THE LONE STAR RANGER

By Zane Grey

 To CAPTAIN JOHN HUGHES and his Texas Rangers

It may seem strange to you that out of all the stories I heard on theRio Grande I should choose as first that of Buck Duane--outlaw andgunman. 

But, indeed, Ranger Coffee's story of the last of the Duanes has hauntedme, and I have given full rein to imagination and have retold it in myown way. It deals with the old law--the old border days--therefore it isbetter first. Soon, perchance, I shall have the pleasure of writing ofthe border of to-day, which in Joe Sitter's laconic speech, "Shore is'most as bad an' wild as ever!"

In the North and East there is a popular idea that the frontier of theWest is a thing long past, and remembered now only in stories. As Ithink of this I remember Ranger Sitter when he made that remark, whilehe grimly stroked an unhealed bullet wound. And I remember the giantVaughn, that typical son of stalwart Texas, sitting there quietly withbandaged head, his thoughtful eye boding ill to the outlaw who hadambushed him. Only a few months have passed since then--when I had mymemorable sojourn with you--and yet, in that short time, Russell andMoore have crossed the Divide, like Rangers. 

Gentlemen, --I have the honor to dedicate this book to you, and thehope that it shall fall to my lot to tell the world the truth about astrange, unique, and misunderstood body of men--the Texas Rangers--whomade the great Lone Star State habitable, who never know peaceful restand sleep, who are passing, who surely will not be forgotten and willsome day come into their own. 

ZANE GREY

BOOK I. THE OUTLAW

CHAPTER I

So it was in him, then--an inherited fighting instinct, a drivingintensity to kill. He was the last of the Duanes, that old fightingstock of Texas. But not the memory of his dead father, nor the pleadingof his soft-voiced mother, nor the warning of this uncle who stoodbefore him now, had brought to Buck Duane so much realization ofthe dark passionate strain in his blood. It was the recurrence, ahundred-fold increased in power, of a strange emotion that for the lastthree years had arisen in him. 

"Yes, Cal Bain's in town, full of bad whisky an' huntin' for you, "repeated the elder man, gravely. 

"It's the second time, " muttered Duane, as if to himself. 

"Son, you can't avoid a meetin'. Leave town till Cal sobers up. He ain'tgot it in for you when he's not drinkin'. "

"But what's he want me for?" demanded Duane. "To insult me again? Iwon't stand that twice. "

"He's got a fever that's rampant in Texas these days, my boy. He wantsgun-play. If he meets you he'll try to kill you. "

Here it stirred in Duane again, that bursting gush of blood, like awind of flame shaking all his inner being, and subsiding to leave himstrangely chilled. 

"Kill me! What for?" he asked. 

"Lord knows there ain't any reason. But what's that to do with most ofthe shootin' these days? Didn't five cowboys over to Everall's killone another dead all because they got to jerkin' at a quirt amongthemselves? An' Cal has no reason to love you. His girl was sweet onyou. "

"I quit when I found out she was his girl. "

"I reckon she ain't quit. But never mind her or reasons. Cal's here, just drunk enough to be ugly. He's achin' to kill somebody. He's one ofthem four-flush gun-fighters. He'd like to be thought bad. There's a lotof wild cowboys who're ambitious for a reputation. They talk about howquick they are on the draw. T hey ape Bland an' King Fisher an' Hardinan' all the big outlaws. They make threats about joinin' the gangs alongthe Rio Grande. They laugh at the sheriffs an' brag about how they'dfix the rangers. Cal's sure not much for you to bother with, if you onlykeep out of his way. "

"You mean for me to run?" asked Duane, in scorn. 

"I reckon I wouldn't put it that way. Just avoid him. Buck, I'm notafraid Cal would get you if you met down there in town. You've yourfather's eye an' his slick hand with a gun. What I'm most afraid of isthat you'll kill Bain. "

Duane was silent, letting his uncle's earnest words sink in, trying torealize their significance. 

