to say
+good-by as another indication of her regret that he must go back to the
+brakes. Yet somehow it made him observe her more closely. She wore a
+plain, white dress made from material Mrs. Andrews had given her. Sleep
+and good food had improved her. If she had been pretty out there in the
+outlaw den now she was more than that. But she had the same paleness,
+the same strained look, the same dark eyes full of haunting shadows.
+After Duane's realization of the change in her he watched her more, with
+a growing certainty that he would be sorry not to see her again.
+
+“It's likely we won't ever see each other again,” he said. “That's
+strange to think of. We've been through some hard days, and I seem to
+have known you a long time.”
+
+Jennie appeared shy, almost sad, so Duane changed the subject to
+something less personal.
+
+Andrews returned one evening from a several days' trip to Huntsville.
+
+“Duane, everybody's talkie' about how you cleaned up the Bland outfit,”
+ he said, important and full of news. “It's some exaggerated, accordin'
+to what you told me; but you've shore made friends on this side of the
+Nueces. I reckon there ain't a town where you wouldn't find people to
+welcome you. Huntsville, you know, is some divided in its ideas. Half
+the people are crooked. Likely enough, all them who was so loud in
+praise of you are the crookedest. For instance, I met King Fisher, the
+boss outlaw of these parts. Well, King thinks he's a decent citizen.
+He was tellin' me what a grand job yours was for the border an' honest
+cattlemen. Now that Bland and Alloway are done for, King Fisher will
+find rustlin' easier. There's talk of Hardin movie' his camp over to
+Bland's. But I don't know how true it is. I reckon there ain't much
+to it. In the past when a big outlaw chief went under, his band almost
+always broke up an' scattered. There's no one left who could run thet
+outfit.”
+
+“Did you hear of any outlaws hunting me?” asked Duane.
+
+“Nobody from Bland's outfit is huntin' you, thet's shore,” replied
+Andrews. “Fisher said there never was a hoss straddled to go on your
+trail. Nobody had any use for Bland. Anyhow, his men would be afraid to
+trail you. An' you could go right in to Huntsville, where you'd be some
+popular. Reckon you'd be safe, too, except when some of them fool saloon
+loafers or bad cowpunchers would try to shoot you for the glory in it.
+Them kind of men will bob up everywhere you go, Duane.”
+
+“I'll be able to ride and take care of myself in a day or two,” went on
+Duane. “Then I'll go--I'd like to talk to you about Jennie.”
+
+“She's welcome to a home here with us.”
+
+“Thank you, Andrews. You're a kind man. But I want Jennie to get farther
+away from the Rio Grande. She'd never be safe here. Besides, she may be
+able to find relatives. She has some, though she doesn't know where they
+are.”
+
+“All right, Duane. Whatever you think best. I reckon now you'd better
+take her to some town. Go north an' strike for Shelbyville or Crockett.
+Them's both good towns. I'll tell Jennie the names of men who'll help
+her. You needn't ride into town at all.”
+
+“Which place is nearer, and how far is it?”
+
+“Shelbyville. I reckon about two days' ride. Poor stock country, so you
+ain't liable to meet rustlers. All the same, better hit the trail at
+night an' go careful.”
+
+At sunset two days later Duane and Jennie mounted their horses and said
+good-by to the rancher and his wife. Andrews would not listen to Duane's
+thanks.
+
+“I tell you I'm beholden to you yet,” he declared.
+
+“Well, what can I do for you?” asked Duane. “I may come along here again
+some day.”
+
+“Get down an' come in, then, or you're no friend of mine. I reckon there
+ain't nothin' I can think of--I just happen to remember--” Here he led
+Duane out of earshot of the women and went on in a whisper. “Buck, I
+used to be well-to-do. Got skinned by a man named Brown--Rodney Brown.
+He lives in Huntsville, an' he's my enemy. I never was much on fightin',
+or I'd fixed him. Brown ruined me--stole all I had. He's a hoss an'
+cattle thief, an' he has pull enough at home to protect him. I reckon I
+needn't say any more.”
+
+“Is this Brown a man who shot an outlaw named Stevens?” queried Duane,
+curiously.
+
+“Shore, he's the same. I heard thet story. Brown swears he plugged
+Stevens through the middle. But the outlaw rode off, an' nobody ever
+knew for shore.”
+
+“Luke Stevens died of that shot. I buried him,” said Duane.
+
+Andrews made no further comment, and the two men returned to the women.
+
+“The main road for about three miles, then where it forks take the
+left-hand road and keep on straight. That what you said, Andrews?”
+
+“Shore. An' good luck to you both!”
+
+Duane and Jennie trotted away into the gathering twilight. At the moment
+an insistent thought bothered Duane. Both Luke Stevens and the rancher
+Andrews had hinted to Duane to kill a man named Brown. Duane wished
+with all his heart that they had not mentioned it, let alone taken for
+granted the execution of the deed. What a bloody place Texas was! Men
+who robbed and men who were robbed both wanted murder. It was in the
+spirit of the country. Duane certainly meant to avoid ever meeting this
+Rodney Brown. And that very determination showed Duane how dangerous
+he really was--to men and to himself. Sometimes he had a feeling of how
+little stood between his sane and better self and a self utterly wild
+and terrible. He reasoned that only intelligence could save him--only a
+thoughtful understanding of his danger and a hold upon some ideal.
+
+Then he fell into low conversation with Jennie, holding out hopeful
+views of her future, and presently darkness set in. The sky was overcast
+with heavy clouds; there was no air moving; the heat and oppression
+threatened storm. By and by Duane could not see a rod in front of him,
+though his horse had no difficulty in keeping to the road. Duane was
+bothered by the blackness of the night. Traveling fast was impossible,
+and any moment he might miss the road that led off to the left. So
+he was compelled to give all his attention to peering into the thick
+shadows ahead. As good luck would have it, he came to higher ground
+where there was less mesquite, and therefore not such impenetrable
+darkness; and at this point he came to where the road split.
+
+Once headed in the right direction, he felt easier in mind. To his
+annoyance, however, a fine, misty rain set in. Jennie was not well
+dressed for wet weather; and, for that matter, neither was he. His coat,
+which in that dry warm climate he seldom needed, was tied behind his
+saddle, and he put it on Jennie.
+
+They traveled on. The rain fell steadily; if anything, growing thicker.
+Duane grew uncomfortably wet and chilly. Jennie, however, fared somewhat
+better by reason of the heavy coat. The night passed quickly despite the
+discomfort, and soon a gray, dismal, rainy dawn greeted the travelers.
+
+Jennie insisted that he find some shelter where a fire could be built to
+dry his clothes. He was not in a fit condition to risk catching cold.
+In fact, Duane's teeth were chattering. To find a shelter in that barren
+waste seemed a futile task. Quite unexpectedly, however, they happened
+upon a deserted adobe cabin situated a little off the road. Not only did
+it prove to have a dry interior, but also there was firewood. Water
+was available in pools everywhere; however, there was no grass for the
+horses.
+
+A good fire and hot food and drink changed the aspect of their condition
+as far as comfort went. And Jennie lay down to sleep. For Duane,
+however, there must be vigilance. This cabin was no hiding-place. The
+rain fell harder all the time, and the wind changed to the north. “It's
+a norther, all right,” muttered Duane. “Two or three days.” And he felt
+that his extraordinary luck had not held out. Still one point favored
+him, and it was that travelers were not likely to come along during the
+storm. Jennie slept while Duane watched. The saving of this girl meant
+more to him than any task he had ever assumed. First it had been partly
+from a human feeling to succor an unfortunate woman, and partly a motive
+to establish clearly to himself that he was no outlaw. Lately, however,
+had come a different sense, a strange one, with something personal and
+warm and protective in it.
+
+As he looked down upon her, a slight, slender girl with bedraggled dress
+and disheveled hair, her face, pale and quiet, a little stern in sleep,
+and her long, dark lashes lying on her cheek, he seemed to see her
+fragility, her prettiness, her femininity as never before. But for him
+she might at that very moment have been a broken, ruined girl lying
+back in that cabin of the Blands'. The fact gave him a feeling of his
+importance in this shifting of her destiny. She was unharmed, still
+young; she would forget and be happy; she would live to be a good
+wife and mother. Somehow the thought swelled his heart. His act,
+death-dealing as it had been, was a noble one, and helped him to hold
+on to his drifting hopes. Hardly once since Jennie had entered into his
+thought had those ghosts returned to torment him.
+
+To-morrow she would be gone among good, kind people with a possibility
+of finding her relatives. He thanked God for that; nevertheless, he felt
+a pang.
+
+She slept more than half the day. Duane kept guard, always alert,
+whether he was sitting, standing, or walking. The rain pattered steadily
+on the roof and sometimes came in gusty flurries through the door.
+The horses were outside in a shed that afforded poor shelter, and they
+stamped restlessly. Duane kept them saddled and bridled.
+
+About the middle of the afternoon Jennie awoke. They cooked a meal
+and afterward sat beside the little fire. She had never been, in his
+observation of her, anything but a tragic figure, an unhappy girl, the
+farthest removed from serenity and poise. That characteristic capacity
+for agitation struck him as stronger in her this day. He attributed it,
+however, to the long strain, the suspense nearing an end. Yet sometimes
+when her eyes were on him she did not seem to be thinking of her
+freedom, of her future.
+
+“This time to-morrow you'll be in Shelbyville,” he said.
+
+“Where will you be?” she asked, quickly.
+
+“Me? Oh, I'll be making tracks for some lonesome place,” he replied.
+
+The girl shuddered.
+
+“I've been brought up in Texas. I remember what a hard lot the men of my
+family had. But poor as they were, they had a roof over their heads,
+a hearth with a fire, a warm bed--somebody to love them. And you,
+Duane--oh, my God! What must your life be? You must ride and hide and
+watch eternally. No decent food, no pillow, no friendly word, no clean
+clothes, no woman's hand! Horses, guns, trails, rocks, holes--these must
+be the important things in your life. You must go on riding, hiding,
+killing until you meet--”
+
+She ended with a sob and dropped her head on her knees. Duane was
+amazed, deeply touched.
+
+“My girl, thank you for that thought of me,” he said, with a tremor in
+his voice. “You don't know how much that means to me.”
+
+She raised her face, and it was tear-stained, eloquent, beautiful.
+
+“I've heard tell--the best of men go to the bad out there. You won't.
+Promise me you won't. I never--knew any man--like you. I--I--we may
+never see each other again--after to-day. I'll never forget you. I'll
+pray for you, and I'll never give up trying to--to do something. Don't
+despair. It's never too late. It was my hope that kept me alive--out
+there at Bland's--before you came. I was only a poor weak girl. But if
+I could hope--so can you. Stay away from men. Be a lone wolf. Fight for
+your life. Stick out your exile--and maybe--some day--”
+
+Then she lost her voice. Duane clasped her hand and with feeling as deep
+as hers promised to remember her words. In her despair for him she had
+spoken wisdom--pointed out the only course.
+
+Duane's vigilance, momentarily broken by emotion, had no sooner
+reasserted itself than he discovered the bay horse, the one Jennie rode,
+had broken his halter and gone off. The soft wet earth had deadened the
+sound of his hoofs. His tracks were plain in the mud. There were clumps
+of mesquite in sight, among which the horse might have strayed. It
+turned out, however, that he had not done so.
+
+Duane did not want to leave Jennie alone in the cabin so near the road.
+So he put her up on his horse and bade her follow. The rain had ceased
+for the time being, though evidently the storm was not yet over. The
+tracks led up a wash to a wide flat where mesquite, prickly pear, and
+thorn-bush grew so thickly that Jennie could not ride into it. Duane was
+thoroughly concerned. He must have her horse. Time was flying. It would
+soon be night. He could not expect her to scramble quickly through that
+brake on foot. Therefore he decided to risk leaving her at the edge of
+the thicket and go in alone.
+
+As he went in a sound startled him. Was it the breaking of a branch
+he had stepped on or thrust aside? He heard the impatient pound of
+his horse's hoofs. Then all was quiet. Still he listened, not wholly
+satisfied. He was never satisfied in regard to safety; he knew too well
+that there never could be safety for him in this country.
+
+The bay horse had threaded the aisles of the thicket. Duane wondered
+what had drawn him there. Certainly it had not been grass, for there was
+none. Presently he heard the horse tramping along, and then he ran. The
+mud was deep, and the sharp thorns made going difficult. He came up
+with the horse, and at the same moment crossed a multitude of fresh
+horse-tracks.
+
+He bent lower to examine them, and was alarmed to find that they had
+been made very recently, even since it had ceased raining. They were
+tracks of well-shod horses. Duane straightened up with a cautious glance
+all around. His instant decision was to hurry back to Jennie. But he
+had come a goodly way through the thicket, and it was impossible to rush
+back. Once or twice he imagined he heard crashings in the brush, but
+did not halt to make sure. Certain he was now that some kind of danger
+threatened.
+
+Suddenly there came an unmistakable thump of horses' hoofs off somewhere
+to the fore. Then a scream rent the air. It ended abruptly. Duane leaped
+forward, tore his way through the thorny brake. He heard Jennie cry
+again--an appealing call quickly hushed. It seemed more to his right,
+and he plunged that way. He burst into a glade where a smoldering fire
+and ground covered with footprints and tracks showed that campers had
+lately been. Rushing across this, he broke his passage out to the open.
+But he was too late. His horse had disappeared. Jennie was gone. There
+were no riders in sight. There was no sound. There was a heavy trail of
+horses going north. Jennie had been carried off--probably by outlaws.
+Duane realized that pursuit was out of the question--that Jennie was
+lost.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+A hundred miles from the haunts most familiar with Duane's deeds, far
+up where the Nueces ran a trickling clear stream between yellow cliffs,
+stood a small deserted shack of covered mesquite poles. It had been made
+long ago, but was well preserved. A door faced the overgrown trail,
+and another faced down into a gorge of dense thickets. On the border
+fugitives from law and men who hid in fear of some one they had wronged
+never lived in houses with only one door.
+
+It was a wild spot, lonely, not fit for human habitation except for the
+outcast. He, perhaps, might have found it hard to leave for most of the
+other wild nooks in that barren country. Down in the gorge there
+was never-failing sweet water, grass all the year round, cool, shady
+retreats, deer, rabbits, turkeys, fruit, and miles and miles of
+narrow-twisting, deep canyon full of broken rocks and impenetrable
+thickets. The scream of the panther was heard there, the squall of the
+wildcat, the cough of the jaguar. Innumerable bees buzzed in the spring
+blossoms, and, it seemed, scattered honey to the winds. All day there
+was continuous song of birds, that of the mocking-bird loud and sweet
+and mocking above the rest.
+
+On clear days--and rare indeed were cloudy days--with the subsiding
+of the wind at sunset a hush seemed to fall around the little hut.
+Far-distant dim-blue mountains stood gold-rimmed gradually to fade with
+the shading of light.
+
+At this quiet hour a man climbed up out of the gorge and sat in the
+westward door of the hut. This lonely watcher of the west and listener
+to the silence was Duane. And this hut was the one where, three years
+before, Jennie had nursed him back to life.
+
+The killing of a man named Sellers, and the combination of circumstances
+that had made the tragedy a memorable regret, had marked, if not a
+change, at least a cessation in Duane's activities. He had trailed
+Sellers to kill him for the supposed abducting of Jennie. He had trailed
+him long after he had learned Sellers traveled alone. Duane wanted
+absolute assurance of Jennie's death. Vague rumors, a few words here and
+there, unauthenticated stories, were all Duane had gathered in years to
+substantiate his belief--that Jennie died shortly after the beginning of
+her second captivity. But Duane did not know surely. Sellers might have
+told him. Duane expected, if not to force it from him at the end, to
+read it in his eyes. But the bullet went too unerringly; it locked his
+lips and fixed his eyes.
+
+After that meeting Duane lay long at the ranchhouse of a friend, and
+when he recovered from the wound Sellers had given him he started with
+two horses and a pack for the lonely gorge on the Nueces. There he
+had been hidden for months, a prey to remorse, a dreamer, a victim of
+phantoms.
+
+It took work for him to find subsistence in that rocky fastness. And
+work, action, helped to pass the hours. But he could not work all the
+time, even if he had found it to do. Then in his idle moments and at
+night his task was to live with the hell in his mind.
+
+The sunset and the twilight hour made all the rest bearable. The little
+hut on the rim of the gorge seemed to hold Jennie's presence. It was not
+as if he felt her spirit. If it had been he would have been sure of her
+death. He hoped Jennie had not survived her second misfortune; and that
+intense hope had burned into belief, if not surety. Upon his return to
+that locality, on the occasion of his first visit to the hut, he had
+found things just as they had left them, and a poor, faded piece of
+ribbon Jennie had used to tie around her bright hair. No wandering
+outlaw or traveler had happened upon the lonely spot, which further
+endeared it to Duane.
+
+A strange feature of this memory of Jennie was the freshness of it--the
+failure of years, toil, strife, death-dealing to dim it--to deaden
+the thought of what might have been. He had a marvelous gift of
+visualization. He could shut his eyes and see Jennie before him just as
+clearly as if she had stood there in the flesh. For hours he did that,
+dreaming, dreaming of life he had never tasted and now never would
+taste. He saw Jennie's slender, graceful figure, the old brown ragged
+dress in which he had seen her first at Bland's, her little feet in
+Mexican sandals, her fine hands coarsened by work, her round arms and
+swelling throat, and her pale, sad, beautiful face with its staring dark
+eyes. He remembered every look she had given him, every word she had
+spoken to him, every time she had touched him. He thought of her beauty
+and sweetness, of the few things which had come to mean to him that
+she must have loved him; and he trained himself to think of these in
+preference to her life at Bland's, the escape with him, and then her
+recapture, because such memories led to bitter, fruitless pain. He had
+to fight suffering because it was eating out his heart.
+
+Sitting there, eyes wide open, he dreamed of the old homestead and his
+white-haired mother. He saw the old home life, sweetened and filled by
+dear new faces and added joys, go on before his eyes with him a part of
+it.
+
+Then in the inevitable reaction, in the reflux of bitter reality, he
+would send out a voiceless cry no less poignant because it was silent:
+“Poor fool! No, I shall never see mother again--never go home--never
+have a home. I am Duane, the Lone Wolf! Oh, God! I wish it were over!
+These dreams torture me! What have I to do with a mother, a home, a
+wife? No bright-haired boy, no dark-eyed girl will ever love me. I am
+an outlaw, an outcast, dead to the good and decent world. I am
+alone--alone. Better be a callous brute or better dead! I shall go mad
+thinking! Man, what is left to you? A hiding-place like a wolf's--lonely
+silent days, lonely nights with phantoms! Or the trail and the road with
+their bloody tracks, and then the hard ride, the sleepless, hungry ride
+to some hole in rocks or brakes. What hellish thing drives me? Why can't
+I end it all? What is left? Only that damned unquenchable spirit of the
+gun-fighter to live--to hang on to miserable life--to have no fear of
+death, yet to cling like a leach--to die as gun-fighters seldom die,
+with boots off! Bain, you were first, and you're long avenged. I'd
+change with you. And Sellers, you were last, and you're avenged. And you
+others--you're avenged. Lie quiet in your graves and give me peace!”
+
+But they did not lie quiet in their graves and give him peace.
+
+A group of specters trooped out of the shadows of dusk and, gathering
+round him, escorted him to his bed.
+
+When Duane had been riding the trails passion-bent to escape pursuers,
+or passion-bent in his search, the constant action and toil and
+exhaustion made him sleep. But when in hiding, as time passed, gradually
+he required less rest and sleep, and his mind became more active. Little
+by little his phantoms gained hold on him, and at length, but for the
+saving power of his dreams, they would have claimed him utterly.
+
+How many times he had said to himself: “I am an intelligent man. I'm
+not crazy. I'm in full possession of my faculties. All this is
+fancy--imagination--conscience. I've no work, no duty, no ideal, no
+hope--and my mind is obsessed, thronged with images. And these images
+naturally are of the men with whom I have dealt. I can't forget them.
+They come back to me, hour after hour; and when my tortured mind grows
+weak, then maybe I'm not just right till the mood wears out and lets me
+sleep.”
+
+So he reasoned as he lay down in his comfortable camp. The night was
+star-bright above the canyon-walls, darkly shadowing down between them.
+The insects hummed and chirped and thrummed a continuous thick song, low
+and monotonous. Slow-running water splashed softly over stones in the
+stream-bed. From far down the canyon came the mournful hoot of an owl.
+The moment he lay down, thereby giving up action for the day, all these
+things weighed upon him like a great heavy mantle of loneliness. In
+truth, they did not constitute loneliness.
+
+And he could no more have dispelled thought than he could have reached
+out to touch a cold, bright star.
+
+He wondered how many outcasts like him lay under this star-studded,
+velvety sky across the fifteen hundred miles of wild country between
+El Paso and the mouth of the river. A vast wild territory--a refuge for
+outlaws! Somewhere he had heard or read that the Texas Rangers kept a
+book with names and records of outlaws--three thousand known outlaws.
+Yet these could scarcely be half of that unfortunate horde which had
+been recruited from all over the states. Duane had traveled from camp to
+camp, den to den, hiding-place to hiding-place, and he knew these men.
+Most of them were hopeless criminals; some were avengers; a few were
+wronged wanderers; and among them occasionally was a man, human in his
+way, honest as he could be, not yet lost to good.
+
+But all of them were akin in one sense--their outlawry; and that starry
+night they lay with their dark faces up, some in packs like wolves,
+others alone like the gray wolf who knew no mate. It did not make much
+difference in Duane's thought of them that the majority were steeped in
+crime and brutality, more often than not stupid from rum, incapable of a
+fine feeling, just lost wild dogs.
+
+Duane doubted that there was a man among them who did not realize his
+moral wreck and ruin. He had met poor, half witted wretches who knew it.
+He believed he could enter into their minds and feel the truth of
+all their lives--the hardened outlaw, coarse, ignorant, bestial, who
+murdered as Bill Black had murdered, who stole for the sake of stealing,
+who craved money to gamble and drink, defiantly ready for death, and,
+like that terrible outlaw, Helm, who cried out on the scaffold, “Let her
+rip!”
+
+The wild youngsters seeking notoriety and reckless adventure; the
+cowboys with a notch on their guns, with boastful pride in the knowledge
+that they were marked by rangers; the crooked men from the North,
+defaulters, forgers, murderers, all pale-faced, flat-chested men not fit
+for that wilderness and not surviving; the dishonest cattlemen, hand
+and glove with outlaws, driven from their homes; the old grizzled,
+bow-legged genuine rustlers--all these Duane had come in contact with,
+had watched and known, and as he felt with them he seemed to see that as
+their lives were bad, sooner or later to end dismally or tragically, so
+they must pay some kind of earthly penalty--if not of conscience, then
+of fear; if not of fear, then of that most terrible of all things to
+restless, active men--pain, the pang of flesh and bone.
+
+Duane knew, for he had seen them pay. Best of all, moreover, he knew the
+internal life of the gun-fighter of that select but by no means small
+class of which he was representative. The world that judged him and his
+kind judged him as a machine, a killing-machine, with only mind enough
+to hunt, to meet, to slay another man. It had taken three endless years
+for Duane to understand his own father. Duane knew beyond all doubt that
+the gun-fighters like Bland, like Alloway, like Sellers, men who were
+evil and had no remorse, no spiritual accusing Nemesis, had something
+far more torturing to mind, more haunting, more murderous of rest and
+sleep and peace; and that something was abnormal fear of death. Duane
+knew this, for he had shot these men; he had seen the quick, dark shadow
+in eyes, the presentiment that the will could not control, and then the
+horrible certainty. These men must have been in agony at every meeting
+with a possible or certain foe--more agony than the hot rend of a
+bullet. They were haunted, too, haunted by this fear, by every victim
+calling from the grave that nothing was so inevitable as death, which
+lurked behind every corner, hid in every shadow, lay deep in the dark
+tube of every gun. These men could not have a friend; they could not
+love or trust a woman. They knew their one chance of holding on to life
+lay in their own distrust, watchfulness, dexterity, and that hope, by
+the very nature of their lives, could not be lasting. They had doomed
+themselves. What, then, could possibly have dwelt in the depths of
+their minds as they went to their beds on a starry night like this, with
+mystery in silence and shadow, with time passing surely, and the dark
+future and its secret approaching every hour--what, then, but hell?
+
+The hell in Duane's mind was not fear of man or fear of death. He would
+have been glad to lay down the burden of life, providing death came
+naturally. Many times he had prayed for it. But that overdeveloped,
+superhuman spirit of defense in him precluded suicide or the inviting of
+an enemy's bullet. Sometimes he had a vague, scarcely analyzed idea that
+this spirit was what had made the Southwest habitable for the white man.
+
+Every one of his victims, singly and collectively, returned to him for
+ever, it seemed, in cold, passionless, accusing domination of these
+haunted hours. They did not accuse him of dishonor or cowardice or
+brutality or murder; they only accused him of Death. It was as if they
+knew more than when they were alive, had learned that life was a divine
+mysterious gift not to be taken. They thronged about him with their
+voiceless clamoring, drifted around him with their fading eyes.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+After nearly six months in the Nueces gorge the loneliness and inaction
+of his life drove Duane out upon the trails seeking anything rather than
+to hide longer alone, a prey to the scourge of his thoughts. The moment
+he rode into sight of men a remarkable transformation occurred in him. A
+strange warmth stirred in him--a longing to see the faces of people,
+to hear their voices--a pleasurable emotion sad and strange. But it was
+only a precursor of his old bitter, sleepless, and eternal vigilance.
+When he hid alone in the brakes he was safe from all except his deeper,
+better self; when he escaped from this into the haunts of men his force
+and will went to the preservation of his life.
+
+Mercer was the first village he rode into. He had many friends there.
+Mercer claimed to owe Duane a debt. On the outskirts of the village
+there was a grave overgrown by brush so that the rude-lettered post
+which marked it was scarcely visible to Duane as he rode by. He had
+never read the inscription. But he thought now of Hardin, no other than
+the erstwhile ally of Bland. For many years Hardin had harassed the
+stockmen and ranchers in and around Mercer. On an evil day for him he
+or his outlaws had beaten and robbed a man who once succored Duane
+when sore in need. Duane met Hardin in the little plaza of the village,
+called him every name known to border men, taunted him to draw, and
+killed him in the act.
+
+Duane went to the house of one Jones, a Texan who had known his father,
+and there he was warmly received. The feel of an honest hand, the voice
+of a friend, the prattle of children who were not afraid of him or his
+gun, good wholesome food, and change of clothes--these things for the
+time being made a changed man of Duane. To be sure, he did not often
+speak. The price of his head and the weight of his burden made him
+silent. But eagerly he drank in all the news that was told him. In
+the years of his absence from home he had never heard a word about his
+mother or uncle. Those who were his real friends on the border would
+have been the last to make inquiries, to write or receive letters that
+might give a clue to Duane's whereabouts.
+
+Duane remained all day with this hospitable Jones, and as twilight
+fell was loath to go and yielded to a pressing invitation to remain
+overnight. It was seldom indeed that Duane slept under a roof. Early
+in the evening, while Duane sat on the porch with two awed and
+hero-worshiping sons of the house, Jones returned from a quick visit
+down to the post-office. Summarily he sent the boys off. He labored
+under intense excitement.
+
+“Duane, there's rangers in town,” he whispered. “It's all over town,
+too, that you're here. You rode in long after sunup. Lots of people saw
+you. I don't believe there's a man or boy that 'd squeal on you. But the
+women might. They gossip, and these rangers are handsome fellows--devils
+with the women.”
+
+“What company of rangers?” asked Duane, quickly.
+
+“Company A, under Captain MacNelly, that new ranger. He made a big name
+in the war. And since he's been in the ranger service he's done wonders.
+He's cleaned up some bad places south, and he's working north.”
+
+“MacNelly. I've heard of him. Describe him to me.”
+
+“Slight-built chap, but wiry and tough. Clean face, black mustache and
+hair. Sharp black eyes. He's got a look of authority. MacNelly's a fine
+man, Duane. Belongs to a good Southern family. I'd hate to have him look
+you up.”
+
+Duane did not speak.
+
+“MacNelly's got nerve, and his rangers are all experienced men. If they
+find out you're here they'll come after you. MacNelly's no gun-fighter,
+but he wouldn't hesitate to do his duty, even if he faced sure death.
+Which he would in this case. Duane, you mustn't meet Captain MacNelly.
+Your record is clean, if it is terrible. You never met a ranger or any
+officer except a rotten sheriff now and then, like Rod Brown.”
+
+Still Duane kept silence. He was not thinking of danger, but of the fact
+of how fleeting must be his stay among friends.
+
+“I've already fixed up a pack of grub,” went on Jones. “I'll slip out to
+saddle your horse. You watch here.”
+
+He had scarcely uttered the last word when soft, swift footsteps sounded
+on the hard path. A man turned in at the gate. The light was dim, yet
+clean enough to disclose an unusually tall figure. When it appeared
+nearer he was seen to be walking with both arms raised, hands high. He
+slowed his stride.
+
+“Does Burt Jones live here?” he asked, in a low, hurried voice.
+
+“I reckon. I'm Burt. What can I do for you?” replied Jones.
+
+The stranger peered around, stealthily came closer, still with his hands
+up.
+
+“It is known that Buck Duane is here. Captain MacNelly's camping on the
+river just out of town. He sends word to Duane to come out there after
+dark.”
+
+The stranger wheeled and departed as swiftly and strangely as he had
+come.
+
+“Bust me! Duane, whatever do you make of that?” exclaimed Jones.
+
+“A new one on me,” replied Duane, thoughtfully.
+
+“First fool thing I ever heard of MacNelly doing. Can't make head nor
+tails of it. I'd have said offhand that MacNelly wouldn't double-cross
+anybody. He struck me as a square man, sand all through. But, hell! he
+must mean treachery. I can't see anything else in that deal.”
+
+“Maybe the Captain wants to give me a fair chance to surrender without
+bloodshed,” observed Duane. “Pretty decent of him, if he meant that.”
+
+“He INVITES YOU out to his camp AFTER DARK. Something strange about
+this, Duane. But MacNelly's a new man out here. He does some queer
+things. Perhaps he's getting a swelled head. Well, whatever his
+intentions, his presence around Mercer is enough for us. Duane, you
+hit the road and put some miles between you the amiable Captain before
+daylight. To-morrow I'll go out there and ask him what in the devil he
+meant.”
+
+“That messenger he sent--he was a ranger,” said Duane.
+
+“Sure he was, and a nervy one! It must have taken sand to come bracing
+you that way. Duane, the fellow didn't pack a gun. I'll swear to that.
+Pretty odd, this trick. But you can't trust it. Hit the road, Duane.”
+
+A little later a black horse with muffled hoofs, bearing a tall, dark
+rider who peered keenly into every shadow, trotted down a pasture lane
+back of Jones's house, turned into the road, and then, breaking into
+swifter gait, rapidly left Mercer behind.
+
+Fifteen or twenty miles out Duane drew rein in a forest of mesquite,
+dismounted, and searched about for a glade with a little grass. Here he
+staked his horse on a long lariat; and, using his saddle for a pillow,
+his saddle-blanket for covering, he went to sleep.
+
+Next morning he was off again, working south. During the next few days
+he paid brief visits to several villages that lay in his path. And in
+each some one particular friend had a piece of news to impart that made
+Duane profoundly thoughtful. A ranger had made a quiet, unobtrusive call
+upon these friends and left this message, “Tell Buck Duane to ride into
+Captain MacNelly's camp some time after night.”
+
+Duane concluded, and his friends all agreed with him, that the new
+ranger's main purpose in the Nueces country was to capture or kill Buck
+Duane, and that this message was simply an original and striking ruse,
+the daring of which might appeal to certain outlaws.
+
+But it did not appeal to Duane. His curiosity was aroused; it did not,
+however, tempt him to any foolhardy act. He turned southwest and rode a
+hundred miles until he again reached the sparsely settled country. Here
+he heard no more of rangers. It was a barren region he had never but
+once ridden through, and that ride had cost him dear. He had been
+compelled to shoot his way out. Outlaws were not in accord with the
+few ranchers and their cowboys who ranged there. He learned that both
+outlaws and Mexican raiders had long been at bitter enmity with these
+ranchers. Being unfamiliar with roads and trails, Duane had pushed on
+into the heart of this district, when all the time he really believed he
+was traveling around it. A rifle-shot from a ranch-house, a deliberate
+attempt to kill him because he was an unknown rider in those parts,
+discovered to Duane his mistake; and a hard ride to get away persuaded
+him to return to his old methods of hiding by day and traveling by
+night.
+
+He got into rough country, rode for three days without covering much
+ground, but believed that he was getting on safer territory. Twice he
+came to a wide bottom-land green with willow and cottonwood and thick as
+chaparral, somewhere through the middle of which ran a river he decided
+must be the lower Nueces.
+
+One evening, as he stole out from a covert where he had camped, he saw
+the lights of a village. He tried to pass it on the left, but was unable
+to because the brakes of this bottom-land extended in almost to the
+outskirts of the village, and he had to retrace his steps and go round
+to the right. Wire fences and horses in pasture made this a task, so it
+was well after midnight before he accomplished it. He made ten miles or
+more then by daylight, and after that proceeded cautiously along a road
+which appeared to be well worn from travel. He passed several thickets
+where he would have halted to hide during the day but for the fact that
+he had to find water.
+
+He was a long while in coming to it, and then there was no thicket or
+clump of mesquite near the waterhole that would afford him covert. So he
+kept on.
+
+The country before him was ridgy and began to show cottonwoods here and
+there in the hollows and yucca and mesquite on the higher ground. As he
+mounted a ridge he noted that the road made a sharp turn, and he could
+not see what was beyond it. He slowed up and was making the turn, which
+was down-hill between high banks of yellow clay, when his mettlesome
+horse heard something to frighten him or shied at something and bolted.
+
+The few bounds he took before Duane's iron arm checked him were enough
+to reach the curve. One flashing glance showed Duane the open once more,
+a little valley below with a wide, shallow, rocky stream, a clump of
+cottonwoods beyond, a somber group of men facing him, and two dark,
+limp, strangely grotesque figures hanging from branches.
+
+The sight was common enough in southwest Texas, but Duane had never
+before found himself so unpleasantly close.
+
+A hoarse voice pealed out: “By hell! there's another one!”
+
+“Stranger, ride down an' account fer yourself!” yelled another.
+
+“Hands up!”
+
+“Thet's right, Jack; don't take no chances. Plug him!”
+
+These remarks were so swiftly uttered as almost to be continuous. Duane
+was wheeling his horse when a rifle cracked. The bullet struck his left
+forearm and he thought broke it, for he dropped the rein. The frightened
+horse leaped. Another bullet whistled past Duane. Then the bend in the
+road saved him probably from certain death. Like the wind his fleet
+steed wend down the long hill.
+
+Duane was in no hurry to look back. He knew what to expect. His chief
+concern of the moment was for his injured arm. He found that the bones
+were still intact; but the wound, having been made by a soft bullet, was
+an exceedingly bad one. Blood poured from it. Giving the horse his head,
+Duane wound his scarf tightly round the holes, and with teeth and hand
+tied it tightly. That done, he looked back over his shoulder.
+
+Riders were making the dust fly on the hillside road. There were more
+coming round the cut where the road curved. The leader was perhaps a
+quarter of a mile back, and the others strung out behind him. Duane
+needed only one glance to tell him that they were fast and hard-riding
+cowboys in a land where all riders were good. They would not have owned
+any but strong, swift horses. Moreover, it was a district where ranchers
+had suffered beyond all endurance the greed and brutality of outlaws.
+Duane had simply been so unfortunate as to run right into a lynching
+party at a time of all times when any stranger would be in danger and
+any outlaw put to his limit to escape with his life.
+
+Duane did not look back again till he had crossed the ridgy piece
+of ground and had gotten to the level road. He had gained upon his
+pursuers. When he ascertained this he tried to save his horse, to check
+a little that killing gait. This horse was a magnificent animal, big,
+strong, fast; but his endurance had never been put to a grueling test.
+And that worried Duane. His life had made it impossible to keep one
+horse very long at a time, and this one was an unknown quantity.
+
+Duane had only one plan--the only plan possible in this case--and that
+was to make the river-bottoms, where he might elude his pursuers in the
+willow brakes. Fifteen miles or so would bring him to the river, and
+this was not a hopeless distance for any good horse if not too closely
+pressed. Duane concluded presently that the cowboys behind were losing a
+little in the chase because they were not extending their horses. It was
+decidedly unusual for such riders to save their mounts. Duane pondered
+over this, looking backward several times to see if their horses were
+stretched out. They were not, and the fact was disturbing. Only one
+reason presented itself to Duane's conjecturing, and it was that with
+him headed straight on that road his pursuers were satisfied not to
+force the running. He began to hope and look for a trail or a road
+turning off to right or left. There was none. A rough, mesquite-dotted
+and yucca-spired country extended away on either side. Duane believed
+that he would be compelled to take to this hard going. One thing was
+certain--he had to go round the village. The river, however, was on the
+outskirts of the village; and once in the willows, he would be safe.
+
+Dust-clouds far ahead caused his alarm to grow. He watched with his eyes
+strained; he hoped to see a wagon, a few stray cattle. But no, he soon
+descried several horsemen. Shots and yells behind him attested to the
+fact that his pursuers likewise had seen these new-comers on the scene.
+More than a mile separated these two parties, yet that distance did not
+keep them from soon understanding each other. Duane waited only to see
+this new factor show signs of sudden quick action, and then, with a
+muttered curse, he spurred his horse off the road into the brush.
+
+He chose the right side, because the river lay nearer that way. There
+were patches of open sandy ground between clumps of cactus and mesquite,
+and he found that despite a zigzag course he made better time. It was
+impossible for him to locate his pursuers. They would come together, he
+decided, and take to his tracks.
+
+What, then, was his surprise and dismay to run out of a thicket right
+into a low ridge of rough, broken rock, impossible to get a horse over.
+He wheeled to the left along its base. The sandy ground gave place to
+a harder soil, where his horse did not labor so. Here the growths of
+mesquite and cactus became scanter, affording better travel but poor
+cover. He kept sharp eyes ahead, and, as he had expected, soon saw
+moving dust-clouds and the dark figures of horses. They were half a mile
+away, and swinging obliquely across the flat, which fact proved that
+they had entertained a fair idea of the country and the fugitive's
+difficulty.
+
+Without an instant's hesitation Duane put his horse to his best efforts,
+straight ahead. He had to pass those men. When this was seemingly made
+impossible by a deep wash from which he had to turn, Duane began to feel
+cold and sick. Was this the end? Always there had to be an end to an
+outlaw's career. He wanted then to ride straight at these pursuers. But
+reason outweighed instinct. He was fleeing for his life; nevertheless,
+the strongest instinct at the time was his desire to fight.
+
+He knew when these three horsemen saw him, and a moment afterward he
+lost sight of them as he got into the mesquite again. He meant now
+to try to reach the road, and pushed his mount severely, though still
+saving him for a final burst. Rocks, thickets, bunches of cactus,
+washes--all operated against his following a straight line. Almost he
+lost his bearings, and finally would have ridden toward his enemies
+had not good fortune favored him in the matter of an open burned-over
+stretch of ground.
+
+Here he saw both groups of pursuers, one on each side and almost within
+gun-shot. Their sharp yells, as much as his cruel spurs, drove his horse
+into that pace which now meant life or death for him. And never had
+Duane bestrode a gamer, swifter, stancher beast. He seemed about to
+accomplish the impossible. In the dragging sand he was far superior to
+any horse in pursuit, and on this sandy open stretch he gained enough
+to spare a little in the brush beyond. Heated now and thoroughly
+terrorized, he kept the pace through thickets that almost tore Duane
+from his saddle. Something weighty and grim eased off Duane. He was
+going to get out in front! The horse had speed, fire, stamina.
+
+Duane dashed out into another open place dotted by few trees, and here,
+right in his path, within pistol-range, stood horsemen waiting. They
+yelled, they spurred toward him, but did not fire at him. He turned his
+horse--faced to the right. Only one thing kept him from standing his
+ground to fight it out. He remembered those dangling limp figures
+hanging from the cottonwoods. These ranchers would rather hang an outlaw
+than do anything. They might draw all his fire and then capture him. His
+horror of hanging was so great as to be all out of proportion compared
+to his gun-fighter's instinct of self-preservation.
+
+A race began then, a dusty, crashing drive through gray mesquite. Duane
+could scarcely see, he was so blinded by stinging branches across his
+eyes. The hollow wind roared in his ears. He lost his sense of the
+nearness of his pursuers. But they must have been close. Did they
+shoot at him? He imagined he heard shots. But that might have been
+the cracking of dead snags. His left arm hung limp, almost useless; he
+handled the rein with his right; and most of the time he hung low over
+the pommel. The gray walls flashing by him, the whip of twigs, the rush
+of wind, the heavy, rapid pound of hoofs, the violent motion of his
+horse--these vied in sensation with the smart of sweat in his eyes, the
+rack of his wound, the cold, sick cramp in his stomach. With these also
+was dull, raging fury. He had to run when he wanted to fight. It took
+all his mind to force back that bitter hate of himself, of his pursuers,
+of this race for his useless life.
