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  <head>
    <title>
      The Lone Star Ranger, by Zane Grey
    </title>
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  <body>
<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1027 ***</div>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <h1>
      THE LONE STAR RANGER
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      By Zane Grey
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h4>
      To<br /><br /> CAPTAIN JOHN HUGHES<br /> and his Texas Rangers
    </h4>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;outlaw and
      gunman.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;the old border days&mdash;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, &ldquo;Shore is
      'most as bad an' wild as ever!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;when I had my memorable sojourn
      with you&mdash;and yet, in that short time, Russell and Moore have crossed
      the Divide, like Rangers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gentlemen,&mdash;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&mdash;the Texas Rangers&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      ZANE GREY <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p class="toc">
        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>BOOK I. THE OUTLAW</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> <b>BOOK II. THE RANGER</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <h1>
      BOOK I. THE OUTLAW
    </h1>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER I
    </h2>
    <p>
      So it was in him, then&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Cal Bain's in town, full of bad whisky an' huntin' for you,&rdquo;
       repeated the elder man, gravely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's the second time,&rdquo; muttered Duane, as if to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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'.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what's he want me for?&rdquo; demanded Duane. &ldquo;To insult me again? I won't
      stand that twice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kill me! What for?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I quit when I found out she was his girl.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You mean for me to run?&rdquo; asked Duane, in scorn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane was silent, letting his uncle's earnest words sink in, trying to
      realize their significance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If Texas ever recovers from that fool war an' kills off these outlaws,
      why, a young man will have a lookout,&rdquo; went on the uncle. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'd never hang,&rdquo; muttered Duane, darkly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I reckon you wouldn't,&rdquo; replied the old man. &ldquo;You'd be like your father.
      He was ever ready to draw&mdash;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&mdash;keep your temper&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What you say is all very well, uncle,&rdquo; returned Duane, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, what're you goin' to do?&rdquo; inquired the elder man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I haven't decided&mdash;yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder what Dad would say to me to-day if he were alive and here,&rdquo; said
      Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you think? What could you expect of a man who never wore a glove
      on his right hand for twenty years?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You've got a fast horse&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Howdy, Buck,&rdquo; was his greeting to Duane. He spoke carelessly and averted
      his dark gaze for an instant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Howdy, Sol,&rdquo; replied Duane, slowly. &ldquo;Say, Sol, I hear there's a gent in
      town looking for me bad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Reckon there is, Buck,&rdquo; replied White. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Anybody with him?&rdquo; queried Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why doesn't Sheriff Oaks lock him up if he's that bad?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane stalked outdoors and faced down the street. He walked the whole
      length of the long block, meeting many people&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Buck, I'm a-tippin' you off,&rdquo; he said, quick and low-voiced. &ldquo;Cal Bain's
      over at Everall's. If he's a-huntin' you bad, as he brags, he'll show
      there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane stopped in his tracks at the outer edge of the sidewalk, perhaps a
      dozen rods from Everall's door.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Won't nothin' make you draw, you&mdash;!&rdquo; he shouted, fiercely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm waitin' on you, Cal,&rdquo; replied Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bain's right hand stiffened&mdash;moved. Duane threw his gun as a boy
      throws a ball underhand&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;rolled&mdash;set blankly.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;The fool!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When he looked up there were men around him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Plumb center,&rdquo; said one.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane wheeled and hurried away. He heard another man say:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Reckon Cal got what he deserved. Buck Duane's first gunplay. Like father
      like son!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER II
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The d&mdash;d fool!&rdquo; he exclaimed, hotly. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Son, you killed him&mdash;then?&rdquo; asked the uncle, huskily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. I stood over him&mdash;watched him die. I did as I would have been
      done by.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother!&rdquo; exclaimed Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She's away from home. You can't wait. I'll break it to her&mdash;what she
      always feared.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly Duane sat down and covered his face with his hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My God! Uncle, what have I done?&rdquo; His broad shoulders shook.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen, son, an' remember what I say,&rdquo; replied the elder man, earnestly.
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm a murderer,&rdquo; said Duane, shuddering.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An outlaw?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Why had this hard life been imposed upon him?
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;no&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;that
      he saw his mistake too late. Then they rolled, set blankly, and closed in
      death.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;stolen
      cattle, probably&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shore he crossed the river below,&rdquo; said one man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I reckon you're right, Bill. He's slipped us,&rdquo; replied another.
    </p>
    <p>
      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?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're wrong, Bill,&rdquo; said a man, in a low but distinct voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, I'll just take a look at the sand,&rdquo; replied the man called Bill.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      He rode perhaps twenty miles, not sparing his horse nor caring whether or
      not he left a plain trail.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let them hunt me!&rdquo; he muttered.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mawnin', stranger,&rdquo; called the man, dropping his hand from his hip.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Howdy,&rdquo; replied Duane, shortly.
    </p>
    <p>
      They rode toward each other, closing half the gap, then they halted again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I seen you ain't no ranger,&rdquo; called the rider, &ldquo;an' shore I ain't none.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He laughed loudly, as if he had made a joke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How'd you know I wasn't a ranger?&rdquo; asked Duane, curiously. Somehow he had
      instantly divined that his horseman was no officer, or even a rancher
      trailing stolen stock.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal,&rdquo; said the fellow, starting his horse forward at a walk, &ldquo;a ranger'd
      never git ready to run the other way from one man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My name's Luke Stevens, an' I hail from the river. Who're you?&rdquo; said this
      stranger.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane was silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I reckon you're Buck Duane,&rdquo; went on Stevens. &ldquo;I heerd you was a damn bad
      man with a gun.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, Buck,&rdquo; said Stevens, in a friendly manner, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm out of grub, and pretty hungry myself,&rdquo; admitted Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Been pushin' your hoss, I see. Wal, I reckon you'd better stock up before
      you hit thet stretch of country.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stock up?&rdquo; queried Duane, thoughtfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You mean you'd like me to go with you?&rdquo; asked Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      Stevens grinned. &ldquo;Wal, I should smile. I'd be particular proud to be
      braced with a man of your reputation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See here, my good fellow, that's all nonsense,&rdquo; declared Duane, in some
      haste.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shore I think modesty becomin' to a youngster,&rdquo; replied Stevens. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was something sincere and likable about this outlaw.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dare say you're right,&rdquo; replied Duane, quietly. &ldquo;And I'll go to Mercer
      with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER III
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Buck, as we're lookin' fer grub, an' not trouble, I reckon you'd better
      hang up out here,&rdquo; Stevens was saying, as he mounted. &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His pause was significant. He grinned, and his brown eyes danced with a
      kind of wild humor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stevens, have you got any money?&rdquo; asked Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Money!&rdquo; exclaimed Luke, blankly. &ldquo;Say, I haven't owned a two-bit piece
      since&mdash;wal, fer some time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll furnish money for grub,&rdquo; returned Duane. &ldquo;And for whisky, too,
      providing you hurry back here&mdash;without making trouble.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shore you're a downright good pard,&rdquo; declared Stevens, in admiration, as
      he took the money. &ldquo;I give my word, Buck, an' I'm here to say I never
      broke it yet. Lay low, an' look fer me back quick.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was jest comin' out of the store,&rdquo; yelled Stevens. &ldquo;Run plumb into a
      rancher&mdash;who knowed me. He opened up with a rifle. Think they'll
      chase us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No hosses in thet bunch to worry us,&rdquo; called out Stevens.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Stevens was pale, and his face bore beads of sweat. The whole front of his
      shirt was soaked with blood.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're shot!&rdquo; cried Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, who 'n hell said I wasn't? Would you mind givin' me a lift&mdash;on
      this here pack?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, why didn't you say so!&rdquo; cried Duane. &ldquo;I never thought. You seemed all
      right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Feller's name was Brown,&rdquo; Stevens said. &ldquo;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&mdash;an'
      fust shot he got me here. What do you think of this hole?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's pretty bad,&rdquo; replied Duane; and he could not look the cheerful
      outlaw in the eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leave you here alone?&rdquo; asked Duane, sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What would you do in my case?&rdquo; asked Duane, curiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, I reckon I'd clear out an' save my hide,&rdquo; replied Stevens.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Reckon we'd better keep right on in the dark&mdash;till I drop,&rdquo;
       concluded Stevens, with a laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Buck, will you take off my boots?&rdquo; he asked, with a faint smile on his
      pallid face.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Buck, my old daddy used to say thet I was born to be hanged. But I wasn't&mdash;an'
      dyin' with your boots on is the next wust way to croak.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You've a chance to-to get over this,&rdquo; said Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shore. But I want to be correct about the boots&mdash;an' say, pard, if I
      do go over, jest you remember thet I was appreciatin' of your kindness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then he closed his eyes and seemed to sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he returned with them he found Stevens awake, bright-eyed, cheerful
      as usual, and apparently stronger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, Buck, I'm still with you an' good fer another night's ride,&rdquo; he
      said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      When it came time for mounting the horses Stevens said, &ldquo;Reckon you can
      pull on my boots once more.&rdquo; In spite of the laugh accompanying the words
      Duane detected a subtle change in the outlaw's spirit.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Buck, my feet are orful tired packin' them heavy boots,&rdquo; he said, and
      seemed immensely relieved when Duane had removed them.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This trail splits up a ways from here, an' every branch of it leads to a
      hole where you'll find men&mdash;a few, mebbe, like yourself&mdash;some
      like me&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Stevens asked for water several times. He had forgotten or he did not want
      the whisky. His voice grew perceptibly weaker.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be quiet,&rdquo; said Duane. &ldquo;Talking uses up your strength.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aw, I'll talk till&mdash;I'm done,&rdquo; he replied, doggedly. &ldquo;See here,
      pard, you can gamble on what I'm tellin' you. An' it'll be useful. From
      this camp we'll&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here Stevens took another drink and then rested for a while.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You ain't likely to get on with Bland,&rdquo; he resumed, presently. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Feller's name&mdash;was Brown,&rdquo; he rambled. &ldquo;We fell out&mdash;over a
      hoss I stole from him&mdash;in Huntsville. He stole it fuss. Brown's one
      of them sneaks&mdash;afraid of the open&mdash;he steals an' pretends to be
      honest. Say, Buck, mebbe you'll meet Brown some day&mdash;You an' me are
      pards now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll remember, if I ever meet him,&rdquo; said Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My feet are pretty heavy. Shore you got my boots off?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pard, you&mdash;stuck&mdash;to me!&rdquo; the outlaw whispered.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane caught a hint of gladness in the voice; he traced a faint surprise
      in the haggard face. Stevens seemed like a little child.
    </p>
    <p>
      To Duane the moment was sad, elemental, big, with a burden of mystery he
      could not understand.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IV
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Duane reined to a halt one of the loungers in the shade rose with a
      loud exclamation:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bust me if thet ain't Luke's hoss!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The others accorded their interest, if not assent, by rising to advance
      toward Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How about it, Euchre? Ain't thet Luke's bay?&rdquo; queried the first man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Plain as your nose,&rdquo; replied the fellow called Euchre.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There ain't no doubt about thet, then,&rdquo; laughed another, &ldquo;fer Bosomer's
      nose is shore plain on the landscape.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stranger, who are you an' where in the hell did you git thet bay hoss?&rdquo;
       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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stranger, who are you?&rdquo; asked another man, somewhat more civilly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My name's Duane,&rdquo; replied Duane, curtly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An' how'd you come by the hoss?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Reckon he's dead, all right, or nobody'd hev his hoss an' guns,&rdquo;
       presently said Euchre.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mister Duane,&rdquo; began Bosomer, in low, stinging tones, &ldquo;I happen to be
      Luke Stevens's side-pardner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane looked him over, from dusty, worn-out boots to his slouchy sombrero.
      That look seemed to inflame Bosomer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An' I want the hoss an' them guns,&rdquo; he shouted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You or anybody else can have them, for all I care. I just fetched them
      in. But the pack is mine,&rdquo; replied Duane. &ldquo;And say, I befriended your
      pard. If you can't use a civil tongue you'd better cinch it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Civil? Haw, haw!&rdquo; rejoined the outlaw. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'll have to take my word, that's all,&rdquo; replied Duane, sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I ain't takin' your word! Savvy thet? An' I was Luke's pard!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With that Bosomer wheeled and, pushing his companions aside, he stamped
      into the saloon, where his voice broke out in a roar.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane dismounted and threw his bridle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stranger, Bosomer is shore hot-headed,&rdquo; said the man Euchre. He did not
      appear unfriendly, nor were the others hostile.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm Bland,&rdquo; said the tall man, authoritatively. &ldquo;Who're you and what're
      you doing here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe you,&rdquo; replied Bland, at once. &ldquo;Think I know when a fellow is
      lying.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I reckon you're on the right trail,&rdquo; put in Euchre. &ldquo;Thet about Luke
      wantin' his boots took off&mdash;thet satisfies me. Luke hed a mortal
      dread of dyin' with his boots on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this sally the chief and his men laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You said Duane&mdash;Buck Duane?&rdquo; queried Bland. &ldquo;Are you a son of that
      Duane who was a gunfighter some years back?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never met him, and glad I didn't,&rdquo; said Bland, with a grim humor. &ldquo;So you
      got in trouble and had to go on the dodge? What kind of trouble?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Had a fight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fight? Do you mean gun-play?&rdquo; questioned Bland. He seemed eager, curious,
      speculative.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. It ended in gun-play, I'm sorry to say,&rdquo; answered Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Guess I needn't ask the son of Duane if he killed his man,&rdquo; went on
      Bland, ironically. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you mean I'm politely told to move on?&rdquo; asked Duane, quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not exactly that,&rdquo; said Bland, as if irritated. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I don't.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks. But if that's all I'll stay,&rdquo; returned Duane. Even as he spoke he
      felt that he did not know himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;both from
      Duane's gun&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER V
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      It had two rooms&mdash;windows without coverings&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Make yourself to home as long as you want to stay,&rdquo; said Euchre. &ldquo;I ain't
      rich in this world's goods, but I own what's here, an' you're welcome.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks. I'll stay awhile and rest. I'm pretty well played out,&rdquo; replied
      Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      Euchre gave him a keen glance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go ahead an' rest. I'll take your horses to grass.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hey a drink or a smoke?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Euchre wagged his old head sympathetically. &ldquo;Reckon you feel a little
      sick. When it comes to shootin' I run. What's your age?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm twenty-three,&rdquo; replied Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      Euchre showed surprise. &ldquo;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&mdash;thet
      ain't no crime!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane, finding relief in talking, told more about himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Huh,&rdquo; replied the old man. &ldquo;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&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not much,&rdquo; replied Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Could you live by gamblin'? Are you any good at cards?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You wouldn't steal hosses or rustle cattle?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God knows,&rdquo; replied Duane, hopelessly. &ldquo;I'll make my money last as long
      as possible&mdash;then starve.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, I'm pretty pore, but you'll never starve while I got anythin'.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here it struck Duane again&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm much obliged to you, Euchre,&rdquo; replied Duane. &ldquo;But of course I won't
      live with any one unless I can pay my share.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have it any way you like, my son,&rdquo; said Euchre, good-humoredly. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you ever pack supplies in here?&rdquo; asked Duane, thinking of the
      almost inaccessible nature of the valley.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where on earth are the cattle driven down to the river?&rdquo; asked Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thet's not my secret,&rdquo; replied Euchre, shortly. &ldquo;Fact is, I don't know.