"If Texas ever recovers from that fool war an' kills off these outlaws, why, a young man will have a lookout, " went on the uncle. "You'retwenty-three now, an' a powerful sight of a fine fellow, barrin' yourtemper. You've a chance in life. But if you go gun-fightin', if you killa man, you're ruined. Then you'll kill another. It'll be the same oldstory. An' the rangers would make you an outlaw. The rangers mean lawan' order for Texas. This even-break business doesn't work with them. Ifyou resist arrest they'll kill you. If you submit to arrest, then you goto jail, an' mebbe you hang. "

"I'd never hang, " muttered Duane, darkly. 

"I reckon you wouldn't, " replied the old man. "You'd be like yourfather. He was ever ready to draw--too ready. In times like these, withthe Texas rangers enforcin' the law, your Dad would have been driven tothe river. An', son, I'm afraid you're a chip off the old block. Can'tyou hold in--keep your temper--run away from trouble? Because it'll onlyresult in you gettin' the worst of it in the end. Your father was killedin a street-fight. An' it was told of him that he shot twice after abullet had passed through his heart. Think of the terrible nature of aman to be able to do that. If you have any such blood in you, never giveit a chance. "

"What you say is all very well, uncle, " returned Duane, "but the onlyway out for me is to run, and I won't do it. Cal Bain and his outfithave already made me look like a coward. He says I'm afraid to come outand face him. A man simply can't stand that in this country. Besides, Cal would shoot me in the back some day if I didn't face him. "

"Well, then, what're you goin' to do?" inquired the elder man. 

"I haven't decided--yet. "

"No, but you're comin' to it mighty fast. That damned spell is workin'in you. You're different to-day. I remember how you used to be moody an'lose your temper an' talk wild. Never was much afraid of you then. Butnow you're gettin' cool an' quiet, an' you think deep, an' I don't likethe light in your eye. It reminds me of your father. "

"I wonder what Dad would say to me to-day if he were alive and here, "said Duane. 

"What do you think? What could you expect of a man who never wore aglove on his right hand for twenty years?"

"Well, he'd hardly have said much. Dad never talked. But he would havedone a lot. And I guess I'll go down-town and let Cal Bain find me. "

Then followed a long silence, during which Duane sat with downcast eyes, and the uncle appeared lost in sad thought of the future. Presently heturned to Duane with an expression that denoted resignation, and yet aspirit which showed wherein they were of the same blood. 

"You've got a fast horse--the fastest I know of in this country. Afteryou meet Bain hurry back home. I'll have a saddle-bag packed for you andthe horse ready. "

With that he turned on his heel and went into the house, leaving Duaneto revolve in his mind his singular speech. Buck wondered presently ifhe shared his uncle's opinion of the result of a meeting between himselfand 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 stormof passion assailed him that he felt as if he was being shaken withague. Yet it was all internal, inside his breast, for his hand was likea rock and, for all he could see, not a muscle about him quivered. Hehad no fear of Bain or of any other man; but a vague fear of himself, ofthis strange force in him, made him ponder and shake his head. It was asif he had not all to say in this matter. There appeared to have been inhim a reluctance to let himself go, and some voice, some spirit from adistance, something he was not accountable for, had compelled him. That hour of Duane's life was like years of actual living, and in it hebecame a thoughtful man. 

He went into the house and buckled on his belt and gun. The gun was aColt. 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 shotthrough the heart, and his hand had stiffened so tightly upon it inthe death-grip that his fingers had to be pried open. It had never beendrawn upon any man since it had come into Duane's possession. But thecold, bright polish of the weapon showed how it had been used. Duanecould draw it with inconceivable rapidity, and at twenty feet he couldsplit a card pointing edgewise toward him. 

Duane wished to avoid meeting his mother. Fortunately, as he thought, she was away from home. He went out and down the path toward the gate. The air was full of the fragrance of blossoms and the melody of birds. Outside in the road a neighbor woman stood talking to a countryman in awagon; they spoke to him; and he heard, but did not reply. Then he beganto stride down the road toward the town. 