+
+Suddenly he burst out of a line of mesquite into the road. A long
+stretch of lonely road! How fiercely, with hot, strange joy, he wheeled
+his horse upon it! Then he was sweeping along, sure now that he was out
+in front. His horse still had strength and speed, but showed signs of
+breaking. Presently Duane looked back. Pursuers--he could not count how
+many--were loping along in his rear. He paid no more attention to them,
+and with teeth set he faced ahead, grimmer now in his determination to
+foil them.
+
+He passed a few scattered ranch-houses where horses whistled from
+corrals, and men curiously watched him fly past. He saw one rancher
+running, and he felt intuitively that this fellow was going to join in
+the chase. Duane's steed pounded on, not noticeably slower, but with a
+lack of former smoothness, with a strained, convulsive, jerking stride
+which showed he was almost done.
+
+Sight of the village ahead surprised Duane. He had reached it sooner
+than he expected. Then he made a discovery--he had entered the zone of
+wire fences. As he dared not turn back now, he kept on, intending to
+ride through the village. Looking backward, he saw that his pursuers
+were half a mile distant, too far to alarm any villagers in time to
+intercept him in his flight. As he rode by the first houses his horse
+broke and began to labor. Duane did not believe he would last long
+enough to go through the village.
+
+Saddled horses in front of a store gave Duane an idea, not by any means
+new, and one he had carried out successfully before. As he pulled in
+his heaving mount and leaped off, a couple of ranchers came out of the
+place, and one of them stepped to a clean-limbed, fiery bay. He was
+about to get into his saddle when he saw Duane, and then he halted, a
+foot in the stirrup.
+
+Duane strode forward, grasped the bridle of this man's horse.
+
+“Mine's done--but not killed,” he panted. “Trade with me.”
+
+“Wal, stranger, I'm shore always ready to trade,” drawled the man. “But
+ain't you a little swift?”
+
+Duane glanced back up the road. His pursuers were entering the village.
+
+“I'm Duane--Buck Duane,” he cried, menacingly. “Will you trade? Hurry!”
+
+The rancher, turning white, dropped his foot from the stirrup and fell
+back.
+
+“I reckon I'll trade,” he said.
+
+Bounding up, Duane dug spurs into the bay's flanks. The horse snorted
+in fright, plunged into a run. He was fresh, swift, half wild. Duane
+flashed by the remaining houses on the street out into the open. But the
+road ended at that village or else led out from some other quarter, for
+he had ridden straight into the fields and from them into rough desert.
+When he reached the cover of mesquite once more he looked back to find
+six horsemen within rifle-shot of him, and more coming behind them.
+
+His new horse had not had time to get warm before Duane reached a high
+sandy bluff below which lay the willow brakes. As far as he could see
+extended an immense flat strip of red-tinged willow. How welcome it was
+to his eye! He felt like a hunted wolf that, weary and lame, had reached
+his hole in the rocks. Zigzagging down the soft slope, he put the bay to
+the dense wall of leaf and branch. But the horse balked.
+
+There was little time to lose. Dismounting, he dragged the stubborn
+beast into the thicket. This was harder and slower work than Duane cared
+to risk. If he had not been rushed he might have had better success. So
+he had to abandon the horse--a circumstance that only such sore straits
+could have driven him to. Then he went slipping swiftly through the
+narrow aisles.
+
+He had not gotten under cover any too soon. For he heard his pursuers
+piling over the bluff, loud-voiced, confident, brutal. They crashed into
+the willows.
+
+“Hi, Sid! Heah's your hoss!” called one, evidently to the man Duane had
+forced into a trade.
+
+“Say, if you locoed gents'll hold up a little I'll tell you somethin',”
+ replied a voice from the bluff.
+
+“Come on, Sid! We got him corralled,” said the first speaker.
+
+“Wal, mebbe, an' if you hev it's liable to be damn hot. THET FELLER WAS
+BUCK DUANE!”
+
+Absolute silence followed that statement. Presently it was broken by a
+rattling of loose gravel and then low voices.
+
+“He can't git across the river, I tell you,” came to Duane's ears. “He's
+corralled in the brake. I know thet hole.”
+
+Then Duane, gliding silently and swiftly through the willows, heard no
+more from his pursuers. He headed straight for the river. Threading a
+passage through a willow brake was an old task for him. Many days and
+nights had gone to the acquiring of a skill that might have been envied
+by an Indian.
+
+The Rio Grande and its tributaries for the most of their length in Texas
+ran between wide, low, flat lands covered by a dense growth of willow.
+Cottonwood, mesquite, prickly pear, and other growths mingled with the
+willow, and altogether they made a matted, tangled copse, a thicket that
+an inexperienced man would have considered impenetrable. From above,
+these wild brakes looked green and red; from the inside they were gray
+and yellow--a striped wall. Trails and glades were scarce. There were
+a few deer-runways and sometimes little paths made by peccaries--the
+jabali, or wild pigs, of Mexico. The ground was clay and unusually dry,
+sometimes baked so hard that it left no imprint of a track. Where a
+growth of cottonwood had held back the encroachment of the willows there
+usually was thick grass and underbrush. The willows were short, slender
+poles with stems so close together that they almost touched, and with
+the leafy foliage forming a thick covering. The depths of this brake
+Duane had penetrated was a silent, dreamy, strange place. In the middle
+of the day the light was weird and dim. When a breeze fluttered the
+foliage, then slender shafts and spears of sunshine pierced the green
+mantle and danced like gold on the ground.
+
+Duane had always felt the strangeness of this kind of place, and
+likewise he had felt a protecting, harboring something which always
+seemed to him to be the sympathy of the brake for a hunted creature. Any
+unwounded creature, strong and resourceful, was safe when he had glided
+under the low, rustling green roof of this wild covert. It was not hard
+to conceal tracks; the springy soil gave forth no sound; and men could
+hunt each other for weeks, pass within a few yards of each other and
+never know it. The problem of sustaining life was difficult; but, then,
+hunted men and animals survived on very little.
+
+Duane wanted to cross the river if that was possible, and, keeping
+in the brake, work his way upstream till he had reached country more
+hospitable. Remembering what the man had said in regard to the river,
+Duane had his doubts about crossing. But he would take any chance to put
+the river between him and his hunters. He pushed on. His left arm had to
+be favored, as he could scarcely move it. Using his right to spread the
+willows, he slipped sideways between them and made fast time. There
+were narrow aisles and washes and holes low down and paths brushed by
+animals, all of which he took advantage of, running, walking, crawling,
+stooping any way to get along. To keep in a straight line was not
+easy--he did it by marking some bright sunlit stem or tree ahead, and
+when he reached it looked straight on to mark another. His progress
+necessarily grew slower, for as he advanced the brake became wilder,
+denser, darker. Mosquitoes began to whine about his head. He kept on
+without pause. Deepening shadows under the willows told him that the
+afternoon was far advanced. He began to fear he had wandered in a wrong
+direction. Finally a strip of light ahead relieved his anxiety, and
+after a toilsome penetration of still denser brush he broke through to
+the bank of the river.
+
+He faced a wide, shallow, muddy stream with brakes on the opposite bank
+extending like a green and yellow wall. Duane perceived at a glance the
+futility of his trying to cross at this point. Everywhere the sluggish
+water raved quicksand bars. In fact, the bed of the river was all
+quicksand, and very likely there was not a foot of water anywhere. He
+could not swim; he could not crawl; he could not push a log across. Any
+solid thing touching that smooth yellow sand would be grasped and sucked
+down. To prove this he seized a long pole and, reaching down from the
+high bank, thrust it into the stream. Right there near shore there
+apparently was no bottom to the treacherous quicksand. He abandoned any
+hope of crossing the river. Probably for miles up and down it would be
+just the same as here. Before leaving the bank he tied his hat upon the
+pole and lifted enough water to quench his thirst. Then he worked his
+way back to where thinner growth made advancement easier, and kept on
+up-stream till the shadows were so deep he could not see. Feeling around
+for a place big enough to stretch out on, he lay down. For the time
+being he was as safe there as he would have been beyond in the Rim Rock.
+He was tired, though not exhausted, and in spite of the throbbing pain
+in his arm he dropped at once into sleep.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+Some time during the night Duane awoke. A stillness seemingly so thick
+and heavy as to have substance blanketed the black willow brake. He
+could not see a star or a branch or tree-trunk or even his hand before
+his eyes. He lay there waiting, listening, sure that he had been
+awakened by an unusual sound. Ordinary noises of the night in the
+wilderness never disturbed his rest. His faculties, like those of
+old fugitives and hunted creatures, had become trained to a marvelous
+keenness. A long low breath of slow wind moaned through the willows,
+passed away; some stealthy, soft-footed beast trotted by him in the
+darkness; there was a rustling among dry leaves; a fox barked lonesomely
+in the distance. But none of these sounds had broken his slumber.
+
+Suddenly, piercing the stillness, came a bay of a bloodhound. Quickly
+Duane sat up, chilled to his marrow. The action made him aware of
+his crippled arm. Then came other bays, lower, more distant. Silence
+enfolded him again, all the more oppressive and menacing in his
+suspense. Bloodhounds had been put on his trail, and the leader was not
+far away. All his life Duane had been familiar with bloodhounds; and he
+knew that if the pack surrounded him in this impenetrable darkness he
+would be held at bay or dragged down as wolves dragged a stag. Rising to
+his feet, prepared to flee as best he could, he waited to be sure of the
+direction he should take.
+
+The leader of the hounds broke into cry again, a deep, full-toned,
+ringing bay, strange, ominous, terribly significant in its power. It
+caused a cold sweat to ooze out all over Duane's body. He turned from
+it, and with his uninjured arm outstretched to feel for the willows
+he groped his way along. As it was impossible to pick out the narrow
+passages, he had to slip and squeeze and plunge between the yielding
+stems. He made such a crashing that he no longer heard the baying of
+the hounds. He had no hope to elude them. He meant to climb the first
+cottonwood that he stumbled upon in his blind flight. But it appeared
+he never was going to be lucky enough to run against one. Often he fell,
+sometimes flat, at others upheld by the willows. What made the work
+so hard was the fact that he had only one arm to open a clump of
+close-growing stems and his feet would catch or tangle in the narrow
+crotches, holding him fast. He had to struggle desperately. It was as if
+the willows were clutching hands, his enemies, fiendishly impeding his
+progress. He tore his clothes on sharp branches and his flesh suffered
+many a prick. But in a terrible earnestness he kept on until he brought
+up hard against a cottonwood tree.
+
+There he leaned and rested. He found himself as nearly exhausted as he
+had ever been, wet with sweat, his hands torn and burning, his breast
+laboring, his legs stinging from innumerable bruises. While he leaned
+there to catch his breath he listened for the pursuing hounds. For a
+long time there was no sound from them. This, however, did not deceive
+him into any hopefulness. There were bloodhounds that bayed often on a
+trail, and others that ran mostly silent. The former were more valuable
+to their owner and the latter more dangerous to the fugitive. Presently
+Duane's ears were filled by a chorus of short ringing yelps. The pack
+had found where he had slept, and now the trail was hot. Satisfied that
+they would soon overtake him, Duane set about climbing the cottonwood,
+which in his condition was difficult of ascent.
+
+It happened to be a fairly large tree with a fork about fifteen feet up,
+and branches thereafter in succession. Duane climbed until he got above
+the enshrouding belt of blackness. A pale gray mist hung above the
+brake, and through it shone a line of dim lights. Duane decided these
+were bonfires made along the bluff to render his escape more difficult
+on that side. Away round in the direction he thought was north he
+imagined he saw more fires, but, as the mist was thick, he could not be
+sure. While he sat there pondering the matter, listening for the hounds,
+the mist and the gloom on one side lightened; and this side he concluded
+was east and meant that dawn was near. Satisfying himself on this score,
+he descended to the first branch of the tree.
+
+His situation now, though still critical, did not appear to be so
+hopeless as it had been. The hounds would soon close in on him, and
+he would kill them or drive them away. It was beyond the bounds of
+possibility that any men could have followed running hounds through that
+brake in the night. The thing that worried Duane was the fact of the
+bonfires. He had gathered from the words of one of his pursuers that the
+brake was a kind of trap, and he began to believe there was only one way
+out of it, and that was along the bank where he had entered, and where
+obviously all night long his pursuers had kept fires burning. Further
+conjecture on this point, however, was interrupted by a crashing in the
+willows and the rapid patter of feet.
+
+Underneath Duane lay a gray, foggy obscurity. He could not see the
+ground, nor any object but the black trunk of the tree. Sight would
+not be needed to tell him when the pack arrived. With a pattering rush
+through the willows the hounds reached the tree; and then high above
+crash of brush and thud of heavy paws rose a hideous clamor. Duane's
+pursuers far off to the south would hear that and know what it meant.
+And at daybreak, perhaps before, they would take a short cut across the
+brake, guided by the baying of hounds that had treed their quarry.
+
+It wanted only a few moments, however, till Duane could distinguish the
+vague forms of the hounds in the gray shadow below. Still he waited. He
+had no shots to spare. And he knew how to treat bloodhounds. Gradually
+the obscurity lightened, and at length Duane had good enough sight of
+the hounds for his purpose. His first shot killed the huge brute leader
+of the pack. Then, with unerring shots, he crippled several others. That
+stopped the baying. Piercing howls arose. The pack took fright and fled,
+its course easily marked by the howls of the crippled members. Duane
+reloaded his gun, and, making certain all the hounds had gone, he
+descended to the ground and set off at a rapid pace to the northward.
+
+The mist had dissolved under a rising sun when Duane made his first
+halt some miles north of the scene where he had waited for the hounds. A
+barrier to further progress, in shape of a precipitous rocky bluff, rose
+sheer from the willow brake. He skirted the base of the cliff, where
+walking was comparatively easy, around in the direction of the river. He
+reached the end finally to see there was absolutely no chance to escape
+from the brake at that corner. It took extreme labor, attended by some
+hazard and considerable pain to his arm, to get down where he could fill
+his sombrero with water. After quenching his thirst he had a look at his
+wound. It was caked over with blood and dirt. When washed off the arm
+was seen to be inflamed and swollen around the bullet-hole. He bathed
+it, experiencing a soothing relief in the cool water. Then he bandaged
+it as best he could and arranged a sling round his neck. This mitigated
+the pain of the injured member and held it in a quiet and restful
+position, where it had a chance to begin mending.
+
+As Duane turned away from the river he felt refreshed. His great
+strength and endurance had always made fatigue something almost unknown
+to him. However, tramping on foot day and night was as unusual to him as
+to any other riders of the Southwest, and it had begun to tell on him.
+Retracing his steps, he reached the point where he had abruptly come
+upon the bluff, and here he determined to follow along its base in the
+other direction until he found a way out or discovered the futility of
+such effort.
+
+Duane covered ground rapidly. From time to time he paused to listen. But
+he was always listening, and his eyes were ever roving. This alertness
+had become second nature with him, so that except in extreme cases
+of caution he performed it while he pondered his gloomy and fateful
+situation. Such habit of alertness and thought made time fly swiftly.
+
+By noon he had rounded the wide curve of the brake and was facing
+south. The bluff had petered out from a high, mountainous wall to a
+low abutment of rock, but it still held to its steep, rough nature and
+afforded no crack or slope where quick ascent could have been possible.
+He pushed on, growing warier as he approached the danger-zone, finding
+that as he neared the river on this side it was imperative to go deeper
+into the willows. In the afternoon he reached a point where he could see
+men pacing to and fro on the bluff. This assured him that whatever place
+was guarded was one by which he might escape. He headed toward these men
+and approached to within a hundred paces of the bluff where they were.
+There were several men and several boys, all armed and, after the manner
+of Texans, taking their task leisurely. Farther down Duane made out
+black dots on the horizon of the bluff-line, and these he concluded were
+more guards stationed at another outlet. Probably all the available men
+in the district were on duty. Texans took a grim pleasure in such work.
+Duane remembered that upon several occasions he had served such duty
+himself.
+
+Duane peered through the branches and studied the lay of the land. For
+several hundred yards the bluff could be climbed. He took stock of those
+careless guards. They had rifles, and that made vain any attempt to pass
+them in daylight. He believed an attempt by night might be successful;
+and he was swiftly coming to a determination to hide there till dark and
+then try it, when the sudden yelping of a dog betrayed him to the guards
+on the bluff.
+
+The dog had likely been placed there to give an alarm, and he was
+lustily true to his trust. Duane saw the men run together and begin to
+talk excitedly and peer into the brake, which was a signal for him to
+slip away under the willows. He made no noise, and he assured himself he
+must be invisible. Nevertheless, he heard shouts, then the cracking of
+rifles, and bullets began to zip and swish through the leafy covert. The
+day was hot and windless, and Duane concluded that whenever he touched
+a willow stem, even ever so slightly, it vibrated to the top and sent
+a quiver among the leaves. Through this the guards had located his
+position. Once a bullet hissed by him; another thudded into the ground
+before him. This shooting loosed a rage in Duane. He had to fly from
+these men, and he hated them and himself because of it. Always in
+the fury of such moments he wanted to give back shot for shot. But
+he slipped on through the willows, and at length the rifles ceased to
+crack.
+
+He sheered to the left again, in line with the rocky barrier, and kept
+on, wondering what the next mile would bring.
+
+It brought worse, for he was seen by sharp-eyed scouts, and a hot
+fusillade drove him to run for his life, luckily to escape with no more
+than a bullet-creased shoulder.
+
+Later that day, still undaunted, he sheered again toward the trap-wall,
+and found that the nearer he approached to the place where he had
+come down into the brake the greater his danger. To attempt to run the
+blockade of that trail by day would be fatal. He waited for night, and
+after the brightness of the fires had somewhat lessened he assayed to
+creep out of the brake. He succeeded in reaching the foot of the bluff,
+here only a bank, and had begun to crawl stealthily up under cover of
+a shadow when a hound again betrayed his position. Retreating to the
+willows was as perilous a task as had ever confronted Duane, and when he
+had accomplished it, right under what seemed a hundred blazing rifles,
+he felt that he had indeed been favored by Providence. This time men
+followed him a goodly ways into the brake, and the ripping of lead
+through the willows sounded on all sides of him.
+
+When the noise of pursuit ceased Duane sat down in the darkness, his
+mind clamped between two things--whether to try again to escape or
+wait for possible opportunity. He seemed incapable of decision. His
+intelligence told him that every hour lessened his chances for escape.
+He had little enough chance in any case, and that was what made another
+attempt so desperately hard. Still it was not love of life that bound
+him. There would come an hour, sooner or later, when he would wrench
+decision out of this chaos of emotion and thought. But that time was not
+yet. He had remained quiet long enough to cool off and recover from his
+run he found that he was tired. He stretched out to rest. But the swarms
+of vicious mosquitoes prevented sleep. This corner of the brake was low
+and near the river, a breeding-ground for the blood-suckers. They sang
+and hummed and whined around him in an ever-increasing horde. He covered
+his head and hands with his coat and lay there patiently. That was a
+long and wretched night. Morning found him still strong physically, but
+in a dreadful state of mind.
+
+First he hurried for the river. He could withstand the pangs of hunger,
+but it was imperative to quench thirst. His wound made him feverish,
+and therefore more than usually hot and thirsty. Again he was refreshed.
+That morning he was hard put to it to hold himself back from attempting
+to cross the river. If he could find a light log it was within the
+bounds of possibility that he might ford the shallow water and bars of
+quicksand. But not yet! Wearily, doggedly he faced about toward the
+bluff.
+
+All that day and all that night, all the next day and all the next
+night, he stole like a hunted savage from river to bluff; and every hour
+forced upon him the bitter certainty that he was trapped.
+
+Duane lost track of days, of events. He had come to an evil pass.
+There arrived an hour when, closely pressed by pursuers at the extreme
+southern corner of the brake, he took to a dense thicket of willows,
+driven to what he believed was his last stand.
+
+If only these human bloodhounds would swiftly close in on him! Let him
+fight to the last bitter gasp and have it over! But these hunters, eager
+as they were to get him, had care of their own skins. They took few
+risks. They had him cornered.
+
+It was the middle of the day, hot, dusty, oppressive, threatening storm.
+Like a snake Duane crawled into a little space in the darkest part of
+the thicket and lay still. Men had cut him off from the bluff, from the
+river, seemingly from all sides. But he heard voices only from in front
+and toward his left. Even if his passage to the river had not been
+blocked, it might just as well have been.
+
+“Come on fellers--down hyar,” called one man from the bluff.
+
+“Got him corralled at last,” shouted another.
+
+“Reckon ye needn't be too shore. We thought thet more'n once,” taunted
+another.
+
+“I seen him, I tell you.”
+
+“Aw, thet was a deer.”
+
+“But Bill found fresh tracks an' blood on the willows.”
+
+“If he's winged we needn't hurry.”
+
+“Hold on thar, you boys,” came a shout in authoritative tones from
+farther up the bluff. “Go slow. You-all air gittin' foolish at the end
+of a long chase.”
+
+“Thet's right, Colonel. Hold 'em back. There's nothin' shorer than
+somebody'll be stoppin' lead pretty quick. He'll be huntin' us soon!”
+
+“Let's surround this corner an' starve him out.”
+
+“Fire the brake.”
+
+How clearly all this talk pierced Duane's ears! In it he seemed to hear
+his doom. This, then, was the end he had always expected, which had been
+close to him before, yet never like now.
+
+“By God!” whispered Duane, “the thing for me to do now--is go out--meet
+them!”
+
+That was prompted by the fighting, the killing instinct in him. In that
+moment it had almost superhuman power. If he must die, that was the way
+for him to die. What else could be expected of Buck Duane? He got to his
+knees and drew his gun. With his swollen and almost useless hand he held
+what spare ammunition he had left. He ought to creep out noiselessly to
+the edge of the willows, suddenly face his pursuers, then, while there
+was a beat left in his heart, kill, kill, kill. These men all had
+rifles. The fight would be short. But the marksmen did not live on earth
+who could make such a fight go wholly against him. Confronting them
+suddenly he could kill a man for every shot in his gun.
+
+Thus Duane reasoned. So he hoped to accept his fate--to meet this end.
+But when he tried to step forward something checked him. He forced
+himself; yet he could not go. The obstruction that opposed his will was
+as insurmountable as it had been physically impossible for him to climb
+the bluff.
+
+Slowly he fell back, crouched low, and then lay flat. The grim and
+ghastly dignity that had been his a moment before fell away from him. He
+lay there stripped of his last shred of self-respect. He wondered was
+he afraid; had he, the last of the Duanes--had he come to feel fear? No!
+Never in all his wild life had he so longed to go out and meet men face
+to face. It was not fear that held him back. He hated this hiding,
+this eternal vigilance, this hopeless life. The damnable paradox of the
+situation was that if he went out to meet these men there was absolutely
+no doubt of his doom. If he clung to his covert there was a chance, a
+merest chance, for his life. These pursuers, dogged and unflagging as
+they had been, were mortally afraid of him. It was his fame that made
+them cowards. Duane's keenness told him that at the very darkest and
+most perilous moment there was still a chance for him. And the blood in
+him, the temper of his father, the years of his outlawry, the pride of
+his unsought and hated career, the nameless, inexplicable something in
+him made him accept that slim chance.
+
+Waiting then became a physical and mental agony. He lay under the
+burning sun, parched by thirst, laboring to breathe, sweating and
+bleeding. His uncared-for wound was like a red-hot prong in his
+flesh. Blotched and swollen from the never-ending attack of flies and
+mosquitoes his face seemed twice its natural size, and it ached and
+stung.
+
+On one side, then, was this physical torture; on the other the old hell,
+terribly augmented at this crisis, in his mind. It seemed that thought
+and imagination had never been so swift. If death found him presently,
+how would it come? Would he get decent burial or be left for the
+peccaries and the coyotes? Would his people ever know where he had
+fallen? How wretched, how miserable his state! It was cowardly, it was
+monstrous for him to cling longer to this doomed life. Then the hate in
+his heart, the hellish hate of these men on his trail--that was like a
+scourge. He felt no longer human. He had degenerated into an animal that
+could think. His heart pounded, his pulse beat, his breast heaved;
+and this internal strife seemed to thunder into his ears. He was now
+enacting the tragedy of all crippled, starved, hunted wolves at bay in
+their dens. Only his tragedy was infinitely more terrible because he
+had mind enough to see his plight, his resemblance to a lonely wolf,
+bloody-fanged, dripping, snarling, fire-eyed in a last instinctive
+defiance.
+
+Mounted upon the horror of Duane's thought was a watching, listening
+intensity so supreme that it registered impressions which were creations
+of his imagination. He heard stealthy steps that were not there; he saw
+shadowy moving figures that were only leaves. A hundred times when he
+was about to pull trigger he discovered his error. Yet voices came from
+a distance, and steps and crackings in the willows, and other sounds
+real enough. But Duane could not distinguish the real from the false.
+There were times when the wind which had arisen sent a hot, pattering
+breath down the willow aisles, and Duane heard it as an approaching
+army.
+
+This straining of Duane's faculties brought on a reaction which in
+itself was a respite. He saw the sun darkened by thick slow spreading
+clouds. A storm appeared to be coming. How slowly it moved! The air
+was like steam. If there broke one of those dark, violent storms common
+though rare to the country, Duane believed he might slip away in the
+fury of wind and rain. Hope, that seemed unquenchable in him, resurged
+again. He hailed it with a bitterness that was sickening.
+
+Then at a rustling step he froze into the old strained attention. He
+heard a slow patter of soft feet. A tawny shape crossed a little opening
+in the thicket. It was that of a dog. The moment while that beast came
+into full view was an age. The dog was not a bloodhound, and if he had
+a trail or a scent he seemed to be at fault on it. Duane waited for the
+inevitable discovery. Any kind of a hunting-dog could have found him
+in that thicket. Voices from outside could be heard urging on the dog.
+Rover they called him. Duane sat up at the moment the dog entered the
+little shaded covert. Duane expected a yelping, a baying, or at least
+a bark that would tell of his hiding-place. A strange relief swiftly
+swayed over Duane. The end was near now. He had no further choice. Let
+them come--a quick fierce exchange of shots--and then this torture past!
+He waited for the dog to give the alarm.
+
+But the dog looked at him and trotted by into the thicket without a
+yelp. Duane could not believe the evidence of his senses. He thought he
+had suddenly gone deaf. He saw the dog disappear, heard him running to
+and fro among the willows, getting farther and farther away, till all
+sound from him ceased.
+
+“Thar's Rover,” called a voice from the bluff-side. “He's been through
+thet black patch.”
+
+“Nary a rabbit in there,” replied another.
+
+“Bah! Thet pup's no good,” scornfully growled another man. “Put a hound
+at thet clump of willows.”
+
+“Fire's the game. Burn the brake before the rain comes.”
+
+The voices droned off as their owners evidently walked up the ridge.
+
+Then upon Duane fell the crushing burden of the old waiting, watching,
+listening spell. After all, it was not to end just now. His chance still
+persisted--looked a little brighter--led him on, perhaps, to forlorn
+hope.
+
+All at once twilight settled quickly down upon the willow brake, or else
+Duane noted it suddenly. He imagined it to be caused by the approaching
+storm. But there was little movement of air or cloud, and thunder still
+muttered and rumbled at a distance. The fact was the sun had set, and at
+this time of overcast sky night was at hand.
+
+Duane realized it with the awakening of all his old force. He would yet
+elude his pursuers. That was the moment when he seized the significance
+of all these fortunate circumstances which had aided him. Without haste
+and without sound he began to crawl in the direction of the river. It
+was not far, and he reached the bank before darkness set in. There were
+men up on the bluff carrying wood to build a bonfire. For a moment he
+half yielded to a temptation to try to slip along the river-shore, close
+in under the willows. But when he raised himself to peer out he saw that
+an attempt of this kind would be liable to failure. At the same moment
+he saw a rough-hewn plank lying beneath him, lodged against some
+willows. The end of the plank extended in almost to a point beneath him.
+Quick as a flash he saw where a desperate chance invited him. Then he
+tied his gun in an oilskin bag and put it in his pocket.
+
+The bank was steep and crumbly. He must not break off any earth to
+splash into the water. There was a willow growing back some few feet
+from the edge of the bank. Cautiously he pulled it down, bent it over
+the water so that when he released it there would be no springing back.
+Then he trusted his weight to it, with his feet sliding carefully
+down the bank. He went into the water almost up to his knees, felt
+the quicksand grip his feet; then, leaning forward till he reached the
+plank, he pulled it toward him and lay upon it.
+
+Without a sound one end went slowly under water and the farther end
+appeared lightly braced against the overhanging willows. Very carefully
+then Duane began to extricate his right foot from the sucking sand.
+It seemed as if his foot was incased in solid rock. But there was a
+movement upward, and he pulled with all the power he dared use. It
+came slowly and at length was free. The left one he released with less
+difficulty. The next few moments he put all his attention on the plank
+to ascertain if his weight would sink it into the sand. The far end
+slipped off the willows with a little splash and gradually settled
+to rest upon the bottom. But it sank no farther, and Duane's greatest
+concern was relieved. However, as it was manifestly impossible for him
+to keep his head up for long he carefully crawled out upon the plank
+until he could rest an arm and shoulder upon the willows.
+
+When he looked up it was to find the night strangely luminous with
+fires. There was a bonfire on the extreme end of the bluff, another
+a hundred paces beyond. A great flare extended over the brake in that
+direction. Duane heard a roaring on the wind, and he knew his pursuers
+had fired the willows. He did not believe that would help them much.
+The brake was dry enough, but too green to burn readily. And as for the
+bonfires he discovered that the men, probably having run out of wood,
+were keeping up the light with oil and stuff from the village. A dozen
+men kept watch on the bluff scarcely fifty paces from where Duane lay
+concealed by the willows. They talked, cracked jokes, sang songs, and
+manifestly considered this outlaw-hunting a great lark. As long as the
+bright light lasted Duane dared not move. He had the patience and the
+endurance to wait for the breaking of the storm, and if that did not
+come, then the early hour before dawn when the gray fog and gloom were
+over the river.
+
+Escape was now in his grasp. He felt it. And with that in his mind he
+waited, strong as steel in his conviction, capable of withstanding any
+strain endurable by the human frame.
+
+The wind blew in puffs, grew wilder, and roared through the willows,
+carrying bright sparks upward. Thunder rolled down over the river, and
+lightning began to flash. Then the rain fell in heavy sheets, but
+not steadily. The flashes of lightning and the broad flares played so
+incessantly that Duane could not trust himself out on the open river.
+Certainly the storm rather increased the watchfulness of the men on
+the bluff. He knew how to wait, and he waited, grimly standing pain and
+cramp and chill. The storm wore away as desultorily as it had come,
+and the long night set in. There were times when Duane thought he was
+paralyzed, others when he grew sick, giddy, weak from the strained
+posture. The first paling of the stars quickened him with a kind of wild
+joy. He watched them grow paler, dimmer, disappear one by one. A shadow
+hovered down, rested upon the river, and gradually thickened. The
+bonfire on the bluff showed as through a foggy veil. The watchers were
+mere groping dark figures.
+
+Duane, aware of how cramped he had become from long inaction, began
+to move his legs and uninjured arm and body, and at length overcame a
+paralyzing stiffness. Then, digging his hand in the sand and holding the
+plank with his knees, he edged it out into the river. Inch by inch he
+advanced until clear of the willows. Looking upward, he saw the shadowy
+figures of the men on the bluff. He realized they ought to see him,
+feared that they would. But he kept on, cautiously, noiselessly, with a
+heart-numbing slowness. From time to time his elbow made a little gurgle
+and splash in the water. Try as he might, he could not prevent this. It
+got to be like the hollow roar of a rapid filling his ears with mocking
+sound. There was a perceptible current out in the river, and it hindered
+straight advancement. Inch by inch he crept on, expecting to hear
+the bang of rifles, the spattering of bullets. He tried not to look
+backward, but failed. The fire appeared a little dimmer, the moving
+shadows a little darker.
+
+Once the plank stuck in the sand and felt as if it were settling.
+Bringing feet to aid his hand, he shoved it over the treacherous place.
+This way he made faster progress. The obscurity of the river seemed to
+be enveloping him. When he looked back again the figures of the men were
+coalescing with the surrounding gloom, the fires were streaky, blurred
+patches of light. But the sky above was brighter. Dawn was not far off.
+
+To the west all was dark. With infinite care and implacable spirit
+and waning strength Duane shoved the plank along, and when at last he
+discerned the black border of bank it came in time, he thought, to save
+him. He crawled out, rested till the gray dawn broke, and then headed
+north through the willows.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+
+How long Duane was traveling out of that region he never knew. But he
+reached familiar country and found a rancher who had before befriended
+him. Here his arm was attended to; he had food and sleep; and in a
+couple of weeks he was himself again.
+
+When the time came for Duane to ride away on his endless trail his
+friend reluctantly imparted the information that some thirty miles
+south, near the village of Shirley, there was posted at a certain
+cross-road a reward for Buck Duane dead or alive. Duane had heard of
+such notices, but he had never seen one. His friend's reluctance and
+refusal to state for what particular deed this reward was offered roused
+Duane's curiosity. He had never been any closer to Shirley than this
+rancher's home. Doubtless some post-office burglary, some gun-shooting
+scrape had been attributed to him. And he had been accused of worse
+deeds. Abruptly Duane decided to ride over there and find out who wanted
+him dead or alive, and why.
+
+As he started south on the road he reflected that this was the first
+time he had ever deliberately hunted trouble. Introspection awarded him
+this knowledge; during that last terrible flight on the lower Nueces
+and while he lay abed recuperating he had changed. A fixed, immutable,
+hopeless bitterness abided with him. He had reached the end of his rope.
+All the power of his mind and soul were unavailable to turn him back
+from his fate.
+
+That fate was to become an outlaw in every sense of the term, to be
+what he was credited with being--that is to say, to embrace evil. He
+had never committed a crime. He wondered now was crime close to him? He
+reasoned finally that the desperation of crime had been forced upon
+him, if not its motive; and that if driven, there was no limit to his
+possibilities. He understood now many of the hitherto inexplicable
+actions of certain noted outlaws--why they had returned to the scene
+of the crime that had outlawed them; why they took such strangely fatal
+chances; why life was no more to them than a breath of wind; why they
+rode straight into the jaws of death to confront wronged men or
+hunting rangers, vigilantes, to laugh in their very faces. It was such
+bitterness as this that drove these men.
+
+Toward afternoon, from the top of a long hill, Duane saw the green
+fields and trees and shining roofs of a town he considered must be
+Shirley. And at the bottom of the hill he came upon an intersecting
+road. There was a placard nailed on the crossroad sign-post. Duane drew
+rein near it and leaned close to read the faded print. $1000 REWARD FOR
+BUCK DUANE DEAD OR ALIVE. Peering closer to read the finer, more faded
+print, Duane learned that he was wanted for the murder of Mrs. Jeff
+Aiken at her ranch near Shirley. The month September was named, but the
+date was illegible. The reward was offered by the woman's husband, whose
+name appeared with that of a sheriff's at the bottom of the placard.
+
+Duane read the thing twice. When he straightened he was sick with the
+horror of his fate, wild with passion at those misguided fools who could
+believe that he had harmed a woman. Then he remembered Kate Bland, and,
+as always when she returned to him, he quaked inwardly. Years before
+word had gone abroad that he had killed her, and so it was easy for
+men wanting to fix a crime to name him. Perhaps it had been done often.
+Probably he bore on his shoulders a burden of numberless crimes.
+
+A dark, passionate fury possessed him. It shook him like a storm
+shakes the oak. When it passed, leaving him cold, with clouded brow and
+piercing eye, his mind was set. Spurring his horse, he rode straight
+toward the village.
+
+Shirley appeared to be a large, pretentious country town. A branch of
+some railroad terminated there. The main street was wide, bordered by
+trees and commodious houses, and many of the stores were of brick.
+A large plaza shaded by giant cottonwood trees occupied a central
+location.
+
+Duane pulled his running horse and halted him, plunging and snorting,
+before a group of idle men who lounged on benches in the shade of a
+spreading cottonwood. How many times had Duane seen just that kind of
+lazy shirt-sleeved Texas group! Not often, however, had he seen such
+placid, lolling, good-natured men change their expression, their
+attitude so swiftly. His advent apparently was momentous. They evidently
+took him for an unusual visitor. So far as Duane could tell, not one of
+them recognized him, had a hint of his identity.
+
+He slid off his horse and threw the bridle.
+
+“I'm Buck Duane,” he said. “I saw that placard--out there on a
+sign-post. It's a damn lie! Somebody find this man Jeff Aiken. I want to
+see him.”
+
+His announcement was taken in absolute silence. That was the only effect
+he noted, for he avoided looking at these villagers. The reason was
+simple enough; Duane felt himself overcome with emotion. There were
+tears in his eyes. He sat down on a bench, put his elbows on his knees
+and his hands to his face. For once he had absolutely no concern for his
+fate. This ignominy was the last straw.
+
+Presently, however, he became aware of some kind of commotion among
+these villagers. He heard whisperings, low, hoarse voices, then the
+shuffle of rapid feet moving away. All at once a violent hand jerked
+his gun from its holster. When Duane rose a gaunt man, livid of face,
+shaking like a leaf, confronted him with his own gun.
+
+“Hands up, thar, you Buck Duane!” he roared, waving the gun.
+
+That appeared to be the cue for pandemonium to break loose. Duane opened
+his lips to speak, but if he had yelled at the top of his lungs he could
+not have made himself heard. In weary disgust he looked at the gaunt
+man, and then at the others, who were working themselves into a frenzy.
+He made no move, however, to hold up his hands. The villagers surrounded
+him, emboldened by finding him now unarmed. Then several men lay hold of
+his arms and pinioned them behind his back. Resistance was useless even
+if Duane had had the spirit. Some one of them fetched his halter from
+his saddle, and with this they bound him helpless.
+
+People were running now from the street, the stores, the houses. Old
+men, cowboys, clerks, boys, ranchers came on the trot. The crowd grew.
+The increasing clamor began to attract women as well as men. A group of
+girls ran up, then hung back in fright and pity.
+
+The presence of cowboys made a difference. They split up the crowd, got
+to Duane, and lay hold of him with rough, businesslike hands. One of
+them lifted his fists and roared at the frenzied mob to fall back, to
+stop the racket. He beat them back into a circle; but it was some little
+time before the hubbub quieted down so a voice could be heard.
+
+“Shut up, will you-all?” he was yelling. “Give us a chance to hear
+somethin'. Easy now--soho. There ain't nobody goin' to be hurt. Thet's
+right; everybody quiet now. Let's see what's come off.”
+
+This cowboy, evidently one of authority, or at least one of strong
+personality, turned to the gaunt man, who still waved Duane's gun.
+
+“Abe, put the gun down,” he said. “It might go off. Here, give it to me.
+Now, what's wrong? Who's this roped gent, an' what's he done?”
+
+The gaunt fellow, who appeared now about to collapse, lifted a shaking
+hand and pointed.
+
+“Thet thar feller--he's Buck Duane!” he panted.
+
+An angry murmur ran through the surrounding crowd.
+
+“The rope! The rope! Throw it over a branch! String him up!” cried an
+excited villager.
+
+“Buck Duane! Buck Duane!”
+
+“Hang him!”
+
+The cowboy silenced these cries.
+
+“Abe, how do you know this fellow is Buck Duane?” he asked, sharply.
+
+“Why--he said so,” replied the man called Abe.
+
+“What!” came the exclamation, incredulously.
+
+“It's a tarnal fact,” panted Abe, waving his hands importantly. He was
+an old man and appeared to be carried away with the significance of his
+deed. “He like to rid' his hoss right over us-all. Then he jumped off,
+says he was Buck Duane, an' he wanted to see Jeff Aiken bad.”
+
+This speech caused a second commotion as noisy though not so enduring
+as the first. When the cowboy, assisted by a couple of his mates, had
+restored order again some one had slipped the noose-end of Duane's rope
+over his head.
+
+“Up with him!” screeched a wild-eyed youth.
+
+The mob surged closer was shoved back by the cowboys.
+
+“Abe, if you ain't drunk or crazy tell thet over,” ordered Abe's
+interlocutor.
+
+With some show of resentment and more of dignity Abe reiterated his
+former statement.
+
+“If he's Buck Duane how'n hell did you get hold of his gun?” bluntly
+queried the cowboy.
+
+“Why--he set down thar--an' he kind of hid his face on his hand. An' I
+grabbed his gun an' got the drop on him.”
+
+What the cowboy thought of this was expressed in a laugh. His mates
+likewise grinned broadly. Then the leader turned to Duane.
+
+“Stranger, I reckon you'd better speak up for yourself,” he said.
+
+That stilled the crowd as no command had done.