      I've rustled cattle for Bland, but he never sent me through the Rim Rock
      with them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come along or stay here, as you want,&rdquo; he said to Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll stay,&rdquo; rejoined Duane, slowly.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old outlaw left the room and trudged away, whistling cheerfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, glad to see you ain't so pale about the gills as you was,&rdquo; he said,
      by way of greeting. &ldquo;Pitch in an' we'll soon have grub ready. There's
      shore one consolin' fact round this here camp.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's that?&rdquo; asked Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Plenty of good juicy beef to eat. An' it doesn't cost a short bit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it costs hard rides and trouble, bad conscience, and life, too,
      doesn't it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I ain't shore about the bad conscience. Mine never bothered me none. An'
      as for life, why, thet's cheap in Texas.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is Bland?&rdquo; asked Duane, quickly changing the subject. &ldquo;What do you
      know about him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We don't know who he is or where he hails from,&rdquo; replied Euchre. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How many in his gang now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How does he control such a big force?&rdquo; asked Duane. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's a wonder he hasn't been killed. All these years on the border!&rdquo;
       exclaimed Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal,&rdquo; replied Euchre, dryly, &ldquo;he's been quicker on the draw than the
      other fellers who hankered to kill him, thet's all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Euchre's reply rather chilled Duane's interest for the moment. Such
      remarks always made his mind revolve round facts pertaining to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Speakin' of this here swift wrist game,&rdquo; went on Euchre, &ldquo;there's been
      considerable talk in camp about your throwin' of a gun. You know, Buck,
      thet among us fellers&mdash;us hunted men&mdash;there ain't anythin'
      calculated to rouse respect like a slick hand with a gun. I heard Bland
      say this afternoon&mdash;an' he said it serious-like an' speculative&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;can't you-all see thet's
      a family gift?'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal,&rdquo; he resumed, presently, &ldquo;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&mdash;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'.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;these seemed utterly
      out of place here.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let's have a look in here,&rdquo; said Euchre.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The only feller who's goin' to put a close eye on you is Benson,&rdquo; said
      Euchre. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What have you got against him?&rdquo; 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?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, mebbe I'm cross-grained,&rdquo; replied Euchre, apologetically. &ldquo;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&mdash;he was the means of puttin' a little girl in Bland's way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Girl?&rdquo; queried Duane, now with real attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;Mexican pesos&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bland's not here to-night,&rdquo; Euchre was saying. &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;he was a criminal in sight of
      Texas law; he, too, was an outcast.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You stacked the cards, you&mdash;!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say that twice,&rdquo; another voice replied, so different in its cool, ominous
      tone from the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll say it twice,&rdquo; returned the first gamester, in hot haste. &ldquo;I'll say
      it three times. I'll whistle it. Are you deaf? You light-fingered gent!
      You stacked the cards!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Run or duck!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who was the Kid callin'?&rdquo; asked one outlaw.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bud Marsh,&rdquo; replied another.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I reckon them fust shots was Bud's. Adios Kid. It was comin' to him,&rdquo;
       went on yet another.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How many shots?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Three or four, I counted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nobody hurt much, which's shore some strange,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;The Kid&mdash;young
      Fuller thet I was tellin' you about&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VI
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane had intelligence and keenness enough to see his peril&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he returned to the shack Euchre was cooking dinner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say, Buck, I've news for you,&rdquo; he said; and his tone conveyed either
      pride in his possession of such news or pride in Duane. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I certainly did not,&rdquo; replied Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Popular? What do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Euchre, I don't want to be impolite, but I'd rather not meet any
      women,&rdquo; rejoined Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What kid?&rdquo; inquired Duane, in surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Didn't I tell you about Jennie&mdash;the girl Bland's holdin' here&mdash;the
      one Jackrabbit Benson had a hand in stealin'?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You mentioned a girl. That's all. Tell me now,&rdquo; replied Duane, abruptly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll go, Euchre. Take me over,&rdquo; replied Duane. He felt Euchre's eyes upon
      him. The old outlaw, however, had no more to say.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Euchre knocked upon the side of the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that you, Euchre?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it's me, Jennie. Where's Mrs. Bland?&rdquo; answered Euchre.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She went over to Deger's. There's somebody sick,&rdquo; replied the girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      Euchre turned and whispered something about luck. The snap of the outlaw's
      eyes was added significance to Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jennie, come out or let us come in. Here's the young man I was tellin'
      you about,&rdquo; Euchre said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I can't! I look so&mdash;so&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind how you look,&rdquo; interrupted the outlaw, in a whisper. &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Euchre did not complete his sentence. He had spoken low, with his glance
      shifting from side to side.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't be bashful, Jennie,&rdquo; said Euchre. &ldquo;You an' Duane have a chance to
      talk a little. Now I'll go fetch Mrs. Bland, but I won't be hurryin'.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With that Euchre went away through the cottonwoods.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm glad to meet you, Miss&mdash;Miss Jennie,&rdquo; said Duane. &ldquo;Euchre didn't
      mention your last name. He asked me to come over to&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did you come here for?&rdquo; she asked, at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To see you,&rdquo; replied Duane, glad to speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well&mdash;Euchre thought&mdash;he wanted me to talk to you, cheer you up
      a bit,&rdquo; replied Duane, somewhat lamely. The earnest eyes embarrassed him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane told her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're not a robber or rustler or murderer or some bad man come here to
      hide?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I'm not,&rdquo; replied Duane, trying to smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then why are you here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you can't be honest here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I can.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I know what these outlaws are. Yes, you're different.&rdquo; She kept the
      strained gaze upon him, but hope was kindling, and the hard lines of her
      youthful face were softening.
    </p>
    <p>
      Something sweet and warm stirred deep in Duane as he realized the
      unfortunate girl was experiencing a birth of trust in him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O God! Maybe you're the man to save me&mdash;to take me away before it's
      too late.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane's spirit leaped.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maybe I am,&rdquo; he replied, instantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It can't be. You're only&mdash;after me, too, like Bland&mdash;like all
      of them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane's long arms went out and his hands clasped her shoulders. He shook
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look at me&mdash;straight in the eye. There are decent men. Haven't you a
      father&mdash;a brother?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They're dead&mdash;killed by raiders. We lived in Dimmit County. I was
      carried away,&rdquo; Jennie replied, hurriedly. She put up an appealing hand to
      him. &ldquo;Forgive me. I believe&mdash;I know you're good. It was only&mdash;I
      live so much in fear&mdash;I'm half crazy&mdash;I've almost forgotten what
      good men are like, Mister Duane, you'll help me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Jennie, I will. Tell me how. What must I do? Have you any plan?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no. But take me away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll try,&rdquo; said Duane, simply. &ldquo;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&mdash;kept prisoner?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I realize that,&rdquo; replied he, thoughtfully. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She would that. You've got to be careful&mdash;and quick.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What kind of woman is she?&rdquo; inquired Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She's&mdash;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&mdash;to&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To make love to her?&rdquo; interrupted Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jennie bravely turned shamed eyes to meet his.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My girl, I'd do worse than that to get you away from here,&rdquo; he said,
      bluntly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But&mdash;Duane,&rdquo; she faltered, and again she put out the appealing hand.
      &ldquo;Bland will kill you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane made no reply to this. He was trying to still a rising strange
      tumult in his breast. The old emotion&mdash;the rush of an instinct to
      kill! He turned cold all over.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Chess Alloway will kill you if Bland doesn't,&rdquo; went on Jennie, with her
      tragic eyes on Duane's.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maybe he will,&rdquo; replied Duane. It was difficult for him to force a smile.
      But he achieved one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, better take me off at once,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Save me without risking so
      much&mdash;without making love to Mrs. Bland!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Surely, if I can. There! I see Euchre coming with a woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's her. Oh, she mustn't see me with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait&mdash;a moment,&rdquo; whispered Duane, as Jennie slipped indoors. &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jennie checked him with a gesture and a wonderful gray flash of eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll bless you with every drop of blood in my heart,&rdquo; she whispered,
      passionately.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane took her proffered hand and remarked frankly that he was glad to
      meet her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bland appeared pleased; and her laugh, which followed, was loud and
      rather musical.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Duane&mdash;Buck Duane, Euchre said, didn't he?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Buckley,&rdquo; corrected Duane. &ldquo;The nickname's not of my choosing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm certainly glad to meet you, Buckley Duane,&rdquo; she said, as she took the
      seat Duane offered her. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've been alone,&rdquo; replied Duane. &ldquo;Haven't seen anybody but a sick-looking
      girl with a bucket. And she ran when she saw me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was Jen,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bland. &ldquo;She's the kid we keep here, and she sure
      hardly pays her keep. Did Euchre tell you about her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now that I think of it, he did say something or other.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did he tell you about me?&rdquo; bluntly asked Mrs. Bland.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, Kate,&rdquo; replied Euchre, speaking for himself, &ldquo;you needn't worry
      none, for I told Buck nothin' but compliments.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Evidently the outlaw's wife liked Euchre, for her keen glance rested with
      amusement upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As for Jen, I'll tell you her story some day,&rdquo; went on the woman. &ldquo;It's a
      common enough story along this river. Euchre here is a tender-hearted old
      fool, and Jen has taken him in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, seein' as you've got me figgered correct,&rdquo; replied Euchre, dryly,
      &ldquo;I'll go in an' talk to Jennie if I may.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly. Go ahead. Jen calls you her best friend,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bland,
      amiably. &ldquo;You're always fetching some Mexican stuff, and that's why, I
      guess.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Euchre had shuffled into the house Mrs. Bland turned to Duane with
      curiosity and interest in her gaze.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bland told me about you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did he say?&rdquo; queried Duane, in pretended alarm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did you say?&rdquo; inquired Duane, as she paused.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me? Why, I asked him what you looked like,&rdquo; she replied, gayly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo; went on Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Magnificent chap, Bland said. Bigger than any man in the valley. Just a
      great blue-eyed sunburned boy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Humph!&rdquo; exclaimed Duane. &ldquo;I'm sorry he led you to expect somebody worth
      seeing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I'm not disappointed,&rdquo; she returned, archly. &ldquo;Duane, are you going to
      stay long here in camp?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, till I run out of money and have to move. Why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll tell you, Duane,&rdquo; she said, earnestly, &ldquo;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&mdash;buried alive
      with a lot of thieves and murderers. Can you blame me for being glad to
      see a young fellow&mdash;a gentleman&mdash;like the boys I used to go
      with? I tell you it makes me feel full&mdash;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&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;and a woman who fitted
      her consort and the wild nature of their surroundings&mdash;should have
      weakness enough to weep. Duane believed and pitied her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm sorry for you,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't be SORRY for me,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;That only makes me see the&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would Bland object if I called on you occasionally?&rdquo; inquired Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm not going to get half drunk, that's certain,&rdquo; replied Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Later, after he had left Mrs. Bland with a meaning &ldquo;Adios&mdash;manana,&rdquo;
       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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VII
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal,&rdquo; began the old man, at last, &ldquo;how'd you make out with the kid?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kid?&rdquo; inquired Duane, tentatively.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jennie, I mean. What'd you An' she talk about?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We had a little chat. You know you wanted me to cheer her up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Euchre sat with coffee-cup poised and narrow eyes studying Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Reckon you cheered her, all right. What I'm afeared of is mebbe you done
      the job too well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Euchre paused, and, as there seemed no reply forthcoming, he went on:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, if thet doesn't floor me!&rdquo; he ejaculated, blinking at Duane. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I haven't any idea,&rdquo; replied Duane, gravely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not me, Euchre. She's a woman. I'd fear her more than any man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why? Can't we plan to be nice to Mrs. Bland and then at an opportune time
      sneak off without any gun-play?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't see how on earth,&rdquo; returned Euchre, earnestly. &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right. I'll meet what comes,&rdquo; said Duane, quickly. &ldquo;The great point
      is to have horses ready and pick the right moment, then rush the trick
      through.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thet's the ONLY chance fer success. An' you can't do it alone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll have to. I wouldn't ask you to help me. Leave you behind!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, I'll take my chances,&rdquo; replied Euchre, gruffly. &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was playing at a game of love&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon his return from the latest of these tramps Euchre suggested that they
      go down to the river to the boat-landing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ferry couldn't run ashore this mornin',&rdquo; said Euchre. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bland's been chased across the river,&rdquo; said one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;New, he's deliverin' cattle to thet Cuban ship,&rdquo; replied another.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Big deal on, hey?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some big. Rugg says the boss hed an order fer fifteen thousand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say, that order'll take a year to fill.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;New. Hardin is in cahoots with Bland. Between 'em they'll fill orders
      bigger 'n thet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wondered what Hardin was rustlin' in here fer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane could not possibly attend to all the conversation among the outlaws.
      He endeavored to get the drift of talk nearest to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kid Fuller's goin' to cash,&rdquo; said a sandy-whiskered little outlaw.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So Jim was tellin' me. Blood-poison, ain't it? Thet hole wasn't bad. But
      he took the fever,&rdquo; rejoined a comrade.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Deger says the Kid might pull through if he hed nursin'.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, Kate Bland ain't nursin' any shot-up boys these days. She hasn't got
      time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pete, 'pears to me you've said thet before.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shore. Wal, it's happened before.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This remark drew louder laughter and more significant glances at Duane. He
      did not choose to ignore them any longer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Orful hot, ain't it?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there any guy in this heah outfit sport enough to go swimmin'?&rdquo; he
      asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My Gawd, Bill, you ain't agoin' to wash!&rdquo; exclaimed a comrade.
    </p>
    <p>
      This raised a laugh in which Black joined. But no one seemed eager to join
      him in a bath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Laziest outfit I ever rustled with,&rdquo; went on Bill, discontentedly.
      &ldquo;Nuthin' to do! Say, if nobody wants to swim maybe some of you'll gamble?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He produced a dirty pack of cards and waved them at the motionless crowd.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bill, you're too good at cards,&rdquo; replied a lanky outlaw.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, Jasper, you say thet powerful sweet, an' you look sweet, er I might
      take it to heart,&rdquo; replied Black, with a sudden change of tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here it was again&mdash;that upflashing passion. What Jasper saw fit to
      reply would mollify the outlaw or it would not. There was an even balance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No offense, Bill,&rdquo; said Jasper, placidly, without moving.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, if you-all are afraid of the cairds, what will you bet on?&rdquo; he
      asked, in disgust.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bill, I'll play you a game of mumbly peg fer two bits.&rdquo; replied one.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See thet turtle-dove there?&rdquo; he said, pointing. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      That appeared to be more than the gambling spirit of several outlaws could
      withstand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take thet. Easy money,&rdquo; said one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who's goin' to chuck the stone?&rdquo; asked another.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Anybody,&rdquo; replied Bill.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, I'll bet you I can scare him with one stone,&rdquo; said the first outlaw.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We're in on thet, Jim to fire the darnick,&rdquo; chimed in the others.
    </p>
    <p>
      The money was put up, the stone thrown. The turtle-dove took flight, to
      the great joy of all the outlaws except Bill.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll bet you-all he'll come back to thet tree inside of five minnits,&rdquo; he
      offered, imperturbably.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it hadn't the same dove!&rdquo; exclaimed one outlaw, excitedly. &ldquo;This
      'n'is smaller, dustier, not so purple.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bill eyed the speaker loftily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      No one offered to take his wager.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, then, I'll bet any of you even money thet you CAN'T scare him with
      one stone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll bet he drops some before he gits to the road,&rdquo; declared Bill. &ldquo;I'll
      bet he runs. Hurry, you four-flush gamblers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bill, I'll bet you ten you can't spill whatever's in the bucket thet
      peon's packin',&rdquo; said the outlaw called Jim.
    </p>
    <p>
      Black's head came up with the action of a hawk about to swoop.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jim, I'll take you up,&rdquo; replied Black.
    </p>
    <p>
      Something, perhaps a harshness in his voice, caused Duane to whirl. He
      caught a leaping gleam in the outlaw's eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aw, Bill, thet's too fur a shot,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      What a contrast, Duane thought, the evening of that day presented to the
      state of his soul!
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He might have killed you,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Buck, you love me?&rdquo; she whispered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;yes,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen, dear,&rdquo; he said to the woman, and he meant his words for the girl.
      &ldquo;I'm going to take you away from this outlaw den if I have to kill Bland,
      Alloway, Rugg&mdash;anybody who stands in my path. You were dragged here.
      You are good&mdash;I know it. There's happiness for you somewhere&mdash;a
      home among good people who will care for you. Just wait till&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Boy, that's good of you,&rdquo; she whispered, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's Bland!&rdquo; whispered the woman, grasping Duane with shaking hands. &ldquo;You
      must run! No, he'd see you. That 'd be worse. It's Bland! I know his
      horse's trot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you said he wouldn't mind my calling here,&rdquo; protested Duane.