Wellston was a small town, but important in that unsettled part of thegreat state because it was the trading-center of several hundred milesof territory. On the main street there were perhaps fifty buildings, some brick, some frame, mostly adobe, and one-third of the lot, and byfar the most prosperous, were saloons. From the road Duane turned intothis street. It was a wide thoroughfare lined by hitching-rails andsaddled horses and vehicles of various kinds. Duane's eye ranged downthe street, taking in all at a glance, particularly persons movingleisurely up and down. Not a cowboy was in sight. Duane slackened hisstride, and by the time he reached Sol White's place, which was thefirst saloon, he was walking slowly. Several people spoke to him andturned to look back after they had passed. He paused at the door ofWhite's saloon, took a sharp survey of the interior, then steppedinside. 

The saloon was large and cool, full of men and noise and smoke. Thenoise ceased upon his entrance, and the silence ensuing presently broketo the clink of Mexican silver dollars at a monte table. Sol White, whowas behind the bar, straightened up when he saw Duane; then, withoutspeaking, he bent over to rinse a glass. All eyes except those of theMexican 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 hadbeen weighed by unerring Texas instinct, by men who all packed guns. Theboy was the son of his father. Whereupon they greeted him and returnedto their drinks and cards. Sol White stood with his big red hands outupon the bar; he was a tall, raw-boned Texan with a long mustache waxedto sharp points. 

"Howdy, Buck, " was his greeting to Duane. He spoke carelessly andaverted his dark gaze for an instant. 

"Howdy, Sol, " replied Duane, slowly. "Say, Sol, I hear there's a gent intown looking for me bad. "

"Reckon there is, Buck, " replied White. "He came in heah aboot anhour ago. Shore he was some riled an' a-roarin' for gore. Told meconfidential a certain party had given you a white silk scarf, an' hewas hell-bent on wearin' it home spotted red. "

"Anybody with him?" queried Duane. 

"Burt an' Sam Outcalt an' a little cowpuncher I never seen before. They-all was coaxin' trim to leave town. But he's looked on the flowin'glass, Buck, an' he's heah for keeps. "

"Why doesn't Sheriff Oaks lock him up if he's that bad?"

"Oaks went away with the rangers. There's been another raid at Flesher'sranch. The King Fisher gang, likely. An' so the town's shore wide open. "

Duane stalked outdoors and faced down the street. He walked the wholelength of the long block, meeting many people--farmers, ranchers, clerks, merchants, Mexicans, cowboys, and women. It was a singular factthat when he turned to retrace his steps the street was almost empty. Hehad not returned a hundred yards on his way when the street was whollydeserted. A few heads protruded from doors and around corners. That mainstreet of Wellston saw some such situation every few days. If it was aninstinct for Texans to fight, it was also instinctive for them to sensewith remarkable quickness the signs of a coming gun-play. Rumor couldnot fly so swiftly. In less than ten minutes everybody who had been onthe street or in the shops knew that Buck Duane had come forth to meethis enemy. 

Duane walked on. When he came to within fifty paces of a saloon heswerved 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 thelength of the block. Sol White was standing in the door of his saloon. 

"Buck, I'm a-tippin' you off, " he said, quick and low-voiced. "CalBain's over at Everall's. If he's a-huntin' you bad, as he brags, he'llshow there. "

Duane crossed the street and started down. Notwithstanding White'sstatement Duane was wary and slow at every door. Nothing happened, and he traversed almost the whole length of the block without seeing aperson. Everall's place was on the corner. 

Duane knew himself to be cold, steady. He was conscious of a strangefury that made him want to leap ahead. He seemed to long for thisencounter more than anything he had ever wanted. But, vivid as were hissensations, he felt as if in a dream. 

Before he reached Everall's he heard loud voices, one of which wasraised high. Then the short door swung outward as if impelled by avigorous hand. A bow-legged cowboy wearing wooley chaps burst out uponthe sidewalk. At sight of Duane he seemed to bound into the air, and heuttered a savage roar. 

Duane stopped in his tracks at the outer edge of the sidewalk, perhaps adozen rods from Everall's door. 

If Bain was drunk he did not show it in his movement. He swaggeredforward, rapidly closing up the gap. Red, sweaty, disheveled, andhatless, his face distorted and expressive of the most malignant intent, he was a wild and sinister figure. He had already killed a man, and thisshowed in his demeanor. His hands were extended before him, the righthand a little lower than the left. At every step he bellowed his rancorin speech mostly curses. Gradually he slowed his walk, then halted. Agood twenty-five paces separated the men. 