+
+“I'm Buck Duane, all right.” said Duane, quietly. “It was this way--”
+
+The big cowboy seemed to vibrate with a shock. All the ruddy warmth left
+his face; his jaw began to bulge; the corded veins in his neck stood out
+in knots. In an instant he had a hard, stern, strange look. He shot out
+a powerful hand that fastened in the front of Duane's blouse.
+
+“Somethin' queer here. But if you're Duane you're sure in bad. Any fool
+ought to know that. You mean it, then?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Rode in to shoot up the town, eh? Same old stunt of you gunfighters?
+Meant to kill the man who offered a reward? Wanted to see Jeff Aiken
+bad, huh?”
+
+“No,” replied Duane. “Your citizen here misrepresented things. He seems
+a little off his head.”
+
+“Reckon he is. Somebody is, that's sure. You claim Buck Duane, then, an'
+all his doings?”
+
+“I'm Duane; yes. But I won't stand for the blame of things I never did.
+That's why I'm here. I saw that placard out there offering the reward.
+Until now I never was within half a day's ride of this town. I'm blamed
+for what I never did. I rode in here, told who I was, asked somebody to
+send for Jeff Aiken.”
+
+“An' then you set down an' let this old guy throw your own gun on you?”
+ queried the cowboy in amazement.
+
+“I guess that's it,” replied Duane.
+
+“Well, it's powerful strange, if you're really Buck Duane.”
+
+A man elbowed his way into the circle.
+
+“It's Duane. I recognize him. I seen him in more'n one place,” he said.
+“Sibert, you can rely on what I tell you. I don't know if he's locoed or
+what. But I do know he's the genuine Buck Duane. Any one who'd ever seen
+him onct would never forget him.”
+
+“What do you want to see Aiken for?” asked the cowboy Sibert.
+
+“I want to face him, and tell him I never harmed his wife.”
+
+“Why?”
+
+“Because I'm innocent, that's all.”
+
+“Suppose we send for Aiken an' he hears you an' doesn't believe you;
+what then?”
+
+“If he won't believe me--why, then my case's so bad--I'd be better off
+dead.”
+
+A momentary silence was broken by Sibert.
+
+“If this isn't a queer deal! Boys, reckon we'd better send for Jeff.”
+
+“Somebody went fer him. He'll be comin' soon,” replied a man.
+
+Duane stood a head taller than that circle of curious faces. He gazed
+out above and beyond them. It was in this way that he chanced to see a
+number of women on the outskirts of the crowd. Some were old, with
+hard faces, like the men. Some were young and comely, and most of these
+seemed agitated by excitement or distress. They cast fearful, pitying
+glances upon Duane as he stood there with that noose round his neck.
+Women were more human than men, Duane thought. He met eyes that dilated,
+seemed fascinated at his gaze, but were not averted. It was the old
+women who were voluble, loud in expression of their feelings.
+
+Near the trunk of the cottonwood stood a slender woman in white. Duane's
+wandering glance rested upon her. Her eyes were riveted upon him. A
+soft-hearted woman, probably, who did not want to see him hanged!
+
+“Thar comes Jeff Aiken now,” called a man, loudly.
+
+The crowd shifted and trampled in eagerness.
+
+Duane saw two men coming fast, one of whom, in the lead, was of stalwart
+build. He had a gun in his hand, and his manner was that of fierce
+energy.
+
+The cowboy Sibert thrust open the jostling circle of men.
+
+“Hold on, Jeff,” he called, and he blocked the man with the gun. He
+spoke so low Duane could not hear what he said, and his form hid Aiken's
+face. At that juncture the crowd spread out, closed in, and Aiken
+and Sibert were caught in the circle. There was a pushing forward, a
+pressing of many bodies, hoarse cries and flinging hands--again the
+insane tumult was about to break out--the demand for an outlaw's blood,
+the call for a wild justice executed a thousand times before on Texas's
+bloody soil.
+
+Sibert bellowed at the dark encroaching mass. The cowboys with him beat
+and cuffed in vain.
+
+“Jeff, will you listen?” broke in Sibert, hurriedly, his hand on the
+other man's arm.
+
+Aiken nodded coolly. Duane, who had seen many men in perfect control of
+themselves under circumstances like these, recognized the spirit that
+dominated Aiken. He was white, cold, passionless. There were lines of
+bitter grief deep round his lips. If Duane ever felt the meaning of
+death he felt it then.
+
+“Sure this 's your game, Aiken,” said Sibert. “But hear me a minute.
+Reckon there's no doubt about this man bein' Buck Duane. He seen the
+placard out at the cross-roads. He rides in to Shirley. He says he's
+Buck Duane an' he's lookin' for Jeff Aiken. That's all clear enough.
+You know how these gunfighters go lookin' for trouble. But here's
+what stumps me. Duane sits down there on the bench and lets old Abe
+Strickland grab his gun ant get the drop on him. More'n that, he gives
+me some strange talk about how, if he couldn't make you believe he's
+innocent, he'd better be dead. You see for yourself Duane ain't drunk or
+crazy or locoed. He doesn't strike me as a man who rode in here huntin'
+blood. So I reckon you'd better hold on till you hear what he has to
+say.”
+
+Then for the first time the drawn-faced, hungry-eyed giant turned his
+gaze upon Duane. He had intelligence which was not yet subservient to
+passion. Moreover, he seemed the kind of man Duane would care to have
+judge him in a critical moment like this.
+
+“Listen,” said Duane, gravely, with his eyes steady on Aiken's, “I'm
+Buck Duane. I never lied to any man in my life. I was forced into
+outlawry. I've never had a chance to leave the country. I've killed
+men to save my own life. I never intentionally harmed any woman. I rode
+thirty miles to-day--deliberately to see what this reward was, who made
+it, what for. When I read the placard I went sick to the bottom of
+my soul. So I rode in here to find you--to tell you this: I never saw
+Shirley before to-day. It was impossible for me to have--killed your
+wife. Last September I was two hundred miles north of here on the upper
+Nueces. I can prove that. Men who know me will tell you I couldn't
+murder a woman. I haven't any idea why such a deed should be laid at my
+hands. It's just that wild border gossip. I have no idea what reasons
+you have for holding me responsible. I only know--you're wrong. You've
+been deceived. And see here, Aiken. You understand I'm a miserable man.
+I'm about broken, I guess. I don't care any more for life, for anything.
+If you can't look me in the eyes, man to man, and believe what I
+say--why, by God! you can kill me!”
+
+Aiken heaved a great breath.
+
+“Buck Duane, whether I'm impressed or not by what you say needn't
+matter. You've had accusers, justly or unjustly, as will soon appear.
+The thing is we can prove you innocent or guilty. My girl Lucy saw my
+wife's assailant.”
+
+He motioned for the crowd of men to open up.
+
+“Somebody--you, Sibert--go for Lucy. That'll settle this thing.”
+
+Duane heard as a man in an ugly dream. The faces around him, the hum of
+voices, all seemed far off. His life hung by the merest thread. Yet he
+did not think of that so much as of the brand of a woman-murderer which
+might be soon sealed upon him by a frightened, imaginative child.
+
+The crowd trooped apart and closed again. Duane caught a blurred image
+of a slight girl clinging to Sibert's hand. He could not see distinctly.
+Aiken lifted the child, whispered soothingly to her not to be afraid.
+Then he fetched her closer to Duane.
+
+“Lucy, tell me. Did you ever see this man before?” asked Aiken, huskily
+and low. “Is he the one--who came in the house that day--struck you
+down--and dragged mama--?”
+
+Aiken's voice failed.
+
+A lightning flash seemed to clear Duane's blurred sight. He saw a pale,
+sad face and violet eyes fixed in gloom and horror upon his. No terrible
+moment in Duane's life ever equaled this one of silence--of suspense.
+
+“It's ain't him!” cried the child.
+
+Then Sibert was flinging the noose off Duane's neck and unwinding the
+bonds round his arms. The spellbound crowd awoke to hoarse exclamations.
+
+“See there, my locoed gents, how easy you'd hang the wrong man,” burst
+out the cowboy, as he made the rope-end hiss. “You-all are a lot of wise
+rangers. Haw! haw!”
+
+He freed Duane and thrust the bone-handled gun back in Duane's holster.
+
+“You Abe, there. Reckon you pulled a stunt! But don't try the like
+again. And, men, I'll gamble there's a hell of a lot of bad work Buck
+Duane's named for--which all he never done. Clear away there. Where's
+his hoss? Duane, the road's open out of Shirley.”
+
+Sibert swept the gaping watchers aside and pressed Duane toward the
+horse, which another cowboy held. Mechanically Duane mounted, felt a
+lift as he went up. Then the cowboy's hard face softened in a smile.
+
+“I reckon it ain't uncivil of me to say--hit that road quick!” he said,
+frankly.
+
+He led the horse out of the crowd. Aiken joined him, and between them
+they escorted Duane across the plaza. The crowd appeared irresistibly
+drawn to follow.
+
+Aiken paused with his big hand on Duane's knee. In it, unconsciously
+probably, he still held the gun.
+
+“Duane, a word with you,” he said. “I believe you're not so black as
+you've been painted. I wish there was time to say more. Tell me this,
+anyway. Do you know the Ranger Captain MacNelly?”
+
+“I do not,” replied Duane, in surprise.
+
+“I met him only a week ago over in Fairfield,” went on Aiken, hurriedly.
+“He declared you never killed my wife. I didn't believe him--argued with
+him. We almost had hard words over it. Now--I'm sorry. The last thing he
+said was: 'If you ever see Duane don't kill him. Send him into my camp
+after dark!' He meant something strange. What--I can't say. But he was
+right, and I was wrong. If Lucy had batted an eye I'd have killed you.
+Still, I wouldn't advise you to hunt up MacNelly's camp. He's clever.
+Maybe he believes there's no treachery in his new ideas of ranger
+tactics. I tell you for all it's worth. Good-by. May God help you
+further as he did this day!”
+
+Duane said good-by and touched the horse with his spurs.
+
+“So long, Buck!” called Sibert, with that frank smile breaking warm over
+his brown face; and he held his sombrero high.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV
+
+When Duane reached the crossing of the roads the name Fairfield on the
+sign-post seemed to be the thing that tipped the oscillating balance of
+decision in favor of that direction.
+
+He answered here to unfathomable impulse. If he had been driven to hunt
+up Jeff Aiken, now he was called to find this unknown ranger captain.
+In Duane's state of mind clear reasoning, common sense, or keenness were
+out of the question. He went because he felt he was compelled.
+
+Dusk had fallen when he rode into a town which inquiry discovered to be
+Fairfield. Captain MacNelly's camp was stationed just out of the village
+limits on the other side.
+
+No one except the boy Duane questioned appeared to notice his arrival.
+Like Shirley, the town of Fairfield was large and prosperous, compared
+to the innumerable hamlets dotting the vast extent of southwestern
+Texas. As Duane rode through, being careful to get off the main street,
+he heard the tolling of a church-bell that was a melancholy reminder of
+his old home.
+
+There did not appear to be any camp on the outskirts of the town. But as
+Duane sat his horse, peering around and undecided what further move to
+make, he caught the glint of flickering lights through the darkness.
+Heading toward them, he rode perhaps a quarter of a mile to come upon a
+grove of mesquite. The brightness of several fires made the surrounding
+darkness all the blacker. Duane saw the moving forms of men and heard
+horses. He advanced naturally, expecting any moment to be halted.
+
+“Who goes there?” came the sharp call out of the gloom.
+
+Duane pulled his horse. The gloom was impenetrable.
+
+“One man--alone,” replied Duane.
+
+“A stranger?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“What do you want?”
+
+“I'm trying to find the ranger camp.”
+
+“You've struck it. What's your errand?”
+
+“I want to see Captain MacNelly.”
+
+“Get down and advance. Slow. Don't move your hands. It's dark, but I can
+see.”
+
+Duane dismounted, and, leading his horse, slowly advanced a few paces.
+He saw a dully bright object--a gun--before he discovered the man who
+held it. A few more steps showed a dark figure blocking the trail. Here
+Duane halted.
+
+“Come closer, stranger. Let's have a look at you,” the guard ordered,
+curtly.
+
+Duane advanced again until he stood before the man. Here the rays of
+light from the fires flickered upon Duane's face.
+
+“Reckon you're a stranger, all right. What's your name and your business
+with the Captain?”
+
+Duane hesitated, pondering what best to say.
+
+“Tell Captain MacNelly I'm the man he's been asking to ride into his
+camp--after dark,” finally said Duane.
+
+The ranger bent forward to peer hard at this night visitor. His manner
+had been alert, and now it became tense.
+
+“Come here, one of you men, quick,” he called, without turning in the
+least toward the camp-fire.
+
+“Hello! What's up, Pickens?” came the swift reply. It was followed by a
+rapid thud of boots on soft ground. A dark form crossed the gleams from
+the fire-light. Then a ranger loomed up to reach the side of the guard.
+Duane heard whispering, the purport of which he could not catch. The
+second ranger swore under his breath. Then he turned away and started
+back.
+
+“Here, ranger, before you go, understand this. My visit is
+peaceful--friendly if you'll let it be. Mind, I was asked to come
+here--after dark.”
+
+Duane's clear, penetrating voice carried far. The listening rangers at
+the camp-fire heard what he said.
+
+“Ho, Pickens! Tell that fellow to wait,” replied an authoritative voice.
+Then a slim figure detached itself from the dark, moving group at the
+camp-fire and hurried out.
+
+“Better be foxy, Cap,” shouted a ranger, in warning.
+
+“Shut up--all of you,” was the reply.
+
+This officer, obviously Captain MacNelly, soon joined the two rangers
+who were confronting Duane. He had no fear. He strode straight up to
+Duane.
+
+“I'm MacNelly,” he said. “If you're my man, don't mention your
+name--yet.”
+
+All this seemed so strange to Duane, in keeping with much that had
+happened lately.
+
+“I met Jeff Aiken to-day,” said Duane. “He sent me--”
+
+“You've met Aiken!” exclaimed MacNelly, sharp, eager, low. “By all
+that's bully!” Then he appeared to catch himself, to grow restrained.
+
+“Men, fall back, leave us alone a moment.”
+
+The rangers slowly withdrew.
+
+“Buck Duane! It's you?” he whispered, eagerly.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“If I give my word you'll not be arrested--you'll be treated
+fairly--will you come into camp and consult with me?”
+
+“Certainly.”
+
+“Duane, I'm sure glad to meet you,” went on MacNelly; and he extended
+his hand.
+
+Amazed and touched, scarcely realizing this actuality, Duane gave his
+hand and felt no unmistakable grip of warmth.
+
+“It doesn't seem natural, Captain MacNelly, but I believe I'm glad to
+meet you,” said Duane, soberly.
+
+“You will be. Now we'll go back to camp. Keep your identity mum for the
+present.”
+
+He led Duane in the direction of the camp-fire.
+
+“Pickers, go back on duty,” he ordered, “and, Beeson, you look after
+this horse.”
+
+When Duane got beyond the line of mesquite, which had hid a good view of
+the camp-site, he saw a group of perhaps fifteen rangers sitting around
+the fires, near a long low shed where horses were feeding, and a small
+adobe house at one side.
+
+“We've just had grub, but I'll see you get some. Then we'll talk,” said
+MacNelly. “I've taken up temporary quarters here. Have a rustler job on
+hand. Now, when you've eaten, come right into the house.”
+
+Duane was hungry, but he hurried through the ample supper that was set
+before him, urged on by curiosity and astonishment. The only way
+he could account for his presence there in a ranger's camp was that
+MacNelly hoped to get useful information out of him. Still that would
+hardly have made this captain so eager. There was a mystery here, and
+Duane could scarcely wait for it to be solved. While eating he had
+bent keen eyes around him. After a first quiet scrutiny the rangers
+apparently paid no more attention to him. They were all veterans in
+service--Duane saw that--and rugged, powerful men of iron constitution.
+Despite the occasional joke and sally of the more youthful members, and
+a general conversation of camp-fire nature, Duane was not deceived about
+the fact that his advent had been an unusual and striking one, which had
+caused an undercurrent of conjecture and even consternation among them.
+These rangers were too well trained to appear openly curious about their
+captain's guest. If they had not deliberately attempted to be oblivious
+of his presence Duane would have concluded they thought him an ordinary
+visitor, somehow of use to MacNelly. As it was, Duane felt a suspense
+that must have been due to a hint of his identity.
+
+He was not long in presenting himself at the door of the house.
+
+“Come in and have a chair,” said MacNelly, motioning for the one other
+occupant of the room to rise. “Leave us, Russell, and close the door.
+I'll be through these reports right off.”
+
+MacNelly sat at a table upon which was a lamp and various papers. Seen
+in the light he was a fine-looking, soldierly man of about forty years,
+dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a bronzed face, shrewd, stern, strong,
+yet not wanting in kindliness. He scanned hastily over some papers,
+fussed with them, and finally put them in envelopes. Without looking up
+he pushed a cigar-case toward Duane, and upon Duane's refusal to
+smoke he took a cigar, rose to light it at the lamp-chimney, and then,
+settling back in his chair, he faced Duane, making a vain attempt to
+hide what must have been the fulfilment of a long-nourished curiosity.
+
+“Duane, I've been hoping for this for two years,” he began.
+
+Duane smiled a little--a smile that felt strange on his face. He had
+never been much of a talker. And speech here seemed more than ordinarily
+difficult.
+
+MacNelly must have felt that.
+
+He looked long and earnestly at Duane, and his quick, nervous manner
+changed to grave thoughtfulness.
+
+“I've lots to say, but where to begin,” he mused. “Duane, you've had
+a hard life since you went on the dodge. I never met you before, don't
+know what you looked like as a boy. But I can see what--well, even
+ranger life isn't all roses.”
+
+He rolled his cigar between his lips and puffed clouds of smoke.
+
+“Ever hear from home since you left Wellston?” he asked, abruptly.
+
+“No.”
+
+“Never a word?”
+
+“Not one,” replied Duane, sadly.
+
+“That's tough. I'm glad to be able to tell you that up to just lately
+your mother, sister, uncle--all your folks, I believe--were well. I've
+kept posted. But haven't heard lately.”
+
+Duane averted his face a moment, hesitated till the swelling left his
+throat, and then said, “It's worth what I went through to-day to hear
+that.”
+
+“I can imagine how you feel about it. When I was in the war--but let's
+get down to the business of this meeting.”
+
+He pulled his chair close to Duane's.
+
+“You've had word more than once in the last two years that I wanted to
+see you?”
+
+“Three times, I remember,” replied Duane.
+
+“Why didn't you hunt me up?”
+
+“I supposed you imagined me one of those gun-fighters who couldn't take
+a dare and expected me to ride up to your camp and be arrested.”
+
+“That was natural, I suppose,” went on MacNelly. “You didn't know me,
+otherwise you would have come. I've been a long time getting to you.
+But the nature of my job, as far as you're concerned, made me cautious.
+Duane, you're aware of the hard name you bear all over the Southwest?”
+
+“Once in a while I'm jarred into realizing,” replied Duane.
+
+“It's the hardest, barring Murrell and Cheseldine, on the Texas border.
+But there's this difference. Murrell in his day was known to deserve his
+infamous name. Cheseldine in his day also. But I've found hundreds
+of men in southwest Texas who're your friends, who swear you never
+committed a crime. The farther south I get the clearer this becomes.
+What I want to know is the truth. Have you ever done anything criminal?
+Tell me the truth, Duane. It won't make any difference in my plan.
+And when I say crime I mean what I would call crime, or any reasonable
+Texan.”
+
+“That way my hands are clean,” replied Duane.
+
+“You never held up a man, robbed a store for grub, stole a horse when
+you needed him bad--never anything like that?”
+
+“Somehow I always kept out of that, just when pressed the hardest.”
+
+“Duane, I'm damn glad!” MacNelly exclaimed, gripping Duane's hand. “Glad
+for you mother's sakel But, all the same, in spite of this, you are a
+Texas outlaw accountable to the state. You're perfectly aware that under
+existing circumstances, if you fell into the hands of the law, you'd
+probably hang, at least go to jail for a long term.”
+
+“That's what kept me on the dodge all these years,” replied Duane.
+
+“Certainly.” MacNelly removed his cigar. His eyes narrowed and
+glittered. The muscles along his brown cheeks set hard and tense. He
+leaned closer to Duane, laid sinewy, pressing fingers upon Duane's knee.
+
+“Listen to this,” he whispered, hoarsely. “If I place a pardon in your
+hand--make you a free, honest citizen once more, clear your name of
+infamy, make your mother, your sister proud of you--will you swear
+yourself to a service, ANY service I demand of you?”
+
+Duane sat stock still, stunned.
+
+Slowly, more persuasively, with show of earnest agitation, Captain
+MacNelly reiterated his startling query.
+
+“My God!” burst from Duane. “What's this? MacNelly, you CAN'T be in
+earnest!”
+
+“Never more so in my life. I've a deep game. I'm playing it square. What
+do you say?”
+
+He rose to his feet. Duane, as if impelled, rose with him. Ranger and
+outlaw then locked eyes that searched each other's souls. In MacNelly's
+Duane read truth, strong, fiery purpose, hope, even gladness, and a
+fugitive mounting assurance of victory.
+
+Twice Duane endeavored to speak, failed of all save a hoarse, incoherent
+sound, until, forcing back a flood of speech, he found a voice.
+
+“Any service? Every service! MacNelly, I give my word,” said Duane.
+
+A light played over MacNelly's face, warming out all the grim darkness.
+He held out his hand. Duane met it with his in a clasp that men
+unconsciously give in moments of stress.
+
+When they unclasped and Duane stepped back to drop into a chair MacNelly
+fumbled for another cigar--he had bitten the other into shreds--and,
+lighting it as before, he turned to his visitor, now calm and cool. He
+had the look of a man who had justly won something at considerable
+cost. His next move was to take a long leather case from his pocket and
+extract from it several folded papers.
+
+“Here's your pardon from the Governor,” he said, quietly. “You'll see,
+when you look it over, that it's conditional. When you sign this paper I
+have here the condition will be met.”
+
+He smoothed out the paper, handed Duane a pen, ran his forefinger along
+a dotted line.
+
+Duane's hand was shaky. Years had passed since he had held a pen. It
+was with difficulty that he achieved his signature. Buckley Duane--how
+strange the name looked!
+
+“Right here ends the career of Buck Duane, outlaw and gunfighter,” said
+MacNelly; and, seating himself, he took the pen from Duane's fingers and
+wrote several lines in several places upon the paper. Then with a smile
+he handed it to Duane.
+
+“That makes you a member of Company A, Texas Rangers.”
+
+“So that's it!” burst out Duane, a light breaking in upon his
+bewilderment. “You want me for ranger service?”
+
+“Sure. That's it,” replied the Captain, dryly. “Now to hear what that
+service is to be. I've been a busy man since I took this job, and, as
+you may have heard, I've done a few things. I don't mind telling you
+that political influence put me in here and that up Austin way there's a
+good deal of friction in the Department of State in regard to whether or
+not the ranger service is any good--whether it should be discontinued or
+not. I'm on the party side who's defending the ranger service. I contend
+that it's made Texas habitable. Well, it's been up to me to produce
+results. So far I have been successful. My great ambition is to break
+up the outlaw gangs along the river. I have never ventured in there
+yet because I've been waiting to get the lieutenant I needed. You, of
+course, are the man I had in mind. It's my idea to start way up the Rio
+Grande and begin with Cheseldine. He's the strongest, the worst outlaw
+of the times. He's more than rustler. It's Cheseldine and his gang
+who are operating on the banks. They're doing bank-robbing. That's my
+private opinion, but it's not been backed up by any evidence. Cheseldine
+doesn't leave evidences. He's intelligent, cunning. No one seems to have
+seen him--to know what he looks like. I assume, of course, that you are
+a stranger to the country he dominates. It's five hundred miles west of
+your ground. There's a little town over there called Fairdale. It's the
+nest of a rustler gang. They rustle and murder at will. Nobody knows who
+the leader is. I want you to find out. Well, whatever way you decide is
+best you will proceed to act upon. You are your own boss. You know such
+men and how they can be approached. You will take all the time needed,
+if it's months. It will be necessary for you to communicate with me, and
+that will be a difficult matter. For Cheseldine dominates several whole
+counties. You must find some way to let me know when I and my rangers
+are needed. The plan is to break up Cheseldine's gang. It's the toughest
+job on the border. Arresting him alone isn't to be heard of. He couldn't
+be brought out. Killing him isn't much better, for his select men, the
+ones he operates with, are as dangerous to the community as he is. We
+want to kill or jail this choice selection of robbers and break up the
+rest of the gang. To find them, to get among them somehow, to learn
+their movements, to lay your trap for us rangers to spring--that, Duane,
+is your service to me, and God knows it's a great one!”
+
+“I have accepted it,” replied Duane.
+
+“Your work will be secret. You are now a ranger in my service. But no
+one except the few I choose to tell will know of it until we pull off
+the job. You will simply be Buck Duane till it suits our purpose to
+acquaint Texas with the fact that you're a ranger. You'll see there's
+no date on that paper. No one will ever know just when you entered the
+service. Perhaps we can make it appear that all or most of your outlawry
+has really been good service to the state. At that, I'll believe it'll
+turn out so.”
+
+MacNelly paused a moment in his rapid talk, chewed his cigar, drew his
+brows together in a dark frown, and went on. “No man on the border knows
+so well as you the deadly nature of this service. It's a thousand to one
+that you'll be killed. I'd say there was no chance at all for any other
+man beside you. Your reputation will go far among the outlaws. Maybe
+that and your nerve and your gun-play will pull you through. I'm hoping
+so. But it's a long, long chance against your ever coming back.”
+
+“That's not the point,” said Duane. “But in case I get killed out
+there--what--”
+
+“Leave that to me,” interrupted Captain MacNelly. “Your folks will know
+at once of your pardon and your ranger duty. If you lose your life out
+there I'll see your name cleared--the service you render known. You can
+rest assured of that.”
+
+“I am satisfied,” replied Duane. “That's so much more than I've dared to
+hope.”
+
+“Well, it's settled, then. I'll give you money for expenses. You'll
+start as soon as you like--the sooner the better. I hope to think of
+other suggestions, especially about communicating with me.”
+
+Long after the lights were out and the low hum of voices had ceased
+round the camp-fire Duane lay wide awake, eyes staring into the
+blackness, marveling over the strange events of the day. He was humble,
+grateful to the depths of his soul. A huge and crushing burden had been
+lifted from his heart. He welcomed this hazardous service to the man who
+had saved him. Thought of his mother and sister and Uncle Jim, of his
+home, of old friends came rushing over him the first time in years that
+he had happiness in the memory. The disgrace he had put upon them would
+now be removed; and in the light of that, his wasted life of the past,
+and its probable tragic end in future service as atonement changed their
+aspects. And as he lay there, with the approach of sleep finally dimming
+the vividness of his thought, so full of mystery, shadowy faces floated
+in the blackness around him, haunting him as he had always been haunted.
+
+It was broad daylight when he awakened. MacNelly was calling him to
+breakfast. Outside sounded voices of men, crackling of fires, snorting
+and stamping of horses, the barking of dogs. Duane rolled out of his
+blankets and made good use of the soap and towel and razor and brush
+near by on a bench--things of rare luxury to an outlaw on the ride. The
+face he saw in the mirror was as strange as the past he had tried so
+hard to recall. Then he stepped to the door and went out.
+
+The rangers were eating in a circle round a tarpaulin spread upon the
+ground.
+
+“Fellows,” said MacNelly, “shake hands with Buck Duane. He's on secret
+ranger service for me. Service that'll likely make you all hump soon!
+Mind you, keep mum about it.”
+
+The rangers surprised Duane with a roaring greeting, the warmth of which
+he soon divined was divided between pride of his acquisition to their
+ranks and eagerness to meet that violent service of which their captain
+hinted. They were jolly, wild fellows, with just enough gravity in
+their welcome to show Duane their respect and appreciation, while not
+forgetting his lone-wolf record. When he had seated himself in that
+circle, now one of them, a feeling subtle and uplifting pervaded him.
+
+After the meal Captain MacNelly drew Duane aside.
+
+“Here's the money. Make it go as far as you can. Better strike straight
+for El Paso, snook around there and hear things. Then go to Valentine.
+That's near the river and within fifty miles or so of the edge of the
+Rim Rock. Somewhere up there Cheseldine holds fort. Somewhere to the
+north is the town Fairdale. But he doesn't hide all the time in the
+rocks. Only after some daring raid or hold-up. Cheseldine's got border
+towns on his staff, or scared of him, and these places we want to know
+about, especially Fairdale. Write me care of the adjutant at Austin.
+I don't have to warn you to be careful where you mail letters. Ride a
+hundred, two hundred miles, if necessary, or go clear to El Paso.”
+
+MacNelly stopped with an air of finality, and then Duane slowly rose.
+
+“I'll start at once,” he said, extending his hand to the Captain. “I
+wish--I'd like to thank you.”
+
+“Hell, man! Don't thank me!” replied MacNelly, crushing the proffered
+hand. “I've sent a lot of good men to their deaths, and maybe you're
+another. But, as I've said, you've one chance in a thousand. And, by
+Heaven! I'd hate to be Cheseldine or any other man you were trailing.
+No, not good-by--Adios, Duane! May we meet again!”
+
+
+
+
+BOOK II. THE RANGER
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV
+
+West of the Pecos River Texas extended a vast wild region, barren in the
+north where the Llano Estacado spread its shifting sands, fertile in
+the south along the Rio Grande. A railroad marked an undeviating course
+across five hundred miles of this country, and the only villages and
+towns lay on or near this line of steel. Unsettled as was this western
+Texas, and despite the acknowledged dominance of the outlaw bands, the
+pioneers pushed steadily into it. First had come the lone rancher; then
+his neighbors in near and far valleys; then the hamlets; at last the
+railroad and the towns. And still the pioneers came, spreading
+deeper into the valleys, farther and wider over the plains. It was
+mesquite-dotted, cactus-covered desert, but rich soil upon which water
+acted like magic. There was little grass to an acre, but there were
+millions of acres. The climate was wonderful. Cattle flourished and
+ranchers prospered.
+
+The Rio Grande flowed almost due south along the western boundary for a
+thousand miles, and then, weary of its course, turned abruptly north,
+to make what was called the Big Bend. The railroad, running west, cut
+across this bend, and all that country bounded on the north by the
+railroad and on the south by the river was as wild as the Staked Plains.
+It contained not one settlement. Across the face of this Big Bend, as
+if to isolate it, stretched the Ord mountain range, of which Mount
+Ord, Cathedral Mount, and Elephant Mount raised bleak peaks above their
+fellows. In the valleys of the foothills and out across the plains were
+ranches, and farther north villages, and the towns of Alpine and Marfa.
+
+Like other parts of the great Lone Star State, this section of Texas
+was a world in itself--a world where the riches of the rancher were
+ever enriching the outlaw. The village closest to the gateway of this
+outlaw-infested region was a little place called Ord, named after the
+dark peak that loomed some miles to the south. It had been settled
+originally by Mexicans--there were still the ruins of adobe
+missions--but with the advent of the rustler and outlaw many inhabitants
+were shot or driven away, so that at the height of Ord's prosperity and
+evil sway there were but few Mexicans living there, and these had their
+choice between holding hand-and-glove with the outlaws or furnishing
+target practice for that wild element.
+
+Toward the close of a day in September a stranger rode into Ord, and in
+a community where all men were remarkable for one reason or another
+he excited interest. His horse, perhaps, received the first and
+most engaging attention--horses in that region being apparently more
+important than men. This particular horse did not attract with beauty.
+At first glance he seemed ugly. But he was a giant, black as coal, rough
+despite the care manifestly bestowed upon him, long of body, ponderous
+of limb, huge in every way. A bystander remarked that he had a grand
+head. True, if only his head had been seen he would have been a
+beautiful horse. Like men, horses show what they are in the shape, the
+size, the line, the character of the head. This one denoted fire, speed,
+blood, loyalty, and his eyes were as soft and dark as a woman's. His
+face was solid black, except in the middle of his forehead, where there
+was a round spot of white.
+
+“Say mister, mind tellin' me his name?” asked a ragged urchin, with born
+love of a horse in his eyes.
+
+“Bullet,” replied the rider.
+
+“Thet there's fer the white mark, ain't it?” whispered the youngster to
+another. “Say, ain't he a whopper? Biggest hoss I ever seen.”
+
+Bullet carried a huge black silver-ornamented saddle of Mexican make, a
+lariat and canteen, and a small pack rolled into a tarpaulin.
+
+This rider apparently put all care of appearances upon his horse. His
+apparel was the ordinary jeans of the cowboy without vanity, and it
+was torn and travel-stained. His boots showed evidence of an intimate
+acquaintance with cactus. Like his horse, this man was a giant in
+stature, but rangier, not so heavily built. Otherwise the only striking
+thing about him was his somber face with its piercing eyes, and hair
+white over the temples. He packed two guns, both low down--but that was
+too common a thing to attract notice in the Big Bend. A close observer,
+however, would have noted a singular fact--this rider's right hand was
+more bronzed, more weather-beaten than his left. He never wore a glove
+on that right hand!
+
+He had dismounted before a ramshackle structure that bore upon its wide,
+high-boarded front the sign, “Hotel.” There were horsemen coming and
+going down the wide street between its rows of old stores, saloons,
+and houses. Ord certainly did not look enterprising. Americans had
+manifestly assimilated much of the leisure of the Mexicans. The hotel
+had a wide platform in front, and this did duty as porch and sidewalk.
+Upon it, and leaning against a hitching-rail, were men of varying ages,
+most of them slovenly in old jeans and slouched sombreros. Some were
+booted, belted, and spurred. No man there wore a coat, but all wore
+vests. The guns in that group would have outnumbered the men.
+
+It was a crowd seemingly too lazy to be curious. Good nature did not
+appear to be wanting, but it was not the frank and boisterous kind
+natural to the cowboy or rancher in town for a day. These men were
+idlers; what else, perhaps, was easy to conjecture. Certainly to this
+arriving stranger, who flashed a keen eye over them, they wore an
+atmosphere never associated with work.
+
+Presently a tall man, with a drooping, sandy mustache, leisurely
+detached himself from the crowd.
+
+“Howdy, stranger,” he said.
+
+The stranger had bent over to loosen the cinches; he straightened up and
+nodded. Then: “I'm thirsty!”
+
+That brought a broad smile to faces. It was characteristic greeting.
+One and all trooped after the stranger into the hotel. It was a dark,
+ill-smelling barn of a place, with a bar as high as a short man's head.
+A bartender with a scarred face was serving drinks.
+
+“Line up, gents,” said the stranger.
+
+They piled over one another to get to the bar, with coarse jests and
+oaths and laughter. None of them noted that the stranger did not appear
+so thirsty as he had claimed to be. In fact, though he went through the
+motions, he did not drink at all.
+
+“My name's Jim Fletcher,” said the tall man with the drooping, sandy
+mustache. He spoke laconically, nevertheless there was a tone that
+showed he expected to be known. Something went with that name. The
+stranger did not appear to be impressed.
+
+“My name might be Blazes, but it ain't,” he replied. “What do you call
+this burg?”
+
+“Stranger, this heah me-tropoles bears the handle Ord. Is thet new to
+you?”
+
+He leaned back against the bar, and now his little yellow eyes, clear as
+crystal, flawless as a hawk's, fixed on the stranger. Other men crowded
+close, forming a circle, curious, ready to be friendly or otherwise,
+according to how the tall interrogator marked the new-comer.
+
+“Sure, Ord's a little strange to me. Off the railroad some, ain't it?
+Funny trails hereabouts.”
+
+“How fur was you goin'?”
+
+“I reckon I was goin' as far as I could,” replied the stranger, with a
+hard laugh.
+
+His reply had subtle reaction on that listening circle. Some of the
+men exchanged glances. Fletcher stroked his drooping mustache, seemed
+thoughtful, but lost something of that piercing scrutiny.
+
+“Wal, Ord's the jumpin'-off place,” he said, presently. “Sure you've
+heerd of the Big Bend country?”
+
+“I sure have, an' was makin' tracks fer it,” replied the stranger.
+
+Fletcher turned toward a man in the outer edge of the group. “Knell,
+come in heah.”
+
+This individual elbowed his way in and was seen to be scarcely more than
+a boy, almost pale beside those bronzed men, with a long, expressionless
+face, thin and sharp.
+
+“Knell, this heah's--” Fletcher wheeled to the stranger. “What'd you
+call yourself?”
+
+“I'd hate to mention what I've been callin' myself lately.”
+
+This sally fetched another laugh. The stranger appeared cool, careless,
+indifferent. Perhaps he knew, as the others present knew, that this show
+of Fletcher's, this pretense of introduction, was merely talk while he
+was looked over.
+
+Knell stepped up, and it was easy to see, from the way Fletcher
+relinquished his part in the situation, that a man greater than he had
+appeared upon the scene.
+
+“Any business here?” he queried, curtly. When he spoke his
+expressionless face was in strange contrast with the ring, the quality,
+the cruelty of his voice. This voice betrayed an absence of humor, of
+friendliness, of heart.
+
+“Nope,” replied the stranger.
+
+“Know anybody hereabouts?”
+
+“Nary one.”
+
+“Jest ridin' through?”
+
+“Yep.”
+
+“Slopin' fer back country, eh?”
+
+There came a pause. The stranger appeared to grow a little resentful and
+drew himself up disdainfully.
+
+“Wal, considerin' you-all seem so damn friendly an' oncurious down
+here in this Big Bend country, I don't mind sayin' yes--I am in on the
+dodge,” he replied, with deliberate sarcasm.
+
+“From west of Ord--out El Paso way, mebbe?”
+
+“Sure.”
+
+“A-huh! Thet so?” Knell's words cut the air, stilled the room. “You're
+from way down the river. Thet's what they say down there--'on the
+dodge.'... Stranger, you're a liar!”
+
+With swift clink of spur and thump of boot the crowd split, leaving
+Knell and the stranger in the center.
+
+Wild breed of that ilk never made a mistake in judging a man's nerve.
+Knell had cut out with the trenchant call, and stood ready. The stranger
+suddenly lost his every semblance to the rough and easy character before
+manifest in him. He became bronze. That situation seemed familiar
+to him. His eyes held a singular piercing light that danced like a
+compass-needle.
+
+“Sure I lied,” he said; “so I ain't takin' offense at the way you called
+me. I'm lookin' to make friends, not enemies. You don't strike me as one
+of them four-flushes, achin' to kill somebody. But if you are--go ahead
+an' open the ball.... You see, I never throw a gun on them fellers till
+they go fer theirs.”
+
+Knell coolly eyed his antagonist, his strange face not changing in the
+least. Yet somehow it was evident in his look that here was metal which
+rang differently from what he had expected. Invited to start a fight
+or withdraw, as he chose, Knell proved himself big in the manner
+characteristic of only the genuine gunman.
+
+“Stranger, I pass,” he said, and, turning to the bar, he ordered liquor.
+
+The tension relaxed, the silence broke, the men filled up the gap; the
+incident seemed closed. Jim Fletcher attached himself to the stranger,
+and now both respect and friendliness tempered his asperity.
+
+“Wal, fer want of a better handle I'll call you Dodge,” he said.
+
+“Dodge's as good as any.... Gents, line up again--an' if you can't be
+friendly, be careful!”
+
+Such was Buck Duane's debut in the little outlaw hamlet of Ord.
+
+Duane had been three months out of the Nueces country. At El Paso
+he bought the finest horse he could find, and, armed and otherwise
+outfitted to suit him, he had taken to unknown trails. Leisurely he rode
+from town to town, village to village, ranch to ranch, fitting his talk
+and his occupation to the impression he wanted to make upon different
+people whom he met. He was in turn a cowboy, a rancher, a cattleman,
+a stock-buyer, a boomer, a land-hunter; and long before he reached the
+wild and inhospitable Ord he had acted the part of an outlaw, drifting
+into new territory. He passed on leisurely because he wanted to learn
+the lay of the country, the location of villages and ranches, the work,
+habit, gossip, pleasures, and fears of the people with whom he came
+in contact. The one subject most impelling to him--outlaws--he never
+mentioned; but by talking all around it, sifting the old ranch and
+cattle story, he acquired a knowledge calculated to aid his plot. In
+this game time was of no moment; if necessary he would take years to
+accomplish his task. The stupendous and perilous nature of it showed
+in the slow, wary preparation. When he heard Fletcher's name and faced
+Knell he knew he had reached the place he sought. Ord was a hamlet on
+the fringe of the grazing country, of doubtful honesty, from which,
+surely, winding trails led down into that free and never-disturbed
+paradise of outlaws--the Big Bend.
+
+Duane made himself agreeable, yet not too much so, to Fletcher and
+several other men disposed to talk and drink and eat; and then, after
+having a care for his horse, he rode out of town a couple of miles to
+a grove he had marked, and there, well hidden, he prepared to spend the
+night. This proceeding served a double purpose--he was safer, and the
+habit would look well in the eyes of outlaws, who would be more inclined
+to see in him the lone-wolf fugitive.