      &ldquo;Euchre's with me. It'll be all right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maybe so,&rdquo; she replied, with visible effort at self-control. Manifestly
      she had a great fear of Bland. &ldquo;If I could only think!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then she dragged Duane to the door, pushed him in.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&mdash;that was way back in the sixties, about the time of the war,&rdquo; he
      was saying. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dog-tired we are and starved,&rdquo; said Bland, heavily. &ldquo;Who's here with
      you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's Euchre on the porch. Duane is inside at the window with Jen,&rdquo;
       replied Mrs. Bland.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Duane!&rdquo; he exclaimed. Then he whispered low&mdash;something Duane could
      not catch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, I asked him to come,&rdquo; said the chief's wife. She spoke easily and
      naturally and made no change in tone. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kate, you let Duane make love to Jennie?&rdquo; queried Bland, incredulously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I did,&rdquo; replied the wife, stubbornly. &ldquo;Why not? Jen's in love with
      him. If he takes her away and marries her she can be a decent woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bland kept silent a moment, then his laugh pealed out loud and harsh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Chess, did you get that? Well, by God! what do you think of my wife?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She's lyin' or she's crazy,&rdquo; replied Alloway, and his voice carried an
      unpleasant ring.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bland promptly and indignantly told her husband's lieutenant to keep
      his mouth shut.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ho, ho, ho!&rdquo; rolled out Bland's laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then he led the way to the porch, his spurs clinking, the weapons he was
      carrying rattling, and he flopped down on a bench.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How are you, boss?&rdquo; asked Euchre.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hello, old man. I'm well, but all in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;Jennie,&rdquo; whispered Duane, &ldquo;that was
      clever of Mrs. Bland. We'll keep up the deception. Any day now be ready!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She pressed close to him, and a barely audible &ldquo;Hurry!&rdquo; came breathing
      into his ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good night, Jennie,&rdquo; he said, aloud. &ldquo;Hope you feel better to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then he stepped out into the moonlight and spoke. Bland returned the
      greeting, and, though he was not amiable, he did not show resentment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Met Jasper as I rode in,&rdquo; said Bland, presently. &ldquo;He told me you made
      Bill Black mad, and there's liable to be a fight. What did you go off the
      handle about?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane explained the incident. &ldquo;I'm sorry I happened to be there,&rdquo; he went
      on. &ldquo;It wasn't my business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Scurvy trick that 'd been,&rdquo; muttered Bland. &ldquo;You did right. All the same,
      Duane, I want you to stop quarreling with my men. If you were one of us&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess I'll have to be hitting the trail for somewhere,&rdquo; said Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;he's
      driven to it to forget the last one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I'm no gun-fighter,&rdquo; protested Duane. &ldquo;Circumstances made me&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No doubt,&rdquo; interrupted Bland, with a laugh. &ldquo;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&mdash;a lone wolf, as the
      Texans say&mdash;why not make friends with other outlaws? You'll live
      longer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Euchre squirmed in his seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's about the only qualification I have to make me eligible for your
      band,&rdquo; said Duane, easily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's good enough,&rdquo; replied Bland, shortly. &ldquo;Will you consider the idea?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll think it over. Good night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bland kept you pretty long,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait till I git my breath,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fine night,&rdquo; he said; and his tone further acquainted Duane with Euchre's
      quaint humor. &ldquo;Fine night for love-affairs, by gum!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'd noticed that,&rdquo; rejoined Duane, dryly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; ejaculated Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'I've a mind to blow out your brains.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Go ahead,' says Kate, cool as could be.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'You lied to me,' he roars.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;hurt her&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Has Duane been comin' here to see my wife?' Bland asked, fierce-like.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'No,' said Jennie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'He's been after you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'He has fallen in love with you? Kate said thet.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'I&mdash;I'm not&mdash;I don't know&mdash;he hasn't told me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'But you're in love with him?'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'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!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bland stamped up an' down the room. He sure was dyin' hard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'No. I swear,' answered Jennie; an' Bland sat down like a man licked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Go to bed, you white-faced&mdash;' Bland choked on some word or other&mdash;a
      bad one, I reckon&mdash;an' he positively shook in his chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jennie went then, an' Kate began to have hysterics. An' your Uncle Euchre
      ducked his nut out of the door an' come home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, there's where our little deal stands now,&rdquo; resumed Euchre,
      meditatively. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IX
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Buck, the sooner the better now,&rdquo; he declared, with a glint in his eye.
      &ldquo;The more time we use up now the less surprised Bland'll be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm ready when you are,&rdquo; replied Duane, quietly, and he rose from the
      table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, saddle up, then,&rdquo; went on Euchre, gruffly. &ldquo;Tie on them two packs I
      made, one fer each saddle. You can't tell&mdash;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&mdash;bringin' in your hosses
      an' havin' them ready?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Euchre, I hope you're not going to get in bad here. I'm afraid you are.
      Let me do the rest now,&rdquo; said Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old outlaw eyed him sarcastically.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Euchre, you're going with me?&rdquo; queried Duane, suddenly divining the
      truth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Luck ours&mdash;so-fur, Buck!&rdquo; he panted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't look it,&rdquo; replied Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm turrible sick. Jest killed a man. Fust one I ever killed!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who?&rdquo; asked Duane, startled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'You're double-crossin' the boss an' Chess,' he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Jack, what 'd you give fer your own life?' I asked him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane asked if the shot had attracted any attention outside.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It seems so. Well, I'm going,&rdquo; said Duane, tersely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How about the horses?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right. But once more let me persuade you to stay&mdash;not to mix any
      more in this,&rdquo; said Duane, earnestly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nope. I'm goin'. You heard what Benson told me. Alloway wouldn't give me
      the benefit of any doubts. Buck, a last word&mdash;look out fer thet Bland
      woman!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then he entered Bland's lane.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane now changed his walk to a leisurely saunter. He reached the porch
      and then distinguished what was said inside the cabin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you do, Bland, by Heaven I'll fix you and her!&rdquo; That was panted out in
      Kate Bland's full voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me looser I'm going in there, I tell you!&rdquo; replied Bland, hoarsely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want to make a little love to her. Ha! ha! It'll be fun to have the
      laugh on her new lover.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You lie!&rdquo; cried Kate Bland.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm not saying what I'll do to her AFTERWARD!&rdquo; His voice grew hoarser
      with passion. &ldquo;Let me go now!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No! no! I won't let you go. You'll choke the&mdash;the truth out of her&mdash;you'll
      kill her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The TRUTH!&rdquo; hissed Bland.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. I lied. Jen lied. But she lied to save me. You needn't&mdash;murder
      her&mdash;for that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bland cursed horribly. Then followed a wrestling sound of bodies in
      violent straining contact&mdash;the scrape of feet&mdash;the jangle of
      spurs&mdash;a crash of sliding table or chair, and then the cry of a woman
      in pain.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      With cat-like swiftness Bland wheeled, then froze on the threshold. His
      sight, quick as his action, caught Duane's menacing unmistakable position.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Duane, you've killed him!&rdquo; cried Kate Bland, huskily. &ldquo;I knew you'd have
      to!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jennie!&rdquo; called Duane, sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh&mdash;Duane!&rdquo; came a halting reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. Come out. Hurry!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Duane,&rdquo; cried Mrs. Bland.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where 're you taking Jen?&rdquo; she cried, her voice like a man's. &ldquo;Get out of
      my way,&rdquo; replied Duane. His look perhaps, without speech, was enough for
      her. In an instant she was transformed into a fury.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You hound! All the time you were fooling me! You made love to me! You let
      me believe&mdash;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&mdash;get at her! She'll never win any
      more men in this camp.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;HELP! HELP! HELP!&rdquo; she shrieked, in a voice that must have penetrated to
      the remotest cabin in the valley.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let go! Let go!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Let go!&rdquo; he repeated, and he
      shoved her fiercely.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jennie, run out! Get on a horse!&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jennie flashed out of the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kate! Let go!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      He heard a cry from outside&mdash;a man's cry, hoarse and alarming.
    </p>
    <p>
      It made him think of loss of time. This demon of a woman might yet block
      his plan.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let go!&rdquo; he whispered, and felt his lips stiff. In the grimness of that
      instant he relaxed his hold on the rifle-barrel.
    </p>
    <p>
      With sudden, redoubled, irresistible strength she wrenched the rifle down
      and discharged it. Duane felt a blow&mdash;a shock&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jennie, you've nerve, all right!&rdquo; cried Duane, as he dragged down the
      horse she was holding. &ldquo;Up with you now! There! Never mind&mdash;long
      stirrups! Hang on somehow!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jennie, we're going to get away!&rdquo; he cried, exultation for her in his
      voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was gazing horror-stricken at his breast, as in turning to look back
      he faced her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Duane, your shirt's all bloody!&rdquo; she faltered, pointing with
      trembling fingers.
    </p>
    <p>
      With her words Duane became aware of two things&mdash;the hand he
      instinctively placed to his breast still held his gun, and he had
      sustained a terrible wound.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      As they rode on, Jennie, with pale face and mute lips, looked at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm badly hurt, Jennie,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;but I guess I'll stick it out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The woman&mdash;did she shoot you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. She was a devil. Euchre told me to look out for her. I wasn't quick
      enough.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You didn't have to&mdash;to&mdash;&rdquo; shivered the girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No! no!&rdquo; he replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But&mdash;your&mdash;wound!&rdquo; she faltered, with dark, troubled eyes. &ldquo;I
      see&mdash;the blood&mdash;dripping from your back!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jennie, I'll take a lot of killing,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jennie, I'll give out soon,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;No-I don't mean&mdash;what you
      think. But I'll drop soon. My strength's going. If I die&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Duane!&rdquo; she cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hello. How're you, Jennie, and how am I?&rdquo; he said, finding it a little
      difficult to talk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I'm all right,&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;And you've come to&mdash;your wound's
      healed; but you've been sick. Fever, I guess. I did all I could.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane saw now that the difference in her was a whiteness and tightness of
      skin, a hollowness of eye, a look of strain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fever? How long have we been here?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      She took some pebbles from the crown of his sombrero and counted them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nine. Nine days,&rdquo; she answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nine days!&rdquo; he exclaimed, incredulously. But another look at her assured
      him that she meant what she said. &ldquo;I've been sick all the time? You nursed
      me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bland's men didn't come along here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where are the horses?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I keep them grazing down in a gorge back of here. There's good grass and
      water.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you slept any?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A little. Lately I couldn't keep awake.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's nothing much to tell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want to know, anyway, just what you did&mdash;how you felt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't remember very well,&rdquo; she replied, simply. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jennie, you saved my life,&rdquo; said Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know. Maybe. I did all I knew how to do,&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;You saved
      mine&mdash;more than my life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Their eyes met in a long gaze, and then their hands in a close clasp.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jennie, we're going to get away,&rdquo; he said, with gladness. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And then?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We'll find some honest rancher.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And then?&rdquo; she persisted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why,&rdquo; he began, slowly, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you?&rdquo; she inquired, in a strange voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane kept silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What will you do?&rdquo; she went on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jennie, I'll go back to the brakes. I daren't show my face among
      respectable people. I'm an outlaw.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're no criminal!&rdquo; she declared, with deep passion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jennie, on this border the little difference between an out law and a
      criminal doesn't count for much.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You won't go back among those terrible men? You, with your gentleness and
      sweetness&mdash;all that's good about you? Oh, Duane, don't&mdash;don't
      go!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I don't know. Couldn't you hide? Couldn't you slip out of Texas&mdash;go
      far away?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I could never get out of Texas without being arrested. I could hide, but
      a man must live. Never mind about me, Jennie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Howdy, stranger,&rdquo; he called, as Duane halted. &ldquo;Get down, you an' your
      woman. Say, now, air you sick or shot or what? Let me&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The rancher caught him, helped him to a bench.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha, come out here!&rdquo; he called. &ldquo;This man's sick. No; he's shot, or I
      don't know blood-stains.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jennie had slipped off her horse and to Duane's side. Duane appeared about
      to faint.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Air you his wife?&rdquo; asked the rancher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. I'm only a girl he saved from outlaws. Oh, he's so paler Duane,
      Duane!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Buck Duane!&rdquo; exclaimed the rancher, excitedly. &ldquo;The man who killed Bland
      an' Alloway? Say, I owe him a good turn, an' I'll pay it, young woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I'm Duane. I've only overdone myself&mdash;just all in. The wounds I
      got at Bland's are healing. Will you take this girl in&mdash;hide her
      awhile till the excitement's over among the outlaws?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shore will,&rdquo; replied the Texan.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks. I'll remember you&mdash;I'll square it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What 're you goin' to do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll rest a bit&mdash;then go back to the brakes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Young man, you ain't in any shape to travel. See here&mdash;any rustlers
      on your trail?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think we gave Bland's gang the slip.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You risk a great deal. Both outlaws and rangers are hunting me,&rdquo; said
      Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My horses might betray you,&rdquo; added Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll hide them in a place where there's water an' grass. Nobody goes to
      it. Come now, let me help you indoors.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jennie, I'll be riding off soon,&rdquo; he said, one evening. &ldquo;I can't impose
      on this good man Andrews much longer. I'll never forget his kindness. His
      wife, too&mdash;she's been so good to us. Yes, Jennie, you and I will have
      to say good-by very soon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't hurry away,&rdquo; she replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's likely we won't ever see each other again,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;That's strange
      to think of. We've been through some hard days, and I seem to have known
      you a long time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jennie appeared shy, almost sad, so Duane changed the subject to something
      less personal.
    </p>
    <p>
      Andrews returned one evening from a several days' trip to Huntsville.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Duane, everybody's talkie' about how you cleaned up the Bland outfit,&rdquo; he
      said, important and full of news. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you hear of any outlaws hunting me?&rdquo; asked Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nobody from Bland's outfit is huntin' you, thet's shore,&rdquo; replied
      Andrews. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll be able to ride and take care of myself in a day or two,&rdquo; went on
      Duane. &ldquo;Then I'll go&mdash;I'd like to talk to you about Jennie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She's welcome to a home here with us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which place is nearer, and how far is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I tell you I'm beholden to you yet,&rdquo; he declared.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what can I do for you?&rdquo; asked Duane. &ldquo;I may come along here again
      some day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get down an' come in, then, or you're no friend of mine. I reckon there
      ain't nothin' I can think of&mdash;I just happen to remember&mdash;&rdquo; Here
      he led Duane out of earshot of the women and went on in a whisper. &ldquo;Buck,
      I used to be well-to-do. Got skinned by a man named Brown&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is this Brown a man who shot an outlaw named Stevens?&rdquo; queried Duane,
      curiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Luke Stevens died of that shot. I buried him,&rdquo; said Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      Andrews made no further comment, and the two men returned to the women.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shore. An' good luck to you both!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;only a thoughtful
      understanding of his danger and a hold upon some ideal.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;It's a norther,
      all right,&rdquo; muttered Duane. &ldquo;Two or three days.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This time to-morrow you'll be in Shelbyville,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where will you be?&rdquo; she asked, quickly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me? Oh, I'll be making tracks for some lonesome place,&rdquo; he replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      The girl shuddered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;somebody to love them. And you, Duane&mdash;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&mdash;these must be
      the important things in your life. You must go on riding, hiding, killing
      until you meet&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She ended with a sob and dropped her head on her knees. Duane was amazed,
      deeply touched.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My girl, thank you for that thought of me,&rdquo; he said, with a tremor in his
      voice. &ldquo;You don't know how much that means to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She raised her face, and it was tear-stained, eloquent, beautiful.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've heard tell&mdash;the best of men go to the bad out there. You won't.
      Promise me you won't. I never&mdash;knew any man&mdash;like you. I&mdash;I&mdash;we
      may never see each other again&mdash;after to-day. I'll never forget you.
      I'll pray for you, and I'll never give up trying to&mdash;to do something.
      Don't despair. It's never too late. It was my hope that kept me alive&mdash;out
      there at Bland's&mdash;before you came. I was only a poor weak girl. But
      if I could hope&mdash;so can you. Stay away from men. Be a lone wolf.
      Fight for your life. Stick out your exile&mdash;and maybe&mdash;some day&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;pointed out the only course.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;probably by outlaws. Duane realized that
      pursuit was out of the question&mdash;that Jennie was lost.
    </p>
    <p>
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER X
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      On clear days&mdash;and rare indeed were cloudy days&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      A strange feature of this memory of Jennie was the freshness of it&mdash;the
      failure of years, toil, strife, death-dealing to dim it&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;Poor
      fool! No, I shall never see mother again&mdash;never go home&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;to hang on to miserable life&mdash;to have no fear of death,
      yet to cling like a leach&mdash;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&mdash;you're
      avenged. Lie quiet in your graves and give me peace!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But they did not lie quiet in their graves and give him peace.
    </p>
    <p>
      A group of specters trooped out of the shadows of dusk and, gathering
      round him, escorted him to his bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      How many times he had said to himself: &ldquo;I am an intelligent man. I'm not
      crazy. I'm in full possession of my faculties. All this is fancy&mdash;imagination&mdash;conscience.
      I've no work, no duty, no ideal, no hope&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      And he could no more have dispelled thought than he could have reached out
      to touch a cold, bright star.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;a refuge for
      outlaws! Somewhere he had heard or read that the Texas Rangers kept a book
      with names and records of outlaws&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      But all of them were akin in one sense&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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, &ldquo;Let her rip!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;if not of conscience, then of fear; if not
      of fear, then of that most terrible of all things to restless, active men&mdash;pain,
      the pang of flesh and bone.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;what, then, but hell?