"Won't nothin' make you draw, you--!" he shouted, fiercely. 

"I'm waitin' on you, Cal, " replied Duane. 

Bain's right hand stiffened--moved. Duane threw his gun as a boy throwsa ball underhand--a draw his father had taught him. He pulled twice, his shots almost as one. Bain's big Colt boomed while it was pointeddownward and he was falling. His bullet scattered dust and gravel atDuane's feet. He fell loosely, without contortion. 

In a flash all was reality for Duane. He went forward and held his gunready for the slightest movement on the part of Bain. But Bain lay uponhis back, and all that moved were his breast and his eyes. How strangelythe red had left his face--and also the distortion! The devil that hadshowed in Bain was gone. He was sober and conscious. He tried tospeak, but failed. His eyes expressed something pitifully human. Theychanged--rolled--set blankly. 

Duane drew a deep breath and sheathed his gun. He felt calm and cool, glad the fray was over. One violent expression burst from him. "Thefool!"

When he looked up there were men around him. 

"Plumb center, " said one. 

Another, a cowboy who evidently had just left the gaming-table, leaneddown 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 coveredthe two bullet-holes just over Bain's heart. 

Duane wheeled and hurried away. He heard another man say:

"Reckon Cal got what he deserved. Buck Duane's first gunplay. Likefather like son!"

CHAPTER II

A thought kept repeating itself to Duane, and it was that he might havespared himself concern through his imagining how awful it would be tokill a man. He had no such feeling now. He had rid the community of adrunken, bragging, quarrelsome cowboy. 

When he came to the gate of his home and saw his uncle there with amettlesome horse, saddled, with canteen, rope, and bags all in place, a subtle shock pervaded his spirit. It had slipped his mind--theconsequence of his act. But sight of the horse and the look of his unclerecalled the fact that he must now become a fugitive. An unreasonableanger took hold of him. 

"The d--d fool!" he exclaimed, hotly. "Meeting Bain wasn't much, UncleJim. He dusted my boots, that's all. And for that I've got to go on thedodge. "

"Son, you killed him--then?" asked the uncle, huskily. 

"Yes. I stood over him--watched him die. I did as I would have been doneby. "

"I knew it. Long ago I saw it comin'. But now we can't stop to cry overspilt blood. You've got to leave town an' this part of the country. "

"Mother!" exclaimed Duane. 

"She's away from home. You can't wait. I'll break it to her--what shealways feared. "

Suddenly Duane sat down and covered his face with his hands. 

"My God! Uncle, what have I done?" His broad shoulders shook. 

"Listen, son, an' remember what I say, " replied the elder man, earnestly. "Don't ever forget. You're not to blame. I'm glad to seeyou 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 arewild times. The law as the rangers are laying it down now can't changelife all in a minute. Even your mother, who's a good, true woman, hashad her share in making you what you are this moment. For she was one ofthe pioneers--the fightin' pioneers of this state. Those years of wildtimes, before you was born, developed in her instinct to fight, to saveher life, her children, an' that instinct has cropped out in you. Itwill be many years before it dies out of the boys born in Texas. "

"I'm a murderer, " said Duane, shuddering. 

"No, son, you're not. An' you never will be. But you've got to be anoutlaw till time makes it safe for you to come home. "

"An outlaw?"

"I said it. If we had money an' influence we'd risk a trial. But we'veneither. An' I reckon the scaffold or jail is no place for BuckleyDuane. Strike for the wild country, an' wherever you go an' whateveryou do-be a man. Live honestly, if that's possible. If it isn't, be ashonest as you can. If you have to herd with outlaws try not to becomebad. There are outlaws who 're not all bad--many who have been driven tothe river by such a deal as this you had. When you get among these menavoid brawls. Don't drink; don't gamble. I needn't tell you what to doif it comes to gun-play, as likely it will. You can't come home. Whenthis thing is lived down, if that time ever comes, I'll get word intothe unsettled country. It'll reach you some day. That's all. Remember, be a man. Goodby. "

Duane, with blurred sight and contracting throat, gripped his uncle'shand and bade him a wordless farewell. Then he leaped astride the blackand rode out of town. 