+
+Long since Duane had fought out a battle with himself, won a hard-earned
+victory. His outer life, the action, was much the same as it had been;
+but the inner life had tremendously changed. He could never become a
+happy man, he could never shake utterly those haunting phantoms that had
+once been his despair and madness; but he had assumed a task impossible
+for any man save one like him, he had felt the meaning of it grow
+strangely and wonderfully, and through that flourished up consciousness
+of how passionately he now clung to this thing which would blot out his
+former infamy. The iron fetters no more threatened his hands; the iron
+door no more haunted his dreams. He never forgot that he was free.
+Strangely, too, along with this feeling of new manhood there gathered
+the force of imperious desire to run these chief outlaws to their dooms.
+He never called them outlaws--but rustlers, thieves, robbers, murderers,
+criminals. He sensed the growth of a relentless driving passion, and
+sometimes he feared that, more than the newly acquired zeal and pride in
+this ranger service, it was the old, terrible inherited killing instinct
+lifting its hydra-head in new guise. But of that he could not be sure.
+He dreaded the thought. He could only wait.
+
+Another aspect of the change in Duane, neither passionate nor driving,
+yet not improbably even more potent of new significance to life, was
+the imperceptible return of an old love of nature dead during his outlaw
+days.
+
+For years a horse had been only a machine of locomotion, to carry him
+from place to place, to beat and spur and goad mercilessly in flight;
+now this giant black, with his splendid head, was a companion, a friend,
+a brother, a loved thing, guarded jealously, fed and trained and ridden
+with an intense appreciation of his great speed and endurance. For years
+the daytime, with its birth of sunrise on through long hours to the
+ruddy close, had been used for sleep or rest in some rocky hole or
+willow brake or deserted hut, had been hated because it augmented danger
+of pursuit, because it drove the fugitive to lonely, wretched hiding;
+now the dawn was a greeting, a promise of another day to ride, to plan,
+to remember, and sun, wind, cloud, rain, sky--all were joys to him,
+somehow speaking his freedom. For years the night had been a black
+space, during which he had to ride unseen along the endless trails, to
+peer with cat-eyes through gloom for the moving shape that ever pursued
+him; now the twilight and the dusk and the shadows of grove and canyon
+darkened into night with its train of stars, and brought him calm
+reflection of the day's happenings, of the morrow's possibilities,
+perhaps a sad, brief procession of the old phantoms, then sleep. For
+years canyons and valleys and mountains had been looked at as retreats
+that might be dark and wild enough to hide even an outlaw; now he saw
+these features of the great desert with something of the eyes of the boy
+who had once burned for adventure and life among them.
+
+This night a wonderful afterglow lingered long in the west, and against
+the golden-red of clear sky the bold, black head of Mount Ord reared
+itself aloft, beautiful but aloof, sinister yet calling. Small wonder
+that Duane gazed in fascination upon the peak! Somewhere deep in
+its corrugated sides or lost in a rugged canyon was hidden the secret
+stronghold of the master outlaw Cheseldine. All down along the ride from
+El Paso Duane had heard of Cheseldine, of his band, his fearful deeds,
+his cunning, his widely separated raids, of his flitting here and there
+like a Jack-o'-lantern; but never a word of his den, never a word of his
+appearance.
+
+Next morning Duane did not return to Ord. He struck off to the north,
+riding down a rough, slow-descending road that appeared to have been
+used occasionally for cattle-driving. As he had ridden in from the west,
+this northern direction led him into totally unfamiliar country. While
+he passed on, however, he exercised such keen observation that in the
+future he would know whatever might be of service to him if he chanced
+that way again.
+
+The rough, wild, brush-covered slope down from the foothills gradually
+leveled out into plain, a magnificent grazing country, upon which till
+noon of that day Duane did not see a herd of cattle or a ranch. About
+that time he made out smoke from the railroad, and after a couple of
+hours' riding he entered a town which inquiry discovered to be Bradford.
+It was the largest town he had visited since Marfa, and he calculated
+must have a thousand or fifteen hundred inhabitants, not including
+Mexicans. He decided this would be a good place for him to hold up for
+a while, being the nearest town to Ord, only forty miles away. So he
+hitched his horse in front of a store and leisurely set about studying
+Bradford.
+
+It was after dark, however, that Duane verified his suspicions
+concerning Bradford. The town was awake after dark, and there was one
+long row of saloons, dance-halls, gambling-resorts in full blast. Duane
+visited them all, and was surprised to see wildness and license equal to
+that of the old river camp of Bland's in its palmiest days. Here it was
+forced upon him that the farther west one traveled along the river
+the sparser the respectable settlements, the more numerous the hard
+characters, and in consequence the greater the element of lawlessness.
+Duane returned to his lodging-house with the conviction that MacNelly's
+task of cleaning up the Big Bend country was a stupendous one. Yet, he
+reflected, a company of intrepid and quick-shooting rangers could have
+soon cleaned up this Bradford.
+
+The innkeeper had one other guest that night, a long black-coated and
+wide-sombreroed Texan who reminded Duane of his grandfather. This man
+had penetrating eyes, a courtly manner, and an unmistakable leaning
+toward companionship and mint-juleps. The gentleman introduced himself
+as Colonel Webb, of Marfa, and took it as a matter of course that Duane
+made no comment about himself.
+
+“Sir, it's all one to me,” he said, blandly, waving his hand. “I have
+traveled. Texas is free, and this frontier is one where it's healthier
+and just as friendly for a man to have no curiosity about his companion.
+You might be Cheseldine, of the Big Bend, or you might be Judge Little,
+of El Paso-it's all one to me. I enjoy drinking with you anyway.”
+
+Duane thanked him, conscious of a reserve and dignity that he could not
+have felt or pretended three months before. And then, as always, he was
+a good listener. Colonel Webb told, among other things, that he had come
+out to the Big Bend to look over the affairs of a deceased brother who
+had been a rancher and a sheriff of one of the towns, Fairdale by name.
+
+“Found no affairs, no ranch, not even his grave,” said Colonel Webb.
+“And I tell you, sir, if hell's any tougher than this Fairdale I don't
+want to expiate my sins there.”
+
+“Fairdale.... I imagine sheriffs have a hard row to hoe out here,”
+ replied Duane, trying not to appear curious.
+
+The Colonel swore lustily.
+
+“My brother was the only honest sheriff Fairdale ever had. It was
+wonderful how long he lasted. But he had nerve, he could throw a gun,
+and he was on the square. Then he was wise enough to confine his work
+to offenders of his own town and neighborhood. He let the riding outlaws
+alone, else he wouldn't have lasted at all.... What this frontier needs,
+sir, is about six companies of Texas Rangers.”
+
+Duane was aware of the Colonel's close scrutiny.
+
+“Do you know anything about the service?” he asked.
+
+“I used to. Ten years ago when I lived in San Antonio. A fine body of
+men, sir, and the salvation of Texas.”
+
+“Governor Stone doesn't entertain that opinion,” said Duane.
+
+Here Colonel Webb exploded. Manifestly the governor was not his choice
+for a chief executive of the great state. He talked politics for a
+while, and of the vast territory west of the Pecos that seemed never to
+get a benefit from Austin. He talked enough for Duane to realize that
+here was just the kind of intelligent, well-informed, honest citizen
+that he had been trying to meet. He exerted himself thereafter to
+be agreeable and interesting; and he saw presently that here was an
+opportunity to make a valuable acquaintance, if not a friend.
+
+“I'm a stranger in these parts,” said Duane, finally. “What is this
+outlaw situation you speak of?”
+
+“It's damnable, sir, and unbelievable. Not rustling any more, but just
+wholesale herd-stealing, in which some big cattlemen, supposed to be
+honest, are equally guilty with the outlaws. On this border, you know,
+the rustler has always been able to steal cattle in any numbers. But to
+get rid of big bunches--that's the hard job. The gang operating between
+here and Valentine evidently have not this trouble. Nobody knows where
+the stolen stock goes. But I'm not alone in my opinion that most of
+it goes to several big stockmen. They ship to San Antonio, Austin, New
+Orleans, also to El Paso. If you travel the stock-road between here and
+Marfa and Valentine you'll see dead cattle all along the line and stray
+cattle out in the scrub. The herds have been driven fast and far, and
+stragglers are not rounded up.”
+
+“Wholesale business, eh?” remarked Duane. “Who are these--er--big
+stock-buyers?”
+
+Colonel Webb seemed a little startled at the abrupt query. He bent his
+penetrating gaze upon Duane and thoughtfully stroked his pointed beard.
+
+“Names, of course, I'll not mention. Opinions are one thing, direct
+accusation another. This is not a healthy country for the informer.”
+
+When it came to the outlaws themselves Colonel Webb was disposed to talk
+freely. Duane could not judge whether the Colonel had a hobby of that
+subject or the outlaws were so striking in personality and deed that
+any man would know all about them. The great name along the river was
+Cheseldine, but it seemed to be a name detached from an individual. No
+person of veracity known to Colonel Webb had ever seen Cheseldine,
+and those who claimed that doubtful honor varied so diversely in
+descriptions of the chief that they confused the reality and lent to
+the outlaw only further mystery. Strange to say of an outlaw leader, as
+there was no one who could identify him, so there was no one who could
+prove he had actually killed a man. Blood flowed like water over the
+Big Bend country, and it was Cheseldine who spilled it. Yet the fact
+remained there were no eye-witnesses to connect any individual called
+Cheseldine with these deeds of violence. But in striking contrast to
+this mystery was the person, character, and cold-blooded action of
+Poggin and Knell, the chief's lieutenants. They were familiar figures in
+all the towns within two hundred miles of Bradford. Knell had a record,
+but as gunman with an incredible list of victims Poggin was supreme.
+If Poggin had a friend no one ever heard of him. There were a hundred
+stories of his nerve, his wonderful speed with a gun, his passion for
+gambling, his love of a horse--his cold, implacable, inhuman wiping out
+of his path any man that crossed it.
+
+“Cheseldine is a name, a terrible name,” said Colonel Webb. “Sometimes
+I wonder if he's not only a name. In that case where does the brains of
+this gang come from? No; there must be a master craftsman behind this
+border pillage; a master capable of handling those terrors Poggin and
+Knell. Of all the thousands of outlaws developed by western Texas in the
+last twenty years these three are the greatest. In southern Texas, down
+between the Pecos and the Nueces, there have been and are still many
+bad men. But I doubt if any outlaw there, possibly excepting Buck Duane,
+ever equaled Poggin. You've heard of this Duane?”
+
+“Yes, a little,” replied Duane, quietly. “I'm from southern Texas. Buck
+Duane then is known out here?”
+
+“Why, man, where isn't his name known?” returned Colonel Webb. “I've
+kept track of his record as I have all the others. Of course, Duane,
+being a lone outlaw, is somewhat of a mystery also, but not like
+Cheseldine. Out here there have drifted many stories of Duane, horrible
+some of them. But despite them a sort of romance clings to that Nueces
+outlaw. He's killed three great outlaw leaders, I believe--Bland,
+Hardin, and the other I forgot. Hardin was known in the Big Bend, had
+friends there. Bland had a hard name at Del Rio.”
+
+“Then this man Duane enjoys rather an unusual repute west of the Pecos?”
+ inquired Duane.
+
+“He's considered more of an enemy to his kind than to honest men.
+I understand Duane had many friends, that whole counties swear by
+him--secretly, of course, for he's a hunted outlaw with rewards on his
+head. His fame in this country appears to hang on his matchless gun-play
+and his enmity toward outlaw chiefs. I've heard many a rancher say: 'I
+wish to God that Buck Duane would drift out here! I'd give a hundred
+pesos to see him and Poggin meet.' It's a singular thing, stranger, how
+jealous these great outlaws are of each other.”
+
+“Yes, indeed, all about them is singular,” replied Duane. “Has
+Cheseldine's gang been busy lately?”
+
+“No. This section has been free of rustling for months, though there's
+unexplained movements of stock. Probably all the stock that's being
+shipped now was rustled long ago. Cheseldine works over a wide section,
+too wide for news to travel inside of weeks. Then sometimes he's not
+heard of at all for a spell. These lulls are pretty surely indicative of
+a big storm sooner or later. And Cheseldine's deals, as they grow fewer
+and farther between, certainly get bigger, more daring. There are some
+people who think Cheseldine had nothing to do with the bank-robberies
+and train-holdups during the last few years in this country. But that's
+poor reasoning. The jobs have been too well done, too surely covered, to
+be the work of greasers or ordinary outlaws.”
+
+“What's your view of the outlook? How's all this going to wind up? Will
+the outlaw ever be driven out?” asked Duane.
+
+“Never. There will always be outlaws along the Rio Grande. All the
+armies in the world couldn't comb the wild brakes of that fifteen
+hundred miles of river. But the sway of the outlaw, such as is enjoyed
+by these great leaders, will sooner or later be past. The criminal
+element flock to the Southwest. But not so thick and fast as the
+pioneers. Besides, the outlaws kill themselves, and the ranchers are
+slowly rising in wrath, if not in action. That will come soon. If they
+only had a leader to start the fight! But that will come. There's talk
+of Vigilantes, the same hat were organized in California and are now in
+force in Idaho. So far it's only talk. But the time will come. And the
+days of Cheseldine and Poggin are numbered.”
+
+Duane went to bed that night exceedingly thoughtful. The long trail was
+growing hot. This voluble colonel had given him new ideas. It came
+to Duane in surprise that he was famous along the upper Rio Grande.
+Assuredly he would not long be able to conceal his identity. He had
+no doubt that he would soon meet the chiefs of this clever and bold
+rustling gang. He could not decide whether he would be safer unknown or
+known. In the latter case his one chance lay in the fatality connected
+with his name, in his power to look it and act it. Duane had never
+dreamed of any sleuth-hound tendency in his nature, but now he felt
+something like one. Above all others his mind fixed on Poggin--Poggin
+the brute, the executor of Cheseldine's will, but mostly upon Poggin the
+gunman. This in itself was a warning to Duane. He felt terrible forces
+at work within him. There was the stern and indomitable resolve to
+make MacNelly's boast good to the governor of the state--to break up
+Cheseldine's gang. Yet this was not in Duane's mind before a strange
+grim and deadly instinct--which he had to drive away for fear he would
+find in it a passion to kill Poggin, not for the state, nor for his word
+to MacNelly, but for himself. Had his father's blood and the hard years
+made Duane the kind of man who instinctively wanted to meet Poggin? He
+was sworn to MacNelly's service, and he fought himself to keep that, and
+that only, in his mind.
+
+Duane ascertained that Fairdale was situated two days' ride from
+Bradford toward the north. There was a stage which made the journey
+twice a week.
+
+Next morning Duane mounted his horse and headed for Fairdale. He rode
+leisurely, as he wanted to learn all he could about the country.
+There were few ranches. The farther he traveled the better grazing he
+encountered, and, strange to note, the fewer herds of cattle.
+
+It was just sunset when he made out a cluster of adobe houses that
+marked the half-way point between Bradford and Fairdale. Here, Duane had
+learned, was stationed a comfortable inn for wayfarers.
+
+When he drew up before the inn the landlord and his family and a number
+of loungers greeted him laconically.
+
+“Beat the stage in, hey?” remarked one.
+
+“There she comes now,” said another. “Joel shore is drivin' to-night.”
+
+Far down the road Duane saw a cloud of dust and horses and a lumbering
+coach. When he had looked after the needs of his horse he returned to
+the group before the inn. They awaited the stage with that
+interest common to isolated people. Presently it rolled up, a large
+mud-bespattered and dusty vehicle, littered with baggage on top and
+tied on behind. A number of passengers alighted, three of whom excited
+Duane's interest. One was a tall, dark, striking-looking man, and the
+other two were ladies, wearing long gray ulsters and veils. Duane heard
+the proprietor of the inn address the man as Colonel Longstreth, and as
+the party entered the inn Duane's quick ears caught a few words which
+acquainted him with the fact that Longstreth was the Mayor of Fairdale.
+
+Duane passed inside himself to learn that supper would soon be ready.
+At table he found himself opposite the three who had attracted his
+attention.
+
+“Ruth, I envy the lucky cowboys,” Longstreth was saying.
+
+Ruth was a curly-headed girl with gray or hazel eyes.
+
+“I'm crazy to ride bronchos,” she said.
+
+Duane gathered she was on a visit to western Texas. The other girl's
+deep voice, sweet like a bell, made Duane regard her closer. She had
+beauty as he had never seen it in another woman. She was slender, but
+the development of her figure gave Duane the impression she was twenty
+years old or more. She had the most exquisite hands Duane had ever seen.
+She did not resemble the Colonel, who was evidently her father. She
+looked tired, quiet, even melancholy. A finely chiseled oval face;
+clear, olive-tinted skin, long eyes set wide apart and black as coal,
+beautiful to look into; a slender, straight nose that had something
+nervous and delicate about it which made Duane think of a thoroughbred;
+and a mouth by no means small, but perfectly curved; and hair like
+jet--all these features proclaimed her beauty to Duane. Duane believed
+her a descendant of one of the old French families of eastern Texas. He
+was sure of it when she looked at him, drawn by his rather persistent
+gaze. There were pride, fire, and passion in her eyes. Duane felt
+himself blushing in confusion. His stare at her had been rude, perhaps,
+but unconscious. How many years had passed since he had seen a girl like
+her! Thereafter he kept his eyes upon his plate, yet he seemed to be
+aware that he had aroused the interest of both girls.
+
+After supper the guests assembled in a big sitting-room where an open
+fire place with blazing mesquite sticks gave out warmth and cheery glow.
+Duane took a seat by a table in the corner, and, finding a paper,
+began to read. Presently when he glanced up he saw two dark-faced
+men, strangers who had not appeared before, and were peering in from a
+doorway. When they saw Duane had observed them they stepped back out of
+sight.
+
+It flashed over Duane that the strangers acted suspiciously. In Texas
+in the seventies it was always bad policy to let strangers go unheeded.
+Duane pondered a moment. Then he went out to look over these two men.
+The doorway opened into a patio, and across that was a little dingy,
+dim-lighted bar-room. Here Duane found the innkeeper dispensing drinks
+to the two strangers. They glanced up when he entered, and one of them
+whispered. He imagined he had seen one of them before. In Texas, where
+outdoor men were so rough, bronzed, bold, and sometimes grim of aspect,
+it was no easy task to pick out the crooked ones. But Duane's years on
+the border had augmented a natural instinct or gift to read character,
+or at least to sense the evil in men; and he knew at once that these
+strangers were dishonest.
+
+“Hey somethin'?” one of them asked, leering. Both looked Duane up and
+down.
+
+“No thanks, I don't drink,” Duane replied, and returned their scrutiny
+with interest. “How's tricks in the Big Bend?”
+
+Both men stared. It had taken only a close glance for Duane to recognize
+a type of ruffian most frequently met along the river. These strangers
+had that stamp, and their surprise proved he was right. Here the
+innkeeper showed signs of uneasiness, and seconded the surprise of his
+customers. No more was said at the instant, and the two rather hurriedly
+went out.
+
+“Say, boss, do you know those fellows?” Duane asked the innkeeper.
+
+“Nope.”
+
+“Which way did they come?”
+
+“Now I think of it, them fellers rid in from both corners today,” he
+replied, and he put both hands on the bar and looked at Duane. “They
+nooned heah, comin' from Bradford, they said, an' trailed in after the
+stage.”
+
+When Duane returned to the sitting-room Colonel Longstreth was absent,
+also several of the other passengers. Miss Ruth sat in the chair he had
+vacated, and across the table from her sat Miss Longstreth. Duane went
+directly to them.
+
+“Excuse me,” said Duane, addressing them. “I want to tell you there are
+a couple of rough-looking men here. I've just seen them. They mean
+evil. Tell your father to be careful. Lock your doors--bar your windows
+to-night.”
+
+“Oh!” cried Ruth, very low. “Ray, do you hear?”
+
+“Thank you; we'll be careful,” said Miss Longstreth, gracefully. The
+rich color had faded in her cheek. “I saw those men watching you
+from that door. They had such bright black eyes. Is there really
+danger--here?”
+
+“I think so,” was Duane's reply.
+
+Soft swift steps behind him preceded a harsh voice: “Hands up!”
+
+No man quicker than Duane to recognize the intent in those words! His
+hands shot up. Miss Ruth uttered a little frightened cry and sank into
+her chair. Miss Longstreth turned white, her eyes dilated. Both girls
+were staring at some one behind Duane.
+
+“Turn around!” ordered the harsh voice.
+
+The big, dark stranger, the bearded one who had whispered to his comrade
+in the bar-room and asked Duane to drink, had him covered with a cocked
+gun. He strode forward, his eyes gleaming, pressed the gun against him,
+and with his other hand dove into his inside coat pocket and tore out
+his roll of bills. Then he reached low at Duane's hip, felt his gun, and
+took it. Then he slapped the other hip, evidently in search of another
+weapon. That done, he backed away, wearing an expression of fiendish
+satisfaction that made Duane think he was only a common thief, a novice
+at this kind of game.
+
+His comrade stood in the door with a gun leveled at two other men, who
+stood there frightened, speechless.
+
+“Git a move on, Bill,” called this fellow; and he took a hasty glance
+backward. A stamp of hoofs came from outside. Of course the robbers had
+horses waiting. The one called Bill strode across the room, and with
+brutal, careless haste began to prod the two men with his weapon and to
+search them. The robber in the doorway called “Rustle!” and disappeared.
+
+Duane wondered where the innkeeper was, and Colonel Longstreth and the
+other two passengers. The bearded robber quickly got through with his
+searching, and from his growls Duane gathered he had not been well
+remunerated. Then he wheeled once more. Duane had not moved a muscle,
+stood perfectly calm with his arms high. The robber strode back with his
+bloodshot eyes fastened upon the girls. Miss Longstreth never flinched,
+but the little girl appeared about to faint.
+
+“Don't yap, there!” he said, low and hard. He thrust the gun close to
+Ruth. Then Duane knew for sure that he was no knight of the road, but a
+plain cutthroat robber. Danger always made Duane exult in a kind of cold
+glow. But now something hot worked within him. He had a little gun in
+his pocket. The robber had missed it. And he began to calculate chances.
+
+“Any money, jewelry, diamonds!” ordered the ruffian, fiercely.
+
+Miss Ruth collapsed. Then he made at Miss Longstreth. She stood with
+her hands at her breast. Evidently the robber took this position to
+mean that she had valuables concealed there. But Duane fancied she had
+instinctively pressed her hands against a throbbing heart.
+
+“Come out with it!” he said, harshly, reaching for her.
+
+“Don't dare touch me!” she cried, her eyes ablaze. She did not move. She
+had nerve.
+
+It made Duane thrill. He saw he was going to get a chance. Waiting had
+been a science with him. But here it was hard. Miss Ruth had fainted,
+and that was well. Miss Longstreth had fight in her, which fact helped
+Duane, yet made injury possible to her. She eluded two lunges the man
+made at her. Then his rough hand caught her waist, and with one pull
+ripped it asunder, exposing her beautiful shoulder, white as snow.
+
+She cried out. The prospect of being robbed or even killed had not
+shaken Miss Longstreth's nerve as had this brutal tearing off of half
+her waist.
+
+The ruffian was only turned partially away from Duane. For himself
+he could have waited no longer. But for her! That gun was still held
+dangerously upward close to her. Duane watched only that. Then a bellow
+made him jerk his head. Colonel Longstreth stood in the doorway in a
+magnificent rage. He had no weapon. Strange how he showed no fear! He
+bellowed something again.
+
+Duane's shifting glance caught the robber's sudden movement. It was
+a kind of start. He seemed stricken. Duane expected him to shoot
+Longstreth. Instead the hand that clutched Miss Longstreth's torn waist
+loosened its hold. The other hand with its cocked weapon slowly dropped
+till it pointed to the floor. That was Duane's chance.
+
+Swift as a flash he drew his gun and fired. Thud! went his bullet, and
+he could not tell on the instant whether it hit the robber or went into
+the ceiling. Then the robber's gun boomed harmlessly. He fell with blood
+spurting over his face. Duane realized he had hit him, but the small
+bullet had glanced.
+
+Miss Longstreth reeled and might have fallen had Duane not supported
+her. It was only a few steps to a couch, to which he half led, half
+carried her. Then he rushed out of the room, across the patio, through
+the bar to the yard. Nevertheless, he was cautious. In the gloom stood a
+saddled horse, probably the one belonging to the fellow he had shot.
+His comrade had escaped. Returning to the sitting-room, Duane found a
+condition approaching pandemonium.
+
+The innkeeper rushed in, pitchfork in hands. Evidently he had been out
+at the barn. He was now shouting to find out what had happened. Joel,
+the stage-driver, was trying to quiet the men who had been robbed. The
+woman, wife of one of the men, had come in, and she had hysterics. The
+girls were still and white. The robber Bill lay where he had fallen, and
+Duane guessed he had made a fair shot, after all. And, lastly, the thing
+that struck Duane most of all was Longstreth's rage. He never saw such
+passion. Like a caged lion Longstreth stalked and roared. There came a
+quieter moment in which the innkeeper shrilly protested:
+
+“Man, what're you ravin' aboot? Nobody's hurt, an' thet's lucky. I swear
+to God I hadn't nothin' to do with them fellers!”
+
+“I ought to kill you anyhow!” replied Longstreth. And his voice now
+astounded Duane, it was so full of power.
+
+Upon examination Duane found that his bullet had furrowed the robber's
+temple, torn a great piece out of his scalp, and, as Duane had guessed,
+had glanced. He was not seriously injured, and already showed signs of
+returning consciousness.
+
+“Drag him out of here!” ordered Longstreth; and he turned to his
+daughter.
+
+Before the innkeeper reached the robber Duane had secured the money and
+gun taken from him; and presently recovered the property of the other
+men. Joel helped the innkeeper carry the injured man somewhere outside.
+
+Miss Longstreth was sitting white but composed upon the couch, where lay
+Miss Ruth, who evidently had been carried there by the Colonel. Duane
+did not think she had wholly lost consciousness, and now she lay very
+still, with eyes dark and shadowy, her face pallid and wet. The Colonel,
+now that he finally remembered his women-folk, seemed to be gentle and
+kind. He talked soothingly to Miss Ruth, made light of the adventure,
+said she must learn to have nerve out here where things happened.
+
+“Can I be of any service?” asked Duane, solicitously.
+
+“Thanks; I guess there's nothing you can do. Talk to these frightened
+girls while I go see what's to be done with that thick-skulled robber,”
+ he replied, and, telling the girls that there was no more danger, he
+went out.
+
+Miss Longstreth sat with one hand holding her torn waist in place; the
+other she extended to Duane. He took it awkwardly, and he felt a strange
+thrill.
+
+“You saved my life,” she said, in grave, sweet seriousness.
+
+“No, no!” Duane exclaimed. “He might have struck you, hurt you, but no
+more.”
+
+“I saw murder in his eyes. He thought I had jewels under my dress. I
+couldn't bear his touch. The beast! I'd have fought. Surely my life was
+in peril.”
+
+“Did you kill him?” asked Miss Ruth, who lay listening.
+
+“Oh no. He's not badly hurt.”
+
+“I'm very glad he's alive,” said Miss Longstreth, shuddering.
+
+“My intention was bad enough,” Duane went on. “It was a ticklish place
+for me. You see, he was half drunk, and I was afraid his gun might go
+off. Fool careless he was!”
+
+“Yet you say you didn't save me,” Miss Longstreth returned, quickly.
+
+“Well, let it go at that,” Duane responded. “I saved you something.”
+
+“Tell me all about it?” asked Miss Ruth, who was fast recovering.
+
+Rather embarrassed, Duane briefly told the incident from his point of
+view.
+
+“Then you stood there all the time with your hands up thinking of
+nothing--watching for nothing except a little moment when you might draw
+your gun?” asked Miss Ruth.
+
+“I guess that's about it,” he replied.
+
+“Cousin,” said Miss Longstreth, thoughtfully, “it was fortunate for us
+that this gentleman happened to be here. Papa scouts--laughs at danger.
+He seemed to think there was no danger. Yet he raved after it came.”
+
+“Go with us all the way to Fairdale--please?” asked Miss Ruth, sweetly
+offering her hand. “I am Ruth Herbert. And this is my cousin, Ray
+Longstreth.”
+
+“I'm traveling that way,” replied Duane, in great confusion. He did not
+know how to meet the situation.
+
+Colonel Longstreth returned then, and after bidding Duane a good night,
+which seemed rather curt by contrast to the graciousness of the girls,
+he led them away.
+
+Before going to bed Duane went outside to take a look at the injured
+robber and perhaps to ask him a few questions. To Duane's surprise, he
+was gone, and so was his horse. The innkeeper was dumfounded. He said
+that he left the fellow on the floor in the bar-room.
+
+“Had he come to?” inquired Duane.
+
+“Sure. He asked for whisky.”
+
+“Did he say anything else?”
+
+“Not to me. I heard him talkin' to the father of them girls.”
+
+“You mean Colonel Longstreth?”
+
+“I reckon. He sure was some riled, wasn't he? Jest as if I was to blame
+fer that two-bit of a hold-up!”
+
+“What did you make of the old gent's rage?” asked Duane, watching the
+innkeeper. He scratched his head dubiously. He was sincere, and Duane
+believed in his honesty.
+
+“Wal, I'm doggoned if I know what to make of it. But I reckon he's
+either crazy or got more nerve than most Texans.”
+
+“More nerve, maybe,” Duane replied. “Show me a bed now, innkeeper.”
+
+Once in bed in the dark, Duane composed himself to think over the
+several events of the evening. He called up the details of the holdup
+and carefully revolved them in mind. The Colonel's wrath, under
+circumstances where almost any Texan would have been cool, nonplussed
+Duane, and he put it down to a choleric temperament. He pondered long on
+the action of the robber when Longstreth's bellow of rage burst in
+upon him. This ruffian, as bold and mean a type as Duane had ever
+encountered, had, from some cause or other, been startled. From whatever
+point Duane viewed the man's strange indecision he could come to
+only one conclusion--his start, his check, his fear had been that of
+recognition. Duane compared this effect with the suddenly acquired sense
+he had gotten of Colonel Longstreth's powerful personality. Why had that
+desperate robber lowered his gun and stood paralyzed at sight and sound
+of the Mayor of Fairdale? This was not answerable. There might have been
+a number of reasons, all to Colonel Longstreth's credit, but Duane
+could not understand. Longstreth had not appeared to see danger for his
+daughter, even though she had been roughly handled, and had advanced in
+front of a cocked gun. Duane probed deep into this singular fact, and he
+brought to bear on the thing all his knowledge and experience of
+violent Texas life. And he found that the instant Colonel Longstreth
+had appeared on the scene there was no further danger threatening his
+daughter. Why? That likewise Duane could not answer. Then his rage,
+Duane concluded, had been solely at the idea of HIS daughter being
+assaulted by a robber. This deduction was indeed a thought-disturber,
+but Duane put it aside to crystallize and for more careful
+consideration.
+
+Next morning Duane found that the little town was called Sanderson. It
+was larger than he had at first supposed. He walked up the main street
+and back again. Just as he arrived some horsemen rode up to the inn and
+dismounted. And at this juncture the Longstreth party came out. Duane
+heard Colonel Longstreth utter an exclamation. Then he saw him shake
+hands with a tall man. Longstreth looked surprised and angry, and he
+spoke with force; but Duane could not hear what it was he said. The
+fellow laughed, yet somehow he struck Duane as sullen, until suddenly
+he espied Miss Longstreth. Then his face changed, and he removed his
+sombrero. Duane went closer.
+
+“Floyd, did you come with the teams?” asked Longstreth, sharply.
+
+“Not me. I rode a horse, good and hard,” was the reply.
+
+“Humph! I'll have a word to say to you later.” Then Longstreth turned to
+his daughter. “Ray, here's the cousin I've told you about. You used to
+play with him ten years ago--Floyd Lawson. Floyd, my daughter--and my
+niece, Ruth Herbert.”
+
+Duane always scrutinized every one he met, and now with a dangerous game
+to play, with a consciousness of Longstreth's unusual and significant
+personality, he bent a keen and searching glance upon this Floyd Lawson.
+
+He was under thirty, yet gray at his temples--dark, smooth-shaven, with
+lines left by wildness, dissipation, shadows under dark eyes, a mouth
+strong and bitter, and a square chin--a reckless, careless, handsome,
+sinister face strangely losing the hardness when he smiled. The grace
+of a gentleman clung round him, seemed like an echo in his mellow voice.
+Duane doubted not that he, like many a young man, had drifted out to
+the frontier, where rough and wild life had wrought sternly but had not
+quite effaced the mark of good family.
+
+Colonel Longstreth apparently did not share the pleasure of his daughter
+and his niece in the advent of this cousin. Something hinged on this
+meeting. Duane grew intensely curious, but, as the stage appeared ready
+for the journey, he had no further opportunity to gratify it.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI
+
+Duane followed the stage through the town, out into the open, on to a
+wide, hard-packed road showing years of travel. It headed northwest. To
+the left rose a range of low, bleak mountains he had noted yesterday,
+and to the right sloped the mesquite-patched sweep of ridge and flat.
+The driver pushed his team to a fast trot, which gait surely covered
+ground rapidly.
+
+The stage made three stops in the forenoon, one at a place where the
+horses could be watered, the second at a chuck-wagon belonging to
+cowboys who were riding after stock, and the third at a small cluster
+of adobe and stone houses constituting a hamlet the driver called
+Longstreth, named after the Colonel. From that point on to Fairdale
+there were only a few ranches, each one controlling great acreage.
+
+Early in the afternoon from a ridge-top Duane sighted Fairdale, a green
+patch in the mass of gray. For the barrens of Texas it was indeed a fair
+sight. But he was more concerned with its remoteness from civilization
+than its beauty. At that time, in the early seventies, when the vast
+western third of Texas was a wilderness, the pioneer had done wonders to
+settle there and establish places like Fairdale.
+
+It needed only a glance for Duane to pick out Colonel Longstreth's
+ranch. The house was situated on the only elevation around Fairdale, and
+it was not high, nor more than a few minutes' walk from the edge of the
+town. It was a low, flat-roofed structure made of red adobe bricks, and
+covered what appeared to be fully an acre of ground. All was green about
+it, except where the fenced corrals and numerous barns or sheds showed
+gray and red.
+
+Duane soon reached the shady outskirts of Fairdale, and entered the
+town with mingled feelings of curiosity, eagerness, and expectation. The
+street he rode down was a main one, and on both sides of the street was
+a solid row of saloons, resorts, hotels. Saddled horses stood hitched
+all along the sidewalk in two long lines, with a buckboard and team here
+and there breaking the continuity. This block was busy and noisy.
+
+From all outside appearances Fairdale was no different from other
+frontier towns, and Duane's expectations were scarcely realized. As the
+afternoon was waning he halted at a little inn. A boy took charge of his
+horse. Duane questioned the lad about Fairdale and gradually drew to the
+subject most in mind.
+
+“Colonel Longstreth has a big outfit, eh?”
+
+“Reckon he has,” replied the lad. “Doan know how many cowboys. They're
+always comin' and goin'. I ain't acquainted with half of them.”
+
+“Much movement of stock these days?”
+
+“Stock's always movin',” he replied, with a queer look.
+
+“Rustlers?”
+
+But he did not follow up that look with the affirmative Duane expected.
+
+“Lively place, I hear--Fairdale is?”
+
+“Ain't so lively as Sanderson, but it's bigger.”
+
+“Yes, I heard it was. Fellow down there was talking about two cowboys
+who were arrested.”
+
+“Sure. I heered all about that. Joe Bean an' Brick Higgins--they belong
+heah, but they ain't heah much. Longstreth's boys.”
+
+Duane did not want to appear over-inquisitive, so he turned the talk
+into other channels.
+
+After getting supper Duane strolled up and down the main street. When
+darkness set in he went into a hotel, bought cigars, sat around, and
+watched. Then he passed out and went into the next place. This was of
+rough crude exterior, but the inside was comparatively pretentious and
+ablaze with lights. It was full of men coming and going--a dusty-booted
+crowd that smelled of horses and smoke. Duane sat down for a while, with
+wide eyes and open ears. Then he hunted up the bar, where most of the
+guests had been or were going. He found a great square room lighted by
+six huge lamps, a bar at one side, and all the floor-space taken up
+by tables and chairs. This was the only gambling place of any size in
+southern Texas in which he had noted the absence of Mexicans. There was
+some card-playing going on at this moment. Duane stayed in there for
+a while, and knew that strangers were too common in Fairdale to be
+conspicuous. Then he returned to the inn where he had engaged a room.
+
+Duane sat down on the steps of the dingy little restaurant. Two men were
+conversing inside, and they had not noticed Duane.
+
+“Laramie, what's the stranger's name?” asked one.
+
+“He didn't say,” replied the other.
+
+“Sure was a strappin' big man. Struck me a little odd, he did. No
+cattleman, him. How'd you size him?”
+
+“Well, like one of them cool, easy, quiet Texans who's been lookin' for
+a man for years--to kill him when he found him.”
+
+“Right you are, Laramie; and, between you an' me, I hope he's lookin'
+for Long--”
+
+“'S--sh!” interrupted Laramie. “You must be half drunk, to go talkie'
+that way.”
+
+Thereafter they conversed in too low a tone for Duane to hear, and
+presently Laramie's visitor left. Duane went inside, and, making himself
+agreeable, began to ask casual questions about Fairdale. Laramie was not
+communicative.
+
+Duane went to his room in a thoughtful frame of mind. Had Laramie's
+visitor meant he hoped some one had come to kill Longstreth? Duane
+inferred just that from the interrupted remark. There was something
+wrong about the Mayor of Fairdale. Duane felt it. And he felt also, if
+there was a crooked and dangerous man, it was this Floyd Lawson. The
+innkeeper Laramie would be worth cultivating. And last in Duane's
+thoughts that night was Miss Longstreth. He could not help thinking of
+her--how strangely the meeting with her had affected him. It made him
+remember that long-past time when girls had been a part of his life.
+What a sad and dark and endless void lay between that past and the
+present! He had no right even to dream of a beautiful woman like Ray
+Longstreth. That conviction, however, did not dispel her; indeed,
+it seemed perversely to make her grow more fascinating. Duane grew
+conscious of a strange, unaccountable hunger, a something that was like
+a pang in his breast.
+
+Next day he lounged about the inn. He did not make any overtures to
+the taciturn proprietor. Duane had no need of hurry now. He contented
+himself with watching and listening. And at the close of that day he
+decided Fairdale was what MacNelly had claimed it to be, and that he was
+on the track of an unusual adventure. The following day he spent in much
+the same way, though on one occasion he told Laramie he was looking for
+a man. The innkeeper grew a little less furtive and reticent after that.
+He would answer casual queries, and it did not take Duane long to learn
+that Laramie had seen better days--that he was now broken, bitter, and
+hard. Some one had wronged him.
+
+Several days passed. Duane did not succeed in getting any closer to
+Laramie, but he found the idlers on the corners and in front of the
+stores unsuspicious and willing to talk. It did not take him long to
+find out that Fairdale stood parallel with Huntsville for gambling,
+drinking, and fighting. The street was always lined with dusty, saddled
+horses, the town full of strangers. Money appeared more abundant than in
+any place Duane had ever visited; and it was spent with the abandon
+that spoke forcibly of easy and crooked acquirement. Duane decided
+that Sanderson, Bradford, and Ord were but notorious outposts to this
+Fairdale, which was a secret center of rustlers and outlaws. And what
+struck Duane strangest of all was the fact that Longstreth was mayor
+here and held court daily. Duane knew intuitively, before a chance
+remark gave him proof, that this court was a sham, a farce. And he
+wondered if it were not a blind. This wonder of his was equivalent to
+suspicion of Colonel Longstreth, and Duane reproached himself. Then
+he realized that the reproach was because of the daughter. Inquiry had
+brought him the fact that Ray Longstreth had just come to live with her
+father. Longstreth had originally been a planter in Louisiana, where his
+family had remained after his advent in the West. He was a rich rancher;
+he owned half of Fairdale; he was a cattle-buyer on a large scale. Floyd
+Lawson was his lieutenant and associate in deals.
+
+On the afternoon of the fifth day of Duane's stay in Fairdale he
+returned to the inn from his usual stroll, and upon entering was amazed
+to have a rough-looking young fellow rush by him out of the door. Inside
+Laramie was lying on the floor, with a bloody bruise on his face. He did
+not appear to be dangerously hurt.
+
+“Bo Snecker! He hit me and went after the cash-drawer,” said Laramie,
+laboring to his feet.
+
+“Are you hurt much?” queried Duane.
+
+“I guess not. But Bo needn't to have soaked me. I've been robbed before
+without that.”
+
+“Well, I'll take a look after Bo,” replied Duane.
+
+He went out and glanced down the street toward the center of the town.
+He did not see any one he could take for the innkeeper's assailant. Then
+he looked up the street, and he saw the young fellow about a block away,
+hurrying along and gazing back.