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XI
    </h2>
    <p>
      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&mdash;a longing to see the faces of people,
      to hear their voices&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Duane, there's rangers in town,&rdquo; he whispered. &ldquo;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&mdash;devils
      with the women.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What company of rangers?&rdquo; asked Duane, quickly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;MacNelly. I've heard of him. Describe him to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane did not speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Still Duane kept silence. He was not thinking of danger, but of the fact
      of how fleeting must be his stay among friends.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've already fixed up a pack of grub,&rdquo; went on Jones. &ldquo;I'll slip out to
      saddle your horse. You watch here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does Burt Jones live here?&rdquo; he asked, in a low, hurried voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I reckon. I'm Burt. What can I do for you?&rdquo; replied Jones.
    </p>
    <p>
      The stranger peered around, stealthily came closer, still with his hands
      up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The stranger wheeled and departed as swiftly and strangely as he had come.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bust me! Duane, whatever do you make of that?&rdquo; exclaimed Jones.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A new one on me,&rdquo; replied Duane, thoughtfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maybe the Captain wants to give me a fair chance to surrender without
      bloodshed,&rdquo; observed Duane. &ldquo;Pretty decent of him, if he meant that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That messenger he sent&mdash;he was a ranger,&rdquo; said Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;Tell Buck Duane to ride into Captain
      MacNelly's camp some time after night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sight was common enough in southwest Texas, but Duane had never before
      found himself so unpleasantly close.
    </p>
    <p>
      A hoarse voice pealed out: &ldquo;By hell! there's another one!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stranger, ride down an' account fer yourself!&rdquo; yelled another.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hands up!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thet's right, Jack; don't take no chances. Plug him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane had only one plan&mdash;the only plan possible in this case&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;he could not count how many&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sight of the village ahead surprised Duane. He had reached it sooner than
      he expected. Then he made a discovery&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane strode forward, grasped the bridle of this man's horse.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mine's done&mdash;but not killed,&rdquo; he panted. &ldquo;Trade with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, stranger, I'm shore always ready to trade,&rdquo; drawled the man. &ldquo;But
      ain't you a little swift?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane glanced back up the road. His pursuers were entering the village.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm Duane&mdash;Buck Duane,&rdquo; he cried, menacingly. &ldquo;Will you trade?
      Hurry!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The rancher, turning white, dropped his foot from the stirrup and fell
      back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I reckon I'll trade,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;a circumstance that only such sore straits
      could have driven him to. Then he went slipping swiftly through the narrow
      aisles.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hi, Sid! Heah's your hoss!&rdquo; called one, evidently to the man Duane had
      forced into a trade.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say, if you locoed gents'll hold up a little I'll tell you somethin',&rdquo;
       replied a voice from the bluff.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come on, Sid! We got him corralled,&rdquo; said the first speaker.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, mebbe, an' if you hev it's liable to be damn hot. THET FELLER WAS
      BUCK DUANE!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Absolute silence followed that statement. Presently it was broken by a
      rattling of loose gravel and then low voices.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He can't git across the river, I tell you,&rdquo; came to Duane's ears. &ldquo;He's
      corralled in the brake. I know thet hole.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;a striped wall. Trails and glades were scarce. There were a
      few deer-runways and sometimes little paths made by peccaries&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XII
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      He sheered to the left again, in line with the rocky barrier, and kept on,
      wondering what the next mile would bring.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the noise of pursuit ceased Duane sat down in the darkness, his mind
      clamped between two things&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come on fellers&mdash;down hyar,&rdquo; called one man from the bluff.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Got him corralled at last,&rdquo; shouted another.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Reckon ye needn't be too shore. We thought thet more'n once,&rdquo; taunted
      another.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I seen him, I tell you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aw, thet was a deer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But Bill found fresh tracks an' blood on the willows.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If he's winged we needn't hurry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold on thar, you boys,&rdquo; came a shout in authoritative tones from farther
      up the bluff. &ldquo;Go slow. You-all air gittin' foolish at the end of a long
      chase.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let's surround this corner an' starve him out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fire the brake.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By God!&rdquo; whispered Duane, &ldquo;the thing for me to do now&mdash;is go out&mdash;meet
      them!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus Duane reasoned. So he hoped to accept his fate&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;a quick fierce
      exchange of shots&mdash;and then this torture past! He waited for the dog
      to give the alarm.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thar's Rover,&rdquo; called a voice from the bluff-side. &ldquo;He's been through
      thet black patch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nary a rabbit in there,&rdquo; replied another.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bah! Thet pup's no good,&rdquo; scornfully growled another man. &ldquo;Put a hound at
      thet clump of willows.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fire's the game. Burn the brake before the rain comes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The voices droned off as their owners evidently walked up the ridge.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;looked a little brighter&mdash;led him on, perhaps, to
      forlorn hope.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      That fate was to become an outlaw in every sense of the term, to be what
      he was credited with being&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      He slid off his horse and threw the bridle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm Buck Duane,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I saw that placard&mdash;out there on a
      sign-post. It's a damn lie! Somebody find this man Jeff Aiken. I want to
      see him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hands up, thar, you Buck Duane!&rdquo; he roared, waving the gun.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shut up, will you-all?&rdquo; he was yelling. &ldquo;Give us a chance to hear
      somethin'. Easy now&mdash;soho. There ain't nobody goin' to be hurt.
      Thet's right; everybody quiet now. Let's see what's come off.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This cowboy, evidently one of authority, or at least one of strong
      personality, turned to the gaunt man, who still waved Duane's gun.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Abe, put the gun down,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;It might go off. Here, give it to me.
      Now, what's wrong? Who's this roped gent, an' what's he done?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The gaunt fellow, who appeared now about to collapse, lifted a shaking
      hand and pointed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thet thar feller&mdash;he's Buck Duane!&rdquo; he panted.
    </p>
    <p>
      An angry murmur ran through the surrounding crowd.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The rope! The rope! Throw it over a branch! String him up!&rdquo; cried an
      excited villager.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Buck Duane! Buck Duane!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hang him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The cowboy silenced these cries.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Abe, how do you know this fellow is Buck Duane?&rdquo; he asked, sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why&mdash;he said so,&rdquo; replied the man called Abe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; came the exclamation, incredulously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's a tarnal fact,&rdquo; panted Abe, waving his hands importantly. He was an
      old man and appeared to be carried away with the significance of his deed.
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Up with him!&rdquo; screeched a wild-eyed youth.
    </p>
    <p>
      The mob surged closer was shoved back by the cowboys.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Abe, if you ain't drunk or crazy tell thet over,&rdquo; ordered Abe's
      interlocutor.
    </p>
    <p>
      With some show of resentment and more of dignity Abe reiterated his former
      statement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If he's Buck Duane how'n hell did you get hold of his gun?&rdquo; bluntly
      queried the cowboy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why&mdash;he set down thar&mdash;an' he kind of hid his face on his hand.
      An' I grabbed his gun an' got the drop on him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      What the cowboy thought of this was expressed in a laugh. His mates
      likewise grinned broadly. Then the leader turned to Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stranger, I reckon you'd better speak up for yourself,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      That stilled the crowd as no command had done.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm Buck Duane, all right.&rdquo; said Duane, quietly. &ldquo;It was this way&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Somethin' queer here. But if you're Duane you're sure in bad. Any fool
      ought to know that. You mean it, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied Duane. &ldquo;Your citizen here misrepresented things. He seems a
      little off his head.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Reckon he is. Somebody is, that's sure. You claim Buck Duane, then, an'
      all his doings?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An' then you set down an' let this old guy throw your own gun on you?&rdquo;
       queried the cowboy in amazement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess that's it,&rdquo; replied Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, it's powerful strange, if you're really Buck Duane.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A man elbowed his way into the circle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's Duane. I recognize him. I seen him in more'n one place,&rdquo; he said.
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you want to see Aiken for?&rdquo; asked the cowboy Sibert.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want to face him, and tell him I never harmed his wife.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because I'm innocent, that's all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suppose we send for Aiken an' he hears you an' doesn't believe you; what
      then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If he won't believe me&mdash;why, then my case's so bad&mdash;I'd be
      better off dead.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A momentary silence was broken by Sibert.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If this isn't a queer deal! Boys, reckon we'd better send for Jeff.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Somebody went fer him. He'll be comin' soon,&rdquo; replied a man.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thar comes Jeff Aiken now,&rdquo; called a man, loudly.
    </p>
    <p>
      The crowd shifted and trampled in eagerness.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The cowboy Sibert thrust open the jostling circle of men.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold on, Jeff,&rdquo; 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&mdash;again the insane tumult was
      about to break out&mdash;the demand for an outlaw's blood, the call for a
      wild justice executed a thousand times before on Texas's bloody soil.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sibert bellowed at the dark encroaching mass. The cowboys with him beat
      and cuffed in vain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jeff, will you listen?&rdquo; broke in Sibert, hurriedly, his hand on the other
      man's arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure this 's your game, Aiken,&rdquo; said Sibert. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen,&rdquo; said Duane, gravely, with his eyes steady on Aiken's, &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;to tell you this: I never saw Shirley
      before to-day. It was impossible for me to have&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;why, by God! you can
      kill me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Aiken heaved a great breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He motioned for the crowd of men to open up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Somebody&mdash;you, Sibert&mdash;go for Lucy. That'll settle this thing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lucy, tell me. Did you ever see this man before?&rdquo; asked Aiken, huskily
      and low. &ldquo;Is he the one&mdash;who came in the house that day&mdash;struck
      you down&mdash;and dragged mama&mdash;?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Aiken's voice failed.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;of suspense.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's ain't him!&rdquo; cried the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then Sibert was flinging the noose off Duane's neck and unwinding the
      bonds round his arms. The spellbound crowd awoke to hoarse exclamations.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See there, my locoed gents, how easy you'd hang the wrong man,&rdquo; burst out
      the cowboy, as he made the rope-end hiss. &ldquo;You-all are a lot of wise
      rangers. Haw! haw!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He freed Duane and thrust the bone-handled gun back in Duane's holster.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;which all he never done. Clear away there. Where's his
      hoss? Duane, the road's open out of Shirley.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I reckon it ain't uncivil of me to say&mdash;hit that road quick!&rdquo; he
      said, frankly.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Aiken paused with his big hand on Duane's knee. In it, unconsciously
      probably, he still held the gun.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Duane, a word with you,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not,&rdquo; replied Duane, in surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I met him only a week ago over in Fairfield,&rdquo; went on Aiken, hurriedly.
      &ldquo;He declared you never killed my wife. I didn't believe him&mdash;argued
      with him. We almost had hard words over it. Now&mdash;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&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane said good-by and touched the horse with his spurs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So long, Buck!&rdquo; called Sibert, with that frank smile breaking warm over
      his brown face; and he held his sombrero high.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIV
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who goes there?&rdquo; came the sharp call out of the gloom.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane pulled his horse. The gloom was impenetrable.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One man&mdash;alone,&rdquo; replied Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A stranger?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you want?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm trying to find the ranger camp.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You've struck it. What's your errand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want to see Captain MacNelly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get down and advance. Slow. Don't move your hands. It's dark, but I can
      see.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane dismounted, and, leading his horse, slowly advanced a few paces. He
      saw a dully bright object&mdash;a gun&mdash;before he discovered the man
      who held it. A few more steps showed a dark figure blocking the trail.
      Here Duane halted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come closer, stranger. Let's have a look at you,&rdquo; the guard ordered,
      curtly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane advanced again until he stood before the man. Here the rays of light
      from the fires flickered upon Duane's face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Reckon you're a stranger, all right. What's your name and your business
      with the Captain?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane hesitated, pondering what best to say.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell Captain MacNelly I'm the man he's been asking to ride into his camp&mdash;after
      dark,&rdquo; finally said Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ranger bent forward to peer hard at this night visitor. His manner had
      been alert, and now it became tense.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come here, one of you men, quick,&rdquo; he called, without turning in the
      least toward the camp-fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hello! What's up, Pickens?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here, ranger, before you go, understand this. My visit is peaceful&mdash;friendly
      if you'll let it be. Mind, I was asked to come here&mdash;after dark.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane's clear, penetrating voice carried far. The listening rangers at the
      camp-fire heard what he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ho, Pickens! Tell that fellow to wait,&rdquo; replied an authoritative voice.
      Then a slim figure detached itself from the dark, moving group at the
      camp-fire and hurried out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Better be foxy, Cap,&rdquo; shouted a ranger, in warning.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shut up&mdash;all of you,&rdquo; was the reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      This officer, obviously Captain MacNelly, soon joined the two rangers who
      were confronting Duane. He had no fear. He strode straight up to Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm MacNelly,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;If you're my man, don't mention your name&mdash;yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All this seemed so strange to Duane, in keeping with much that had
      happened lately.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I met Jeff Aiken to-day,&rdquo; said Duane. &ldquo;He sent me&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You've met Aiken!&rdquo; exclaimed MacNelly, sharp, eager, low. &ldquo;By all that's
      bully!&rdquo; Then he appeared to catch himself, to grow restrained.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Men, fall back, leave us alone a moment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The rangers slowly withdrew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Buck Duane! It's you?&rdquo; he whispered, eagerly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I give my word you'll not be arrested&mdash;you'll be treated fairly&mdash;will
      you come into camp and consult with me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Duane, I'm sure glad to meet you,&rdquo; went on MacNelly; and he extended his
      hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      Amazed and touched, scarcely realizing this actuality, Duane gave his hand
      and felt no unmistakable grip of warmth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It doesn't seem natural, Captain MacNelly, but I believe I'm glad to meet
      you,&rdquo; said Duane, soberly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will be. Now we'll go back to camp. Keep your identity mum for the
      present.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He led Duane in the direction of the camp-fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pickers, go back on duty,&rdquo; he ordered, &ldquo;and, Beeson, you look after this
      horse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We've just had grub, but I'll see you get some. Then we'll talk,&rdquo; said
      MacNelly. &ldquo;I've taken up temporary quarters here. Have a rustler job on
      hand. Now, when you've eaten, come right into the house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;Duane saw that&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was not long in presenting himself at the door of the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come in and have a chair,&rdquo; said MacNelly, motioning for the one other
      occupant of the room to rise. &ldquo;Leave us, Russell, and close the door. I'll
      be through these reports right off.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Duane, I've been hoping for this for two years,&rdquo; he began.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane smiled a little&mdash;a smile that felt strange on his face. He had
      never been much of a talker. And speech here seemed more than ordinarily
      difficult.
    </p>
    <p>
      MacNelly must have felt that.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked long and earnestly at Duane, and his quick, nervous manner
      changed to grave thoughtfulness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've lots to say, but where to begin,&rdquo; he mused. &ldquo;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&mdash;well, even ranger
      life isn't all roses.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He rolled his cigar between his lips and puffed clouds of smoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ever hear from home since you left Wellston?&rdquo; he asked, abruptly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never a word?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not one,&rdquo; replied Duane, sadly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's tough. I'm glad to be able to tell you that up to just lately your
      mother, sister, uncle&mdash;all your folks, I believe&mdash;were well.
      I've kept posted. But haven't heard lately.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane averted his face a moment, hesitated till the swelling left his
      throat, and then said, &ldquo;It's worth what I went through to-day to hear
      that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can imagine how you feel about it. When I was in the war&mdash;but
      let's get down to the business of this meeting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He pulled his chair close to Duane's.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You've had word more than once in the last two years that I wanted to see
      you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Three times, I remember,&rdquo; replied Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why didn't you hunt me up?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was natural, I suppose,&rdquo; went on MacNelly. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Once in a while I'm jarred into realizing,&rdquo; replied Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That way my hands are clean,&rdquo; replied Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You never held up a man, robbed a store for grub, stole a horse when you
      needed him bad&mdash;never anything like that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Somehow I always kept out of that, just when pressed the hardest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Duane, I'm damn glad!&rdquo; MacNelly exclaimed, gripping Duane's hand. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's what kept me on the dodge all these years,&rdquo; replied Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen to this,&rdquo; he whispered, hoarsely. &ldquo;If I place a pardon in your
      hand&mdash;make you a free, honest citizen once more, clear your name of
      infamy, make your mother, your sister proud of you&mdash;will you swear
      yourself to a service, ANY service I demand of you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane sat stock still, stunned.