+
+Duane yelled for him to stop and started to go after him. Snecker broke
+into a run. Then Duane set out to overhaul him. There were two motives
+in Duane's action--one of anger, and the other a desire to make a friend
+of this man Laramie, whom Duane believed could tell him much.
+
+Duane was light on his feet, and he had a giant stride. He gained
+rapidly upon Snecker, who, turning this way and that, could not get
+out of sight. Then he took to the open country and ran straight for
+the green hill where Longstreth's house stood. Duane had almost caught
+Snecker when he reached the shrubbery and trees and there eluded him.
+But Duane kept him in sight, in the shade, on the paths, and up the
+road into the courtyard, and he saw Snecker go straight for Longstreth's
+house.
+
+Duane was not to be turned back by that, singular as it was. He did not
+stop to consider. It seemed enough to know that fate had directed him to
+the path of this rancher Longstreth. Duane entered the first open door
+on that side of the court. It opened into a corridor which led into a
+plaza. It had wide, smooth stone porches, and flowers and shrubbery in
+the center. Duane hurried through to burst into the presence of Miss
+Longstreth and a number of young people. Evidently she was giving a
+little party.
+
+Lawson stood leaning against one of the pillars that supported the
+porch roof; at sight of Duane his face changed remarkably, expressing
+amazement, consternation, then fear.
+
+In the quick ensuing silence Miss Longstreth rose white as her dress.
+The young women present stared in astonishment, if they were not equally
+perturbed. There were cowboys present who suddenly grew intent and
+still. By these things Duane gathered that his appearance must
+be disconcerting. He was panting. He wore no hat or coat. His big
+gun-sheath showed plainly at his hip.
+
+Sight of Miss Longstreth had an unaccountable effect upon Duane. He was
+plunged into confusion. For the moment he saw no one but her.
+
+“Miss Longstreth--I came--to search--your house,” panted Duane.
+
+He hardly knew what he was saying, yet the instant he spoke he realized
+that that should have been the last thing for him to say. He had
+blundered. But he was not used to women, and this dark-eyed girl made
+him thrill and his heart beat thickly and his wits go scattering.
+
+“Search my house!” exclaimed Miss Longstreth; and red succeeded the
+white in her cheeks. She appeared astonished and angry. “What for? Why,
+how dare you! This is unwarrantable!”
+
+“A man--Bo Snecker--assaulted and robbed Jim Laramie,” replied Duane,
+hurriedly. “I chased Snecker here--saw him run into the house.”
+
+“Here? Oh, sir, you must be mistaken. We have seen no one. In the
+absence of my father I'm mistress here. I'll not permit you to search.”
+
+Lawson appeared to come out of his astonishment. He stepped forward.
+
+“Ray, don't be bothered now,” he said, to his cousin. “This fellow's
+making a bluff. I'll settle him. See here, Mister, you clear out!”
+
+“I want Snecker. He's here, and I'm going to get him,” replied Duane,
+quietly.
+
+“Bah! That's all a bluff,” sneered Lawson. “I'm on to your game. You
+just wanted an excuse to break in here--to see my cousin again. When you
+saw the company you invented that excuse. Now, be off, or it'll be the
+worse for you.”
+
+Duane felt his face burn with a tide of hot blood. Almost he felt that
+he was guilty of such motive. Had he not been unable to put this Ray
+Longstreth out of his mind? There seemed to be scorn in her eyes now.
+And somehow that checked his embarrassment.
+
+“Miss Longstreth, will you let me search the house?” he asked.
+
+“No.”
+
+“Then--I regret to say--I'll do so without your permission.”
+
+“You'll not dare!” she flashed. She stood erect, her bosom swelling.
+
+“Pardon me, yes, I will.”
+
+“Who are you?” she demanded, suddenly.
+
+“I'm a Texas Ranger,” replied Duane.
+
+“A TEXAS RANGER!” she echoed.
+
+Floyd Lawson's dark face turned pale.
+
+“Miss Longstreth, I don't need warrants to search houses,” said Duane.
+“I'm sorry to annoy you. I'd prefer to have your permission. A ruffian
+has taken refuge here--in your father's house. He's hidden somewhere.
+May I look for him?”
+
+“If you are indeed a ranger.”
+
+Duane produced his papers. Miss Longstreth haughtily refused to look at
+them.
+
+“Miss Longstreth, I've come to make Fairdale a safer, cleaner, better
+place for women and children. I don't wonder at your resentment. But to
+doubt me--insult me. Some day you may be sorry.”
+
+Floyd Lawson made a violent motion with his hands.
+
+“All stuff! Cousin, go on with your party. I'll take a couple of cowboys
+and go with this--this Texas Ranger.”
+
+“Thanks,” said Duane, coolly, as he eyed Lawson. “Perhaps you'll be able
+to find Snecker quicker than I could.”
+
+“What do you mean?” demanded Lawson, and now he grew livid. Evidently he
+was a man of fierce quick passions.
+
+“Don't quarrel,” said Miss Longstreth. “Floyd, you go with him. Please
+hurry. I'll be nervous till--the man's found or you're sure there's not
+one.”
+
+They started with several cowboys to search the house. They went through
+the rooms searching, calling out, peering into dark places. It struck
+Duane more than forcibly that Lawson did all the calling. He was
+hurried, too, tried to keep in the lead. Duane wondered if he knew his
+voice would be recognized by the hiding man. Be that as it might, it was
+Duane who peered into a dark corner and then, with a gun leveled, said
+“Come out!”
+
+He came forth into the flare--a tall, slim, dark-faced youth, wearing
+sombrero, blouse and trousers. Duane collared him before any of the
+others could move and held the gun close enough to make him shrink. But
+he did not impress Duane as being frightened just then; nevertheless, he
+had a clammy face, the pallid look of a man who had just gotten over a
+shock. He peered into Duane's face, then into that of the cowboy next to
+him, then into Lawson's, and if ever in Duane's life he beheld relief
+it was then. That was all Duane needed to know, but he meant to find out
+more if he could.
+
+“Who're you?” asked Duane, quietly.
+
+“Bo Snecker,” he said.
+
+“What'd you hide here for?”
+
+He appeared to grow sullen.
+
+“Reckoned I'd be as safe in Longstreth's as anywheres.”
+
+“Ranger, what'll you do with him?” Lawson queried, as if uncertain, now
+the capture was made.
+
+“I'll see to that,” replied Duane, and he pushed Snecker in front of him
+out into the court.
+
+Duane had suddenly conceived the idea of taking Snecker before Mayor
+Longstreth in the court.
+
+When Duane arrived at the hall where court was held there were other men
+there, a dozen or more, and all seemed excited; evidently, news of Duane
+had preceded him. Longstreth sat at a table up on a platform. Near
+him sat a thick-set grizzled man, with deep eyes, and this was Hanford
+Owens, county judge. To the right stood a tall, angular, yellow-faced
+fellow with a drooping sandy mustache. Conspicuous on his vest was a
+huge silver shield. This was Gorsech, one of Longstreth's sheriffs.
+There were four other men whom Duane knew by sight, several whose faces
+were familiar, and half a dozen strangers, all dusty horsemen.
+
+Longstreth pounded hard on the table to be heard. Mayor or not, he was
+unable at once to quell the excitement. Gradually, however, it subsided,
+and from the last few utterances before quiet was restored Duane
+gathered that he had intruded upon some kind of a meeting in the hall.
+
+“What'd you break in here for,” demanded Longstreth.
+
+“Isn't this the court? Aren't you the Mayor of Fairdale?” interrogated
+Duane. His voice was clear and loud, almost piercing.
+
+“Yes,” replied Longstreth. Like flint he seemed, yet Duane felt his
+intense interest.
+
+“I've arrested a criminal,” said Duane.
+
+“Arrested a criminal!” ejaculated Longstreth. “You? Who're you?”
+
+“I'm a ranger,” replied Duane.
+
+A significant silence ensued.
+
+“I charge Snecker with assault on Laramie and attempted robbery--if not
+murder. He's had a shady past here, as this court will know if it keeps
+a record.”
+
+“What's this I hear about you, Bo? Get up and speak for yourself,” said
+Longstreth, gruffly.
+
+Snecker got up, not without a furtive glance at Duane, and he had
+shuffled forward a few steps toward the Mayor. He had an evil front, but
+not the boldness even of a rustler.
+
+“It ain't so, Longstreth,” he began, loudly. “I went in Laramie's place
+fer grub. Some feller I never seen before come in from the hall an' hit
+Laramie an' wrestled him on the floor. I went out. Then this big ranger
+chased me an' fetched me here. I didn't do nothin'. This ranger's
+hankerin' to arrest somebody. Thet's my hunch, Longstreth.”
+
+Longstreth said something in an undertone to Judge Owens, and that
+worthy nodded his great bushy head.
+
+“Bo, you're discharged,” said Longstreth, bluntly. “Now the rest of you
+clear out of here.”
+
+He absolutely ignored the ranger. That was his rebuff to Duane--his slap
+in the face to an interfering ranger service. If Longstreth was crooked
+he certainly had magnificent nerve. Duane almost decided he was above
+suspicion. But his nonchalance, his air of finality, his authoritative
+assurance--these to Duane's keen and practiced eyes were in significant
+contrast to a certain tenseness of line about his mouth and a slow
+paling of his olive skin. In that momentary lull Duane's scrutiny of
+Longstreth gathered an impression of the man's intense curiosity.
+
+Then the prisoner, Snecker, with a cough that broke the spell of
+silence, shuffled a couple of steps toward the door.
+
+“Hold on!” called Duane. The call halted Snecker, as if it had been a
+bullet.
+
+“Longstreth, I saw Snecker attack Laramie,” said Duane, his voice still
+ringing. “What has the court to say to that?”
+
+“The court has this to say. West of the Pecos we'll not aid any ranger
+service. We don't want you out here. Fairdale doesn't need you.”
+
+“That's a lie, Longstreth,” retorted Duane. “I've letters from Fairdale
+citizens all begging for ranger service.”
+
+Longstreth turned white. The veins corded at his temples. He appeared
+about to burst into rage. He was at a loss for quick reply.
+
+Floyd Lawson rushed in and up to the table. The blood showed black and
+thick in his face; his utterance was incoherent, his uncontrollable
+outbreak of temper seemed out of all proportion to any cause he should
+reasonably have had for anger. Longstreth shoved him back with a curse
+and a warning glare.
+
+“Where's your warrant to arrest Snecker?” shouted Longstreth.
+
+“I don't need warrants to make arrests. Longstreth, you're ignorant of
+the power of Texas Rangers.”
+
+“You'll come none of your damned ranger stunts out here. I'll block
+you.”
+
+That passionate reply of Longstreth's was the signal Duane had
+been waiting for. He had helped on the crisis. He wanted to force
+Longstreth's hand and show the town his stand.
+
+Duane backed clear of everybody.
+
+“Men! I call on you all!” cried Duane, piercingly. “I call on you to
+witness the arrest of a criminal prevented by Longstreth, Mayor of
+Fairdale. It will be recorded in the report to the Adjutant-General at
+Austin. Longstreth, you'll never prevent another arrest.”
+
+Longstreth sat white with working jaw.
+
+“Longstreth, you've shown your hand,” said Duane, in a voice that
+carried far and held those who heard. “Any honest citizen of Fairdale
+can now see what's plain--yours is a damn poor hand! You're going to
+hear me call a spade a spade. In the two years you've been Mayor
+you've never arrested one rustler. Strange, when Fairdale's a nest for
+rustlers! You've never sent a prisoner to Del Rio, let alone to
+Austin. You have no jail. There have been nine murders during your
+office--innumerable street-fights and holdups. Not one arrest! But you
+have ordered arrests for trivial offenses, and have punished these out
+of all proportion. There have been lawsuits in your court-suits over
+water-rights, cattle deals, property lines. Strange how in these
+lawsuits you or Lawson or other men close to you were always involved!
+Strange how it seems the law was stretched to favor your interest!”
+
+Duane paused in his cold, ringing speech. In the silence, both outside
+and inside the hall, could be heard the deep breathing of agitated men.
+Longstreth was indeed a study. Yet did he betray anything but rage at
+this interloper?
+
+“Longstreth, here's plain talk for you and Fairdale,” went on Duane. “I
+don't accuse you and your court of dishonesty. I say STRANGE! Law here
+has been a farce. The motive behind all this laxity isn't plain to
+me--yet. But I call your hand!”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII
+
+Duane left the hall, elbowed his way through the crowd, and went down
+the street. He was certain that on the faces of some men he had seen
+ill-concealed wonder and satisfaction. He had struck some kind of a hot
+trait, and he meant to see where it led. It was by no means unlikely
+that Cheseldine might be at the other end. Duane controlled a mounting
+eagerness. But ever and anon it was shot through with a remembrance of
+Ray Longstreth. He suspected her father of being not what he pretended.
+He might, very probably would, bring sorrow and shame to this young
+woman. The thought made him smart with pain. She began to haunt him,
+and then he was thinking more of her beauty and sweetness than of the
+disgrace he might bring upon her. Some strange emotion, long locked
+inside Duane's heart, knocked to be heard, to be let out. He was
+troubled.
+
+Upon returning to the inn he found Laramie there, apparently none the
+worse for his injury.
+
+“How are you, Laramie?” he asked.
+
+“Reckon I'm feelin' as well as could be expected,” replied Laramie. His
+head was circled by a bandage that did not conceal the lump where he had
+been struck. He looked pale, but was bright enough.
+
+“That was a good crack Snecker gave you,” remarked Duane.
+
+“I ain't accusin' Bo,” remonstrated Laramie, with eyes that made Duane
+thoughtful.
+
+“Well, I accuse him. I caught him--took him to Longstreth's court. But
+they let him go.”
+
+Laramie appeared to be agitated by this intimation of friendship.
+
+“See here, Laramie,” went on Duane, “in some parts of Texas it's policy
+to be close-mouthed. Policy and health-preserving! Between ourselves, I
+want you to know I lean on your side of the fence.”
+
+Laramie gave a quick start. Presently Duane turned and frankly met his
+gaze. He had startled Laramie out of his habitual set taciturnity; but
+even as he looked the light that might have been amaze and joy faded out
+of his face, leaving it the same old mask. Still Duane had seen enough.
+Like a bloodhound he had a scent.
+
+“Talking about work, Laramie, who'd you say Snecker worked for?”
+
+“I didn't say.”
+
+“Well, say so now, can't you? Laramie, you're powerful peevish to-day.
+It's that bump on your head. Who does Snecker work for?”
+
+“When he works at all, which sure ain't often, he rides for Longstreth.”
+
+“Humph! Seems to me that Longstreth's the whole circus round Fairdale.
+I was some sore the other day to find I was losing good money at
+Longstreth's faro game. Sure if I'd won I wouldn't have been sore--ha,
+ha! But I was surprised to hear some one say Longstreth owned the Hope
+So joint.”
+
+“He owns considerable property hereabouts,” replied Laramie,
+constrainedly.
+
+“Humph again! Laramie, like every other fellow I meet in this town,
+you're afraid to open your trap about Longstreth. Get me straight,
+Laramie. I don't care a damn for Colonel Mayor Longstreth. And for cause
+I'd throw a gun on him just as quick as on any rustler in Pecos.”
+
+“Talk's cheap,” replied Laramie, making light of his bluster, but the
+red was deeper in his face.
+
+“Sure. I know that,” Duane said. “And usually I don't talk. Then it's
+not well known that Longstreth owns the Hope So?”
+
+“Reckon it's known in Pecos, all right. But Longstreth's name isn't
+connected with the Hope So. Blandy runs the place.”
+
+“That Blandy. His faro game's crooked, or I'm a locoed bronch. Not that
+we don't have lots of crooked faro-dealers. A fellow can stand for them.
+But Blandy's mean, back-handed, never looks you in the eyes. That Hope
+So place ought to be run by a good fellow like you, Laramie.”
+
+“Thanks,” replied he; and Duane imagined his voice a little husky.
+“Didn't you hear I used to run it?”
+
+“No. Did you?” Duane said, quickly.
+
+“I reckon. I built the place, made additions twice, owned it for eleven
+years.”
+
+“Well, I'll be doggoned.” It was indeed Duane's turn to be surprised,
+and with the surprise came a glimmering. “I'm sorry you're not there
+now. Did you sell out?”
+
+“No. Just lost the place.”
+
+Laramie was bursting for relief now--to talk, to tell. Sympathy had made
+him soft.
+
+“It was two years ago-two years last March,” he went on. “I was in a big
+cattle deal with Longstreth. We got the stock--an' my share, eighteen
+hundred head, was rustled off. I owed Longstreth. He pressed me. It come
+to a lawsuit--an' I--was ruined.”
+
+It hurt Duane to look at Laramie. He was white, and tears rolled down
+his cheeks. Duane saw the bitterness, the defeat, the agony of the
+man. He had failed to meet his obligations; nevertheless, he had been
+swindled. All that he suppressed, all that would have been passion had
+the man's spirit not been broken, lay bare for Duane to see. He had now
+the secret of his bitterness. But the reason he did not openly accuse
+Longstreth, the secret of his reticence and fear--these Duane thought
+best to try to learn at some later time.
+
+“Hard luck! It certainly was tough,” Duane said. “But you're a good
+loser. And the wheel turns! Now, Laramie, here's what. I need your
+advice. I've got a little money. But before I lose it I want to invest
+some. Buy some stock, or buy an interest in some rancher's herd. What I
+want you to steer me on is a good square rancher. Or maybe a couple of
+ranchers, if there happen to be two honest ones. Ha, ha! No deals with
+ranchers who ride in the dark with rustlers! I've a hunch Fairdale is
+full of them. Now, Laramie, you've been here for years. Sure you must
+know a couple of men above suspicion.”
+
+“Thank God I do,” he replied, feelingly. “Frank Morton an' Si Zimmer, my
+friends an' neighbors all my prosperous days, an' friends still. You
+can gamble on Frank and Si. But if you want advice from me--don't invest
+money in stock now.”
+
+“Why?”
+
+“Because any new feller buyin' stock these days will be rustled quicker
+'n he can say Jack Robinson. The pioneers, the new cattlemen--these
+are easy pickin' for the rustlers. Lord knows all the ranchers are easy
+enough pickin'. But the new fellers have to learn the ropes. They don't
+know anythin' or anybody. An' the old ranchers are wise an' sore. They'd
+fight if they--”
+
+“What?” Duane put in, as he paused. “If they knew who was rustling the
+stock?”
+
+“Nope.”
+
+“If they had the nerve?”
+
+“Not thet so much.”
+
+“What then? What'd make them fight?”
+
+“A leader!”
+
+“Howdy thar, Jim,” boomed a big voice.
+
+A man of great bulk, with a ruddy, merry face, entered the room.
+
+“Hello, Morton,” replied Laramie. “I'd introduce you to my guest here,
+but I don't know his name.”
+
+“Haw! Haw! Thet's all right. Few men out hyar go by their right names.”
+
+“Say, Morton,” put in Duane, “Laramie gave me a hunch you'd be a good
+man to tie to. Now, I've a little money and before I lose it I'd like to
+invest it in stock.”
+
+Morton smiled broadly.
+
+“I'm on the square,” Duane said, bluntly. “If you fellows never size up
+your neighbors any better than you have sized me--well, you won't get
+any richer.”
+
+It was enjoyment for Duane to make his remarks to these men pregnant
+with meaning. Morton showed his pleasure, his interest, but his faith
+held aloof.
+
+“I've got some money. Will you let me in on some kind of deal? Will you
+start me up as a stockman with a little herd all my own?”
+
+“Wal, stranger, to come out flat-footed, you'd be foolish to buy cattle
+now. I don't want to take your money an' see you lose out. Better go
+back across the Pecos where the rustlers ain't so strong. I haven't had
+more'n twenty-five hundred herd of stock for ten years. The rustlers let
+me hang on to a breedin' herd. Kind of them, ain't it?”
+
+“Sort of kind. All I hear is rustlers, Morton,” replied Duane, with
+impatience. “You see, I haven't ever lived long in a rustler-run county.
+Who heads the gang, anyway?”
+
+Morton looked at Duane with a curiously amused smile, then snapped his
+big jaw as if to shut in impulsive words.
+
+“Look here, Morton. It stands to reason, no matter how strong these
+rustlers are, how hidden their work, however involved with supposedly
+honest men--they CAN'T last.”
+
+“They come with the pioneers, an' they'll last till thar's a single
+steer left,” he declared.
+
+“Well, if you take that view of circumstances I just figure you as one
+of the rustlers.”
+
+Morton looked as if he were about to brain Duane with the butt of his
+whip. His anger flashed by then, evidently as unworthy of him, and,
+something striking him as funny, he boomed out a laugh.
+
+“It's not so funny,” Duane went on. “If you're going to pretend a yellow
+streak, what else will I think?”
+
+“Pretend?” he repeated.
+
+“Sure. I know men of nerve. And here they're not any different from
+those in other places. I say if you show anything like a lack of sand
+it's all bluff. By nature you've got nerve. There are a lot of men
+around Fairdale who're afraid of their shadows--afraid to be out after
+dark--afraid to open their mouths. But you're not one. So I say if you
+claim these rustlers will last you're pretending lack of nerve just to
+help the popular idea along. For they CAN'T last. What you need out here
+is some new blood. Savvy what I mean?”
+
+“Wal, I reckon I do,” he replied, looking as if a storm had blown over
+him. “Stranger, I'll look you up the next time I come to town.”
+
+Then he went out.
+
+Laramie had eyes like flint striking fire.
+
+He breathed a deep breath and looked around the room before his gaze
+fixed again on Duane.
+
+“Wal,” he replied, speaking low. “You've picked the right men. Now, who
+in the hell are you?”
+
+Reaching into the inside pocket of his buckskin vest, Duane turned the
+lining out. A star-shaped bright silver object flashed as he shoved it,
+pocket and all, under Jim's hard eyes.
+
+“RANGER!” he whispered, cracking the table with his fist. “You sure rung
+true to me.”
+
+“Laramie, do you know who's boss of this secret gang of rustlers
+hereabouts?” asked Duane, bluntly. It was characteristic of him to
+come sharp to the point. His voice--something deep, easy, cool about
+him--seemed to steady Laramie.
+
+“No,” replied Laramie.
+
+“Does anybody know?” went on Duane.
+
+“Wal, I reckon there's not one honest native who KNOWS.”
+
+“But you have your suspicions?”
+
+“We have.”
+
+“Give me your idea about this crowd that hangs round the saloons--the
+regulars.”
+
+“Jest a bad lot,” replied Laramie, with the quick assurance of
+knowledge. “Most of them have been here years. Others have drifted in.
+Some of them work, odd times. They rustle a few steers, steal, rob,
+anythin' for a little money to drink an' gamble. Jest a bad lot!”
+
+“Have you any idea whether Cheseldine and his gang are associated with
+this gang here?”
+
+“Lord knows. I've always suspected them the same gang. None of us ever
+seen Cheseldine--an' thet's strange, when Knell, Poggin, Panhandle
+Smith, Blossom Kane, and Fletcher, they all ride here often. No, Poggin
+doesn't come often. But the others do. For thet matter, they're around
+all over west of the Pecos.”
+
+“Now I'm puzzled over this,” said Duane. “Why do men--apparently honest
+men--seem to be so close-mouthed here? Is that a fact, or only my
+impression?”
+
+“It's a sure fact,” replied Laramie, darkly. “Men have lost cattle an'
+property in Fairdale--lost them honestly or otherwise, as hasn't been
+proved. An' in some cases when they talked--hinted a little--they was
+found dead. Apparently held up an robbed. But dead. Dead men don't talk!
+Thet's why we're close mouthed.”
+
+Duane felt a dark, somber sternness. Rustling cattle was not
+intolerable. Western Texas had gone on prospering, growing in spite of
+the hordes of rustlers ranging its vast stretches; but a cold, secret,
+murderous hold on a little struggling community was something too
+strange, too terrible for men to stand long.
+
+The ranger was about to speak again when the clatter of hoofs
+interrupted him. Horses halted out in front, and one rider got down.
+Floyd Lawson entered. He called for tobacco.
+
+If his visit surprised Laramie he did not show any evidence. But Lawson
+showed rage as he saw the ranger, and then a dark glint flitted from
+the eyes that shifted from Duane to Laramie and back again. Duane leaned
+easily against the counter.
+
+“Say, that was a bad break of yours,” Lawson said. “If you come fooling
+round the ranch again there'll be hell.”
+
+It seemed strange that a man who had lived west of the Pecos for ten
+years could not see in Duane something which forbade that kind of talk.
+It certainly was not nerve Lawson showed; men of courage were seldom
+intolerant. With the matchless nerve that characterized the great gunmen
+of the day there was a cool, unobtrusive manner, a speech brief, almost
+gentle, certainly courteous. Lawson was a hot-headed Louisianian of
+French extraction; a man, evidently, who had never been crossed in
+anything, and who was strong, brutal, passionate, which qualities in the
+face of a situation like this made him simply a fool.
+
+“I'm saying again, you used your ranger bluff just to get near Ray
+Longstreth,” Lawson sneered. “Mind you, if you come up there again
+there'll be hell.”
+
+“You're right. But not the kind you think,” Duane retorted, his voice
+sharp and cold.
+
+“Ray Longstreth wouldn't stoop to know a dirty blood-tracker like you,”
+ said Lawson, hotly. He did not seem to have a deliberate intention
+to rouse Duane; the man was simply rancorous, jealous. “I'll call
+you right. You cheap bluffer! You four-flush! You damned interfering,
+conceited ranger!”
+
+“Lawson, I'll not take offense, because you seem to be championing your
+beautiful cousin,” replied Duane, in slow speech. “But let me return
+your compliment. You're a fine Southerner! Why, you're only a cheap
+four-flush--damned, bull-headed RUSTLER!”
+
+Duane hissed the last word. Then for him there was the truth in Lawson's
+working passion-blackened face.
+
+Lawson jerked, moved, meant to draw. But how slow! Duane lunged forward.
+His long arm swept up. And Lawson staggered backward, knocking table and
+chairs, to fall hard, in a half-sitting posture against the wall.
+
+“Don't draw!” warned Duane.
+
+“Lawson, git away from your gun!” yelled Laramie.
+
+But Lawson was crazed with fury. He tugged at his hip, his face corded
+with purple welts, malignant, murderous. Duane kicked the gun out of his
+hand. Lawson got up, raging, and rushed out.
+
+Laramie lifted his shaking hands.
+
+“What'd you wing him for?” he wailed. “He was drawin' on you. Kickin'
+men like him won't do out here.”
+
+“That bull-headed fool will roar and butt himself with all his gang
+right into our hands. He's just the man I've needed to meet. Besides,
+shooting him would have been murder.”
+
+“Murder!” exclaimed Laramie.
+
+“Yes, for me,” replied Duane.
+
+“That may be true--whoever you are--but if Lawson's the man you think he
+is he'll begin thet secret underground bizness. Why, Lawson won't sleep
+of nights now. He an' Longstreth have always been after me.”
+
+“Laramie, what are your eyes for?” demanded Duane. “Watch out. And now
+here. See your friend Morton. Tell him this game grows hot. Together you
+approach four or five men you know well and can absolutely trust. I may
+need your help.”
+
+Then Duane went from place to place, corner to corner, bar to bar,
+watching, listening, recording. The excitement had preceded him, and
+speculation was rife. He thought best to keep out of it. After dark he
+stole up to Longstreth's ranch. The evening was warm; the doors were
+open; and in the twilight the only lamps that had been lit were in
+Longstreth's big sitting-room, at the far end of the house. When a
+buckboard drove up and Longstreth and Lawson alighted, Duane was well
+hidden in the bushes, so well screened that he could get but a fleeting
+glimpse of Longstreth as he went in. For all Duane could see, he
+appeared to be a calm and quiet man, intense beneath the surface, with
+an air of dignity under insult. Duane's chance to observe Lawson was
+lost. They went into the house without speaking and closed the door.
+
+At the other end of the porch, close under a window, was an offset
+between step and wall, and there in the shadow Duane hid. So Duane
+waited there in the darkness with patience born of many hours of hiding.
+
+Presently a lamp was lit; and Duane heard the swish of skirts.
+
+“Something's happened surely, Ruth,” he heard Miss Longstreth say,
+anxiously. “Papa just met me in the hall and didn't speak. He seemed
+pale, worried.”
+
+“Cousin Floyd looked like a thunder-cloud,” said Ruth. “For once he
+didn't try to kiss me. Something's happened. Well, Ray, this had been a
+bad day.”
+
+“Oh, dear! Ruth, what can we do? These are wild men. Floyd makes life
+miserable for me. And he teases you unmer--”
+
+“I don't call it teasing. Floyd wants to spoon,” declared Ruth,
+emphatically. “He'd run after any woman.”
+
+“A fine compliment to me, Cousin Ruth,” laughed Ray.
+
+“I don't care,” replied Ruth, stubbornly, “it's so. He's mushy. And when
+he's been drinking and tries to kiss me--I hate him!”
+
+There were steps on the hall floor.
+
+“Hello, girls!” sounded out Lawson's voice, minus its usual gaiety.
+
+“Floyd, what's the matter?” asked Ray, presently. “I never saw papa as
+he is to-night, nor you so--so worried. Tell me, what has happened?”
+
+“Well, Ray, we had a jar to-day,” replied Lawson, with a blunt,
+expressive laugh.
+
+“Jar?” echoed both the girls, curiously.
+
+“We had to submit to a damnable outrage,” added Lawson, passionately,
+as if the sound of his voice augmented his feeling. “Listen, girls; I'll
+tell you-all about it.” He coughed, cleared his throat in a way that
+betrayed he had been drinking.
+
+Duane sunk deeper into the shadow of his covert, and, stiffening his
+muscles for a protected spell of rigidity, prepared to listen with all
+acuteness and intensity. Just one word from this Lawson, inadvertently
+uttered in a moment of passion, might be the word Duane needed for his
+clue.
+
+“It happened at the town hall,” began Lawson, rapidly. “Your father and
+Judge Owens and I were there in consultation with three ranchers from
+out of town. Then that damned ranger stalked in dragging Snecker, the
+fellow who hid here in the house. He had arrested Snecker for alleged
+assault on a restaurant-keeper named Laramie. Snecker being obviously
+innocent, he was discharged. Then this ranger began shouting his
+insults. Law was a farce in Fairdale. The court was a farce. There
+was no law. Your father's office as mayor should be impeached. He
+made arrests only for petty offenses. He was afraid of the rustlers,
+highwaymen, murderers. He was afraid or--he just let them alone. He used
+his office to cheat ranchers and cattlemen in lawsuits. All this the
+ranger yelled for every one to hear. A damnable outrage. Your father,
+Ray, insulted in his own court by a rowdy ranger!”
+
+“Oh!” cried Ray Longstreth, in mingled distress and anger.
+
+“The ranger service wants to rule western Texas,” went on Lawson. “These
+rangers are all a low set, many of them worse than the outlaws they
+hunt. Some of them were outlaws and gun-fighters before they became
+rangers. This is one of the worst of the lot. He's keen, intelligent,
+smooth, and that makes him more to be feared. For he is to be feared. He
+wanted to kill. He would kill. If your father had made the least move he
+would have shot him. He's a cold-nerved devil--the born gunman. My God,
+any instant I expected to see your father fall dead at my feet!”
+
+“Oh, Floyd! The unspeakable ruffian!” cried Ray Longstreth,
+passionately.
+
+“You see, Ray, this fellow, like all rangers, seeks notoriety. He made
+that play with Snecker just for a chance to rant against your father. He
+tried to inflame all Fairdale against him. That about the lawsuits was
+the worst! Damn him! He'll make us enemies.”
+
+“What do you care for the insinuations of such a man?” said Ray
+Longstreth, her voice now deep and rich with feeling. “After a moment's
+thought no one will be influenced by them. Do not worry, Floyd. Tell
+papa not to worry. Surely after all these years he can't be injured in
+reputation by--by an adventurer.”
+
+“Yes, he can be injured,” replied Floyd, quickly. “The frontier is a
+queer place. There are many bitter men here--men who have failed at
+ranching. And your father has been wonderfully successful. The ranger
+has dropped poison, and it'll spread.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII
+
+Strangers rode into Fairdale; and other hard-looking customers, new
+to Duane if not to Fairdale, helped to create a charged and waiting
+atmosphere. The saloons did unusual business and were never closed.
+Respectable citizens of the town were awakened in the early dawn by
+rowdies carousing in the streets.
+
+Duane kept pretty close under cover during the day. He did not entertain
+the opinion that the first time he walked down-street he would be a
+target for guns. Things seldom happened that way; and when they did
+happen so, it was more accident than design. But at night he was not
+idle. He met Laramie, Morton, Zimmer, and others of like character; a
+secret club had been formed; and all the members were ready for action.
+Duane spent hours at night watching the house where Floyd Lawson stayed
+when he was not up at Longstreth's. At night he was visited, or at least
+the house was, by strange men who were swift, stealthy, mysterious--all
+that kindly disposed friends or neighbors would not have been. Duane had
+not been able to recognize any of these night visitors; and he did
+not think the time was ripe for a bold holding-up of one of them.
+Nevertheless, he was sure such an event would discover Lawson, or some
+one in that house, to be in touch with crooked men.
+
+Laramie was right. Not twenty-four hours after his last talk with Duane,
+in which he advised quick action, he was found behind the little bar of
+his restaurant with a bullet-hole in his breast, dead. No one could be
+found who had heard a shot. It had been deliberate murder, for upon the
+bar had been left a piece of paper rudely scrawled with a pencil: “All
+friends of rangers look for the same.”
+
+This roused Duane. His first move, however, was to bury Laramie. None
+of Laramie's neighbors evinced any interest in the dead man or the
+unfortunate family he had left. Duane saw that these neighbors were held
+in check by fear. Mrs. Laramie was ill; the shock of her husband's
+death was hard on her; and she had been left almost destitute with five
+children. Duane rented a small adobe house on the outskirts of town and
+moved the family into it. Then he played the part of provider and nurse
+and friend.
+
+After several days Duane went boldly into town and showed that he meant
+business. It was his opinion that there were men in Fairdale secretly
+glad of a ranger's presence. What he intended to do was food for great
+speculation. A company of militia could not have had the effect upon the
+wild element of Fairdale that Duane's presence had. It got out that he
+was a gunman lightning swift on the draw. It was death to face him. He
+had killed thirty men--wildest rumor of all--it was actually said of him
+he had the gun-skill of Buck Duane or of Poggin.
+
+At first there had not only been great conjecture among the vicious
+element, but also a very decided checking of all kinds of action
+calculated to be conspicuous to a keen-eyed ranger. At the tables, at
+the bars and lounging-places Duane heard the remarks: “Who's thet ranger
+after? What'll he do fust off? Is he waitin' fer somebody? Who's goin'
+to draw on him fust--an' go to hell? Jest about how soon will he be
+found somewheres full of lead?”
+
+When it came out somewhere that Duane was openly cultivating the honest
+stay-at-home citizens to array them in time against the other element,
+then Fairdale showed its wolf-teeth. Several times Duane was shot at
+in the dark and once slightly injured. Rumor had it that Poggin, the
+gunman, was coming to meet him. But the lawless element did not rise up
+in a mass to slay Duane on sight. It was not so much that the enemies
+of the law awaited his next move, but just a slowness peculiar to
+the frontier. The ranger was in their midst. He was interesting, if
+formidable. He would have been welcomed at card-tables, at the bars, to
+play and drink with the men who knew they were under suspicion. There
+was a rude kind of good humor even in their open hostility.
+
+Besides, one ranger or a company of rangers could not have held the
+undivided attention of these men from their games and drinks and
+quarrels except by some decided move. Excitement, greed, appetite were
+rife in them. Duane marked, however, a striking exception to the usual
+run of strangers he had been in the habit of seeing. Snecker had gone
+or was under cover. Again Duane caught a vague rumor of the coming of
+Poggin, yet he never seemed to arrive. Moreover, the goings-on among the
+habitues of the resorts and the cowboys who came in to drink and gamble
+were unusually mild in comparison with former conduct. This lull,
+however, did not deceive Duane. It could not last. The wonder was that
+it had lasted so long.
+
+Duane went often to see Mrs. Laramie and her children. One afternoon
+while he was there he saw Miss Longstreth and Ruth ride up to the
+door. They carried a basket. Evidently they had heard of Mrs. Laramie's
+trouble. Duane felt strangely glad, but he went into an adjoining room
+rather than meet them.
+
+“Mrs. Laramie, I've come to see you,” said Miss Longstreth, cheerfully.
+
+The little room was not very light, there being only one window and
+the doors, but Duane could see plainly enough. Mrs. Laramie lay,
+hollow-checked and haggard, on a bed. Once she had evidently been a
+woman of some comeliness. The ravages of trouble and grief were there to
+read in her worn face; it had not, however, any of the hard and bitter
+lines that had characterized her husband's.
+
+Duane wondered, considering that Longstreth had ruined Laramie, how Mrs.
+Laramie was going to regard the daughter of an enemy.
+
+“So you're Granger Longstreth's girl?” queried the woman, with her
+bright, black eyes fixed on her visitor.
+
+“Yes,” replied Miss Longstreth, simply. “This is my cousin, Ruth
+Herbert. We've come to nurse you, take care of the children, help you in
+any way you'll let us.”
+
+There was a long silence.
+
+“Well, you look a little like Longstreth,” finally said Mrs. Laramie,
+“but you're not at ALL like him. You must take after your mother. Miss
+Longstreth, I don't know if I can--if I ought accept anything from you.
+Your father ruined my husband.”
+
+“Yes, I know,” replied the girl, sadly. “That's all the more reason you
+should let me help you. Pray don't refuse. It will--mean so much to me.”
+
+If this poor, stricken woman had any resentment it speedily melted in
+the warmth and sweetness of Miss Longstreth's manner. Duane's idea
+was that the impression of Ray Longstreth's beauty was always swiftly
+succeeded by that of her generosity and nobility. At any rate, she had
+started well with Mrs. Laramie, and no sooner had she begun to talk to
+the children than both they and the mother were won. The opening of that
+big basket was an event. Poor, starved little beggars! Duane's feelings
+seemed too easily roused. Hard indeed would it have gone with Jim
+Laramie's slayer if he could have laid eyes on him then. However, Miss
+Longstreth and Ruth, after the nature of tender and practical girls, did
+not appear to take the sad situation to heart. The havoc was wrought in
+that household.
+
+The needs now were cheerfulness, kindness, help, action--and these the
+girls furnished with a spirit that did Duane good.
+
+“Mrs. Laramie, who dressed this baby?” presently asked Miss Longstreth.
+Duane peeped in to see a dilapidated youngster on her knee. That sight,
+if any other was needed, completed his full and splendid estimate of Ray
+Longstreth and wrought strangely upon his heart.
+
+“The ranger,” replied Mrs. Laramie.
+
+“The ranger!” exclaimed Miss Longstreth.
+
+“Yes, he's taken care of us all since--since--” Mrs. Laramie choked.
+
+“Oh! So you've had no help but his,” replied Miss Longstreth, hastily.
+“No women. Too bad! I'll send some one, Mrs. Laramie, and I'll come
+myself.”
+
+“It'll be good of you,” went on the older woman. “You see, Jim had
+few friends--that is, right in town. And they've been afraid to help
+us--afraid they'd get what poor Jim--”
+
+“That's awful!” burst out Miss Longstreth, passionately. “A brave lot of
+friends! Mrs. Laramie, don't you worry any more. We'll take care of you.
+Here, Ruth, help me. Whatever is the matter with baby's dress?”
+
+Manifestly Miss Longstreth had some difficulty in subduing her emotion.
+
+“Why, it's on hind side before,” declared Ruth. “I guess Mr. Ranger
+hasn't dressed many babies.”
+
+“He did the best he could,” said Mrs. Laramie. “Lord only knows what
+would have become of us!”
+
+“Then he is--is something more than a ranger?” queried Miss Longstreth,
+with a little break in her voice.
+
+“He's more than I can tell,” replied Mrs. Laramie. “He buried Jim. He
+paid our debts. He fetched us here. He bought food for us. He cooked for
+us and fed us. He washed and dressed the baby. He sat with me the first
+two nights after Jim's death, when I thought I'd die myself. He's so
+kind, so gentle, so patient. He has kept me up just by being near.
+Sometimes I'd wake from a doze, an', seeing him there, I'd know how
+false were all these tales Jim heard about him and believed at first.
+Why, he plays with the children just--just like any good man might. When
+he has the baby up I just can't believe he's a bloody gunman, as they
+say. He's good, but he isn't happy. He has such sad eyes. He looks far
+off sometimes when the children climb round him. They love him. His life
+is sad. Nobody need tell me--he sees the good in things. Once he said
+somebody had to be a ranger. Well, I say, 'Thank God for a ranger like
+him!'”
+
+Duane did not want to hear more, so he walked into the room.
+
+“It was thoughtful of you,” Duane said. “Womankind are needed here. I
+could do so little. Mrs. Laramie, you look better already. I'm glad.
+And here's baby, all clean and white. Baby, what a time I had trying to
+puzzle out the way your clothes went on! Well, Mrs. Laramie, didn't I
+tell you--friends would come? So will the brighter side.”
+
+“Yes, I've more faith than I had,” replied Mrs. Laramie. “Granger
+Longstreth's daughter has come to me. There for a while after Jim's
+death I thought I'd sink. We have nothing. How could I ever take care of
+my little ones? But I'm gaining courage to--”
+
+“Mrs. Laramie, do not distress yourself any more,” said Miss Longstreth.
+“I shall see you are well cared for. I promise you.”
+
+“Miss Longstreth, that's fine!” exclaimed Duane. “It's what I'd
+have--expected of you.”
+
+It must have been sweet praise to her, for the whiteness of her face
+burned out in a beautiful blush.
+
+“And it's good of you, too, Miss Herbert, to come,” added Duane. “Let me
+thank you both. I'm glad I have you girls as allies in part of my lonely
+task here. More than glad for the sake of this good woman and the little
+ones. But both of you be careful about coming here alone. There's
+risk. And now I'll be going. Good-by, Mrs. Laramie. I'll drop in again
+to-night. Good-by.”
+
+“Mr. Ranger, wait!” called Miss Longstreth, as he went out. She was
+white and wonderful. She stepped out of the door close to him.
+
+“I have wronged you,” she said, impulsively.
+
+“Miss Longstreth! How can you say that?” he returned.
+
+“I believed what my father and Floyd Lawson said about you. Now I see--I
+wronged you.”
+
+“You make me very glad. But, Miss Longstreth, please don't speak of
+wronging me. I have been a--a gunman, I am a ranger--and much said of me
+is true. My duty is hard on others--sometimes on those who are innocent,
+alas! But God knows that duty is hard, too, on me.”
+
+“I did wrong you. If you entered my home again I would think it an
+honor. I--”
+
+“Please--please don't, Miss Longstreth,” interrupted Duane.
+
+“But, sir, my conscience flays me,” she went on. There was no other
+sound like her voice. “Will you take my hand? Will you forgive me?”
+
+She gave it royally, while the other was there pressing at her breast.
+Duane took the proffered hand. He did not know what else to do.
+
+Then it seemed to dawn upon him that there was more behind this white,
+sweet, noble intensity of her than just the making amends for a fancied
+or real wrong. Duane thought the man did not live on earth who could
+have resisted her then.
+
+“I honor you for your goodness to this unfortunate woman,” she said, and
+now her speech came swiftly. “When she was all alone and helpless you
+were her friend. It was the deed of a man. But Mrs. Laramie isn't the
+only unfortunate woman in the world. I, too, am unfortunate. Ah, how
+I may soon need a friend! Will you be my friend? I'm so alone. I'm
+terribly worried. I fear--I fear--Oh, surely I'll need a friend
+soon--soon. Oh, I'm afraid of what you'll find out sooner or later. I
+want to help you. Let us save life if not honor. Must I stand alone--all
+alone? Will you--will you be--” Her voice failed.
+
+It seemed to Duane that she must have discovered what he had begun to
+suspect--that her father and Lawson were not the honest ranchers they
+pretended to be. Perhaps she knew more! Her appeal to Duane shook him
+deeply. He wanted to help her more than he had ever wanted anything. And
+with the meaning of the tumultuous sweetness she stirred in him there
+came realization of a dangerous situation.
+
+“I must be true to my duty,” he said, hoarsely.
+
+“If you knew me you'd know I could never ask you to be false to it.”
+
+“Well, then--I'll do anything for you.”
+
+“Oh, thank you! I'm ashamed that I believed my cousin Floyd! He lied--he
+lied. I'm all in the dark, strangely distressed. My father wants me to
+go back home. Floyd is trying to keep me here. They've quarreled. Oh, I
+know something dreadful will happen. I know I'll need you if--if--Will
+you help me?”
+
+“Yes,” replied Duane, and his look brought the blood to her face.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX
+
+After supper Duane stole out for his usual evening's spying. The night
+was dark, without starlight, and a stiff wind rustled the leaves. Duane
+bent his steps toward the Longstreth's ranchhouse. He had so much to
+think about that he never knew where the time went. This night when he
+reached the edge of the shrubbery he heard Lawson's well-known footsteps
+and saw Longstreth's door open, flashing a broad bar of light in the
+darkness. Lawson crossed the threshold, the door closed, and all was
+dark again outside. Not a ray of light escaped from the window.
+
+Little doubt there was that his talk with Longstreth would be
+interesting to Duane. He tiptoed to the door and listened, but could
+hear only a murmur of voices. Besides, that position was too risky. He
+went round the corner of the house.
+
+This side of the big adobe house was of much older construction than
+the back and larger part. There was a narrow passage between the houses,
+leading from the outside through to the patio.
+
+This passage now afforded Duane an opportunity, and he decided to
+avail himself of it in spite of the very great danger. Crawling on very
+stealthily, he got under the shrubbery to the entrance of the passage.
+In the blackness a faint streak of light showed the location of a crack
+in the wall. He had to slip in sidewise. It was a tight squeeze, but he
+entered without the slightest noise. As he progressed the passage grew
+a very little wider in that direction, and that fact gave rise to the
+thought that in case of a necessary and hurried exit he would do best by
+working toward the patio. It seemed a good deal of time was consumed in
+reaching a vantage-point. When he did get there the crack he had marked
+was a foot over his head. There was nothing to do but find toe-holes in
+the crumbling walls, and by bracing knees on one side, back against the
+other, hold himself up Once with his eye there he did not care what risk
+he ran. Longstreth appeared disturbed; he sat stroking his mustache; his
+brow was clouded. Lawson's face seemed darker, more sullen, yet lighted
+by some indomitable resolve.
+
+“We'll settle both deals to-night,” Lawson was saying. “That's what I
+came for.”
+
+“But suppose I don't choose to talk here?” protested Longstreth,
+impatiently. “I never before made my house a place to--”
+
+“We've waited long enough. This place's as good as any. You've lost your
+nerve since that ranger hit the town. First now, will you give Ray to
+me?”
+
+“Floyd; you talk like a spoiled boy. Give Ray to you! Why, she's a
+woman, and I'm finding out that she's got a mind of her own. I told you
+I was willing for her to marry you. I tried to persuade her. But Ray
+hasn't any use for you now. She liked you at first. But now she doesn't.
+So what can I do?”
+
+“You can make her marry me,” replied Lawson.
+
+“Make that girl do what she doesn't want to? It couldn't be done even if
+I tried. And I don't believe I'll try. I haven't the highest opinion
+of you as a prospective son-in-law, Floyd. But if Ray loved you I would
+consent. We'd all go away together before this damned miserable business
+is out. Then she'd never know. And maybe you might be more like you used
+to be before the West ruined you. But as matters stand, you fight your
+own game with her. And I'll tell you now you'll lose.”
+
+“What'd you want to let her come out here for?” demanded Lawson, hotly.
+“It was a dead mistake. I've lost my head over her. I'll have her or
+die. Don't you think if she was my wife I'd soon pull myself together?
+Since she came we've none of us been right. And the gang has put up a
+holler. No, Longstreth, we've got to settle things to-night.”
+
+“Well, we can settle what Ray's concerned in, right now,” replied
+Longstreth, rising. “Come on; we'll ask her. See where you stand.”
+
+They went out, leaving the door open. Duane dropped down to rest himself
+and to wait. He would have liked to hear Miss Longstreth's answer. But
+he could guess what it would be. Lawson appeared to be all Duane had
+thought him, and he believed he was going to find out presently that he
+was worse.
+
+The men seemed to be absent a good while, though that feeling might have
+been occasioned by Duane's thrilling interest and anxiety. Finally
+he heard heavy steps. Lawson came in alone. He was leaden-faced,
+humiliated. Then something abject in him gave place to rage. He strode
+the room; he cursed. Then Longstreth returned, now appreciably calmer.
+Duane could not but decide that he felt relief at the evident rejection
+of Lawson's proposal.
+
+“Don't fuss about it, Floyd,” he said. “You see I can't help it. We're
+pretty wild out here, but I can't rope my daughter and give her to you
+as I would an unruly steer.”
+
+“Longstreth, I can MAKE her marry me,” declared Lawson, thickly.
+
+“How?”
+
+“You know the hold I got on you--the deal that made you boss of this
+rustler gang?”
+
+“It isn't likely I'd forget,” replied Longstreth, grimly.
+
+“I can go to Ray, tell her that, make her believe I'd tell it
+broadcast--tell this ranger--unless she'd marry me.”
+
+Lawson spoke breathlessly, with haggard face and shadowed eyes. He had
+no shame. He was simply in the grip of passion. Longstreth gazed with
+dark, controlled fury at this relative. In that look Duane saw a strong,
+unscrupulous man fallen into evil ways, but still a man. It betrayed
+Lawson to be the wild and passionate weakling. Duane seemed to see also
+how during all the years of association this strong man had upheld
+the weak one. But that time had gone for ever, both in intent on
+Longstreth's part and in possibility. Lawson, like the great majority
+of evil and unrestrained men on the border, had reached a point where
+influence was futile. Reason had degenerated. He saw only himself.
+
+“But, Floyd, Ray's the one person on earth who must never know I'm a
+rustler, a thief, a red-handed ruler of the worst gang on the border,”
+ replied Longstreth, impressively.
+
+Floyd bowed his head at that, as if the significance had just occurred
+to him. But he was not long at a loss.
+
+“She's going to find it out sooner or later. I tell you she knows now
+there's something wrong out here. She's got eyes. Mark what I say.”
+
+“Ray has changed, I know. But she hasn't any idea yet that her daddy's
+a boss rustler. Ray's concerned about what she calls my duty as mayor.
+Also I think she's not satisfied with my explanations in regard to
+certain property.”
+
+Lawson halted in his restless walk and leaned against the stone
+mantelpiece. He had his hands in his pockets. He squared himself as if
+this was his last stand. He looked desperate, but on the moment showed
+an absence of his usual nervous excitement.
+
+“Longstreth, that may well be true,” he said. “No doubt all you say is
+true. But it doesn't help me. I want the girl. If I don't get her--I
+reckon we'll all go to hell!”
+
+He might have meant anything, probably meant the worst. He certainly
+had something more in mind. Longstreth gave a slight start, barely
+perceptible, like the switch of an awakening tiger. He sat there, head
+down, stroking his mustache. Almost Duane saw his thought. He had long
+experience in reading men under stress of such emotion. He had no means
+to vindicate his judgment, but his conviction was that Longstreth right
+then and there decided that the thing to do was to kill Lawson.
+For Duane's part he wondered that Longstreth had not come to such a
+conclusion before. Not improbably the advent of his daughter had put
+Longstreth in conflict with himself.
+
+Suddenly he threw off a somber cast of countenance, and he began to
+talk. He talked swiftly, persuasively, yet Duane imagined he was talking
+to smooth Lawson's passion for the moment. Lawson no more caught the
+fateful significance of a line crossed, a limit reached, a decree
+decided than if he had not been present. He was obsessed with himself.
+How, Duane wondered, had a man of his mind ever lived so long and gone
+so far among the exacting conditions of the Southwest? The answer was,
+perhaps, that Longstreth had guided him, upheld him, protected him. The
+coming of Ray Longstreth had been the entering-wedge of dissension.
+
+“You're too impatient,” concluded Longstreth. “You'll ruin any chance
+of happiness if you rush Ray. She might be won. If you told her who I am
+she'd hate you for ever. She might marry you to save me, but she'd hate
+you. That isn't the way. Wait. Play for time. Be different with her.
+Cut out your drinking. She despises that. Let's plan to sell out
+here--stock, ranch, property--and leave the country. Then you'd have a
+show with her.”
+
+“I told you we've got to stick,” growled Lawson. “The gang won't
+stand for our going. It can't be done unless you want to sacrifice
+everything.”
+
+“You mean double-cross the men? Go without their knowing? Leave them
+here to face whatever comes?”
+
+“I mean just that.”
+
+“I'm bad enough, but not that bad,” returned Longstreth. “If I can't
+get the gang to let me off, I'll stay and face the music. All the same,
+Lawson, did it ever strike you that most of the deals the last few years
+have been YOURS?”
+
+“Yes. If I hadn't rung them in there wouldn't have been any. You've had
+cold feet, and especially since this ranger has been here.”
+
+“Well, call it cold feet if you like. But I call it sense. We reached
+our limit long ago. We began by rustling a few cattle--at a time when
+rustling was laughed at. But as our greed grew so did our boldness. Then
+came the gang, the regular trips, the one thing and another till, before
+we knew it--before I knew it--we had shady deals, holdups, and MURDERS
+on our record. Then we HAD to go on. Too late to turn back!”
+
+“I reckon we've all said that. None of the gang wants to quit. They all
+think, and I think, we can't be touched. We may be blamed, but nothing
+can be proved. We're too strong.”
+
+“There's where you're dead wrong,” rejoined Longstreth, emphatically.
+“I imagined that once, not long ago. I was bullheaded. Who would ever
+connect Granger Longstreth with a rustler gang? I've changed my mind.
+I've begun to think. I've reasoned out things. We're crooked, and we
+can't last. It's the nature of life, even here, for conditions to grow
+better. The wise deal for us would be to divide equally and leave the
+country, all of us.”
+
+“But you and I have all the stock--all the gain,” protested Lawson.
+
+“I'll split mine.”
+
+“I won't--that settles that,” added Lawson, instantly.
+
+Longstreth spread wide his hands as if it was useless to try to convince
+this man. Talking had not increased his calmness, and he now showed more
+than impatience. A dull glint gleamed deep in his eyes.
+
+“Your stock and property will last a long time--do you lots of good when
+this ranger--”
+
+“Bah!” hoarsely croaked Lawson. The ranger's name was a match applied to
+powder. “Haven't I told you he'd be dead soon--any time--same as Laramie
+is?”
+
+“Yes, you mentioned the--the supposition,” replied Longstreth,
+sarcastically. “I inquired, too, just how that very desired event was to
+be brought about.”
+
+“The gang will lay him out.”
+
+“Bah!” retorted Longstreth, in turn. He laughed contemptuously.
+
+“Floyd, don't be a fool. You've been on the border for ten years. You've
+packed a gun and you've used it. You've been with rustlers when they
+killed their men. You've been present at many fights. But you never in
+all that time saw a man like this ranger. You haven't got sense enough
+to see him right if you had a chance. Neither have any of you. The only
+way to get rid of him is for the gang to draw on him, all at once. Then
+he's going to drop some of them.”
+
+“Longstreth, you say that like a man who wouldn't care much if he did
+drop some of them,” declared Lawson; and now he was sarcastic.
+
+“To tell you the truth, I wouldn't,” returned the other, bluntly. “I'm
+pretty sick of this mess.”
+
+Lawson cursed in amazement. His emotions were all out of proportion to
+his intelligence. He was not at all quick-witted. Duane had never seen a
+vainer or more arrogant man.
+
+“Longstreth, I don't like your talk,” he said.
+
+“If you don't like the way I talk you know what you can do,” replied
+Longstreth, quickly. He stood up then, cool and quiet, with flash of
+eyes and set of lips that told Duane he was dangerous.
+
+“Well, after all, that's neither here nor there,” went on Lawson,
+unconsciously cowed by the other. “The thing is, do I get the girl?”
+
+“Not by any means except her consent.”
+
+“You'll not make her marry me?”
+
+“No. No,” replied Longstreth, his voice still cold, low-pitched.
+
+“All right. Then I'll make her.”
+
+Evidently Longstreth understood the man before him so well that he
+wasted no more words. Duane knew what Lawson never dreamed of, and that
+was that Longstreth had a gun somewhere within reach and meant to use
+it. Then heavy footsteps sounded outside tramping upon the porch. Duane
+might have been mistaken, but he believed those footsteps saved Lawson's
+life.
+
+“There they are,” said Lawson, and he opened the door.
+
+Five masked men entered. They all wore coats hiding any weapons. A big
+man with burly shoulders shook hands with Longstreth, and the others
+stood back.
+
+The atmosphere of that room had changed. Lawson might have been a
+nonentity for all he counted. Longstreth was another man--a stranger to
+Duane. If he had entertained a hope of freeing himself from this band,
+of getting away to a safer country, he abandoned it at the very sight of
+these men. There was power here, and he was bound.
+
+The big man spoke in low, hoarse whispers, and at this all the others
+gathered around him close to the table. There were evidently some signs
+of membership not plain to Duane. Then all the heads were bent over the
+table. Low voices spoke, queried, answered, argued. By straining his
+ears Duane caught a word here and there. They were planning, and they
+were brief. Duane gathered they were to have a rendezvous at or near
+Ord.
+
+Then the big man, who evidently was the leader of the present
+convention, got up to depart. He went as swiftly as he had come, and was
+followed by his comrades. Longstreth prepared for a quiet smoke. Lawson
+seemed uncommunicative and unsociable. He smoked fiercely and drank
+continually. All at once he straightened up as if listening.
+
+“What's that?” he called, suddenly.
+
+Duane's strained ears were pervaded by a slight rustling sound.
+
+“Must be a rat,” replied Longstreth.
+
+The rustle became a rattle.
+
+“Sounds like a rattlesnake to me,” said Lawson.
+
+Longstreth got up from the table and peered round the room.
+
+Just at that instant Duane felt an almost inappreciable movement of the
+adobe wall which supported him. He could scarcely credit his senses. But
+the rattle inside Longstreth's room was mingling with little dull thuds
+of falling dirt. The adobe wall, merely dried mud, was crumbling. Duane
+distinctly felt a tremor pass through it. Then the blood gushed back to
+his heart.
+
+“What in the hell!” exclaimed Longstreth.
+
+“I smell dust,” said Lawson, sharply.
+
+That was the signal for Duane to drop down from his perch, yet despite
+his care he made a noise.
+
+“Did you hear a step?” queried Longstreth.
+
+No one answered. But a heavy piece of the adobe wall fell with a thud.
+Duane heard it crack, felt it shake.
+
+“There's somebody between the walls!” thundered Longstreth.
+
+Then a section of the wall fell inward with a crash. Duane began to
+squeeze his body through the narrow passage toward the patio.
+
+“Hear him!” yelled Lawson. “This side!”
+
+“No, he's going that way,” yelled Longstreth.
+
+The tramp of heavy boots lent Duane the strength of desperation. He
+was not shirking a fight, but to be cornered like a trapped coyote was
+another matter. He almost tore his clothes off in that passage. The dust
+nearly stifled him. When he burst into the patio it was not a single
+instant too soon. But one deep gasp of breath revived him and he was up,
+gun in hand, running for the outlet into the court. Thumping footsteps
+turned him back. While there was a chance to get away he did not want to
+fight. He thought he heard someone running into the patio from the other
+end. He stole along, and coming to a door, without any idea of where it
+might lead, he softly pushed it open a little way and slipped in.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX
+
+A low cry greeted Duane. The room was light. He saw Ray Longstreth
+sitting on her bed in her dressing-gown. With a warning gesture to her
+to be silent he turned to close the door. It was a heavy door without
+bolt or bar, and when Duane had shut it he felt safe only for the
+moment. Then he gazed around the room. There was one window with blind
+closely drawn. He listened and seemed to hear footsteps retreating,
+dying away.
+
+Then Duane turned to Miss Longstreth. She had slipped off the bed, half
+to her knees, and was holding out trembling hands. She was as white as
+the pillow on her bed. She was terribly frightened. Again with warning
+hand commanding silence, Duane stepped softly forward, meaning to
+reassure her.
+
+“Oh!” she whispered, wildly; and Duane thought she was going to faint.
+When he got close and looked into her eyes he understood the strange,
+dark expression in them. She was terrified because she believed he meant
+to kill her, or do worse, probably worse. Duane realized he must have
+looked pretty hard and fierce bursting into her room with that big gun
+in hand.
+
+The way she searched Duane's face with doubtful, fearful eyes hurt him.
+
+“Listen. I didn't know this was your room. I came here to get away--to
+save my life. I was pursued. I was spying on--on your father and
+his men. They heard me, but did not see me. They don't know who was
+listening. They're after me now.”
+
+Her eyes changed from blank gulfs to dilating, shadowing, quickening
+windows of thought.
+
+Then she stood up and faced Duane with the fire and intelligence of a
+woman in her eyes.
+
+“Tell me now. You were spying on my father?”
+
+Briefly Duane told her what had happened before he entered her room, not
+omitting a terse word as to the character of the men he had watched.
+
+“My God! So it's that? I knew something was terribly wrong here--with
+him--with the place--the people. And right off I hated Floyd Lawson. Oh,
+it'll kill me if--if--It's so much worse than I dreamed. What shall I
+do?”
+
+The sound of soft steps somewhere near distracted Duane's attention,
+reminded him of her peril, and now, what counted more with him, made
+clear the probability of being discovered in her room.
+
+“I'll have to get out of here,” whispered Duane.
+
+“Wait,” she replied. “Didn't you say they were hunting for you?”
+
+“They sure are,” he returned, grimly.
+
+“Oh, then you mustn't go. They might shoot you before you got away.
+Stay. If we hear them you can hide. I'll turn out the light. I'll meet
+them at the door. You can trust me. Wait till all quiets down, if we
+have to wait till morning. Then you can slip out.”
+
+“I oughtn't to stay. I don't want to--I won't,” Duane replied, perplexed
+and stubborn.
+
+“But you must. It's the only safe way. They won't come here.”
+
+“Suppose they should? It's an even chance Longstreth'll search every
+room and corner in this old house. If they found me here I couldn't
+start a fight. You might be hurt. Then--the fact of my being here--”
+
+Duane did not finish what he meant, but instead made a step toward the
+door. White of face and dark of eye, she took hold of him to detain him.
+She was as strong and supple as a panther. But she need not have been
+either resolute or strong, for the clasp of her hand was enough to make
+Duane weak.
+
+“Up yet, Ray?” came Longstreth's clear voice, too strained, too eager to
+be natural.
+
+“No. I'm in bed reading. Good night,” instantly replied Miss Longstreth,
+so calmly and naturally that Duane marveled at the difference between
+man and woman. Then she motioned for Duane to hide in the closet. He
+slipped in, but the door would not close altogether.
+
+“Are you alone?” went on Longstreth's penetrating voice.
+
+“Yes,” she replied. “Ruth went to bed.”
+
+The door swung inward with a swift scrape and jar. Longstreth half
+entered, haggard, flaming-eyed. Behind him Duane saw Lawson, and
+indistinctly another man.
+
+Longstreth barred Lawson from entering, which action showed control as
+well as distrust. He wanted to see into the room. When he had glanced
+around he went out and closed the door.
+
+Then what seemed a long interval ensued. The house grew silent once
+more. Duane could not see Miss Longstreth, but he heard her quick
+breathing. How long did she mean to let him stay hidden there? Hard and
+perilous as his life had been, this was a new kind of adventure. He
+had divined the strange softness of his feeling as something due to the
+magnetism of this beautiful woman. It hardly seemed possible that he,
+who had been outside the pale for so many years, could have fallen in
+love. Yet that must be the secret of his agitation.
+
+Presently he pushed open the closet door and stepped forth. Miss
+Longstreth had her head lowered upon her arms and appeared to be in
+distress. At his touch she raised a quivering face.
+
+“I think I can go now--safely,” he whispered.
+
+“Go then, if you must, but you may stay till you're safe,” she replied.
+
+“I--I couldn't thank you enough. It's been hard on me--this finding
+out--and you his daughter. I feel strange. I don't understand myself
+well. But I want you to know--if I were not an outlaw--a ranger--I'd lay
+my life at your feet.”
+
+“Oh! You have seen so--so little of me,” she faltered.
+
+“All the same it's true. And that makes me feel more the trouble my
+coming caused you.”
+
+“You will not fight my father?”
+
+“Not if I can help it. I'm trying to get out of his way.'
+
+“But you spied upon him.”
+
+“I am a ranger, Miss Longstreth.”
+
+“And oh! I am a rustler's daughter,” she cried. “That's so much more
+terrible than I'd suspected. It was tricky cattle deals I imagined he
+was engaged in. But only to-night I had strong suspicions aroused.”
+
+“How? Tell me.”
+
+“I overheard Floyd say that men were coming to-night to arrange a
+meeting for my father at a rendezvous near Ord. Father did not want to
+go. Floyd taunted him with a name.”
+
+“What name?” queried Duane.
+
+“It was Cheseldine.”
+
+“CHESELDINE! My God! Miss Longstreth, why did you tell me that?”
+
+“What difference does that make?”
+
+“Your father and Cheseldine are one and the same,” whispered Duane,
+hoarsely.
+
+“I gathered so much myself,” she replied, miserably. “But Longstreth is
+father's real name.”
+
+Duane felt so stunned he could not speak at once. It was the girl's part
+in this tragedy that weakened him. The instant she betrayed the secret
+Duane realized perfectly that he did love her. The emotion was like a
+great flood.
+
+“Miss Longstreth, all this seems so unbelievable,” he whispered.
+“Cheseldine is the rustler chief I've come out here to get. He's only a
+name. Your father is the real man. I've sworn to get him. I'm bound by
+more than law or oaths. I can't break what binds me. And I must disgrace
+you--wreck your lifer Why, Miss Longstreth, I believe I--I love
+you. It's all come in a rush. I'd die for you if I could. How
+fatal--terrible--this is! How things work out!”
+
+She slipped to her knees, with her hands on his.
+
+“You won't kill him?” she implored. “If you care for me--you won't kill
+him?”
+
+“No. That I promise you.”
+
+With a low moan she dropped her head upon the bed.
+
+Duane opened the door and stealthily stole out through the corridor to
+the court.
+
+When Duane got out into the dark, where his hot face cooled in the wind,
+his relief equaled his other feelings.
+
+The night was dark, windy, stormy, yet there was no rain. Duane hoped as
+soon as he got clear of the ranch to lose something of the pain he felt.
+But long after he had tramped out into the open there was a lump in his
+throat and an ache in his breast. All his thought centered around Ray
+Longstreth. What a woman she had turned out to be! He seemed to have
+a vague, hopeless hope that there might be, there must be, some way he
+could save her.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI
+
+Before going to sleep that night Duane had decided to go to Ord and try
+to find the rendezvous where Longstreth was to meet his men. These men
+Duane wanted even more than their leader. If Longstreth, or Cheseldine,
+was the brains of that gang, Poggin was the executor. It was Poggin who
+needed to be found and stopped. Poggin and his right-hand men! Duane
+experienced a strange, tigerish thrill. It was thought of Poggin more
+than thought of success for MacNelly's plan. Duane felt dubious over
+this emotion.
+
+Next day he set out for Bradford. He was glad to get away from Fairdale
+for a while. But the hours and the miles in no wise changed the new pain
+in his heart. The only way he could forget Miss Longstreth was to let
+his mind dwell upon Poggin, and even this was not always effective.
+
+He avoided Sanderson, and at the end of the day and a half he arrived at
+Bradford.
+
+The night of the day before he reached Bradford, No. 6, the mail and
+express train going east, was held up by train-robbers, the Wells-Fargo
+messenger killed over his safe, the mail-clerk wounded, the bags carried
+away. The engine of No. 6 came into town minus even a tender, and
+engineer and fireman told conflicting stories. A posse of railroad men
+and citizens, led by a sheriff Duane suspected was crooked, was made up
+before the engine steamed back to pick up the rest of the train. Duane
+had the sudden inspiration that he had been cudgeling his mind to
+find; and, acting upon it, he mounted his horse again and left Bradford
+unobserved. As he rode out into the night, over a dark trail in the
+direction of Ord, he uttered a short, grim, sardonic laugh at the hope
+that he might be taken for a train-robber.
+
+He rode at an easy trot most of the night, and when the black peak of
+Ord Mountain loomed up against the stars he halted, tied his horse, and
+slept until dawn. He had brought a small pack, and now he took his time
+cooking breakfast. When the sun was well up he saddled Bullet, and,
+leaving the trail where his tracks showed plain in the ground, he put
+his horse to the rocks and brush. He selected an exceedingly rough,
+roundabout, and difficult course to Ord, hid his tracks with the skill
+of a long-hunted fugitive, and arrived there with his horse winded and
+covered with lather. It added considerable to his arrival that the man
+Duane remembered as Fletcher and several others saw him come in the back
+way through the lots and jump a fence into the road.
+
+Duane led Bullet up to the porch where Fletcher stood wiping his beard.
+He was hatless, vestless, and evidently had just enjoyed a morning
+drink.
+
+“Howdy, Dodge,” said Fletcher, laconically.
+
+Duane replied, and the other man returned the greeting with interest.
+
+“Jim, my hoss 's done up. I want to hide him from any chance tourists as
+might happen to ride up curious-like.”
+
+“Haw! haw! haw!”
+
+Duane gathered encouragement from that chorus of coarse laughter.
+
+“Wal, if them tourists ain't too durned snooky the hoss'll be safe in
+the 'dobe shack back of Bill's here. Feed thar, too, but you'll hev to
+rustle water.”
+
+Duane led Bullet to the place indicated, had care of his welfare, and
+left him there. Upon returning to the tavern porch Duane saw the group
+of men had been added to by others, some of whom he had seen before.
+Without comment Duane walked along the edge of the road, and wherever
+one of the tracks of his horse showed he carefully obliterated it. This
+procedure was attentively watched by Fletcher and his companions.
+
+“Wal, Dodge,” remarked Fletcher, as Duane returned, “thet's safer 'n
+prayin' fer rain.”
+
+Duanes reply was a remark as loquacious as Fletcher's, to the effect
+that a long, slow, monotonous ride was conducive to thirst. They all
+joined him, unmistakably friendly. But Knell was not there, and most
+assuredly not Poggin. Fletcher was no common outlaw, but, whatever his
+ability, it probably lay in execution of orders. Apparently at that
+time these men had nothing to do but drink and lounge around the tavern.
+Evidently they were poorly supplied with money, though Duane observed
+they could borrow a peso occasionally from the bartender. Duane set
+out to make himself agreeable and succeeded. There was card-playing
+for small stakes, idle jests of coarse nature, much bantering among the
+younger fellows, and occasionally a mild quarrel. All morning men came
+and went, until, all told, Duane calculated he had seen at least fifty.
+Toward the middle of the afternoon a young fellow burst into the saloon
+and yelled one word:
+
+“Posse!”
+
+From the scramble to get outdoors Duane judged that word and the ensuing
+action was rare in Ord.
+
+“What the hell!” muttered Fletcher, as he gazed down the road at a dark,
+compact bunch of horses and riders. “Fust time I ever seen thet in Ord!
+We're gettin' popular like them camps out of Valentine. Wish Phil was
+here or Poggy. Now all you gents keep quiet. I'll do the talkin'.”
+
+The posse entered the town, trotted up on dusty horses, and halted in
+a bunch before the tavern. The party consisted of about twenty men,
+all heavily armed, and evidently in charge of a clean-cut, lean-limbed
+cowboy. Duane experienced considerable satisfaction at the absence of
+the sheriff who he had understood was to lead the posse. Perhaps he was
+out in another direction with a different force.
+
+“Hello, Jim Fletcher,” called the cowboy.
+
+“Howdy,” replied Fletcher.
+
+At his short, dry response and the way he strode leisurely out before
+the posse Duane found himself modifying his contempt for Fletcher. The
+outlaw was different now.
+
+“Fletcher, we've tracked a man to all but three miles of this place.
+Tracks as plain as the nose on your face. Found his camp. Then he hit
+into the brush, an' we lost the trail. Didn't have no tracker with us.
+Think he went into the mountains. But we took a chance an' rid over the
+rest of the way, seein' Ord was so close. Anybody come in here late last
+night or early this mornin'?”
+
+“Nope,” replied Fletcher.
+
+His response was what Duane had expected from his manner, and evidently
+the cowboy took it as a matter of course. He turned to the others of the
+posse, entering into a low consultation. Evidently there was difference
+of opinion, if not real dissension, in that posse.
+
+“Didn't I tell ye this was a wild-goose chase, comin' way out here?”
+ protested an old hawk-faced rancher. “Them hoss tracks we follored ain't
+like any of them we seen at the water-tank where the train was held up.”
+
+“I'm not so sure of that,” replied the leader.
+
+“Wal, Guthrie, I've follored tracks all my life--'
+
+“But you couldn't keep to the trail this feller made in the brush.”
+
+“Gimme time, an' I could. Thet takes time. An' heah you go hell-bent
+fer election! But it's a wrong lead out this way. If you're right this
+road-agent, after he killed his pals, would hev rid back right through
+town. An' with them mail-bags! Supposin' they was greasers? Some
+greasers has sense, an' when it comes to thievin' they're shore cute.”
+
+“But we sent got any reason to believe this robber who murdered the
+greasers is a greaser himself. I tell you it was a slick job done by no
+ordinary sneak. Didn't you hear the facts? One greaser hopped the engine
+an' covered the engineer an' fireman. Another greaser kept flashin' his
+gun outside the train. The big man who shoved back the car-door an' did
+the killin'--he was the real gent, an' don't you forget it.”
+
+Some of the posse sided with the cowboy leader and some with the old
+cattleman. Finally the young leader disgustedly gathered up his bridle.
+
+“Aw, hell! Thet sheriff shoved you off this trail. Mebbe he hed reasons
+Savvy thet? If I hed a bunch of cowboys with me--I tell you what--I'd
+take a chance an' clean up this hole!”
+
+All the while Jim Fletcher stood quietly with his hands in his pockets.
+
+“Guthrie, I'm shore treasurin' up your friendly talk,” he said. The
+menace was in the tone, not the content of his speech.
+
+“You can--an' be damned to you, Fletcher!” called Guthrie, as the horses
+started.
+
+Fletcher, standing out alone before the others of his clan, watched the
+posse out of sight.
+
+“Luck fer you-all thet Poggy wasn't here,” he said, as they disappeared.
+Then with a thoughtful mien he strode up on the porch and led Duane away
+from the others into the bar-room. When he looked into Duane's face it
+was somehow an entirely changed scrutiny.
+
+“Dodge, where'd you hide the stuff? I reckon I git in on this deal,
+seein' I staved off Guthrie.”
+
+Duane played his part. Here was his a tiger after prey he seized it.
+First he coolly eyed the outlaw and then disclaimed any knowledge
+whatever of the train-robbery other than Fletcher had heard himself.
+Then at Fletcher's persistence and admiration and increasing show of
+friendliness he laughed occasionally and allowed himself to swell
+with pride, though still denying. Next he feigned a lack of consistent
+will-power and seemed to be wavering under Fletcher's persuasion and
+grew silent, then surly. Fletcher, evidently sure of ultimate victory,
+desisted for the time being; however, in his solicitous regard and close
+companionship for the rest of that day he betrayed the bent of his mind.
+
+Later, when Duane started up announcing his intention to get his horse
+and make for camp out in the brush, Fletcher seemed grievously offended.
+
+“Why don't you stay with me? I've got a comfortable 'dobe over here.
+Didn't I stick by you when Guthrie an' his bunch come up? Supposin' I
+hedn't showed down a cold hand to him? You'd be swingin' somewheres now.
+I tell you, Dodge, it ain't square.”
+
+“I'll square it. I pay my debts,” replied Duane. “But I can't put up
+here all night. If I belonged to the gang it 'd be different.”
+
+“What gang?” asked Fletcher, bluntly.
+
+“Why, Cheseldine's.”
+
+Fletcher's beard nodded as his jaw dropped.
+
+Duane laughed. “I run into him the other day. Knowed him on sight. Sure,
+he's the king-pin rustler. When he seen me an' asked me what reason I
+had for bein' on earth or some such like--why, I up an' told him.”
+
+Fletcher appeared staggered.
+
+“Who in all-fired hell air you talkin' about?”
+
+“Didn't I tell you once? Cheseldine. He calls himself Longstreth over
+there.”
+
+All of Fletcher's face not covered by hair turned a dirty white.
+“Cheseldine--Longstreth!” he whispered, hoarsely. “Gord Almighty! You
+braced the--” Then a remarkable transformation came over the outlaw. He
+gulped; he straightened his face; he controlled his agitation. But he
+could not send the healthy brown back to his face. Duane, watching this
+rude man, marveled at the change in him, the sudden checking movement,
+the proof of a wonderful fear and loyalty. It all meant Cheseldine, a
+master of men!
+
+“WHO AIR YOU?” queried Fletcher, in a queer, strained voice.
+
+“You gave me a handle, didn't you? Dodge. Thet's as good as any. Shore
+it hits me hard. Jim, I've been pretty lonely for years, an' I'm gettin'
+in need of pals. Think it over, will you? See you manana.”
+
+The outlaw watched Duane go off after his horse, watched him as he
+returned to the tavern, watched him ride out into the darkness--all
+without a word.
+
+Duane left the town, threaded a quiet passage through cactus and
+mesquite to a spot he had marked before, and made ready for the night.
+His mind was so full that he found sleep aloof. Luck at last was playing
+his game. He sensed the first slow heave of a mighty crisis. The end,
+always haunting, had to be sternly blotted from thought. It was the
+approach that needed all his mind.
+
+He passed the night there, and late in the morning, after watching trail
+and road from a ridge, he returned to Ord. If Jim Fletcher tried to
+disguise his surprise the effort was a failure. Certainly he had not
+expected to see Duane again. Duane allowed himself a little freedom with
+Fletcher, an attitude hitherto lacking.
+
+That afternoon a horseman rode in from Bradford, an outlaw evidently
+well known and liked by his fellows, and Duane heard him say, before he
+could possibly have been told the train-robber was in Ord, that the loss
+of money in the holdup was slight. Like a flash Duane saw the luck of
+this report. He pretended not to have heard.
+
+In the early twilight at an opportune moment he called Fletcher to him,
+and, linking his arm within the outlaw's, he drew him off in a stroll to
+a log bridge spanning a little gully. Here after gazing around, he took
+out a roll of bills, spread it out, split it equally, and without a word
+handed one half to Fletcher. With clumsy fingers Fletcher ran through
+the roll.
+
+“Five hundred!” he exclaimed. “Dodge, thet's damn handsome of you,
+considerin' the job wasn't--”
+
+“Considerin' nothin',” interrupted Duane. “I'm makin' no reference to
+a job here or there. You did me a good turn. I split my pile. If
+thet doesn't make us pards, good turns an' money ain't no use in this
+country.”
+
+Fletcher was won.
+
+The two men spent much time together. Duane made up a short fictitious
+history about himself that satisfied the outlaw, only it drew forth a
+laughing jest upon Duane's modesty. For Fletcher did not hide his belief
+that this new partner was a man of achievements. Knell and Poggin, and
+then Cheseldine himself, would be persuaded of this fact, so Fletcher
+boasted. He had influence. He would use it. He thought he pulled a
+stroke with Knell. But nobody on earth, not even the boss, had any
+influence on Poggin. Poggin was concentrated ice part of the time; all
+the rest he was bursting hell. But Poggin loved a horse. He never loved
+anything else. He could be won with that black horse Bullet. Cheseldine
+was already won by Duane's monumental nerve; otherwise he would have
+killed Duane.
+
+Little by little the next few days Duane learned the points he longed
+to know; and how indelibly they etched themselves in his memory!
+Cheseldine's hiding-place was on the far slope of Mount Ord, in a deep,
+high-walled valley. He always went there just before a contemplated job,
+where he met and planned with his lieutenants. Then while they executed
+he basked in the sunshine before one or another of the public places
+he owned. He was there in the Ord den now, getting ready to plan the
+biggest job yet. It was a bank-robbery; but where, Fletcher had not as
+yet been advised.
+
+Then when Duane had pumped the now amenable outlaw of all details
+pertaining to the present he gathered data and facts and places covering
+a period of ten years Fletcher had been with Cheseldine. And herewith
+was unfolded a history so dark in its bloody regime, so incredible in
+its brazen daring, so appalling in its proof of the outlaw's sweep and
+grasp of the country from Pecos to Rio Grande, that Duane was
+stunned. Compared to this Cheseldine of the Big Bend, to this rancher,
+stock-buyer, cattle-speculator, property-holder, all the outlaws Duane
+had ever known sank into insignificance. The power of the man stunned
+Duane; the strange fidelity given him stunned Duane; the intricate
+inside working of his great system was equally stunning. But when Duane
+recovered from that the old terrible passion to kill consumed him,
+and it raged fiercely and it could not be checked. If that red-handed
+Poggin, if that cold-eyed, dead-faced Knell had only been at Ord! But
+they were not, and Duane with help of time got what he hoped was the
+upper hand of himself.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII
+
+Again inaction and suspense dragged at Duane's spirit. Like a leashed
+hound with a keen scent in his face Duane wanted to leap forth when he
+was bound. He almost fretted. Something called to him over the bold,
+wild brow of Mount Ord. But while Fletcher stayed in Ord waiting for
+Knell and Poggin, or for orders, Duane knew his game was again a waiting
+one.
+
+But one day there were signs of the long quiet of Ord being broken. A
+messenger strange to Duane rode in on a secret mission that had to do
+with Fletcher. When he went away Fletcher became addicted to thoughtful
+moods and lonely walks. He seldom drank, and this in itself was a
+striking contrast to former behavior. The messenger came again. Whatever
+communication he brought, it had a remarkable effect upon the outlaw.