    </p>
    <p>
      Slowly, more persuasively, with show of earnest agitation, Captain
      MacNelly reiterated his startling query.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My God!&rdquo; burst from Duane. &ldquo;What's this? MacNelly, you CAN'T be in
      earnest!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never more so in my life. I've a deep game. I'm playing it square. What
      do you say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Twice Duane endeavored to speak, failed of all save a hoarse, incoherent
      sound, until, forcing back a flood of speech, he found a voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Any service? Every service! MacNelly, I give my word,&rdquo; said Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they unclasped and Duane stepped back to drop into a chair MacNelly
      fumbled for another cigar&mdash;he had bitten the other into shreds&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here's your pardon from the Governor,&rdquo; he said, quietly. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He smoothed out the paper, handed Duane a pen, ran his forefinger along a
      dotted line.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;how
      strange the name looked!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Right here ends the career of Buck Duane, outlaw and gunfighter,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That makes you a member of Company A, Texas Rangers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So that's it!&rdquo; burst out Duane, a light breaking in upon his
      bewilderment. &ldquo;You want me for ranger service?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure. That's it,&rdquo; replied the Captain, dryly. &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;that, Duane, is your service to me, and God knows
      it's a great one!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have accepted it,&rdquo; replied Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      MacNelly paused a moment in his rapid talk, chewed his cigar, drew his
      brows together in a dark frown, and went on. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's not the point,&rdquo; said Duane. &ldquo;But in case I get killed out there&mdash;what&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leave that to me,&rdquo; interrupted Captain MacNelly. &ldquo;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&mdash;the service you render known. You can
      rest assured of that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am satisfied,&rdquo; replied Duane. &ldquo;That's so much more than I've dared to
      hope.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, it's settled, then. I'll give you money for expenses. You'll start
      as soon as you like&mdash;the sooner the better. I hope to think of other
      suggestions, especially about communicating with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The rangers were eating in a circle round a tarpaulin spread upon the
      ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fellows,&rdquo; said MacNelly, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      After the meal Captain MacNelly drew Duane aside.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      MacNelly stopped with an air of finality, and then Duane slowly rose.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll start at once,&rdquo; he said, extending his hand to the Captain. &ldquo;I wish&mdash;I'd
      like to thank you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hell, man! Don't thank me!&rdquo; replied MacNelly, crushing the proffered
      hand. &ldquo;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&mdash;Adios, Duane! May we meet again!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
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    <h1>
      BOOK II. THE RANGER
    </h1>
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    <h2>
      CHAPTER XV
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Like other parts of the great Lone Star State, this section of Texas was a
      world in itself&mdash;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&mdash;there were still the ruins of adobe missions&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say mister, mind tellin' me his name?&rdquo; asked a ragged urchin, with born
      love of a horse in his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bullet,&rdquo; replied the rider.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thet there's fer the white mark, ain't it?&rdquo; whispered the youngster to
      another. &ldquo;Say, ain't he a whopper? Biggest hoss I ever seen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bullet carried a huge black silver-ornamented saddle of Mexican make, a
      lariat and canteen, and a small pack rolled into a tarpaulin.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;but that was too common a
      thing to attract notice in the Big Bend. A close observer, however, would
      have noted a singular fact&mdash;this rider's right hand was more bronzed,
      more weather-beaten than his left. He never wore a glove on that right
      hand!
    </p>
    <p>
      He had dismounted before a ramshackle structure that bore upon its wide,
      high-boarded front the sign, &ldquo;Hotel.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently a tall man, with a drooping, sandy mustache, leisurely detached
      himself from the crowd.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Howdy, stranger,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      The stranger had bent over to loosen the cinches; he straightened up and
      nodded. Then: &ldquo;I'm thirsty!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Line up, gents,&rdquo; said the stranger.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My name's Jim Fletcher,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My name might be Blazes, but it ain't,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;What do you call
      this burg?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stranger, this heah me-tropoles bears the handle Ord. Is thet new to
      you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure, Ord's a little strange to me. Off the railroad some, ain't it?
      Funny trails hereabouts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How fur was you goin'?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I reckon I was goin' as far as I could,&rdquo; replied the stranger, with a
      hard laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, Ord's the jumpin'-off place,&rdquo; he said, presently. &ldquo;Sure you've heerd
      of the Big Bend country?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I sure have, an' was makin' tracks fer it,&rdquo; replied the stranger.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fletcher turned toward a man in the outer edge of the group. &ldquo;Knell, come
      in heah.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Knell, this heah's&mdash;&rdquo; Fletcher wheeled to the stranger. &ldquo;What'd you
      call yourself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'd hate to mention what I've been callin' myself lately.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Any business here?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nope,&rdquo; replied the stranger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Know anybody hereabouts?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nary one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jest ridin' through?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yep.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Slopin' fer back country, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There came a pause. The stranger appeared to grow a little resentful and
      drew himself up disdainfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, considerin' you-all seem so damn friendly an' oncurious down here in
      this Big Bend country, I don't mind sayin' yes&mdash;I am in on the
      dodge,&rdquo; he replied, with deliberate sarcasm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From west of Ord&mdash;out El Paso way, mebbe?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A-huh! Thet so?&rdquo; Knell's words cut the air, stilled the room. &ldquo;You're
      from way down the river. Thet's what they say down there&mdash;'on the
      dodge.'... Stranger, you're a liar!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With swift clink of spur and thump of boot the crowd split, leaving Knell
      and the stranger in the center.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure I lied,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;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&mdash;go
      ahead an' open the ball.... You see, I never throw a gun on them fellers
      till they go fer theirs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stranger, I pass,&rdquo; he said, and, turning to the bar, he ordered liquor.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, fer want of a better handle I'll call you Dodge,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dodge's as good as any.... Gents, line up again&mdash;an' if you can't be
      friendly, be careful!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Such was Buck Duane's debut in the little outlaw hamlet of Ord.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;outlaws&mdash;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&mdash;the Big Bend.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir, it's all one to me,&rdquo; he said, blandly, waving his hand. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Found no affairs, no ranch, not even his grave,&rdquo; said Colonel Webb. &ldquo;And
      I tell you, sir, if hell's any tougher than this Fairdale I don't want to
      expiate my sins there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fairdale.... I imagine sheriffs have a hard row to hoe out here,&rdquo; replied
      Duane, trying not to appear curious.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Colonel swore lustily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane was aware of the Colonel's close scrutiny.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know anything about the service?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I used to. Ten years ago when I lived in San Antonio. A fine body of men,
      sir, and the salvation of Texas.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Governor Stone doesn't entertain that opinion,&rdquo; said Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm a stranger in these parts,&rdquo; said Duane, finally. &ldquo;What is this outlaw
      situation you speak of?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wholesale business, eh?&rdquo; remarked Duane. &ldquo;Who are these&mdash;er&mdash;big
      stock-buyers?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Colonel Webb seemed a little startled at the abrupt query. He bent his
      penetrating gaze upon Duane and thoughtfully stroked his pointed beard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Names, of course, I'll not mention. Opinions are one thing, direct
      accusation another. This is not a healthy country for the informer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;his
      cold, implacable, inhuman wiping out of his path any man that crossed it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cheseldine is a name, a terrible name,&rdquo; said Colonel Webb. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, a little,&rdquo; replied Duane, quietly. &ldquo;I'm from southern Texas. Buck
      Duane then is known out here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, man, where isn't his name known?&rdquo; returned Colonel Webb. &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then this man Duane enjoys rather an unusual repute west of the Pecos?&rdquo;
       inquired Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, indeed, all about them is singular,&rdquo; replied Duane. &ldquo;Has
      Cheseldine's gang been busy lately?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's your view of the outlook? How's all this going to wind up? Will
      the outlaw ever be driven out?&rdquo; asked Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;to break up Cheseldine's gang. Yet this was
      not in Duane's mind before a strange grim and deadly instinct&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he drew up before the inn the landlord and his family and a number of
      loungers greeted him laconically.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Beat the stage in, hey?&rdquo; remarked one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There she comes now,&rdquo; said another. &ldquo;Joel shore is drivin' to-night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ruth, I envy the lucky cowboys,&rdquo; Longstreth was saying.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ruth was a curly-headed girl with gray or hazel eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm crazy to ride bronchos,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hey somethin'?&rdquo; one of them asked, leering. Both looked Duane up and
      down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No thanks, I don't drink,&rdquo; Duane replied, and returned their scrutiny
      with interest. &ldquo;How's tricks in the Big Bend?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say, boss, do you know those fellows?&rdquo; Duane asked the innkeeper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nope.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which way did they come?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now I think of it, them fellers rid in from both corners today,&rdquo; he
      replied, and he put both hands on the bar and looked at Duane. &ldquo;They
      nooned heah, comin' from Bradford, they said, an' trailed in after the
      stage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me,&rdquo; said Duane, addressing them. &ldquo;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&mdash;bar your windows
      to-night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; cried Ruth, very low. &ldquo;Ray, do you hear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you; we'll be careful,&rdquo; said Miss Longstreth, gracefully. The rich
      color had faded in her cheek. &ldquo;I saw those men watching you from that
      door. They had such bright black eyes. Is there really danger&mdash;here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think so,&rdquo; was Duane's reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      Soft swift steps behind him preceded a harsh voice: &ldquo;Hands up!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Turn around!&rdquo; ordered the harsh voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      His comrade stood in the door with a gun leveled at two other men, who
      stood there frightened, speechless.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Git a move on, Bill,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;Rustle!&rdquo; and disappeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't yap, there!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Any money, jewelry, diamonds!&rdquo; ordered the ruffian, fiercely.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come out with it!&rdquo; he said, harshly, reaching for her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't dare touch me!&rdquo; she cried, her eyes ablaze. She did not move. She
      had nerve.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I ought to kill you anyhow!&rdquo; replied Longstreth. And his voice now
      astounded Duane, it was so full of power.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Drag him out of here!&rdquo; ordered Longstreth; and he turned to his daughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can I be of any service?&rdquo; asked Duane, solicitously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo; he
      replied, and, telling the girls that there was no more danger, he went
      out.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You saved my life,&rdquo; she said, in grave, sweet seriousness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no!&rdquo; Duane exclaimed. &ldquo;He might have struck you, hurt you, but no
      more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you kill him?&rdquo; asked Miss Ruth, who lay listening.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no. He's not badly hurt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm very glad he's alive,&rdquo; said Miss Longstreth, shuddering.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My intention was bad enough,&rdquo; Duane went on. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet you say you didn't save me,&rdquo; Miss Longstreth returned, quickly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, let it go at that,&rdquo; Duane responded. &ldquo;I saved you something.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me all about it?&rdquo; asked Miss Ruth, who was fast recovering.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rather embarrassed, Duane briefly told the incident from his point of
      view.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you stood there all the time with your hands up thinking of nothing&mdash;watching
      for nothing except a little moment when you might draw your gun?&rdquo; asked
      Miss Ruth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess that's about it,&rdquo; he replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cousin,&rdquo; said Miss Longstreth, thoughtfully, &ldquo;it was fortunate for us
      that this gentleman happened to be here. Papa scouts&mdash;laughs at
      danger. He seemed to think there was no danger. Yet he raved after it
      came.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go with us all the way to Fairdale&mdash;please?&rdquo; asked Miss Ruth,
      sweetly offering her hand. &ldquo;I am Ruth Herbert. And this is my cousin, Ray
      Longstreth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm traveling that way,&rdquo; replied Duane, in great confusion. He did not
      know how to meet the situation.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Had he come to?&rdquo; inquired Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure. He asked for whisky.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did he say anything else?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not to me. I heard him talkin' to the father of them girls.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You mean Colonel Longstreth?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did you make of the old gent's rage?&rdquo; asked Duane, watching the
      innkeeper. He scratched his head dubiously. He was sincere, and Duane
      believed in his honesty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;More nerve, maybe,&rdquo; Duane replied. &ldquo;Show me a bed now, innkeeper.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Floyd, did you come with the teams?&rdquo; asked Longstreth, sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not me. I rode a horse, good and hard,&rdquo; was the reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Humph! I'll have a word to say to you later.&rdquo; Then Longstreth turned to
      his daughter. &ldquo;Ray, here's the cousin I've told you about. You used to
      play with him ten years ago&mdash;Floyd Lawson. Floyd, my daughter&mdash;and
      my niece, Ruth Herbert.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was under thirty, yet gray at his temples&mdash;dark, smooth-shaven,
      with lines left by wildness, dissipation, shadows under dark eyes, a mouth
      strong and bitter, and a square chin&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVI
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Colonel Longstreth has a big outfit, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Reckon he has,&rdquo; replied the lad. &ldquo;Doan know how many cowboys. They're
      always comin' and goin'. I ain't acquainted with half of them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Much movement of stock these days?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stock's always movin',&rdquo; he replied, with a queer look.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rustlers?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But he did not follow up that look with the affirmative Duane expected.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lively place, I hear&mdash;Fairdale is?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ain't so lively as Sanderson, but it's bigger.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I heard it was. Fellow down there was talking about two cowboys who
      were arrested.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure. I heered all about that. Joe Bean an' Brick Higgins&mdash;they
      belong heah, but they ain't heah much. Longstreth's boys.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane did not want to appear over-inquisitive, so he turned the talk into
      other channels.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane sat down on the steps of the dingy little restaurant. Two men were
      conversing inside, and they had not noticed Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Laramie, what's the stranger's name?&rdquo; asked one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He didn't say,&rdquo; replied the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure was a strappin' big man. Struck me a little odd, he did. No
      cattleman, him. How'd you size him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, like one of them cool, easy, quiet Texans who's been lookin' for a
      man for years&mdash;to kill him when he found him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Right you are, Laramie; and, between you an' me, I hope he's lookin' for
      Long&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'S&mdash;sh!&rdquo; interrupted Laramie. &ldquo;You must be half drunk, to go talkie'
      that way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;that he was now broken, bitter, and
      hard. Some one had wronged him.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bo Snecker! He hit me and went after the cash-drawer,&rdquo; said Laramie,
      laboring to his feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you hurt much?&rdquo; queried Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess not. But Bo needn't to have soaked me. I've been robbed before
      without that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I'll take a look after Bo,&rdquo; replied Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;one of anger, and the other a desire to make a friend
      of this man Laramie, whom Duane believed could tell him much.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sight of Miss Longstreth had an unaccountable effect upon Duane. He was
      plunged into confusion. For the moment he saw no one but her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Longstreth&mdash;I came&mdash;to search&mdash;your house,&rdquo; panted
      Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Search my house!&rdquo; exclaimed Miss Longstreth; and red succeeded the white
      in her cheeks. She appeared astonished and angry. &ldquo;What for? Why, how dare
      you! This is unwarrantable!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A man&mdash;Bo Snecker&mdash;assaulted and robbed Jim Laramie,&rdquo; replied
      Duane, hurriedly. &ldquo;I chased Snecker here&mdash;saw him run into the
      house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lawson appeared to come out of his astonishment. He stepped forward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ray, don't be bothered now,&rdquo; he said, to his cousin. &ldquo;This fellow's
      making a bluff. I'll settle him. See here, Mister, you clear out!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want Snecker. He's here, and I'm going to get him,&rdquo; replied Duane,
      quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bah! That's all a bluff,&rdquo; sneered Lawson. &ldquo;I'm on to your game. You just
      wanted an excuse to break in here&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Longstreth, will you let me search the house?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then&mdash;I regret to say&mdash;I'll do so without your permission.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'll not dare!&rdquo; she flashed. She stood erect, her bosom swelling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon me, yes, I will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who are you?&rdquo; she demanded, suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm a Texas Ranger,&rdquo; replied Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A TEXAS RANGER!&rdquo; she echoed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Floyd Lawson's dark face turned pale.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Longstreth, I don't need warrants to search houses,&rdquo; said Duane.