+Duane was present in the tavern when the fellow arrived, saw the few
+words whispered, but did not hear them. Fletcher turned white with anger
+or fear, perhaps both, and he cursed like a madman. The messenger,
+a lean, dark-faced, hard-riding fellow reminding Duane of the cowboy
+Guthrie, left the tavern without even a drink and rode away off to the
+west. This west mystified and fascinated Duane as much as the south
+beyond Mount Ord. Where were Knell and Poggin? Apparently they were not
+at present with the leader on the mountain. After the messenger left
+Fletcher grew silent and surly. He had presented a variety of moods to
+Duane's observation, and this latest one was provocative of thought.
+Fletcher was dangerous. It became clear now that the other outlaws
+of the camp feared him, kept out of his way. Duane let him alone, yet
+closely watched him.
+
+Perhaps an hour after the messenger had left, not longer, Fletcher
+manifestly arrived at some decision, and he called for his horse. Then
+he went to his shack and returned. To Duane the outlaw looked in shape
+both to ride and to fight. He gave orders for the men in camp to keep
+close until he returned. Then he mounted.
+
+“Come here, Dodge,” he called.
+
+Duane went up and laid a hand on the pommel of the saddle. Fletcher
+walked his horse, with Duane beside him, till they reached the log
+bridge, when he halted.
+
+“Dodge, I'm in bad with Knell,” he said. “An' it 'pears I'm the cause
+of friction between Knell an' Poggy. Knell never had any use fer me, but
+Poggy's been square, if not friendly. The boss has a big deal on, an'
+here it's been held up because of this scrap. He's waitin' over there on
+the mountain to give orders to Knell or Poggy, an' neither one's
+showin' up. I've got to stand in the breach, an' I ain't enjoyin' the
+prospects.”
+
+“What's the trouble about, Jim?” asked Duane.
+
+“Reckon it's a little about you, Dodge,” said Fletcher, dryly. “Knell
+hadn't any use fer you thet day. He ain't got no use fer a man onless he
+can rule him. Some of the boys here hev blabbed before I edged in with
+my say, an' there's hell to pay. Knell claims to know somethin' about
+you that'll make both the boss an' Poggy sick when he springs it. But
+he's keepin' quiet. Hard man to figger, thet Knell. Reckon you'd better
+go back to Bradford fer a day or so, then camp out near here till I come
+back.”
+
+“Why?”
+
+“Wal, because there ain't any use fer you to git in bad, too.”
+
+“The gang will ride over here any day. If they're friendly, I'll light a
+fire on the hill there, say three nights from to-night. If you don't see
+it thet night you hit the trail. I'll do what I can. Jim Fletcher sticks
+to his pals. So long, Dodge.”
+
+Then he rode away.
+
+He left Duane in a quandary. This news was black. Things had been
+working out so well. Here was a setback. At the moment Duane did not
+know which way to turn, but certainly he had no idea of going back to
+Bradford. Friction between the two great lieutenants of Cheseldine! Open
+hostility between one of them and another of the chief's right-hand
+men! Among outlaws that sort of thing was deadly serious. Generally such
+matters were settled with guns. Duane gathered encouragement even from
+disaster. Perhaps the disintegration of Cheseldine's great band had
+already begun. But what did Knell know? Duane did not circle around
+the idea with doubts and hopes; if Knell knew anything it was that this
+stranger in Ord, this new partner of Fletcher's, was no less than Buck
+Duane. Well, it was about time, thought Duane, that he made use of his
+name if it were to help him at all. That name had been MacNelly's hope.
+He had anchored all his scheme to Duane's fame. Duane was tempted to
+ride off after Fletcher and stay with him. This, however, would hardly
+be fair to an outlaw who had been fair to him. Duane concluded to await
+developments and when the gang rode in to Ord, probably from their
+various hiding-places, he would be there ready to be denounced by Knell.
+Duane could not see any other culmination of this series of events than
+a meeting between Knell and himself. If that terminated fatally for
+Knell there was all probability of Duane's being in no worse situation
+than he was now. If Poggin took up the quarrel! Here Duane accused
+himself again--tried in vain to revolt from a judgment that he was only
+reasoning out excuses to meet these outlaws.
+
+Meanwhile, instead of waiting, why not hunt up Cheseldine in his
+mountain retreat? The thought no sooner struck Duane than he was
+hurrying for his horse.
+
+He left Ord, ostensibly toward Bradford, but, once out of sight, he
+turned off the road, circled through the brush, and several miles south
+of town he struck a narrow grass-grown trail that Fletcher had told him
+led to Cheseldine's camp. The horse tracks along this trail were not
+less than a week old, and very likely much more. It wound between
+low, brush-covered foothills, through arroyos and gullies lined with
+mesquite, cottonwood, and scrub-oak.
+
+In an hour Duane struck the slope of Mount Ord, and as he climbed he
+got a view of the rolling, black-spotted country, partly desert, partly
+fertile, with long, bright lines of dry stream-beds winding away to grow
+dim in the distance. He got among broken rocks and cliffs, and here the
+open, downward-rolling land disappeared, and he was hard put to it to
+find the trail. He lost it repeatedly and made slow progress. Finally
+he climbed into a region of all rock benches, rough here, smooth there,
+with only an occasional scratch of iron horseshoe to guide him. Many
+times he had to go ahead and then work to right or left till he found
+his way again. It was slow work; it took all day; and night found him
+half-way up the mountain. He halted at a little side-canyon with grass
+and water, and here he made camp. The night was clear and cool at that
+height, with a dark-blue sky and a streak of stars blinking across. With
+this day of action behind him he felt better satisfied than he had been
+for some time. Here, on this venture, he was answering to a call that
+had so often directed his movements, perhaps his life, and it was one
+that logic or intelligence could take little stock of. And on this
+night, lonely like the ones he used to spend in the Nueces gorge, and
+memorable of them because of a likeness to that old hiding-place, he
+felt the pressing return of old haunting things--the past so long ago,
+wild flights, dead faces--and the places of these were taken by one
+quiveringly alive, white, tragic, with its dark, intent, speaking
+eyes--Ray Longstreth's.
+
+
+That last memory he yielded to until he slept.
+
+In the morning, satisfied that he had left still fewer tracks than
+he had followed up this trail, he led his horse up to the head of the
+canyon, there a narrow crack in low cliffs, and with branches of cedar
+fenced him in. Then he went back and took up the trail on foot.
+
+Without the horse he made better time and climbed through deep clefts,
+wide canyons, over ridges, up shelving slopes, along precipices--a long,
+hard climb--till he reached what he concluded was a divide. Going down
+was easier, though the farther he followed this dim and winding trail
+the wider the broken battlements of rock. Above him he saw the black
+fringe of pinon and pine, and above that the bold peak, bare, yellow,
+like a desert butte. Once, through a wide gateway between great
+escarpments, he saw the lower country beyond the range, and beyond this,
+vast and clear as it lay in his sight, was the great river that made the
+Big Bend. He went down and down, wondering how a horse could follow that
+broken trail, believing there must be another better one somewhere into
+Cheseldine's hiding-place.
+
+He rounded a jutting corner, where view had been shut off, and presently
+came out upon the rim of a high wall. Beneath, like a green gulf seen
+through blue haze, lay an amphitheater walled in on the two sides he
+could see. It lay perhaps a thousand feet below him; and, plain as all
+the other features of that wild environment, there shone out a big red
+stone or adobe cabin, white water shining away between great borders,
+and horses and cattle dotting the levels. It was a peaceful, beautiful
+scene. Duane could not help grinding his teeth at the thought of
+rustlers living there in quiet and ease.
+
+Duane worked half-way down to the level, and, well hidden in a niche,
+he settled himself to watch both trail and valley. He made note of the
+position of the sun and saw that if anything developed or if he decided
+to descend any farther there was small likelihood of his getting back to
+his camp before dark. To try that after nightfall he imagined would be
+vain effort.
+
+Then he bent his keen eyes downward. The cabin appeared to be a crude
+structure. Though large in size, it had, of course, been built by
+outlaws.
+
+There was no garden, no cultivated field, no corral. Excepting for the
+rude pile of stones and logs plastered together with mud, the valley was
+as wild, probably, as on the day of discovery. Duane seemed to have been
+watching for a long time before he saw any sign of man, and this one
+apparently went to the stream for water and returned to the cabin.
+
+The sun went down behind the wall, and shadows were born in the darker
+places of the valley. Duane began to want to get closer to that cabin.
+What had he taken this arduous climb for? He held back, however, trying
+to evolve further plans.
+
+While he was pondering the shadows quickly gathered and darkened. If he
+was to go back to camp he must set out at once. Still he lingered. And
+suddenly his wide-roving eye caught sight of two horsemen riding up the
+valley. The must have entered at a point below, round the huge abutment
+of rock, beyond Duane's range of sight. Their horses were tired and
+stopped at the stream for a long drink.
+
+Duane left his perch, took to the steep trail, and descended as fast
+as he could without making noise. It did not take him long to reach the
+valley floor. It was almost level, with deep grass, and here and there
+clumps of bushes. Twilight was already thick down there. Duane marked
+the location of the trail, and then began to slip like a shadow through
+the grass and from bush to bush. He saw a bright light before he
+made out the dark outline of the cabin. Then he heard voices, a merry
+whistle, a coarse song, and the clink of iron cooking-utensils. He
+smelled fragrant wood-smoke. He saw moving dark figures cross the light.
+Evidently there was a wide door, or else the fire was out in the open.
+
+Duane swerved to the left, out of direct line with the light, and thus
+was able to see better. Then he advanced noiselessly but swiftly toward
+the back of the house. There were trees close to the wall. He would make
+no noise, and he could scarcely be seen--if only there was no watch-dog!
+But all his outlaw days he had taken risks with only his useless life
+at stake; now, with that changed, he advanced stealthy and bold as an
+Indian. He reached the cover of the trees, knew he was hidden in their
+shadows, for at few paces' distance he had been able to see only their
+tops. From there he slipped up to the house and felt along the wall with
+his hands.
+
+He came to a little window where light shone through. He peeped in. He
+saw a room shrouded in shadows, a lamp turned low, a table, chairs. He
+saw an open door, with bright flare beyond, but could not see the
+fire. Voices came indistinctly. Without hesitation Duane stole farther
+along--all the way to the end of the cabin. Peeping round, he saw only
+the flare of light on bare ground. Retracing his cautious steps, he
+paused at the crack again, saw that no man was in the room, and then
+he went on round that end of the cabin. Fortune favored him. There
+were bushes, an old shed, a wood-pile, all the cover he needed at that
+corner. He did not even need to crawl.
+
+Before he peered between the rough corner of wall and the bush growing
+close to it Duane paused a moment. This excitement was different from
+that he had always felt when pursued. It had no bitterness, no pain, no
+dread. There was as much danger here, perhaps more, yet it was not the
+same. Then he looked.
+
+He saw a bright fire, a red-faced man bending over it, whistling, while
+he handled a steaming pot. Over him was a roofed shed built against
+the wall, with two open sides and two supporting posts. Duane's second
+glance, not so blinded by the sudden bright light, made out other men,
+three in the shadow, two in the flare, but with backs to him.
+
+“It's a smoother trail by long odds, but ain't so short as this one
+right over the mountain,” one outlaw was saying.
+
+“What's eatin' you, Panhandle?” ejaculated another. “Blossom an' me rode
+from Faraway Springs, where Poggin is with some of the gang.”
+
+“Excuse me, Phil. Shore I didn't see you come in, an' Boldt never said
+nothin'.”
+
+“It took you a long time to get here, but I guess that's just as well,”
+ spoke up a smooth, suave voice with a ring in it.
+
+Longstreth's voice--Cheseldine's voice!
+
+Here they were--Cheseldine, Phil Knell, Blossom Kane, Panhandle Smith,
+Boldt--how well Duane remembered the names!--all here, the big men of
+Cheseldine's gang, except the biggest--Poggin. Duane had holed them, and
+his sensations of the moment deadened sight and sound of what was before
+him. He sank down, controlled himself, silenced a mounting exultation,
+then from a less-strained position he peered forth again.
+
+The outlaws were waiting for supper. Their conversation might have been
+that of cowboys in camp, ranchers at a roundup. Duane listened with
+eager ears, waiting for the business talk that he felt would come. All
+the time he watched with the eyes of a wolf upon its quarry. Blossom
+Kane was the lean-limbed messenger who had so angered Fletcher. Boldt
+was a giant in stature, dark, bearded, silent. Panhandle Smith was the
+red-faced cook, merry, profane, a short, bow-legged man resembling many
+rustlers Duane had known, particularly Luke Stevens. And Knell, who sat
+there, tall, slim, like a boy in build, like a boy in years, with
+his pale, smooth, expressionless face and his cold, gray eyes. And
+Longstreth, who leaned against the wall, handsome, with his dark face
+and beard like an aristocrat, resembled many a rich Louisiana planter
+Duane had met. The sixth man sat so much in the shadow that he could not
+be plainly discerned, and, though addressed, his name was not mentioned.
+
+Panhandle Smith carried pots and pans into the cabin, and cheerfully
+called out: “If you gents air hungry fer grub, don't look fer me to feed
+you with a spoon.”
+
+The outlaws piled inside, made a great bustle and clatter as they sat to
+their meal. Like hungry men, they talked little.
+
+Duane waited there awhile, then guardedly got up and crept round to
+the other side of the cabin. After he became used to the dark again
+he ventured to steal along the wall to the window and peeped in. The
+outlaws were in the first room and could not be seen.
+
+Duane waited. The moments dragged endlessly. His heart pounded.
+Longstreth entered, turned up the light, and, taking a box of cigars
+from the table, he carried it out.
+
+“Here, you fellows, go outside and smoke,” he said. “Knell, come on in
+now. Let's get it over.”
+
+He returned, sat down, and lighted a cigar for himself. He put his
+booted feet on the table.
+
+Duane saw that the room was comfortably, even luxuriously furnished.
+There must have been a good trail, he thought, else how could all that
+stuff have been packed in there. Most assuredly it could not have come
+over the trail he had traveled. Presently he heard the men go outside,
+and their voices became indistinct. Then Knell came in and seated
+himself without any of his chief's ease. He seemed preoccupied and, as
+always, cold.
+
+“What's wrong, Knell? Why didn't you get here sooner?” queried
+Longstreth.
+
+“Poggin, damn him! We're on the outs again.”
+
+“What for?”
+
+“Aw, he needn't have got sore. He's breakin' a new hoss over at Faraway,
+an you know him where a hoss 's concerned. That kept him, I reckon, more
+than anythin'.”
+
+“What else? Get it out of your system so we can go on to the new job.”
+
+“Well, it begins back a ways. I don't know how long ago--weeks--a
+stranger rode into Ord an' got down easy-like as if he owned the place.
+He seemed familiar to me. But I wasn't sure. We looked him over, an' I
+left, tryin' to place him in my mind.”
+
+“What'd he look like?”
+
+“Rangy, powerful man, white hair over his temples, still, hard face,
+eyes like knives. The way he packed his guns, the way he walked an'
+stood an' swung his right hand showed me what he was. You can't fool me
+on the gun-sharp. An' he had a grand horse, a big black.”
+
+“I've met your man,” said Longstreth.
+
+“No!” exclaimed Knell. It was wonderful to hear surprise expressed by
+this man that did not in the least show it in his strange physiognomy.
+Knell laughed a short, grim, hollow laugh. “Boss, this here big gent
+drifts into Ord again an' makes up to Jim Fletcher. Jim, you know, is
+easy led. He likes men. An' when a posse come along trailin' a blind
+lead, huntin' the wrong way for the man who held up No. 6, why, Jim--he
+up an' takes this stranger to be the fly road-agent an' cottons to him.
+Got money out of him sure. An' that's what stumps me more. What's this
+man's game? I happen to know, boss, that he couldn't have held up No.
+6.”
+
+“How do you know?” demanded Longstreth.
+
+“Because I did the job myself.”
+
+A dark and stormy passion clouded the chief's face.
+
+“Damn you, Knell! You're incorrigible. You're unreliable. Another break
+like that queers you with me. Did you tell Poggin?”
+
+“Yes. That's one reason we fell out. He raved. I thought he was goin' to
+kill me.”
+
+“Why did you tackle such a risky job without help or plan?”
+
+“It offered, that's all. An' it was easy. But it was a mistake. I got
+the country an' the railroad hollerin' for nothin'. I just couldn't help
+it. You know what idleness means to one of us. You know also that this
+very life breeds fatality. It's wrong--that's why. I was born of good
+parents, an' I know what's right. We're wrong, an' we can't beat the
+end, that's all. An' for my part I don't care a damn when that comes.”
+
+“Fine wise talk from you, Knell,” said Longstreth, scornfully. “Go on
+with your story.”
+
+“As I said, Jim cottons to the pretender, an' they get chummy. They're
+together all the time. You can gamble Jim told all he knew an' then
+some. A little liquor loosens his tongue. Several of the boys rode over
+from Ord, an' one of them went to Poggin an' says Jim Fletcher has a new
+man for the gang. Poggin, you know, is always ready for any new man.
+He says if one doesn't turn out good he can be shut off easy. He rather
+liked the way this new part of Jim's was boosted. Jim an' Poggin always
+hit it up together. So until I got on the deal Jim's pard was already in
+the gang, without Poggin or you ever seein' him. Then I got to figurin'
+hard. Just where had I ever seen that chap? As it turned out, I never
+had seen him, which accounts for my bein' doubtful. I'd never forget
+any man I'd seen. I dug up a lot of old papers from my kit an' went over
+them. Letters, pictures, clippin's, an' all that. I guess I had a pretty
+good notion what I was lookin' for an' who I wanted to make sure of. At
+last I found it. An' I knew my man. But I didn't spring it on Poggin.
+Oh no! I want to have some fun with him when the time comes. He'll be
+wilder than a trapped wolf. I sent Blossom over to Ord to get word from
+Jim, an' when he verified all this talk I sent Blossom again with a
+message calculated to make Jim hump. Poggin got sore, said he'd wait for
+Jim, an' I could come over here to see you about the new job. He'd meet
+me in Ord.”
+
+Knell had spoken hurriedly and low, now and then with passion. His pale
+eyes glinted like fire in ice, and now his voice fell to a whisper.
+
+“Who do you think Fletcher's new man is?”
+
+“Who?” demanded Longstreth.
+
+“BUCK DUANE!”
+
+Down came Longstreth's boots with a crash, then his body grew rigid.
+
+“That Nueces outlaw? That two-shot ace-of-spades gun-thrower who killed
+Bland, Alloway--?”
+
+“An' Hardin.” Knell whispered this last name with more feeling than the
+apparent circumstance demanded.
+
+“Yes; and Hardin, the best one of the Rim Rock fellows--Buck Duane!”
+
+Longstreth was so ghastly white now that his black mustache seemed
+outlined against chalk. He eyed his grim lieutenant. They understood
+each other without more words. It was enough that Buck Duane was there
+in the Big Bend. Longstreth rose presently and reached for a flask, from
+which he drank, then offered it to Knell. He waved it aside.
+
+“Knell,” began the chief, slowly, as he wiped his lips, “I gathered you
+have some grudge against this Buck Duane.”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Well, don't be a fool now and do what Poggin or almost any of you men
+would--don't meet this Buck Duane. I've reason to believe he's a Texas
+Ranger now.”
+
+“The hell you say!” exclaimed Knell.
+
+“Yes. Go to Ord and give Jim Fletcher a hunch. He'll get Poggin, and
+they'll fix even Buck Duane.”
+
+“All right. I'll do my best. But if I run into Duane--”
+
+“Don't run into him!” Longstreth's voice fairly rang with the force of
+its passion and command. He wiped his face, drank again from the flask,
+sat down, resumed his smoking, and, drawing a paper from his vest pocket
+he began to study it.
+
+“Well, I'm glad that's settled,” he said, evidently referring to the
+Duane matter. “Now for the new job. This is October the eighteenth. On
+or before the twenty-fifth there will be a shipment of gold reach the
+Rancher's Bank of Val Verde. After you return to Ord give Poggin these
+orders. Keep the gang quiet. You, Poggin, Kane, Fletcher, Panhandle
+Smith, and Boldt to be in on the secret and the job. Nobody else. You'll
+leave Ord on the twenty-third, ride across country by the trail till you
+get within sight of Mercer. It's a hundred miles from Bradford to Val
+Verde--about the same from Ord. Time your travel to get you near Val
+Verde on the morning of the twenty-sixth. You won't have to more than
+trot your horses. At two o'clock in the afternoon, sharp, ride into town
+and up to the Rancher's Bank. Val Verde's a pretty big town. Never been
+any holdups there. Town feels safe. Make it a clean, fast, daylight job.
+That's all. Have you got the details?”
+
+Knell did not even ask for the dates again.
+
+“Suppose Poggin or me might be detained?” he asked.
+
+Longstreth bent a dark glance upon his lieutenant.
+
+“You never can tell what'll come off,” continued Knell. “I'll do my
+best.”
+
+“The minute you see Poggin tell him. A job on hand steadies him. And I
+say again--look to it that nothing happens. Either you or Poggin carry
+the job through. But I want both of you in it. Break for the hills, and
+when you get up in the rocks where you can hide your tracks head for
+Mount Ord. When all's quiet again I'll join you here. That's all. Call
+in the boys.”
+
+Like a swift shadow and as noiseless Duane stole across the level toward
+the dark wall of rock. Every nerve was a strung wire. For a little while
+his mind was cluttered and clogged with whirling thoughts, from which,
+like a flashing scroll, unrolled the long, baffling order of action. The
+game was now in his hands. He must cross Mount Ord at night. The feat
+was improbable, but it might be done. He must ride into Bradford, forty
+miles from the foothills before eight o'clock next morning. He must
+telegraph MacNelly to be in Val Verde on the twenty-fifth. He must ride
+back to Ord, to intercept Knell, face him be denounced, kill him, and
+while the iron was hot strike hard to win Poggin's half-won interest as
+he had wholly won Fletcher's. Failing that last, he must let the outlaws
+alone to bide their time in Ord, to be free to ride on to their new job
+in Val Verde. In the mean time he must plan to arrest Longstreth. It
+was a magnificent outline, incredible, alluring, unfathomable in
+its nameless certainty. He felt like fate. He seemed to be the iron
+consequences falling upon these doomed outlaws.
+
+Under the wall the shadows were black, only the tips of trees and crags
+showing, yet he went straight to the trail. It was merely a grayness
+between borders of black. He climbed and never stopped. It did not
+seem steep. His feet might have had eyes. He surmounted the wall, and,
+looking down into the ebony gulf pierced by one point of light, he
+lifted a menacing arm and shook it. Then he strode on and did not falter
+till he reached the huge shelving cliffs. Here he lost the trail; there
+was none; but he remembered the shapes, the points, the notches of rock
+above. Before he reached the ruins of splintered ramparts and jumbles of
+broken walls the moon topped the eastern slope of the mountain, and the
+mystifying blackness he had dreaded changed to magic silver light.
+It seemed as light as day, only soft, mellow, and the air held a
+transparent sheen. He ran up the bare ridges and down the smooth slopes,
+and, like a goat, jumped from rock to rock. In this light he knew his
+way and lost no time looking for a trail. He crossed the divide and then
+had all downhill before him. Swiftly he descended, almost always sure of
+his memory of the landmarks. He did not remember having studied them in
+the ascent, yet here they were, even in changed light, familiar to his
+sight. What he had once seen was pictured on his mind. And, true as
+a deer striking for home, he reached the canyon where he had left his
+horse.
+
+Bullet was quickly and easily found. Duane threw on the saddle and pack,
+cinched them tight, and resumed his descent. The worst was now to come.
+Bare downward steps in rock, sliding, weathered slopes, narrow black
+gullies, a thousand openings in a maze of broken stone--these Duane had
+to descend in fast time, leading a giant of a horse. Bullet cracked the
+loose fragments, sent them rolling, slid on the scaly slopes, plunged
+down the steps, followed like a faithful dog at Duane's heels.
+
+Hours passed as moments. Duane was equal to his great opportunity. But
+he could not quell that self in him which reached back over the lapse
+of lonely, searing years and found the boy in him. He who had been worse
+than dead was now grasping at the skirts of life--which meant victory,
+honor, happiness. Duane knew he was not just right in part of his mind.
+Small wonder that he was not insane, he thought! He tramped on downward,
+his marvelous faculty for covering rough ground and holding to the true
+course never before even in flight so keen and acute. Yet all the time
+a spirit was keeping step with him. Thought of Ray Longstreth as he had
+left her made him weak. But now, with the game clear to its end, with
+the trap to spring, with success strangely haunting him, Duane could not
+dispel memory of her. He saw her white face, with its sweet sad lips and
+the dark eyes so tender and tragic. And time and distance and risk and
+toil were nothing.
+
+The moon sloped to the west. Shadows of trees and crags now crossed to
+the other side of him. The stars dimmed. Then he was out of the rocks,
+with the dim trail pale at his feet. Mounting Bullet, he made short work
+of the long slope and the foothills and the rolling land leading down
+to Ord. The little outlaw camp, with its shacks and cabins and row of
+houses, lay silent and dark under the paling moon. Duane passed by on
+the lower trail, headed into the road, and put Bullet to a gallop. He
+watched the dying moon, the waning stars, and the east. He had time
+to spare, so he saved the horse. Knell would be leaving the rendezvous
+about the time Duane turned back toward Ord. Between noon and sunset
+they would meet.
+
+The night wore on. The moon sank behind low mountains in the west.
+The stars brightened for a while, then faded. Gray gloom enveloped the
+world, thickened, lay like smoke over the road. Then shade by shade it
+lightened, until through the transparent obscurity shone a dim light.
+
+Duane reached Bradford before dawn. He dismounted some distance from the
+tracks, tied his horse, and then crossed over to the station. He heard
+the clicking of the telegraph instrument, and it thrilled him. An
+operator sat inside reading. When Duane tapped on the window he looked
+up with startled glance, then went swiftly to unlock the door.
+
+“Hello. Give me paper and pencil. Quick,” whispered Duane.
+
+With trembling hands the operator complied. Duane wrote out the message
+he had carefully composed.
+
+“Send this--repeat it to make sure--then keep mum. I'll see you again.
+Good-by.”
+
+The operator stared, but did not speak a word.
+
+Duane left as stealthily and swiftly as he had come. He walked his horse
+a couple miles back on the road and then rested him till break of day.
+The east began to redden, Duane turned grimly in the direction of Ord.
+
+When Duane swung into the wide, grassy square on the outskirts of Ord
+he saw a bunch of saddled horses hitched in front of the tavern. He knew
+what that meant. Luck still favored him. If it would only hold! But he
+could ask no more. The rest was a matter of how greatly he could make
+his power felt. An open conflict against odds lay in the balance. That
+would be fatal to him, and to avoid it he had to trust to his name and a
+presence he must make terrible. He knew outlaws. He knew what qualities
+held them. He knew what to exaggerate.
+
+There was not an outlaw in sight. The dusty horses had covered distance
+that morning. As Duane dismounted he heard loud, angry voices inside the
+tavern. He removed coat and vest, hung them over the pommel. He packed
+two guns, one belted high on the left hip, the other swinging low on the
+right side. He neither looked nor listened, but boldly pushed the door
+and stepped inside.
+
+The big room was full of men, and every face pivoted toward him. Knell's
+pale face flashed into Duane's swift sight; then Boldt's, then Blossom
+Kane's, then Panhandle Smith's, then Fletcher's, then others that were
+familiar, and last that of Poggin. Though Duane had never seen Poggin or
+heard him described, he knew him. For he saw a face that was a record of
+great and evil deeds.
+
+There was absolute silence. The outlaws were lined back of a long table
+upon which were papers, stacks of silver coin, a bundle of bills, and a
+huge gold-mounted gun.
+
+“Are you gents lookin' for me?” asked Duane. He gave his voice all the
+ringing force and power of which he was capable. And he stepped back,
+free of anything, with the outlaws all before him.
+
+Knell stood quivering, but his face might have been a mask. The other
+outlaws looked from him to Duane. Jim Fletcher flung up his hands.
+
+“My Gawd, Dodge, what'd you bust in here fer?” he said, plaintively, and
+slowly stepped forward. His action was that of a man true to himself. He
+meant he had been sponsor for Duane and now he would stand by him.
+
+“Back, Fletcher!” called Duane, and his voice made the outlaw jump.
+
+“Hold on, Dodge, an' you-all, everybody,” said Fletcher. “Let me talk,
+seein' I'm in wrong here.”
+
+His persuasions did not ease the strain.
+
+“Go ahead. Talk,” said Poggin.
+
+Fletcher turned to Duane. “Pard, I'm takin' it on myself thet you meet
+enemies here when I swore you'd meet friends. It's my fault. I'll stand
+by you if you let me.”
+
+“No, Jim,” replied Duane.
+
+“But what'd you come fer without the signal?” burst out Fletcher, in
+distress. He saw nothing but catastrophe in this meeting.
+
+“Jim, I ain't pressin' my company none. But when I'm wanted bad--”
+
+Fletcher stopped him with a raised hand. Then he turned to Poggin with a
+rude dignity.
+
+“Poggy, he's my pard, an' he's riled. I never told him a word thet'd
+make him sore. I only said Knell hadn't no more use fer him than fer
+me. Now, what you say goes in this gang. I never failed you in my life.
+Here's my pard. I vouch fer him. Will you stand fer me? There's goin' to
+be hell if you don't. An' us with a big job on hand!”
+
+While Fletcher toiled over his slow, earnest persuasion Duane had his
+gaze riveted upon Poggin. There was something leonine about Poggin. He
+was tawny. He blazed. He seemed beautiful as fire was beautiful. But
+looked at closer, with glance seeing the physical man, instead of that
+thing which shone from him, he was of perfect build, with muscles that
+swelled and rippled, bulging his clothes, with the magnificent head and
+face of the cruel, fierce, tawny-eyed jaguar.
+
+Looking at this strange Poggin, instinctively divining his abnormal
+and hideous power, Duane had for the first time in his life the inward
+quaking fear of a man. It was like a cold-tongued bell ringing within
+him and numbing his heart. The old instinctive firing of blood followed,
+but did not drive away that fear. He knew. He felt something here deeper
+than thought could go. And he hated Poggin.
+
+That individual had been considering Fletcher's appeal.
+
+“Jim, I ante up,” he said, “an' if Phil doesn't raise us out with a big
+hand--why, he'll get called, an' your pard can set in the game.”
+
+Every eye shifted to Knell. He was dead white. He laughed, and any one
+hearing that laugh would have realized his intense anger equally with an
+assurance which made him master of the situation.
+
+“Poggin, you're a gambler, you are--the ace-high, straight-flush hand of
+the Big Bend,” he said, with stinging scorn. “I'll bet you my roll to a
+greaser peso that I can deal you a hand you'll be afraid to play.”
+
+“Phil, you're talkin' wild,” growled Poggin, with both advice and menace
+in his tone.
+
+“If there's anythin' you hate it's a man who pretends to be somebody
+else when he's not. Thet so?”
+
+Poggin nodded in slow-gathering wrath.
+
+“Well, Jim's new pard--this man Dodge--he's not who he seems. Oh-ho!
+He's a hell of a lot different. But _I_ know him. An' when I spring
+his name on you, Poggin, you'll freeze to your gizzard. Do you get
+me? You'll freeze, an' your hand'll be stiff when it ought to be
+lightnin'--All because you'll realize you've been standin' there five
+minutes--five minutes ALIVE before him!”
+
+If not hate, then assuredly great passion toward Poggin manifested
+itself in Knell's scornful, fiery address, in the shaking hand he thrust
+before Poggin's face. In the ensuing silent pause Knell's panting could
+be plainly heard. The other men were pale, watchful, cautiously edging
+either way to the wall, leaving the principals and Duane in the center
+of the room.
+
+“Spring his name, then, you--” said Poggin, violently, with a curse.
+
+Strangely Knell did not even look at the man he was about to denounce.
+He leaned toward Poggin, his hands, his body, his long head all somewhat
+expressive of what his face disguised.
+
+“BUCK DUANE!” he yelled, suddenly.
+
+The name did not make any great difference in Poggin. But Knell's
+passionate, swift utterance carried the suggestion that the name ought
+to bring Poggin to quick action. It was possible, too, that Knell's
+manner, the import of his denunciation the meaning back of all his
+passion held Poggin bound more than the surprise. For the outlaw
+certainly was surprised, perhaps staggered at the idea that he, Poggin,
+had been about to stand sponsor with Fletcher for a famous outlaw hated
+and feared by all outlaws.
+
+Knell waited a long moment, and then his face broke its cold immobility
+in an extraordinary expression of devilish glee. He had hounded the
+great Poggin into something that gave him vicious, monstrous joy.
+
+“BUCK DUANE! Yes,” he broke out, hotly. “The Nueces gunman! That
+two-shot, ace-of-spades lone wolf! You an' I--we've heard a thousand
+times of him--talked about him often. An' here he IN FRONT of you!
+Poggin, you were backin' Fletcher's new pard, Buck Duane. An' he'd
+fooled you both but for me. But _I_ know him. An' I know why he drifted
+in here. To flash a gun on Cheseldine--on you--on me! Bah! Don't tell me
+he wanted to join the gang. You know a gunman, for you're one yourself.
+Don't you always want to kill another man? An' don't you always want to
+meet a real man, not a four-flush? It's the madness of the gunman, an' I
+know it. Well, Duane faced you--called you! An' when I sprung his name,
+what ought you have done? What would the boss--anybody--have expected of
+Poggin? Did you throw your gun, swift, like you have so often? Naw; you
+froze. An' why? Because here's a man with the kind of nerve you'd love
+to have. Because he's great--meetin' us here alone. Because you know
+he's a wonder with a gun an' you love life. Because you an' I an' every
+damned man here had to take his front, each to himself. If we all drew
+we'd kill him. Sure! But who's goin' to lead? Who was goin' to be first?
+Who was goin' to make him draw? Not you, Poggin! You leave that for a
+lesser man--me--who've lived to see you a coward. It comes once to every
+gunman. You've met your match in Buck Duane. An', by God, I'm glad!
+Here's once I show you up!”
+
+The hoarse, taunting voice failed. Knell stepped back from the comrade
+he hated. He was wet, shaking, haggard, but magnificent.
+
+“Buck Duane, do you remember Hardin?” he asked, in scarcely audible
+voice.
+
+“Yes,” replied Duane, and a flash of insight made clear Knell's
+attitude.
+
+“You met him--forced him to draw--killed him?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Hardin was the best pard I ever had.”
+
+His teeth clicked together tight, and his lips set in a thin line.
+
+The room grew still. Even breathing ceased. The time for words
+had passed. In that long moment of suspense Knell's body gradually
+stiffened, and at last the quivering ceased. He crouched. His eyes had a
+soul-piercing fire.
+
+Duane watched them. He waited. He caught the thought--the breaking of
+Knell's muscle-bound rigidity. Then he drew.
+
+Through the smoke of his gun he saw two red spurts of flame. Knell's
+bullets thudded into the ceiling. He fell with a scream like a wild
+thing in agony.
+
+Duane did not see Knell die. He watched Poggin. And Poggin, like a
+stricken and astounded man, looked down upon his prostrate comrade.
+
+Fletcher ran at Duane with hands aloft.
+
+“Hit the trail, you liar, or you'll hev to kill me!” he yelled.
+
+With hands still up, he shouldered and bodied Duane out of the room.
+
+Duane leaped on his horse, spurred, and plunged away.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII
+
+Duane returned to Fairdale and camped in the mesquite till the
+twenty-third of the month. The few days seemed endless. All he could
+think of was that the hour in which he must disgrace Ray Longstreth was
+slowly but inexorably coming. In that waiting time he learned what
+love was and also duty. When the day at last dawned he rode like one
+possessed down the rough slope, hurdling the stones and crashing through
+the brush, with a sound in his ears that was not all the rush of the
+wind. Something dragged at him.
+
+Apparently one side of his mind was unalterably fixed, while the other
+was a hurrying conglomeration of flashes of thought, reception of
+sensations. He could not get calmness. By and by, almost involuntarily,
+he hurried faster on. Action seemed to make his state less oppressive;
+it eased the weight. But the farther he went on the harder it was to
+continue. Had he turned his back upon love, happiness, perhaps on life
+itself?
+
+There seemed no use to go on farther until he was absolutely sure of
+himself. Duane received a clear warning thought that such work as seemed
+haunting and driving him could never be carried out in the mood under
+which he labored. He hung on to that thought. Several times he slowed
+up, then stopped, only to go on again. At length, as he mounted a low
+ridge, Fairdale lay bright and green before him not far away, and the
+sight was a conclusive check. There were mesquites on the ridge, and
+Duane sought the shade beneath them. It was the noon-hour, with hot,
+glary sun and no wind. Here Duane had to have out his fight. Duane was
+utterly unlike himself; he could not bring the old self back; he was
+not the same man he once had been. But he could understand why. It was
+because of Ray Longstreth. Temptation assailed him. To have her his
+wife! It was impossible. The thought was insidiously alluring. Duane
+pictured a home. He saw himself riding through the cotton and rice and
+cane, home to a stately old mansion, where long-eared hounds bayed him
+welcome, and a woman looked for him and met him with happy and beautiful
+smile. There might--there would be children. And something new, strange,
+confounding with its emotion, came to life deep in Duane's heart. There
+would be children! Ray their mother! The kind of life a lonely outcast
+always yearned for and never had! He saw it all, felt it all.
+
+But beyond and above all other claims came Captain MacNelly's. It was
+then there was something cold and death-like in Duane's soul. For he
+knew, whatever happened, of one thing he was sure--he would have to kill
+either Longstreth or Lawson. Longstreth might be trapped into arrest;
+but Lawson had no sense, no control, no fear. He would snarl like a
+panther and go for his gun, and he would have to be killed. This, of all
+consummations, was the one to be calculated upon.
+
+Duane came out of it all bitter and callous and sore--in the most
+fitting of moods to undertake a difficult and deadly enterprise. He had
+fallen upon his old strange, futile dreams, now rendered poignant by
+reason of love. He drove away those dreams. In their places came the
+images of the olive-skinned Longstreth with his sharp eyes, and the
+dark, evil-faced Lawson, and then returned tenfold more thrilling and
+sinister the old strange passion to meet Poggin.
+
+It was about one o'clock when Duane rode into Fairdale. The streets for
+the most part were deserted. He went directly to find Morton and Zimmer.
+He found them at length, restless, somber, anxious, but unaware of the
+part he had played at Ord. They said Longstreth was home, too. It was
+possible that Longstreth had arrived home in ignorance.
+
+Duane told them to be on hand in town with their men in case he might
+need them, and then with teeth locked he set off for Longstreth's ranch.
+
+Duane stole through the bushes and trees, and when nearing the porch
+he heard loud, angry, familiar voices. Longstreth and Lawson were
+quarreling again. How Duane's lucky star guided him! He had no plan of
+action, but his brain was equal to a hundred lightning-swift evolutions.
+He meant to take any risk rather than kill Longstreth. Both of the men
+were out on the porch. Duane wormed his way to the edge of the shrubbery
+and crouched low to watch for his opportunity.
+
+Longstreth looked haggard and thin. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and he
+had come out with a gun in his hand. This he laid on a table near the
+wall. He wore no belt.
+
+Lawson was red, bloated, thick-lipped, all fiery and sweaty from drink,
+though sober on the moment, and he had the expression of a desperate
+man in his last stand. It was his last stand, though he was ignorant of
+that.
+
+“What's your news? You needn't be afraid of my feelings,” said Lawson.
+
+“Ray confessed to an interest in this ranger,” replied Longstreth.
+
+Duane thought Lawson would choke. He was thick-necked anyway, and the
+rush of blood made him tear at the soft collar of his shirt. Duane
+awaited his chance, patient, cold, all his feelings shut in a vise.
+
+“But why should your daughter meet this ranger?” demanded Lawson,
+harshly.
+
+“She's in love with him, and he's in love with her.”
+
+Duane reveled in Lawson's condition. The statement might have had the
+force of a juggernaut. Was Longstreth sincere? What was his game?
+
+Lawson, finding his voice, cursed Ray, cursed the ranger, then
+Longstreth.
+
+“You damned selfish fool!” cried Longstreth, in deep bitter scorn. “All
+you think of is yourself--your loss of the girl. Think once of ME--my
+home--my life!”
+
+Then the connection subtly put out by Longstreth apparently dawned upon
+the other. Somehow through this girl her father and cousin were to be
+betrayed. Duane got that impression, though he could not tell how true
+it was. Certainly Lawson's jealousy was his paramount emotion.
+
+“To hell with you!” burst out Lawson, incoherently. He was frenzied.
+“I'll have her, or nobody else will!”
+
+“You never will,” returned Longstreth, stridently. “So help me God I'd
+rather see her the ranger's wife than yours!”
+
+While Lawson absorbed that shock Longstreth leaned toward him, all of
+hate and menace in his mien.