      &ldquo;I'm sorry to annoy you. I'd prefer to have your permission. A ruffian has
      taken refuge here&mdash;in your father's house. He's hidden somewhere. May
      I look for him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you are indeed a ranger.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane produced his papers. Miss Longstreth haughtily refused to look at
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;insult me. Some day you may be sorry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Floyd Lawson made a violent motion with his hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All stuff! Cousin, go on with your party. I'll take a couple of cowboys
      and go with this&mdash;this Texas Ranger.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks,&rdquo; said Duane, coolly, as he eyed Lawson. &ldquo;Perhaps you'll be able
      to find Snecker quicker than I could.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo; demanded Lawson, and now he grew livid. Evidently he
      was a man of fierce quick passions.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't quarrel,&rdquo; said Miss Longstreth. &ldquo;Floyd, you go with him. Please
      hurry. I'll be nervous till&mdash;the man's found or you're sure there's
      not one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Come out!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He came forth into the flare&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who're you?&rdquo; asked Duane, quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bo Snecker,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What'd you hide here for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He appeared to grow sullen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Reckoned I'd be as safe in Longstreth's as anywheres.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ranger, what'll you do with him?&rdquo; Lawson queried, as if uncertain, now
      the capture was made.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll see to that,&rdquo; replied Duane, and he pushed Snecker in front of him
      out into the court.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane had suddenly conceived the idea of taking Snecker before Mayor
      Longstreth in the court.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What'd you break in here for,&rdquo; demanded Longstreth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Isn't this the court? Aren't you the Mayor of Fairdale?&rdquo; interrogated
      Duane. His voice was clear and loud, almost piercing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Longstreth. Like flint he seemed, yet Duane felt his
      intense interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've arrested a criminal,&rdquo; said Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Arrested a criminal!&rdquo; ejaculated Longstreth. &ldquo;You? Who're you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm a ranger,&rdquo; replied Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      A significant silence ensued.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I charge Snecker with assault on Laramie and attempted robbery&mdash;if
      not murder. He's had a shady past here, as this court will know if it
      keeps a record.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's this I hear about you, Bo? Get up and speak for yourself,&rdquo; said
      Longstreth, gruffly.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It ain't so, Longstreth,&rdquo; he began, loudly. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Longstreth said something in an undertone to Judge Owens, and that worthy
      nodded his great bushy head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bo, you're discharged,&rdquo; said Longstreth, bluntly. &ldquo;Now the rest of you
      clear out of here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He absolutely ignored the ranger. That was his rebuff to Duane&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then the prisoner, Snecker, with a cough that broke the spell of silence,
      shuffled a couple of steps toward the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold on!&rdquo; called Duane. The call halted Snecker, as if it had been a
      bullet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Longstreth, I saw Snecker attack Laramie,&rdquo; said Duane, his voice still
      ringing. &ldquo;What has the court to say to that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's a lie, Longstreth,&rdquo; retorted Duane. &ldquo;I've letters from Fairdale
      citizens all begging for ranger service.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Longstreth turned white. The veins corded at his temples. He appeared
      about to burst into rage. He was at a loss for quick reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where's your warrant to arrest Snecker?&rdquo; shouted Longstreth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't need warrants to make arrests. Longstreth, you're ignorant of the
      power of Texas Rangers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'll come none of your damned ranger stunts out here. I'll block you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane backed clear of everybody.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Men! I call on you all!&rdquo; cried Duane, piercingly. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Longstreth sat white with working jaw.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Longstreth, you've shown your hand,&rdquo; said Duane, in a voice that carried
      far and held those who heard. &ldquo;Any honest citizen of Fairdale can now see
      what's plain&mdash;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&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Longstreth, here's plain talk for you and Fairdale,&rdquo; went on Duane. &ldquo;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&mdash;yet.
      But I call your hand!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVII
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon returning to the inn he found Laramie there, apparently none the
      worse for his injury.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How are you, Laramie?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Reckon I'm feelin' as well as could be expected,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was a good crack Snecker gave you,&rdquo; remarked Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I ain't accusin' Bo,&rdquo; remonstrated Laramie, with eyes that made Duane
      thoughtful.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I accuse him. I caught him&mdash;took him to Longstreth's court.
      But they let him go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Laramie appeared to be agitated by this intimation of friendship.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See here, Laramie,&rdquo; went on Duane, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Talking about work, Laramie, who'd you say Snecker worked for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn't say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When he works at all, which sure ain't often, he rides for Longstreth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;ha,
      ha! But I was surprised to hear some one say Longstreth owned the Hope So
      joint.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He owns considerable property hereabouts,&rdquo; replied Laramie,
      constrainedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Talk's cheap,&rdquo; replied Laramie, making light of his bluster, but the red
      was deeper in his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure. I know that,&rdquo; Duane said. &ldquo;And usually I don't talk. Then it's not
      well known that Longstreth owns the Hope So?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Reckon it's known in Pecos, all right. But Longstreth's name isn't
      connected with the Hope So. Blandy runs the place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks,&rdquo; replied he; and Duane imagined his voice a little husky. &ldquo;Didn't
      you hear I used to run it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. Did you?&rdquo; Duane said, quickly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I reckon. I built the place, made additions twice, owned it for eleven
      years.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I'll be doggoned.&rdquo; It was indeed Duane's turn to be surprised, and
      with the surprise came a glimmering. &ldquo;I'm sorry you're not there now. Did
      you sell out?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. Just lost the place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Laramie was bursting for relief now&mdash;to talk, to tell. Sympathy had
      made him soft.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was two years ago-two years last March,&rdquo; he went on. &ldquo;I was in a big
      cattle deal with Longstreth. We got the stock&mdash;an' my share, eighteen
      hundred head, was rustled off. I owed Longstreth. He pressed me. It come
      to a lawsuit&mdash;an' I&mdash;was ruined.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;these Duane thought best to try to learn
      at some later time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hard luck! It certainly was tough,&rdquo; Duane said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank God I do,&rdquo; he replied, feelingly. &ldquo;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&mdash;don't invest
      money in stock now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because any new feller buyin' stock these days will be rustled quicker 'n
      he can say Jack Robinson. The pioneers, the new cattlemen&mdash;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&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo; Duane put in, as he paused. &ldquo;If they knew who was rustling the
      stock?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nope.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If they had the nerve?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not thet so much.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What then? What'd make them fight?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A leader!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Howdy thar, Jim,&rdquo; boomed a big voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      A man of great bulk, with a ruddy, merry face, entered the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hello, Morton,&rdquo; replied Laramie. &ldquo;I'd introduce you to my guest here, but
      I don't know his name.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Haw! Haw! Thet's all right. Few men out hyar go by their right names.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say, Morton,&rdquo; put in Duane, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Morton smiled broadly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm on the square,&rdquo; Duane said, bluntly. &ldquo;If you fellows never size up
      your neighbors any better than you have sized me&mdash;well, you won't get
      any richer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sort of kind. All I hear is rustlers, Morton,&rdquo; replied Duane, with
      impatience. &ldquo;You see, I haven't ever lived long in a rustler-run county.
      Who heads the gang, anyway?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Morton looked at Duane with a curiously amused smile, then snapped his big
      jaw as if to shut in impulsive words.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look here, Morton. It stands to reason, no matter how strong these
      rustlers are, how hidden their work, however involved with supposedly
      honest men&mdash;they CAN'T last.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They come with the pioneers, an' they'll last till thar's a single steer
      left,&rdquo; he declared.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, if you take that view of circumstances I just figure you as one of
      the rustlers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's not so funny,&rdquo; Duane went on. &ldquo;If you're going to pretend a yellow
      streak, what else will I think?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pretend?&rdquo; he repeated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;afraid to be out after dark&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, I reckon I do,&rdquo; he replied, looking as if a storm had blown over
      him. &ldquo;Stranger, I'll look you up the next time I come to town.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then he went out.
    </p>
    <p>
      Laramie had eyes like flint striking fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      He breathed a deep breath and looked around the room before his gaze fixed
      again on Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal,&rdquo; he replied, speaking low. &ldquo;You've picked the right men. Now, who in
      the hell are you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;RANGER!&rdquo; he whispered, cracking the table with his fist. &ldquo;You sure rung
      true to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Laramie, do you know who's boss of this secret gang of rustlers
      hereabouts?&rdquo; asked Duane, bluntly. It was characteristic of him to come
      sharp to the point. His voice&mdash;something deep, easy, cool about him&mdash;seemed
      to steady Laramie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied Laramie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does anybody know?&rdquo; went on Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, I reckon there's not one honest native who KNOWS.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you have your suspicions?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me your idea about this crowd that hangs round the saloons&mdash;the
      regulars.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jest a bad lot,&rdquo; replied Laramie, with the quick assurance of knowledge.
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you any idea whether Cheseldine and his gang are associated with
      this gang here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lord knows. I've always suspected them the same gang. None of us ever
      seen Cheseldine&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now I'm puzzled over this,&rdquo; said Duane. &ldquo;Why do men&mdash;apparently
      honest men&mdash;seem to be so close-mouthed here? Is that a fact, or only
      my impression?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's a sure fact,&rdquo; replied Laramie, darkly. &ldquo;Men have lost cattle an'
      property in Fairdale&mdash;lost them honestly or otherwise, as hasn't been
      proved. An' in some cases when they talked&mdash;hinted a little&mdash;they
      was found dead. Apparently held up an robbed. But dead. Dead men don't
      talk! Thet's why we're close mouthed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say, that was a bad break of yours,&rdquo; Lawson said. &ldquo;If you come fooling
      round the ranch again there'll be hell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm saying again, you used your ranger bluff just to get near Ray
      Longstreth,&rdquo; Lawson sneered. &ldquo;Mind you, if you come up there again
      there'll be hell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're right. But not the kind you think,&rdquo; Duane retorted, his voice
      sharp and cold.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ray Longstreth wouldn't stoop to know a dirty blood-tracker like you,&rdquo;
       said Lawson, hotly. He did not seem to have a deliberate intention to
      rouse Duane; the man was simply rancorous, jealous. &ldquo;I'll call you right.
      You cheap bluffer! You four-flush! You damned interfering, conceited
      ranger!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lawson, I'll not take offense, because you seem to be championing your
      beautiful cousin,&rdquo; replied Duane, in slow speech. &ldquo;But let me return your
      compliment. You're a fine Southerner! Why, you're only a cheap four-flush&mdash;damned,
      bull-headed RUSTLER!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane hissed the last word. Then for him there was the truth in Lawson's
      working passion-blackened face.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't draw!&rdquo; warned Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lawson, git away from your gun!&rdquo; yelled Laramie.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Laramie lifted his shaking hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What'd you wing him for?&rdquo; he wailed. &ldquo;He was drawin' on you. Kickin' men
      like him won't do out here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Murder!&rdquo; exclaimed Laramie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, for me,&rdquo; replied Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That may be true&mdash;whoever you are&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Laramie, what are your eyes for?&rdquo; demanded Duane. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently a lamp was lit; and Duane heard the swish of skirts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Something's happened surely, Ruth,&rdquo; he heard Miss Longstreth say,
      anxiously. &ldquo;Papa just met me in the hall and didn't speak. He seemed pale,
      worried.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cousin Floyd looked like a thunder-cloud,&rdquo; said Ruth. &ldquo;For once he didn't
      try to kiss me. Something's happened. Well, Ray, this had been a bad day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, dear! Ruth, what can we do? These are wild men. Floyd makes life
      miserable for me. And he teases you unmer&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't call it teasing. Floyd wants to spoon,&rdquo; declared Ruth,
      emphatically. &ldquo;He'd run after any woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A fine compliment to me, Cousin Ruth,&rdquo; laughed Ray.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't care,&rdquo; replied Ruth, stubbornly, &ldquo;it's so. He's mushy. And when
      he's been drinking and tries to kiss me&mdash;I hate him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There were steps on the hall floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hello, girls!&rdquo; sounded out Lawson's voice, minus its usual gaiety.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Floyd, what's the matter?&rdquo; asked Ray, presently. &ldquo;I never saw papa as he
      is to-night, nor you so&mdash;so worried. Tell me, what has happened?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Ray, we had a jar to-day,&rdquo; replied Lawson, with a blunt, expressive
      laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jar?&rdquo; echoed both the girls, curiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We had to submit to a damnable outrage,&rdquo; added Lawson, passionately, as
      if the sound of his voice augmented his feeling. &ldquo;Listen, girls; I'll tell
      you-all about it.&rdquo; He coughed, cleared his throat in a way that betrayed
      he had been drinking.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It happened at the town hall,&rdquo; began Lawson, rapidly. &ldquo;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&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; cried Ray Longstreth, in mingled distress and anger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The ranger service wants to rule western Texas,&rdquo; went on Lawson. &ldquo;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&mdash;the born gunman. My God, any
      instant I expected to see your father fall dead at my feet!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Floyd! The unspeakable ruffian!&rdquo; cried Ray Longstreth, passionately.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you care for the insinuations of such a man?&rdquo; said Ray
      Longstreth, her voice now deep and rich with feeling. &ldquo;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&mdash;by an adventurer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, he can be injured,&rdquo; replied Floyd, quickly. &ldquo;The frontier is a queer
      place. There are many bitter men here&mdash;men who have failed at
      ranching. And your father has been wonderfully successful. The ranger has
      dropped poison, and it'll spread.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;All
      friends of rangers look for the same.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;wildest rumor of all&mdash;it was actually said of
      him he had the gun-skill of Buck Duane or of Poggin.
    </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;Who's thet ranger
      after? What'll he do fust off? Is he waitin' fer somebody? Who's goin' to
      draw on him fust&mdash;an' go to hell? Jest about how soon will he be
      found somewheres full of lead?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Laramie, I've come to see you,&rdquo; said Miss Longstreth, cheerfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane wondered, considering that Longstreth had ruined Laramie, how Mrs.
      Laramie was going to regard the daughter of an enemy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So you're Granger Longstreth's girl?&rdquo; queried the woman, with her bright,
      black eyes fixed on her visitor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Miss Longstreth, simply. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a long silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you look a little like Longstreth,&rdquo; finally said Mrs. Laramie, &ldquo;but
      you're not at ALL like him. You must take after your mother. Miss
      Longstreth, I don't know if I can&mdash;if I ought accept anything from
      you. Your father ruined my husband.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I know,&rdquo; replied the girl, sadly. &ldquo;That's all the more reason you
      should let me help you. Pray don't refuse. It will&mdash;mean so much to
      me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The needs now were cheerfulness, kindness, help, action&mdash;and these
      the girls furnished with a spirit that did Duane good.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Laramie, who dressed this baby?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The ranger,&rdquo; replied Mrs. Laramie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The ranger!&rdquo; exclaimed Miss Longstreth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, he's taken care of us all since&mdash;since&mdash;&rdquo; Mrs. Laramie
      choked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! So you've had no help but his,&rdquo; replied Miss Longstreth, hastily. &ldquo;No
      women. Too bad! I'll send some one, Mrs. Laramie, and I'll come myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It'll be good of you,&rdquo; went on the older woman. &ldquo;You see, Jim had few
      friends&mdash;that is, right in town. And they've been afraid to help us&mdash;afraid
      they'd get what poor Jim&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's awful!&rdquo; burst out Miss Longstreth, passionately. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Manifestly Miss Longstreth had some difficulty in subduing her emotion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, it's on hind side before,&rdquo; declared Ruth. &ldquo;I guess Mr. Ranger hasn't
      dressed many babies.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He did the best he could,&rdquo; said Mrs. Laramie. &ldquo;Lord only knows what would
      have become of us!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then he is&mdash;is something more than a ranger?&rdquo; queried Miss
      Longstreth, with a little break in her voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's more than I can tell,&rdquo; replied Mrs. Laramie. &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;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!'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane did not want to hear more, so he walked into the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was thoughtful of you,&rdquo; Duane said. &ldquo;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&mdash;friends
      would come? So will the brighter side.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I've more faith than I had,&rdquo; replied Mrs. Laramie. &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Laramie, do not distress yourself any more,&rdquo; said Miss Longstreth.
      &ldquo;I shall see you are well cared for. I promise you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Longstreth, that's fine!&rdquo; exclaimed Duane. &ldquo;It's what I'd have&mdash;expected
      of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It must have been sweet praise to her, for the whiteness of her face
      burned out in a beautiful blush.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And it's good of you, too, Miss Herbert, to come,&rdquo; added Duane. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Ranger, wait!&rdquo; called Miss Longstreth, as he went out. She was white
      and wonderful. She stepped out of the door close to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have wronged you,&rdquo; she said, impulsively.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Longstreth! How can you say that?&rdquo; he returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believed what my father and Floyd Lawson said about you. Now I see&mdash;I
      wronged you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You make me very glad. But, Miss Longstreth, please don't speak of
      wronging me. I have been a&mdash;a gunman, I am a ranger&mdash;and much
      said of me is true. My duty is hard on others&mdash;sometimes on those who
      are innocent, alas! But God knows that duty is hard, too, on me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did wrong you. If you entered my home again I would think it an honor.
      I&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please&mdash;please don't, Miss Longstreth,&rdquo; interrupted Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, sir, my conscience flays me,&rdquo; she went on. There was no other sound
      like her voice. &ldquo;Will you take my hand? Will you forgive me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I honor you for your goodness to this unfortunate woman,&rdquo; she said, and
      now her speech came swiftly. &ldquo;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&mdash;I fear&mdash;Oh, surely I'll need a friend soon&mdash;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&mdash;all alone?
      Will you&mdash;will you be&mdash;&rdquo; Her voice failed.
    </p>
    <p>
      It seemed to Duane that she must have discovered what he had begun to
      suspect&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must be true to my duty,&rdquo; he said, hoarsely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you knew me you'd know I could never ask you to be false to it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then&mdash;I'll do anything for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, thank you! I'm ashamed that I believed my cousin Floyd! He lied&mdash;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&mdash;if&mdash;Will
      you help me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Duane, and his look brought the blood to her face.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIX
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We'll settle both deals to-night,&rdquo; Lawson was saying. &ldquo;That's what I came
      for.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But suppose I don't choose to talk here?&rdquo; protested Longstreth,
      impatiently. &ldquo;I never before made my house a place to&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can make her marry me,&rdquo; replied Lawson.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What'd you want to let her come out here for?&rdquo; demanded Lawson, hotly.
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, we can settle what Ray's concerned in, right now,&rdquo; replied
      Longstreth, rising. &ldquo;Come on; we'll ask her. See where you stand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't fuss about it, Floyd,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Longstreth, I can MAKE her marry me,&rdquo; declared Lawson, thickly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know the hold I got on you&mdash;the deal that made you boss of this
      rustler gang?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It isn't likely I'd forget,&rdquo; replied Longstreth, grimly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can go to Ray, tell her that, make her believe I'd tell it broadcast&mdash;tell
      this ranger&mdash;unless she'd marry me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo;
       replied Longstreth, impressively.
    </p>
    <p>
      Floyd bowed his head at that, as if the significance had just occurred to
      him. But he was not long at a loss.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Longstreth, that may well be true,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;No doubt all you say is
      true. But it doesn't help me. I want the girl. If I don't get her&mdash;I
      reckon we'll all go to hell!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're too impatient,&rdquo; concluded Longstreth. &ldquo;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&mdash;stock,
      ranch, property&mdash;and leave the country. Then you'd have a show with
      her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I told you we've got to stick,&rdquo; growled Lawson. &ldquo;The gang won't stand for
      our going. It can't be done unless you want to sacrifice everything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You mean double-cross the men? Go without their knowing? Leave them here
      to face whatever comes?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean just that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm bad enough, but not that bad,&rdquo; returned Longstreth. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;before I knew it&mdash;we had shady deals, holdups, and
      MURDERS on our record. Then we HAD to go on. Too late to turn back!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's where you're dead wrong,&rdquo; rejoined Longstreth, emphatically. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you and I have all the stock&mdash;all the gain,&rdquo; protested Lawson.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll split mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I won't&mdash;that settles that,&rdquo; added Lawson, instantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your stock and property will last a long time&mdash;do you lots of good
      when this ranger&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bah!&rdquo; hoarsely croaked Lawson. The ranger's name was a match applied to
      powder. &ldquo;Haven't I told you he'd be dead soon&mdash;any time&mdash;same as
      Laramie is?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you mentioned the&mdash;the supposition,&rdquo; replied Longstreth,
      sarcastically. &ldquo;I inquired, too, just how that very desired event was to
      be brought about.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The gang will lay him out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bah!&rdquo; retorted Longstreth, in turn. He laughed contemptuously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Longstreth, you say that like a man who wouldn't care much if he did drop
      some of them,&rdquo; declared Lawson; and now he was sarcastic.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To tell you the truth, I wouldn't,&rdquo; returned the other, bluntly. &ldquo;I'm
      pretty sick of this mess.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Longstreth, I don't like your talk,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you don't like the way I talk you know what you can do,&rdquo; replied
      Longstreth, quickly. He stood up then, cool and quiet, with flash of eyes
      and set of lips that told Duane he was dangerous.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, after all, that's neither here nor there,&rdquo; went on Lawson,
      unconsciously cowed by the other. &ldquo;The thing is, do I get the girl?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not by any means except her consent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'll not make her marry me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. No,&rdquo; replied Longstreth, his voice still cold, low-pitched.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right. Then I'll make her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There they are,&rdquo; said Lawson, and he opened the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The atmosphere of that room had changed. Lawson might have been a
      nonentity for all he counted. Longstreth was another man&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's that?&rdquo; he called, suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane's strained ears were pervaded by a slight rustling sound.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Must be a rat,&rdquo; replied Longstreth.
    </p>
    <p>
      The rustle became a rattle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sounds like a rattlesnake to me,&rdquo; said Lawson.
    </p>
    <p>
      Longstreth got up from the table and peered round the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What in the hell!&rdquo; exclaimed Longstreth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I smell dust,&rdquo; said Lawson, sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      That was the signal for Duane to drop down from his perch, yet despite his
      care he made a noise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you hear a step?&rdquo; queried Longstreth.
    </p>
    <p>
      No one answered. But a heavy piece of the adobe wall fell with a thud.
      Duane heard it crack, felt it shake.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's somebody between the walls!&rdquo; thundered Longstreth.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then a section of the wall fell inward with a crash. Duane began to
      squeeze his body through the narrow passage toward the patio.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hear him!&rdquo; yelled Lawson. &ldquo;This side!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, he's going that way,&rdquo; yelled Longstreth.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XX
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The way she searched Duane's face with doubtful, fearful eyes hurt him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen. I didn't know this was your room. I came here to get away&mdash;to
      save my life. I was pursued. I was spying on&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her eyes changed from blank gulfs to dilating, shadowing, quickening
      windows of thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then she stood up and faced Duane with the fire and intelligence of a
      woman in her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me now. You were spying on my father?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My God! So it's that? I knew something was terribly wrong here&mdash;with
      him&mdash;with the place&mdash;the people. And right off I hated Floyd
      Lawson. Oh, it'll kill me if&mdash;if&mdash;It's so much worse than I
      dreamed. What shall I do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll have to get out of here,&rdquo; whispered Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait,&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;Didn't you say they were hunting for you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They sure are,&rdquo; he returned, grimly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I oughtn't to stay. I don't want to&mdash;I won't,&rdquo; Duane replied,
      perplexed and stubborn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you must. It's the only safe way. They won't come here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;the fact of my being here&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Up yet, Ray?&rdquo; came Longstreth's clear voice, too strained, too eager to
      be natural.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. I'm in bed reading. Good night,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you alone?&rdquo; went on Longstreth's penetrating voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;Ruth went to bed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think I can go now&mdash;safely,&rdquo; he whispered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go then, if you must, but you may stay till you're safe,&rdquo; she replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&mdash;I couldn't thank you enough. It's been hard on me&mdash;this
      finding out&mdash;and you his daughter. I feel strange. I don't understand
      myself well. But I want you to know&mdash;if I were not an outlaw&mdash;a
      ranger&mdash;I'd lay my life at your feet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! You have seen so&mdash;so little of me,&rdquo; she faltered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All the same it's true. And that makes me feel more the trouble my coming
      caused you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will not fight my father?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not if I can help it. I'm trying to get out of his way.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you spied upon him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am a ranger, Miss Longstreth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And oh! I am a rustler's daughter,&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How? Tell me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What name?&rdquo; queried Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was Cheseldine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;CHESELDINE! My God! Miss Longstreth, why did you tell me that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What difference does that make?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your father and Cheseldine are one and the same,&rdquo; whispered Duane,
      hoarsely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I gathered so much myself,&rdquo; she replied, miserably. &ldquo;But Longstreth is
      father's real name.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Longstreth, all this seems so unbelievable,&rdquo; he whispered.
      &ldquo;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&mdash;wreck your lifer Why, Miss Longstreth, I believe I&mdash;I love
      you. It's all come in a rush. I'd die for you if I could. How fatal&mdash;terrible&mdash;this
      is! How things work out!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She slipped to her knees, with her hands on his.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You won't kill him?&rdquo; she implored. &ldquo;If you care for me&mdash;you won't
      kill him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. That I promise you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With a low moan she dropped her head upon the bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane opened the door and stealthily stole out through the corridor to the
      court.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Duane got out into the dark, where his hot face cooled in the wind,
      his relief equaled his other feelings.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXI
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      He avoided Sanderson, and at the end of the day and a half he arrived at
      Bradford.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Howdy, Dodge,&rdquo; said Fletcher, laconically.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane replied, and the other man returned the greeting with interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jim, my hoss 's done up. I want to hide him from any chance tourists as
      might happen to ride up curious-like.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Haw! haw! haw!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane gathered encouragement from that chorus of coarse laughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, Dodge,&rdquo; remarked Fletcher, as Duane returned, &ldquo;thet's safer 'n
      prayin' fer rain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Posse!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      From the scramble to get outdoors Duane judged that word and the ensuing
      action was rare in Ord.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What the hell!&rdquo; muttered Fletcher, as he gazed down the road at a dark,
      compact bunch of horses and riders. &ldquo;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'.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hello, Jim Fletcher,&rdquo; called the cowboy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Howdy,&rdquo; replied Fletcher.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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'?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nope,&rdquo; replied Fletcher.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Didn't I tell ye this was a wild-goose chase, comin' way out here?&rdquo;
       protested an old hawk-faced rancher. &ldquo;Them hoss tracks we follored ain't
      like any of them we seen at the water-tank where the train was held up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm not so sure of that,&rdquo; replied the leader.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, Guthrie, I've follored tracks all my life&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you couldn't keep to the trail this feller made in the brush.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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'&mdash;he was the real gent, an' don't you forget it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Some of the posse sided with the cowboy leader and some with the old
      cattleman. Finally the young leader disgustedly gathered up his bridle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aw, hell! Thet sheriff shoved you off this trail. Mebbe he hed reasons
      Savvy thet? If I hed a bunch of cowboys with me&mdash;I tell you what&mdash;I'd
      take a chance an' clean up this hole!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All the while Jim Fletcher stood quietly with his hands in his pockets.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Guthrie, I'm shore treasurin' up your friendly talk,&rdquo; he said. The menace
      was in the tone, not the content of his speech.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can&mdash;an' be damned to you, Fletcher!&rdquo; called Guthrie, as the
      horses started.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fletcher, standing out alone before the others of his clan, watched the
      posse out of sight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Luck fer you-all thet Poggy wasn't here,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dodge, where'd you hide the stuff? I reckon I git in on this deal, seein'
      I staved off Guthrie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Later, when Duane started up announcing his intention to get his horse and
      make for camp out in the brush, Fletcher seemed grievously offended.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll square it. I pay my debts,&rdquo; replied Duane. &ldquo;But I can't put up here
      all night. If I belonged to the gang it 'd be different.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What gang?&rdquo; asked Fletcher, bluntly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Cheseldine's.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Fletcher's beard nodded as his jaw dropped.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane laughed. &ldquo;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&mdash;why, I up an' told him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Fletcher appeared staggered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who in all-fired hell air you talkin' about?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Didn't I tell you once? Cheseldine. He calls himself Longstreth over
      there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All of Fletcher's face not covered by hair turned a dirty white.
      &ldquo;Cheseldine&mdash;Longstreth!&rdquo; he whispered, hoarsely. &ldquo;Gord Almighty! You
      braced the&mdash;&rdquo; 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!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;WHO AIR YOU?&rdquo; queried Fletcher, in a queer, strained voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The outlaw watched Duane go off after his horse, watched him as he
      returned to the tavern, watched him ride out into the darkness&mdash;all
      without a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Five hundred!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;Dodge, thet's damn handsome of you,
      considerin' the job wasn't&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Considerin' nothin',&rdquo; interrupted Duane. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Fletcher was won.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXII
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come here, Dodge,&rdquo; he called.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dodge, I'm in bad with Knell,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's the trouble about, Jim?&rdquo; asked Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Reckon it's a little about you, Dodge,&rdquo; said Fletcher, dryly. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wal, because there ain't any use fer you to git in bad, too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then he rode away.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;tried in vain to revolt from a judgment
      that he was only reasoning out excuses to meet these outlaws.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;the past so long ago, wild flights, dead faces&mdash;and
      the places of these were taken by one quiveringly alive, white, tragic,
      with its dark, intent, speaking eyes&mdash;Ray Longstreth's.
    </p>
    <p>
      That last memory he yielded to until he slept.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Without the horse he made better time and climbed through deep clefts,
      wide canyons, over ridges, up shelving slopes, along precipices&mdash;a
      long, hard climb&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's a smoother trail by long odds, but ain't so short as this one right
      over the mountain,&rdquo; one outlaw was saying.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's eatin' you, Panhandle?&rdquo; ejaculated another. &ldquo;Blossom an' me rode
      from Faraway Springs, where Poggin is with some of the gang.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me, Phil. Shore I didn't see you come in, an' Boldt never said
      nothin'.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It took you a long time to get here, but I guess that's just as well,&rdquo;
       spoke up a smooth, suave voice with a ring in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Longstreth's voice&mdash;Cheseldine's voice!
    </p>
    <p>
      Here they were&mdash;Cheseldine, Phil Knell, Blossom Kane, Panhandle
      Smith, Boldt&mdash;how well Duane remembered the names!&mdash;all here,
      the big men of Cheseldine's gang, except the biggest&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Panhandle Smith carried pots and pans into the cabin, and cheerfully
      called out: &ldquo;If you gents air hungry fer grub, don't look fer me to feed
      you with a spoon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The outlaws piled inside, made a great bustle and clatter as they sat to
      their meal. Like hungry men, they talked little.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here, you fellows, go outside and smoke,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Knell, come on in
      now. Let's get it over.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He returned, sat down, and lighted a cigar for himself. He put his booted
      feet on the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's wrong, Knell? Why didn't you get here sooner?&rdquo; queried Longstreth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poggin, damn him! We're on the outs again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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'.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What else? Get it out of your system so we can go on to the new job.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, it begins back a ways. I don't know how long ago&mdash;weeks&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What'd he look like?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've met your man,&rdquo; said Longstreth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you know?&rdquo; demanded Longstreth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because I did the job myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A dark and stormy passion clouded the chief's face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Damn you, Knell! You're incorrigible. You're unreliable. Another break
      like that queers you with me. Did you tell Poggin?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. That's one reason we fell out. He raved. I thought he was goin' to
      kill me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why did you tackle such a risky job without help or plan?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fine wise talk from you, Knell,&rdquo; said Longstreth, scornfully. &ldquo;Go on with
      your story.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who do you think Fletcher's new man is?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who?&rdquo; demanded Longstreth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;BUCK DUANE!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Down came Longstreth's boots with a crash, then his body grew rigid.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That Nueces outlaw? That two-shot ace-of-spades gun-thrower who killed
      Bland, Alloway&mdash;?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An' Hardin.&rdquo; Knell whispered this last name with more feeling than the
      apparent circumstance demanded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; and Hardin, the best one of the Rim Rock fellows&mdash;Buck Duane!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Knell,&rdquo; began the chief, slowly, as he wiped his lips, &ldquo;I gathered you
      have some grudge against this Buck Duane.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, don't be a fool now and do what Poggin or almost any of you men
      would&mdash;don't meet this Buck Duane. I've reason to believe he's a
      Texas Ranger now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The hell you say!&rdquo; exclaimed Knell.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. Go to Ord and give Jim Fletcher a hunch. He'll get Poggin, and
      they'll fix even Buck Duane.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right. I'll do my best. But if I run into Duane&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't run into him!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I'm glad that's settled,&rdquo; he said, evidently referring to the Duane
      matter. &ldquo;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&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Knell did not even ask for the dates again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suppose Poggin or me might be detained?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      Longstreth bent a dark glance upon his lieutenant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You never can tell what'll come off,&rdquo; continued Knell. &ldquo;I'll do my best.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The minute you see Poggin tell him. A job on hand steadies him. And I say
      again&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hello. Give me paper and pencil. Quick,&rdquo; whispered Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      With trembling hands the operator complied. Duane wrote out the message he
      had carefully composed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Send this&mdash;repeat it to make sure&mdash;then keep mum. I'll see you
      again. Good-by.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The operator stared, but did not speak a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you gents lookin' for me?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My Gawd, Dodge, what'd you bust in here fer?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Back, Fletcher!&rdquo; called Duane, and his voice made the outlaw jump.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold on, Dodge, an' you-all, everybody,&rdquo; said Fletcher. &ldquo;Let me talk,
      seein' I'm in wrong here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His persuasions did not ease the strain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go ahead. Talk,&rdquo; said Poggin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fletcher turned to Duane. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Jim,&rdquo; replied Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what'd you come fer without the signal?&rdquo; burst out Fletcher, in
      distress. He saw nothing but catastrophe in this meeting.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jim, I ain't pressin' my company none. But when I'm wanted bad&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Fletcher stopped him with a raised hand. Then he turned to Poggin with a
      rude dignity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      That individual had been considering Fletcher's appeal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jim, I ante up,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;an' if Phil doesn't raise us out with a big
      hand&mdash;why, he'll get called, an' your pard can set in the game.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poggin, you're a gambler, you are&mdash;the ace-high, straight-flush hand
      of the Big Bend,&rdquo; he said, with stinging scorn. &ldquo;I'll bet you my roll to a
      greaser peso that I can deal you a hand you'll be afraid to play.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Phil, you're talkin' wild,&rdquo; growled Poggin, with both advice and menace
      in his tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If there's anythin' you hate it's a man who pretends to be somebody else
      when he's not. Thet so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Poggin nodded in slow-gathering wrath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Jim's new pard&mdash;this man Dodge&mdash;he's not who he seems.