+
+“Lawson, you made me what I am,” continued Longstreth. “I backed
+you--shielded you. YOU'RE Cheseldine--if the truth is told! Now it's
+ended. I quit you. I'm done!”
+
+Their gray passion-corded faces were still as stones.
+
+“GENTLEMEN!” Duane called in far-reaching voice as he stepped out.
+“YOU'RE BOTH DONE!”
+
+They wheeled to confront Duane.
+
+“Don't move! Not a muscle! Not a finger!” he warned.
+
+Longstreth read what Lawson had not the mind to read. His face turned
+from gray to ashen.
+
+“What d'ye mean?” yelled Lawson, fiercely, shrilly. It was not in him to
+obey a command, to see impending death.
+
+All quivering and strung, yet with perfect control, Duane raised his
+left hand to turn back a lapel of his open vest. The silver star flashed
+brightly.
+
+Lawson howled like a dog. With barbarous and insane fury, with sheer
+impotent folly, he swept a clawing hand for his gun. Duane's shot broke
+his action.
+
+Before Lawson ever tottered, before he loosed the gun, Longstreth leaped
+behind him, clasped him with left arm, quick as lightning jerked the
+gun from both clutching fingers and sheath. Longstreth protected himself
+with the body of the dead man. Duane saw red flashes, puffs of smoke;
+he heard quick reports. Something stung his left arm. Then a blow like
+wind, light of sound yet shocking in impact, struck him, staggered him.
+The hot rend of lead followed the blow. Duane's heart seemed to explode,
+yet his mind kept extraordinarily clear and rapid.
+
+Duane heard Longstreth work the action of Lawson's gun. He heard the
+hammer click, fall upon empty shells. Longstreth had used up all the
+loads in Lawson's gun. He cursed as a man cursed at defeat. Duane
+waited, cool and sure now. Longstreth tried to lift the dead man, to
+edge him closer toward the table where his own gun lay. But, considering
+the peril of exposing himself, he found the task beyond him. He bent
+peering at Duane under Lawson's arm, which flopped out from his side.
+Longstreth's eyes were the eyes of a man who meant to kill. There was
+never any mistaking the strange and terrible light of eyes like
+those. More than once Duane had a chance to aim at them, at the top of
+Longstreth's head, at a strip of his side.
+
+Longstreth flung Lawson's body off. But even as it dropped, before
+Longstreth could leap, as he surely intended, for the gun, Duane covered
+him, called piercingly to him:
+
+“Don't jump for the gun! Don't! I'll kill you! Sure as God I'll kill
+you!”
+
+Longstreth stood perhaps ten feet from the table where his gun lay Duane
+saw him calculating chances. He was game. He had the courage that forced
+Duane to respect him. Duane just saw him measure the distance to that
+gun. He was magnificent. He meant to do it. Duane would have to kill
+him.
+
+“Longstreth, listen,” cried Duane, swiftly. “The game's up. You're done.
+But think of your daughter! I'll spare your life--I'll try to get you
+freedom on one condition. For her sake! I've got you nailed--all the
+proofs. There lies Lawson. You're alone. I've Morton and men to my aid.
+Give up. Surrender. Consent to demands, and I'll spare you. Maybe I can
+persuade MacNelly to let you go free back to your old country. It's for
+Ray's sake! Her life, perhaps her happiness, can be saved! Hurry, man!
+Your answer!”
+
+“Suppose I refuse?” he queried, with a dark and terrible earnestness.
+
+“Then I'll kill you in your tracks! You can't move a hand! Your word or
+death! Hurry, Longstreth! Be a man! For her sake! Quick! Another second
+now--I'll kill you!”
+
+“All right, Buck Duane, I give my word,” he said, and deliberately
+walked to the chair and fell into it.
+
+Longstreth looked strangely at the bloody blot on Duane's shoulder.
+
+“There come the girls!” he suddenly exclaimed. “Can you help me drag
+Lawson inside? They mustn't see him.”
+
+Duane was facing down the porch toward the court and corrals. Miss
+Longstreth and Ruth had come in sight, were swiftly approaching,
+evidently alarmed. The two men succeeded in drawing Lawson into the
+house before the girls saw him.
+
+“Duane, you're not hard hit?” said Longstreth.
+
+“Reckon not,” replied Duane.
+
+“I'm sorry. If only you could have told me sooner! Lawson, damn him!
+Always I've split over him!”
+
+“But the last time, Longstreth.”
+
+“Yes, and I came near driving you to kill me, too. Duane, you talked
+me out of it. For Ray's sake! She'll be in here in a minute. This'll be
+harder than facing a gun.”
+
+“Hard now. But I hope it'll turn out all right.”
+
+“Duane, will you do me a favor?” he asked, and he seemed shamefaced.
+
+“Sure.”
+
+“Let Ray and Ruth think Lawson shot you. He's dead. It can't matter.
+Duane, the old side of my life is coming back. It's been coming. It'll
+be here just about when she enters this room. And, by God, I'd change
+places with Lawson if I could!”
+
+“Glad you--said that, Longstreth,” replied Duane. “And sure--Lawson
+plugged me. It's our secret.”
+
+Just then Ray and Ruth entered the room. Duane heard two low cries, so
+different in tone, and he saw two white faces. Ray came to his side, She
+lifted a shaking hand to point at the blood upon his breast. White and
+mute, she gazed from that to her father.
+
+“Papa!” cried Ray, wringing her hands.
+
+“Don't give way,” he replied, huskily. “Both you girls will need your
+nerve. Duane isn't badly hurt. But Floyd is--is dead. Listen. Let me
+tell it quick. There's been a fight. It--it was Lawson--it was Lawson's
+gun that shot Duane. Duane let me off. In fact, Ray, he saved me. I'm
+to divide my property--return so far as possible what I've stolen--leave
+Texas at once with Duane, under arrest. He says maybe he can get
+MacNelly, the ranger captain, to let me go. For your sake!”
+
+She stood there, realizing her deliverance, with the dark and tragic
+glory of her eyes passing from her father to Duane.
+
+“You must rise above this,” said Duane to her. “I expected this to ruin
+you. But your father is alive. He will live it down. I'm sure I can
+promise you he'll be free. Perhaps back there in Louisiana the dishonor
+will never be known. This country is far from your old home. And even in
+San Antonio and Austin a man's evil repute means little. Then the line
+between a rustler and a rancher is hard to draw in these wild border
+days. Rustling is stealing cattle, and I once heard a well-known rancher
+say that all rich cattlemen had done a little stealing Your father
+drifted out here, and, like a good many others, he succeeded. It's
+perhaps just as well not to split hairs, to judge him by the law and
+morality of a civilized country. Some way or other he drifted in with
+bad men. Maybe a deal that was honest somehow tied his hands. This
+matter of land, water, a few stray head of stock had to be decided out
+of court. I'm sure in his case he never realized where he was drifting.
+Then one thing led to another, until he was face to face with dealing
+that took on crooked form. To protect himself he bound men to him. And
+so the gang developed. Many powerful gangs have developed that way
+out here. He could not control them. He became involved with them. And
+eventually their dealings became deliberately and boldly dishonest. That
+meant the inevitable spilling of blood sooner or later, and so he grew
+into the leader because he was the strongest. Whatever he is to be
+judged for, I think he could have been infinitely worse.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV
+
+On the morning of the twenty-sixth Duane rode into Bradford in time to
+catch the early train. His wounds did not seriously incapacitate him.
+Longstreth was with him. And Miss Longstreth and Ruth Herbert would not
+be left behind. They were all leaving Fairdale for ever. Longstreth had
+turned over the whole of his property to Morton, who was to divide it
+as he and his comrades believed just. Duane had left Fairdale with his
+party by night, passed through Sanderson in the early hours of dawn, and
+reached Bradford as he had planned.
+
+That fateful morning found Duane outwardly calm, but inwardly he was
+in a tumult. He wanted to rush to Val Verde. Would Captain MacNelly be
+there with his rangers, as Duane had planned for them to be? Memory of
+that tawny Poggin returned with strange passion. Duane had borne hours
+and weeks and months of waiting, had endured the long hours of the
+outlaw, but now he had no patience. The whistle of the train made him
+leap.
+
+It was a fast train, yet the ride seemed slow.
+
+Duane, disliking to face Longstreth and the passengers in the car,
+changed his seat to one behind his prisoner. They had seldom spoken.
+Longstreth sat with bowed head, deep in thought. The girls sat in a
+seat near by and were pale but composed. Occasionally the train halted
+briefly at a station. The latter half of that ride Duane had observed
+a wagon-road running parallel with the railroad, sometimes right
+alongside, at others near or far away. When the train was about twenty
+miles from Val Verde Duane espied a dark group of horsemen trotting
+eastward. His blood beat like a hammer at his temples. The gang!
+He thought he recognized the tawny Poggin and felt a strange inward
+contraction. He thought he recognized the clean-cut Blossom Kane, the
+black-bearded giant Boldt, the red-faced Panhandle Smith, and Fletcher.
+There was another man strange to him. Was that Knell? No! it could not
+have been Knell.
+
+Duane leaned over the seat and touched Longstreth on the shoulder.
+
+“Look!” he whispered. Cheseldine was stiff. He had already seen.
+
+The train flashed by; the outlaw gang receded out of range of sight.
+
+“Did you notice Knell wasn't with them?” whispered Duane.
+
+Duane did not speak to Longstreth again till the train stopped at Val
+Verde.
+
+They got off the car, and the girls followed as naturally as ordinary
+travelers. The station was a good deal larger than that at Bradford, and
+there was considerable action and bustle incident to the arrival of the
+train.
+
+Duane's sweeping gaze searched faces, rested upon a man who seemed
+familiar. This fellow's look, too, was that of one who knew Duane, but
+was waiting for a sign, a cue. Then Duane recognized him--MacNelly,
+clean-shaven. Without mustache he appeared different, younger.
+
+When MacNelly saw that Duane intended to greet him, to meet him, he
+hurried forward. A keen light flashed from his eyes. He was glad, eager,
+yet suppressing himself, and the glances he sent back and forth from
+Duane to Longstreth were questioning, doubtful. Certainly Longstreth did
+not look the part of an outlaw.
+
+“Duane! Lord, I'm glad to see you,” was the Captain's greeting. Then at
+closer look into Duane's face his warmth fled--something he saw there
+checked his enthusiasm, or at least its utterance.
+
+“MacNelly, shake hand with Cheseldine,” said Duane, low-voiced.
+
+The ranger captain stood dumb, motionless. But he saw Longstreth's
+instant action, and awkwardly he reached for the outstretched hand.
+
+“Any of your men down here?” queried Duane, sharply.
+
+“No. They're up-town.”
+
+“Come. MacNelly, you walk with him. We've ladies in the party. I'll come
+behind with them.”
+
+They set off up-town. Longstreth walked as if he were with friends on
+the way to dinner. The girls were mute. MacNelly walked like a man in a
+trance. There was not a word spoken in four blocks.
+
+Presently Duane espied a stone building on a corner of the broad street.
+There was a big sign, “Rancher's Bank.”
+
+“There's the hotel,” said MacNelly. “Some of my men are there. We've
+scattered around.”
+
+They crossed the street, went through office and lobby, and then Duane
+asked MacNelly to take them to a private room. Without a word the
+Captain complied. When they were all inside Duane closed the door, and,
+drawing a deep breath as if of relief, he faced them calmly.
+
+“Miss Longstreth, you and Miss Ruth try to make yourselves comfortable
+now,” he said. “And don't be distressed.” Then he turned to his captain.
+“MacNelly, this girl is the daughter of the man I've brought to you, and
+this one is his niece.”
+
+Then Duane briefly related Longstreth's story, and, though he did not
+spare the rustler chief, he was generous.
+
+“When I went after Longstreth,” concluded Duane, “it was either to kill
+him or offer him freedom on conditions. So I chose the latter for his
+daughter's sake. He has already disposed of all his property. I believe
+he'll live up to the conditions. He's to leave Texas never to return.
+The name Cheseldine has been a mystery, and now it'll fade.”
+
+A few moments later Duane followed MacNelly to a large room, like a
+hall, and here were men reading and smoking. Duane knew them--rangers!
+
+MacNelly beckoned to his men.
+
+“Boys, here he is.”
+
+“How many men have you?” asked Duane.
+
+“Fifteen.”
+
+MacNelly almost embraced Duane, would probably have done so but for the
+dark grimness that seemed to be coming over the man. Instead he glowed,
+he sputtered, he tried to talk, to wave his hands. He was beside
+himself. And his rangers crowded closer, eager, like hounds ready to
+run. They all talked at once, and the word most significant and frequent
+in their speech was “outlaws.”
+
+MacNelly clapped his fist in his hand.
+
+“This'll make the adjutant sick with joy. Maybe we won't have it on the
+Governor! We'll show them about the ranger service. Duane! how'd you
+ever do it?”
+
+“Now, Captain, not the half nor the quarter of this job's done. The
+gang's coming down the road. I saw them from the train. They'll ride
+into town on the dot--two-thirty.”
+
+“How many?” asked MacNelly.
+
+“Poggin, Blossom Kane, Panhandle Smith, Boldt, Jim Fletcher, and another
+man I don't know. These are the picked men of Cheseldine's gang. I'll
+bet they'll be the fastest, hardest bunch you rangers ever faced.”
+
+“Poggin--that's the hard nut to crack! I've heard their records since
+I've been in Val Verde. Where's Knell? They say he's a boy, but hell and
+blazes!”
+
+“Knell's dead.”
+
+“Ah!” exclaimed MacNelly, softly. Then he grew businesslike, cool, and
+of harder aspect. “Duane, it's your game to-day. I'm only a ranger under
+orders. We're all under your orders. We've absolute faith in you. Make
+your plan quick, so I can go around and post the boys who're not here.”
+
+“You understand there's no sense in trying to arrest Poggin, Kane, and
+that lot?” queried Duane.
+
+“No, I don't understand that,” replied MacNelly, bluntly.
+
+“It can't be done. The drop can't be got on such men. If you meet them
+they shoot, and mighty quick and straight. Poggin! That outlaw has no
+equal with a gun--unless--He's got to be killed quick. They'll all have
+to be killed. They're all bad, desperate, know no fear, are lightning in
+action.”
+
+“Very well, Duane; then it's a fight. That'll be easier, perhaps. The
+boys are spoiling for a fight. Out with your plan, now.”
+
+“Put one man at each end of this street, just at the edge of town. Let
+him hide there with a rifle to block the escape of any outlaw that we
+might fail to get. I had a good look at the bank building. It's
+well situated for our purpose. Put four men up in that room over the
+bank--four men, two at each open window. Let them hide till the game
+begins. They want to be there so in case these foxy outlaws get wise
+before they're down on the ground or inside the bank. The rest of your
+men put inside behind the counters, where they'll hide. Now go over to
+the bank, spring the thing on the bank officials, and don't let them
+shut up the bank. You want their aid. Let them make sure of their gold.
+But the clerks and cashier ought to be at their desks or window when
+Poggin rides up. He'll glance in before he gets down. They make no
+mistakes, these fellows. We must be slicker than they are, or lose. When
+you get the bank people wise, send your men over one by one. No hurry,
+no excitement, no unusual thing to attract notice in the bank.”
+
+“All right. That's great. Tell me, where do you intend to wait?”
+
+Duane heard MacNelly's question, and it struck him peculiarly. He had
+seemed to be planning and speaking mechanically. As he was confronted
+by the fact it nonplussed him somewhat, and he became thoughtful, with
+lowered head.
+
+“Where'll you wait, Duane?” insisted MacNelly, with keen eyes
+speculating.
+
+“I'll wait in front, just inside the door,” replied Duane, with an
+effort.
+
+“Why?” demanded the Captain.
+
+“Well,” began Duane, slowly, “Poggin will get down first and start in.
+But the others won't be far behind. They'll not get swift till inside.
+The thing is--they MUSTN'T get clear inside, because the instant they
+do they'll pull guns. That means death to somebody. If we can we want to
+stop them just at the door.”
+
+“But will you hide?” asked MacNelly.
+
+“Hide!” The idea had not occurred to Duane.
+
+“There's a wide-open doorway, a sort of round hall, a vestibule, with
+steps leading up to the bank. There's a door in the vestibule, too. It
+leads somewhere. We can put men in there. You can be there.”
+
+Duane was silent.
+
+“See here, Duane,” began MacNelly, nervously. “You shan't take any undue
+risk here. You'll hide with the rest of us?”
+
+“No!” The word was wrenched from Duane.
+
+MacNelly stared, and then a strange, comprehending light seemed to flit
+over his face.
+
+“Duane, I can give you no orders to-day,” he said, distinctly. “I'm only
+offering advice. Need you take any more risks? You've done a grand
+job for the service--already. You've paid me a thousand times for
+that pardon. You've redeemed yourself.--The Governor, the
+adjutant-general--the whole state will rise up and honor you. The game's
+almost up. We'll kill these outlaws, or enough of them to break for
+ever their power. I say, as a ranger, need you take more risk than your
+captain?”
+
+Still Duane remained silent. He was locked between two forces. And one,
+a tide that was bursting at its bounds, seemed about to overwhelm him.
+Finally that side of him, the retreating self, the weaker, found a
+voice.
+
+“Captain, you want this job to be sure?” he asked.
+
+“Certainly.”
+
+“I've told you the way. I alone know the kind of men to be met. Just
+WHAT I'll do or WHERE I'll be I can't say yet. In meetings like this the
+moment decides. But I'll be there!”
+
+MacNelly spread wide his hands, looked helplessly at his curious and
+sympathetic rangers, and shook his head.
+
+“Now you've done your work--laid the trap--is this strange move of yours
+going to be fair to Miss Longstreth?” asked MacNelly, in significant low
+voice.
+
+Like a great tree chopped at the roots Duane vibrated to that. He looked
+up as if he had seen a ghost.
+
+Mercilessly the ranger captain went on: “You can win her, Duane! Oh, you
+can't fool me. I was wise in a minute. Fight with us from cover--then go
+back to her. You will have served the Texas Rangers as no other man has.
+I'll accept your resignation. You'll be free, honored, happy. That girl
+loves you! I saw it in her eyes. She's--”
+
+But Duane cut him short with a fierce gesture. He lunged up to his feet,
+and the rangers fell back. Dark, silent, grim as he had been, still
+there was a transformation singularly more sinister, stranger.
+
+“Enough. I'm done,” he said, somberly. “I've planned. Do we agree--or
+shall I meet Poggin and his gang alone?”
+
+MacNelly cursed and again threw up his hands, this time in baffled
+chagrin. There was deep regret in his dark eyes as they rested upon
+Duane.
+
+Duane was left alone.
+
+Never had his mind been so quick, so clear, so wonderful in its
+understanding of what had heretofore been intricate and elusive impulses
+of his strange nature. His determination was to meet Poggin; meet him
+before any one else had a chance--Poggin first--and then the others!
+He was as unalterable in that decision as if on the instant of its
+acceptance he had become stone.
+
+Why? Then came realization. He was not a ranger now. He cared nothing
+for the state. He had no thought of freeing the community of a dangerous
+outlaw, of ridding the country of an obstacle to its progress and
+prosperity. He wanted to kill Poggin. It was significant now that
+he forgot the other outlaws. He was the gunman, the gun-thrower, the
+gun-fighter, passionate and terrible. His father's blood, that dark and
+fierce strain, his mother's spirit, that strong and unquenchable spirit
+of the surviving pioneer--these had been in him; and the killings, one
+after another, the wild and haunted years, had made him, absolutely in
+spite of his will, the gunman. He realized it now, bitterly, hopelessly.
+The thing he had intelligence enough to hate he had become. At last he
+shuddered under the driving, ruthless inhuman blood-lust of the gunman.
+Long ago he had seemed to seal in a tomb that horror of his kind--the
+need, in order to forget the haunting, sleepless presence of his last
+victim, to go out and kill another. But it was still there in his mind,
+and now it stalked out, worse, more powerful, magnified by its rest,
+augmented by the violent passions peculiar and inevitable to that
+strange, wild product of the Texas frontier--the gun-fighter. And those
+passions were so violent, so raw, so base, so much lower than what ought
+to have existed in a thinking man. Actual pride of his record! Actual
+vanity in his speed with a gun. Actual jealousy of any rival!
+
+Duane could not believe it. But there he was, without a choice. What
+he had feared for years had become a monstrous reality. Respect for
+himself, blindness, a certain honor that he had clung to while in
+outlawry--all, like scales, seemed to fall away from him. He stood
+stripped bare, his soul naked--the soul of Cain. Always since the first
+brand had been forced and burned upon him he had been ruined. But now
+with conscience flayed to the quick, yet utterly powerless over this
+tiger instinct, he was lost. He said it. He admitted it. And at the
+utter abasement the soul he despised suddenly leaped and quivered with
+the thought of Ray Longstreth.
+
+Then came agony. As he could not govern all the chances of this fatal
+meeting--as all his swift and deadly genius must be occupied with
+Poggin, perhaps in vain--as hard-shooting men whom he could not watch
+would be close behind, this almost certainly must be the end of Buck
+Duane. That did not matter. But he loved the girl. He wanted her. All
+her sweetness, her fire, and pleading returned to torture him.
+
+At that moment the door opened, and Ray Longstreth entered.
+
+“Duane,” she said, softly. “Captain MacNelly sent me to you.”
+
+“But you shouldn't have come,” replied Duane.
+
+“As soon as he told me I would have come whether he wished it or not.
+You left me--all of us--stunned. I had no time to thank you. Oh, I
+do-with all my soul. It was noble of you. Father is overcome. He didn't
+expect so much. And he'll be true. But, Duane, I was told to hurry, and
+here I'm selfishly using time.”
+
+“Go, then--and leave me. You mustn't unnerve me now, when there's a
+desperate game to finish.”
+
+“Need it be desperate?” she whispered, coming close to him.
+
+“Yes; it can't be else.”
+
+MacNelly had sent her to weaken him; of that Duane was sure. And he felt
+that she had wanted to come. Her eyes were dark, strained, beautiful,
+and they shed a light upon Duane he had never seen before.
+
+“You're going to take some mad risk,” she said. “Let me persuade you not
+to. You said--you cared for me--and I--oh, Duane--don't you--know--?”
+
+The low voice, deep, sweet as an old chord, faltered and broke and
+failed.
+
+Duane sustained a sudden shock and an instant of paralyzed confusion of
+thought.
+
+She moved, she swept out her hands, and the wonder of her eyes dimmed in
+a flood of tears.
+
+“My God! You can't care for me?” he cried, hoarsely.
+
+Then she met him, hands outstretched.
+
+“But I do-I do!”
+
+Swift as light Duane caught her and held her to his breast. He stood
+holding her tight, with the feel of her warm, throbbing breast and the
+clasp of her arms as flesh and blood realities to fight a terrible fear.
+He felt her, and for the moment the might of it was stronger than all
+the demons that possessed him. And he held her as if she had been his
+soul, his strength on earth, his hope of Heaven, against his lips.
+
+The strife of doubt all passed. He found his sight again. And there
+rushed over him a tide of emotion unutterably sweet and full, strong
+like an intoxicating wine, deep as his nature, something glorious and
+terrible as the blaze of the sun to one long in darkness. He had become
+an outcast, a wanderer, a gunman, a victim of circumstances; he had lost
+and suffered worse than death in that loss; he had gone down the
+endless bloody trail, a killer of men, a fugitive whose mind slowly
+and inevitably closed to all except the instinct to survive and a black
+despair; and now, with this woman in his arms, her swelling breast
+against his, in this moment almost of resurrection, he bent under the
+storm of passion and joy possible only to him who had endured so much.
+
+“Do you care--a little?” he whispered, unsteadily.
+
+He bent over her, looking deep into the dark wet eyes.
+
+She uttered a low laugh that was half sob, and her arms slipped up to
+his neck.
+
+“A littler Oh, Duane--Duane--a great deal!”
+
+Their lips met in their first kiss. The sweetness, the fire of her mouth
+seemed so new, so strange, so irresistible to Duane. His sore and hungry
+heart throbbed with thick and heavy beats. He felt the outcast's need
+of love. And he gave up to the enthralling moment. She met him half-way,
+returned kiss for kiss, clasp for clasp, her face scarlet, her eyes
+closed, till, her passion and strength spent, she fell back upon his
+shoulder.
+
+Duane suddenly thought she was going to faint. He divined then that she
+had understood him, would have denied him nothing, not even her life, in
+that moment. But she was overcome, and he suffered a pang of regret at
+his unrestraint.
+
+Presently she recovered, and she drew only the closer, and leaned upon
+him with her face upturned. He felt her hands on his, and they were
+soft, clinging, strong, like steel under velvet. He felt the rise and
+fall, the warmth of her breast. A tremor ran over him. He tried to draw
+back, and if he succeeded a little her form swayed with him, pressing
+closer. She held her face up, and he was compelled to look. It was
+wonderful now: white, yet glowing, with the red lips parted, and dark
+eyes alluring. But that was not all. There was passion, unquenchable
+spirit, woman's resolve deep and mighty.
+
+“I love you, Duane!” she said. “For my sake don't go out to meet this
+outlaw face to face. It's something wild in you. Conquer it if you love
+me.”
+
+Duane became suddenly weak, and when he did take her into his arms again
+he scarcely had strength to lift her to a seat beside him. She seemed
+more than a dead weight. Her calmness had fled. She was throbbing,
+palpitating, quivering, with hot wet cheeks and arms that clung to him
+like vines. She lifted her mouth to his, whispering, “Kiss me!” She
+meant to change him, hold him.
+
+Duane bent down, and her arms went round his neck and drew him close.
+With his lips on hers he seemed to float away. That kiss closed his
+eyes, and he could not lift his head. He sat motionless holding her,
+blind and helpless, wrapped in a sweet dark glory. She kissed him--one
+long endless kiss--or else a thousand times. Her lips, her wet cheeks,
+her hair, the softness, the fragrance of her, the tender clasp of her
+arms, the swell of her breast--all these seemed to inclose him.
+
+Duane could not put her from him. He yielded to her lips and arms,
+watching her, involuntarily returning her caresses, sure now of her
+intent, fascinated by the sweetness of her, bewildered, almost lost.
+This was what it was to be loved by a woman. His years of outlawry had
+blotted out any boyish love he might have known. This was what he had
+to give up--all this wonder of her sweet person, this strange fire he
+feared yet loved, this mate his deep and tortured soul recognized. Never
+until that moment had he divined the meaning of a woman to a man. That
+meaning was physical inasmuch that he learned what beauty was, what
+marvel in the touch of quickening flesh; and it was spiritual in that he
+saw there might have been for him, under happier circumstances, a life
+of noble deeds lived for such a woman.
+
+“Don't go! Don't go!” she cried, as he started violently.
+
+“I must. Dear, good-by! Remember I loved you.”
+
+He pulled her hands loose from his, stepped back.
+
+“Ray, dearest--I believe--I'll come back!” he whispered.
+
+These last words were falsehood.
+
+He reached the door, gave her one last piercing glance, to fix for ever
+in memory that white face with its dark, staring, tragic eyes.
+
+“DUANE!”
+
+He fled with that moan like thunder, death, hell in his ears.
+
+To forget her, to get back his nerve, he forced into mind the image of
+Poggin-Poggin, the tawny-haired, the yellow-eyed, like a jaguar,
+with his rippling muscles. He brought back his sense of the outlaw's
+wonderful presence, his own unaccountable fear and hate. Yes, Poggin had
+sent the cold sickness of fear to his marrow. Why, since he hated
+life so? Poggin was his supreme test. And this abnormal and stupendous
+instinct, now deep as the very foundation of his life, demanded its wild
+and fatal issue. There was a horrible thrill in his sudden remembrance
+that Poggin likewise had been taunted in fear of him.
+
+So the dark tide overwhelmed Duane, and when he left the room he was
+fierce, implacable, steeled to any outcome, quick like a panther, somber
+as death, in the thrall of his strange passion.
+
+There was no excitement in the street. He crossed to the bank corner. A
+clock inside pointed the hour of two. He went through the door into the
+vestibule, looked around, passed up the steps into the bank. The clerks
+were at their desks, apparently busy. But they showed nervousness. The
+cashier paled at sight of Duane. There were men--the rangers--crouching
+down behind the low partition. All the windows had been removed from the
+iron grating before the desks. The safe was closed. There was no money
+in sight. A customer came in, spoke to the cashier, and was told to come
+to-morrow.
+
+Duane returned to the door. He could see far down the street, out into
+the country. There he waited, and minutes were eternities. He saw no
+person near him; he heard no sound. He was insulated in his unnatural
+strain.
+
+At a few minutes before half past two a dark, compact body of horsemen
+appeared far down, turning into the road. They came at a sharp trot--a
+group that would have attracted attention anywhere at any time. They
+came a little faster as they entered town; then faster still; now they
+were four blocks away, now three, now two. Duane backed down the middle
+of the vestibule, up the steps, and halted in the center of the wide
+doorway.
+
+There seemed to be a rushing in his ears through which pierced sharp,
+ringing clip-clop of iron hoofs. He could see only the corner of the
+street. But suddenly into that shot lean-limbed dusty bay horses. There
+was a clattering of nervous hoofs pulled to a halt.
+
+Duane saw the tawny Poggin speak to his companions. He dismounted
+quickly. They followed suit. They had the manner of ranchers about to
+conduct some business. No guns showed. Poggin started leisurely for the
+bank door, quickening step a little. The others, close together, came
+behind him. Blossom Kane had a bag in his left hand. Jim Fletcher was
+left at the curb, and he had already gathered up the bridles.
+
+Poggin entered the vestibule first, with Kane on one side, Boldt on the
+other, a little in his rear.
+
+As he strode in he saw Duane.
+
+“HELL'S FIRE!” he cried.
+
+Something inside Duane burst, piercing all of him with cold. Was it that
+fear?
+
+“BUCK DUANE!” echoed Kane.
+
+One instant Poggin looked up and Duane looked down.
+
+Like a striking jaguar Poggin moved. Almost as quickly Duane threw his
+arm.
+
+The guns boomed almost together.
+
+Duane felt a blow just before he pulled trigger. His thoughts came fast,
+like the strange dots before his eyes. His rising gun had loosened in
+his hand. Poggin had drawn quicker! A tearing agony encompassed his
+breast. He pulled--pulled--at random. Thunder of booming shots all about
+him! Red flashes, jets of smoke, shrill yells! He was sinking. The end;
+yes, the end! With fading sight he saw Kane go down, then Boldt. But
+supreme torture, bitterer than death, Poggin stood, mane like a lion's,
+back to the wall, bloody-faced, grand, with his guns spouting red!
+
+All faded, darkened. The thunder deadened. Duane fell, seemed floating.
+There it drifted--Ray Longstreth's sweet face, white, with dark, tragic
+eyes, fading from his sight... fading.. . fading...
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXV
+
+Light shone before Duane's eyes--thick, strange light that came and
+went. For a long time dull and booming sounds rushed by, filling all.
+It was a dream in which there was nothing; a drifting under a burden;
+darkness, light, sound, movement; and vague, obscure sense of time--time
+that was very long. There was fire--creeping, consuming fire. A dark
+cloud of flame enveloped him, rolled him away.
+
+He saw then, dimly, a room that was strange, strange people moving about
+over him, with faint voices, far away, things in a dream. He saw again,
+clearly, and consciousness returned, still unreal, still strange, full
+of those vague and far-away things. Then he was not dead. He lay stiff,
+like a stone, with a weight ponderous as a mountain upon him and all his
+bound body racked in slow, dull-beating agony.
+
+A woman's face hovered over him, white and tragic-eyed, like one of his
+old haunting phantoms, yet sweet and eloquent. Then a man's face bent
+over him, looked deep into his eyes, and seemed to whisper from a
+distance: “Duane--Duane! Ah, he knew me!”
+
+After that there was another long interval of darkness. When the light
+came again, clearer this time, the same earnest-faced man bent over him.
+It was MacNelly. And with recognition the past flooded back.
+
+Duane tried to speak. His lips were weak, and he could scarcely move
+them.
+
+“Poggin!” he whispered. His first real conscious thought was for Poggin.
+Ruling passion--eternal instinct!
+
+“Poggin is dead, Duane; shot to pieces,” replied MacNelly, solemnly.
+“What a fight he made! He killed two of my men, wounded others. God! he
+was a tiger. He used up three guns before we downed him.”
+
+“Who-got--away?”
+
+“Fletcher, the man with the horses. We downed all the others. Duane, the
+job's done--it's done! Why, man, you're--”
+
+“What of--of--HER?”
+
+“Miss Longstreth has been almost constantly at your bedside. She helped
+the doctor. She watched your wounds. And, Duane, the other night, when
+you sank low--so low--I think it was her spirit that held yours back.
+Oh, she's a wonderful girl. Duane, she never gave up, never lost her
+nerve for a moment. Well, we're going to take you home, and she'll go
+with us. Colonel Longstreth left for Louisiana right after the fight. I
+advised it. There was great excitement. It was best for him to leave.”
+
+“Have I--a--chance--to recover?”
+
+“Chance? Why, man,” exclaimed the Captain, “you'll get well! You'll pack
+a sight of lead all your life. But you can stand that. Duane, the whole
+Southwest knows your story. You need never again be ashamed of the name
+Buck Duane. The brand outlaw is washed out. Texas believes you've been
+a secret ranger all the time. You're a hero. And now think of home, your
+mother, of this noble girl--of your future.”
+
+The rangers took Duane home to Wellston.
+
+A railroad had been built since Duane had gone into exile. Wellston had
+grown. A noisy crowd surrounded the station, but it stilled as Duane was
+carried from the train.
+
+A sea of faces pressed close. Some were faces he
+remembered--schoolmates, friends, old neighbors. There was an upflinging
+of many hands. Duane was being welcomed home to the town from which he
+had fled. A deadness within him broke. This welcome hurt him somehow,
+quickened him; and through his cold being, his weary mind, passed a
+change. His sight dimmed.
+
+Then there was a white house, his old home. How strange, yet how real!
+His heart beat fast. Had so many, many years passed? Familiar yet
+strange it was, and all seemed magnified.
+
+They carried him in, these ranger comrades, and laid him down, and
+lifted his head upon pillows. The house was still, though full of
+people. Duane's gaze sought the open door.
+
+Some one entered--a tall girl in white, with dark, wet eyes and a light
+upon her face. She was leading an old lady, gray-haired, austere-faced,
+somber and sad. His mother! She was feeble, but she walked erect. She
+was pale, shaking, yet maintained her dignity.
+
+The some one in white uttered a low cry and knelt by Duane's bed. His
+mother flung wide her arms with a strange gesture.
+
+“This man! They've not brought back my boy. This man's his father! Where
+is my son? My son--oh, my son!”
+
+When Duane grew stronger it was a pleasure to lie by the west window and
+watch Uncle Jim whittle his stick and listen to his talk. The old man
+was broken now. He told many interesting things about people Duane had
+known--people who had grown up and married, failed, succeeded, gone
+away, and died. But it was hard to keep Uncle Jim off the subject of
+guns, outlaws, fights. He could not seem to divine how mention of these
+things hurt Duane. Uncle Jim was childish now, and he had a great pride
+in his nephew. He wanted to hear of all of Duane's exile. And if there
+was one thing more than another that pleased him it was to talk about
+the bullets which Duane carried in his body.
+
+“Five bullets, ain't it?” he asked, for the hundredth time.
+
+“Five in that last scrap! By gum! And you had six before?”
+
+“Yes, uncle,” replied Duane.
+
+“Five and six. That makes eleven. By gum! A man's a man, to carry all
+that lead. But, Buck, you could carry more. There's that nigger Edwards,
+right here in Wellston. He's got a ton of bullets in him. Doesn't seem
+to mind them none. And there's Cole Miller. I've seen him. Been a bad
+man in his day. They say he packs twenty-three bullets. But he's bigger
+than you--got more flesh.... Funny, wasn't it, Buck, about the
+doctor only bein' able to cut one bullet out of you--that one in your
+breastbone? It was a forty-one caliber, an unusual cartridge. I saw it,
+and I wanted it, but Miss Longstreth wouldn't part with it. Buck, there
+was a bullet left in one of Poggin's guns, and that bullet was the same
+kind as the one cut out of you. By gum! Boy, it'd have killed you if
+it'd stayed there.”
+
+“It would indeed, uncle,” replied Duane, and the old, haunting, somber
+mood returned.
+
+But Duane was not often at the mercy of childish old hero-worshiping
+Uncle Jim. Miss Longstreth was the only person who seemed to divine
+Duane's gloomy mood, and when she was with him she warded off all
+suggestion.
+
+One afternoon, while she was there at the west window, a message came
+for him. They read it together.
+
+You have saved the ranger service to the Lone Star State
+
+MACNELLEY.
+
+Ray knelt beside him at the window, and he believed she meant to speak
+then of the thing they had shunned. Her face was still white, but
+sweeter now, warm with rich life beneath the marble; and her dark eyes
+were still intent, still haunted by shadows, but no longer tragic.
+
+“I'm glad for MacNelly's sake as well as the state's,” said Duane.
+
+She made no reply to that and seemed to be thinking deeply. Duane shrank
+a little.
+
+“The pain--Is it any worse to-day?” she asked, instantly.
+
+“No; it's the same. It will always be the same. I'm full of lead, you
+know. But I don't mind a little pain.”
+
+“Then--it's the old mood--the fear?” she whispered. “Tell me.”
+
+“Yes. It haunts me. I'll be well soon--able to go out. Then that--that
+hell will come back!”
+
+“No, no!” she said, with emotion.
+
+“Some drunken cowboy, some fool with a gun, will hunt me out in every
+town, wherever I go,” he went on, miserably. “Buck Duane! To kill Buck
+Duane!”
+
+“Hush! Don't speak so. Listen. You remember that day in Val Verde,
+when I came to you--plead with you not to meet Poggin? Oh, that was a
+terrible hour for me. But it showed me the truth. I saw the struggle
+between your passion to kill and your love for me. I could have saved
+you then had I known what I know now. Now I understand that--that thing
+which haunts you. But you'll never have to draw again. You'll never have
+to kill another man, thank God!”
+
+Like a drowning man he would have grasped at straws, but he could not
+voice his passionate query.
+
+She put tender arms round his neck. “Because you'll have me with
+you always,” she replied. “Because always I shall be between you and
+that--that terrible thing.”
+
+It seemed with the spoken thought absolute assurance of her power came
+to her. Duane realized instantly that he was in the arms of a stronger
+woman that she who had plead with him that fatal day.
+
+“We'll--we'll be married and leave Texas,” she said, softly, with the
+red blood rising rich and dark in her cheeks.
+
+“Ray!”
+
+“Yes we will, though you're laggard in asking me, sir.”
+
+“But, dear--suppose,” he replied, huskily, “suppose there might be--be
+children--a boy. A boy with his father's blood!”
+
+“I pray God there will be. I do not fear what you fear. But even
+so--he'll be half my blood.”
+
+Duane felt the storm rise and break in him. And his terror was that of
+joy quelling fear. The shining glory of love in this woman's eyes made
+him weak as a child. How could she love him--how could she so bravely
+face a future with him? Yet she held him in her arms, twining her
+hands round his neck, and pressing close to him. Her faith and love and
+beauty--these she meant to throw between him and all that terrible past.
+They were her power, and she meant to use them all. He dared not think
+of accepting her sacrifice.
+
+“But Ray--you dear, noble girl--I'm poor. I have nothing. And I'm a
+cripple.”
+
+“Oh, you'll be well some day,” she replied. “And listen. I have money.
+My mother left me well off. All she had was her father's--Do you
+understand? We'll take Uncle Jim and your mother. We'll go to
+Louisiana--to my old home. It's far from here. There's a plantation to
+work. There are horses and cattle--a great cypress forest to cut. Oh,
+you'll have much to do. You'll forget there. You'll learn to love my
+home. It's a beautiful old place. There are groves where the gray moss
+blows all day and the nightingales sing all night.”
+
+“My darling!” cried Duane, brokenly. “No, no, no!”
+
+Yet he knew in his heart that he was yielding to her, that he could not
+resist her a moment longer. What was this madness of love?
+
+“We'll be happy,” she whispered. “Oh, I know. Come!--come!-come!”
+
+Her eyes were closing, heavy-lidded, and she lifted sweet, tremulous,
+waiting lips.
+
+With bursting heart Duane bent to them. Then he held her, close pressed
+to him, while with dim eyes he looked out over the line of low hills
+in the west, down where the sun was setting gold and red, down over the
+Nueces and the wild brakes of the Rio Grande which he was never to see
+again.
+
+It was in this solemn and exalted moment that Duane accepted happiness
+and faced a new life, trusting this brave and tender woman to be
+stronger than the dark and fateful passion that had shadowed his past.
+
+It would come back--that wind of flame, that madness to forget, that
+driving, relentless instinct for blood. It would come back with those
+pale, drifting, haunting faces and the accusing fading eyes, but all his
+life, always between them and him, rendering them powerless, would be
+the faith and love and beauty of this noble woman.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Lone Star Ranger, by Zane Grey
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