      Oh-ho! He's a hell of a lot different. But <i>I</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'&mdash;All
      because you'll realize you've been standin' there five minutes&mdash;five
      minutes ALIVE before him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Spring his name, then, you&mdash;&rdquo; said Poggin, violently, with a curse.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;BUCK DUANE!&rdquo; he yelled, suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;BUCK DUANE! Yes,&rdquo; he broke out, hotly. &ldquo;The Nueces gunman! That two-shot,
      ace-of-spades lone wolf! You an' I&mdash;we've heard a thousand times of
      him&mdash;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>I</i> know him. An' I know why he drifted in here. To flash
      a gun on Cheseldine&mdash;on you&mdash;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&mdash;called you! An' when I sprung his name, what
      ought you have done? What would the boss&mdash;anybody&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;me&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The hoarse, taunting voice failed. Knell stepped back from the comrade he
      hated. He was wet, shaking, haggard, but magnificent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Buck Duane, do you remember Hardin?&rdquo; he asked, in scarcely audible voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Duane, and a flash of insight made clear Knell's attitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You met him&mdash;forced him to draw&mdash;killed him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hardin was the best pard I ever had.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His teeth clicked together tight, and his lips set in a thin line.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane watched them. He waited. He caught the thought&mdash;the breaking of
      Knell's muscle-bound rigidity. Then he drew.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane did not see Knell die. He watched Poggin. And Poggin, like a
      stricken and astounded man, looked down upon his prostrate comrade.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fletcher ran at Duane with hands aloft.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hit the trail, you liar, or you'll hev to kill me!&rdquo; he yelled.
    </p>
    <p>
      With hands still up, he shouldered and bodied Duane out of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane leaped on his horse, spurred, and plunged away.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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?
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane came out of it all bitter and callous and sore&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's your news? You needn't be afraid of my feelings,&rdquo; said Lawson.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ray confessed to an interest in this ranger,&rdquo; replied Longstreth.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But why should your daughter meet this ranger?&rdquo; demanded Lawson, harshly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She's in love with him, and he's in love with her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane reveled in Lawson's condition. The statement might have had the
      force of a juggernaut. Was Longstreth sincere? What was his game?
    </p>
    <p>
      Lawson, finding his voice, cursed Ray, cursed the ranger, then Longstreth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You damned selfish fool!&rdquo; cried Longstreth, in deep bitter scorn. &ldquo;All
      you think of is yourself&mdash;your loss of the girl. Think once of ME&mdash;my
      home&mdash;my life!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To hell with you!&rdquo; burst out Lawson, incoherently. He was frenzied. &ldquo;I'll
      have her, or nobody else will!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You never will,&rdquo; returned Longstreth, stridently. &ldquo;So help me God I'd
      rather see her the ranger's wife than yours!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While Lawson absorbed that shock Longstreth leaned toward him, all of hate
      and menace in his mien.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lawson, you made me what I am,&rdquo; continued Longstreth. &ldquo;I backed you&mdash;shielded
      you. YOU'RE Cheseldine&mdash;if the truth is told! Now it's ended. I quit
      you. I'm done!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Their gray passion-corded faces were still as stones.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;GENTLEMEN!&rdquo; Duane called in far-reaching voice as he stepped out. &ldquo;YOU'RE
      BOTH DONE!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They wheeled to confront Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't move! Not a muscle! Not a finger!&rdquo; he warned.
    </p>
    <p>
      Longstreth read what Lawson had not the mind to read. His face turned from
      gray to ashen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What d'ye mean?&rdquo; yelled Lawson, fiercely, shrilly. It was not in him to
      obey a command, to see impending death.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't jump for the gun! Don't! I'll kill you! Sure as God I'll kill you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Longstreth, listen,&rdquo; cried Duane, swiftly. &ldquo;The game's up. You're done.
      But think of your daughter! I'll spare your life&mdash;I'll try to get you
      freedom on one condition. For her sake! I've got you nailed&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suppose I refuse?&rdquo; he queried, with a dark and terrible earnestness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;I'll kill you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right, Buck Duane, I give my word,&rdquo; he said, and deliberately walked
      to the chair and fell into it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Longstreth looked strangely at the bloody blot on Duane's shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There come the girls!&rdquo; he suddenly exclaimed. &ldquo;Can you help me drag
      Lawson inside? They mustn't see him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Duane, you're not hard hit?&rdquo; said Longstreth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Reckon not,&rdquo; replied Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm sorry. If only you could have told me sooner! Lawson, damn him!
      Always I've split over him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But the last time, Longstreth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hard now. But I hope it'll turn out all right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Duane, will you do me a favor?&rdquo; he asked, and he seemed shamefaced.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Glad you&mdash;said that, Longstreth,&rdquo; replied Duane. &ldquo;And sure&mdash;Lawson
      plugged me. It's our secret.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Papa!&rdquo; cried Ray, wringing her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't give way,&rdquo; he replied, huskily. &ldquo;Both you girls will need your
      nerve. Duane isn't badly hurt. But Floyd is&mdash;is dead. Listen. Let me
      tell it quick. There's been a fight. It&mdash;it was Lawson&mdash;it was
      Lawson's gun that shot Duane. Duane let me off. In fact, Ray, he saved me.
      I'm to divide my property&mdash;return so far as possible what I've stolen&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stood there, realizing her deliverance, with the dark and tragic glory
      of her eyes passing from her father to Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must rise above this,&rdquo; said Duane to her. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIV
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a fast train, yet the ride seemed slow.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane leaned over the seat and touched Longstreth on the shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look!&rdquo; he whispered. Cheseldine was stiff. He had already seen.
    </p>
    <p>
      The train flashed by; the outlaw gang receded out of range of sight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you notice Knell wasn't with them?&rdquo; whispered Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane did not speak to Longstreth again till the train stopped at Val
      Verde.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;MacNelly,
      clean-shaven. Without mustache he appeared different, younger.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Duane! Lord, I'm glad to see you,&rdquo; was the Captain's greeting. Then at
      closer look into Duane's face his warmth fled&mdash;something he saw there
      checked his enthusiasm, or at least its utterance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;MacNelly, shake hand with Cheseldine,&rdquo; said Duane, low-voiced.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ranger captain stood dumb, motionless. But he saw Longstreth's instant
      action, and awkwardly he reached for the outstretched hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Any of your men down here?&rdquo; queried Duane, sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. They're up-town.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come. MacNelly, you walk with him. We've ladies in the party. I'll come
      behind with them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently Duane espied a stone building on a corner of the broad street.
      There was a big sign, &ldquo;Rancher's Bank.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's the hotel,&rdquo; said MacNelly. &ldquo;Some of my men are there. We've
      scattered around.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Longstreth, you and Miss Ruth try to make yourselves comfortable
      now,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;And don't be distressed.&rdquo; Then he turned to his captain.
      &ldquo;MacNelly, this girl is the daughter of the man I've brought to you, and
      this one is his niece.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then Duane briefly related Longstreth's story, and, though he did not
      spare the rustler chief, he was generous.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I went after Longstreth,&rdquo; concluded Duane, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A few moments later Duane followed MacNelly to a large room, like a hall,
      and here were men reading and smoking. Duane knew them&mdash;rangers!
    </p>
    <p>
      MacNelly beckoned to his men.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Boys, here he is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How many men have you?&rdquo; asked Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fifteen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;outlaws.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      MacNelly clapped his fist in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;two-thirty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How many?&rdquo; asked MacNelly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poggin&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Knell's dead.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; exclaimed MacNelly, softly. Then he grew businesslike, cool, and of
      harder aspect. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You understand there's no sense in trying to arrest Poggin, Kane, and
      that lot?&rdquo; queried Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I don't understand that,&rdquo; replied MacNelly, bluntly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;unless&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right. That's great. Tell me, where do you intend to wait?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where'll you wait, Duane?&rdquo; insisted MacNelly, with keen eyes speculating.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll wait in front, just inside the door,&rdquo; replied Duane, with an effort.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo; demanded the Captain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; began Duane, slowly, &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But will you hide?&rdquo; asked MacNelly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hide!&rdquo; The idea had not occurred to Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Duane was silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See here, Duane,&rdquo; began MacNelly, nervously. &ldquo;You shan't take any undue
      risk here. You'll hide with the rest of us?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; The word was wrenched from Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      MacNelly stared, and then a strange, comprehending light seemed to flit
      over his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Duane, I can give you no orders to-day,&rdquo; he said, distinctly. &ldquo;I'm only
      offering advice. Need you take any more risks? You've done a grand job for
      the service&mdash;already. You've paid me a thousand times for that
      pardon. You've redeemed yourself.&mdash;The Governor, the adjutant-general&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Captain, you want this job to be sure?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      MacNelly spread wide his hands, looked helplessly at his curious and
      sympathetic rangers, and shook his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now you've done your work&mdash;laid the trap&mdash;is this strange move
      of yours going to be fair to Miss Longstreth?&rdquo; asked MacNelly, in
      significant low voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Like a great tree chopped at the roots Duane vibrated to that. He looked
      up as if he had seen a ghost.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercilessly the ranger captain went on: &ldquo;You can win her, Duane! Oh, you
      can't fool me. I was wise in a minute. Fight with us from cover&mdash;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&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Enough. I'm done,&rdquo; he said, somberly. &ldquo;I've planned. Do we agree&mdash;or
      shall I meet Poggin and his gang alone?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane was left alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;Poggin first&mdash;and then the
      others! He was as unalterable in that decision as if on the instant of its
      acceptance he had become stone.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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!
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;all,
      like scales, seemed to fall away from him. He stood stripped bare, his
      soul naked&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then came agony. As he could not govern all the chances of this fatal
      meeting&mdash;as all his swift and deadly genius must be occupied with
      Poggin, perhaps in vain&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      At that moment the door opened, and Ray Longstreth entered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Duane,&rdquo; she said, softly. &ldquo;Captain MacNelly sent me to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you shouldn't have come,&rdquo; replied Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As soon as he told me I would have come whether he wished it or not. You
      left me&mdash;all of us&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go, then&mdash;and leave me. You mustn't unnerve me now, when there's a
      desperate game to finish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Need it be desperate?&rdquo; she whispered, coming close to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; it can't be else.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're going to take some mad risk,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Let me persuade you not
      to. You said&mdash;you cared for me&mdash;and I&mdash;oh, Duane&mdash;don't
      you&mdash;know&mdash;?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The low voice, deep, sweet as an old chord, faltered and broke and failed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane sustained a sudden shock and an instant of paralyzed confusion of
      thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      She moved, she swept out her hands, and the wonder of her eyes dimmed in a
      flood of tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My God! You can't care for me?&rdquo; he cried, hoarsely.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then she met him, hands outstretched.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I do-I do!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you care&mdash;a little?&rdquo; he whispered, unsteadily.
    </p>
    <p>
      He bent over her, looking deep into the dark wet eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      She uttered a low laugh that was half sob, and her arms slipped up to his
      neck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A littler Oh, Duane&mdash;Duane&mdash;a great deal!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I love you, Duane!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;Kiss me!&rdquo; She meant to change him,
      hold him.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;one long
      endless kiss&mdash;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&mdash;all these seemed to inclose him.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't go! Don't go!&rdquo; she cried, as he started violently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must. Dear, good-by! Remember I loved you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He pulled her hands loose from his, stepped back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ray, dearest&mdash;I believe&mdash;I'll come back!&rdquo; he whispered.
    </p>
    <p>
      These last words were falsehood.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;DUANE!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He fled with that moan like thunder, death, hell in his ears.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;the rangers&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Poggin entered the vestibule first, with Kane on one side, Boldt on the
      other, a little in his rear.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he strode in he saw Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;HELL'S FIRE!&rdquo; he cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      Something inside Duane burst, piercing all of him with cold. Was it that
      fear?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;BUCK DUANE!&rdquo; echoed Kane.
    </p>
    <p>
      One instant Poggin looked up and Duane looked down.
    </p>
    <p>
      Like a striking jaguar Poggin moved. Almost as quickly Duane threw his
      arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      The guns boomed almost together.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;pulled&mdash;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!
    </p>
    <p>
      All faded, darkened. The thunder deadened. Duane fell, seemed floating.
      There it drifted&mdash;Ray Longstreth's sweet face, white, with dark,
      tragic eyes, fading from his sight... fading.. . fading...
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXV
    </h2>
    <p>
      Light shone before Duane's eyes&mdash;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&mdash;time
      that was very long. There was fire&mdash;creeping, consuming fire. A dark
      cloud of flame enveloped him, rolled him away.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:
      &ldquo;Duane&mdash;Duane! Ah, he knew me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Duane tried to speak. His lips were weak, and he could scarcely move them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poggin!&rdquo; he whispered. His first real conscious thought was for Poggin.
      Ruling passion&mdash;eternal instinct!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poggin is dead, Duane; shot to pieces,&rdquo; replied MacNelly, solemnly. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who-got&mdash;away?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fletcher, the man with the horses. We downed all the others. Duane, the
      job's done&mdash;it's done! Why, man, you're&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What of&mdash;of&mdash;HER?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;so low&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have I&mdash;a&mdash;chance&mdash;to recover?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Chance? Why, man,&rdquo; exclaimed the Captain, &ldquo;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&mdash;of your future.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The rangers took Duane home to Wellston.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      A sea of faces pressed close. Some were faces he remembered&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some one entered&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This man! They've not brought back my boy. This man's his father! Where
      is my son? My son&mdash;oh, my son!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Five bullets, ain't it?&rdquo; he asked, for the hundredth time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Five in that last scrap! By gum! And you had six before?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, uncle,&rdquo; replied Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;got
      more flesh.... Funny, wasn't it, Buck, about the doctor only bein' able to
      cut one bullet out of you&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would indeed, uncle,&rdquo; replied Duane, and the old, haunting, somber
      mood returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      One afternoon, while she was there at the west window, a message came for
      him. They read it together.
    </p>
    <p>
      You have saved the ranger service to the Lone Star State
    </p>
    <p>
      MACNELLEY.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm glad for MacNelly's sake as well as the state's,&rdquo; said Duane.
    </p>
    <p>
      She made no reply to that and seemed to be thinking deeply. Duane shrank a
      little.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The pain&mdash;Is it any worse to-day?&rdquo; she asked, instantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then&mdash;it's the old mood&mdash;the fear?&rdquo; she whispered. &ldquo;Tell me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. It haunts me. I'll be well soon&mdash;able to go out. Then that&mdash;that
      hell will come back!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no!&rdquo; she said, with emotion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some drunken cowboy, some fool with a gun, will hunt me out in every
      town, wherever I go,&rdquo; he went on, miserably. &ldquo;Buck Duane! To kill Buck
      Duane!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush! Don't speak so. Listen. You remember that day in Val Verde, when I
      came to you&mdash;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&mdash;that thing
      which haunts you. But you'll never have to draw again. You'll never have
      to kill another man, thank God!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Like a drowning man he would have grasped at straws, but he could not
      voice his passionate query.
    </p>
    <p>
      She put tender arms round his neck. &ldquo;Because you'll have me with you
      always,&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;Because always I shall be between you and that&mdash;that
      terrible thing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We'll&mdash;we'll be married and leave Texas,&rdquo; she said, softly, with the
      red blood rising rich and dark in her cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ray!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes we will, though you're laggard in asking me, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, dear&mdash;suppose,&rdquo; he replied, huskily, &ldquo;suppose there might be&mdash;be
      children&mdash;a boy. A boy with his father's blood!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I pray God there will be. I do not fear what you fear. But even so&mdash;he'll
      be half my blood.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But Ray&mdash;you dear, noble girl&mdash;I'm poor. I have nothing. And
      I'm a cripple.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you'll be well some day,&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;And listen. I have money. My
      mother left me well off. All she had was her father's&mdash;Do you
      understand? We'll take Uncle Jim and your mother. We'll go to Louisiana&mdash;to
      my old home. It's far from here. There's a plantation to work. There are
      horses and cattle&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My darling!&rdquo; cried Duane, brokenly. &ldquo;No, no, no!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We'll be happy,&rdquo; she whispered. &ldquo;Oh, I know. Come!&mdash;come!-come!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her eyes were closing, heavy-lidded, and she lifted sweet, tremulous,
      waiting lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      It would come back&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
  <div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1027 ***</div>
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