As swiftly as was consistent with a care for his steed, Duane put adistance of fifteen or eighteen miles behind him. With that he slowedup, and the matter of riding did not require all his faculties. Hepassed several ranches and was seen by men. This did not suit him, andhe took an old trail across country. It was a flat region with a poorgrowth of mesquite and prickly-pear cactus. Occasionally he caughta glimpse of low hills in the distance. He had hunted often in thatsection, and knew where to find grass and water. When he reachedthis higher ground he did not, however, halt at the first favorablecamping-spot, but went on and on. Once he came out upon the brow of ahill and saw a considerable stretch of country beneath him. It had thegray sameness characterizing all that he had traversed. He seemed towant to see wide spaces--to get a glimpse of the great wilderness lyingsomewhere beyond to the southwest. It was sunset when he decided to campat a likely spot he came across. He led the horse to water, and thenbegan searching through the shallow valley for a suitable place to camp. He passed by old camp-sites that he well remembered. These, however, didnot strike his fancy this time, and the significance of the change inhim did not occur at the moment. At last he found a secluded spot, undercover of thick mesquites and oaks, at a goodly distance from the oldtrail. He took saddle and pack off the horse. He looked among hiseffects for a hobble, and, finding that his uncle had failed to put onein, he suddenly remembered that he seldom used a hobble, and never onthis 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 bedriven out upon the grass. 

Duane made a small fire, prepared and ate his supper. This done, endingthe work of that day, he sat down and filled his pipe. Twilight hadwaned into dusk. A few wan stars had just begun to show and brighten. Above the low continuous hum of insects sounded the evening carol ofrobins. Presently the birds ceased their singing, and then the quietwas more noticeable. When night set in and the place seemed all the moreisolated and lonely for that Duane had a sense of relief. 

It dawned upon him all at once that he was nervous, watchful, sleepless. The fact caused him surprise, and he began to think back, to take noteof his late actions and their motives. The change one day had wroughtamazed him. He who had always been free, easy, happy, especially whenout alone in the open, had become in a few short hours bound, serious, preoccupied. The silence that had once been sweet now meant nothingto him except a medium whereby he might the better hear the soundsof pursuit. The loneliness, the night, the wild, that had always beenbeautiful to him, now only conveyed a sense of safety for the present. He watched, he listened, he thought. He felt tired, yet had noinclination to rest. He intended to be off by dawn, heading toward thesouthwest. Had he a destination? It was vague as his knowledge of thatgreat waste of mesquite and rock bordering the Rio Grande. Somewhere outthere was a refuge. For he was a fugitive from justice, an outlaw. 

This being an outlaw then meant eternal vigilance. No home, no rest, nosleep, no content, no life worth the living! He must be a lone wolfor he must herd among men obnoxious to him. If he worked for an honestliving he still must hide his identity and take risks of detection. Ifhe did not work on some distant outlying ranch, how was he to live? Theidea of stealing was repugnant to him. The future seemed gray and somberenough. And he was twenty-three years old. 

Why had this hard life been imposed upon him?

The bitter question seemed to start a strange iciness that stolealong his veins. What was wrong with him? He stirred the few sticks ofmesquite into a last flickering blaze. He was cold, and for some reasonhe wanted some light. The black circle of darkness weighed down uponhim, closed in around him. Suddenly he sat bolt upright and then frozein that position. He had heard a step. It was behind him--no--on theside. Some one was there. He forced his hand down to his gun, and thetouch of cold steel was another icy shock. Then he waited. But allwas silent--silent as only a wilderness arroyo can be, with its lowmurmuring of wind in the mesquite. Had he heard a step? He began tobreathe again. 

But what was the matter with the light of his camp-fire? It had takenon a strange green luster and seemed to be waving off into the outershadows. Duane heard no step, saw no movement; nevertheless, there wasanother present at that camp-fire vigil. Duane saw him. He lay there inthe middle of the green brightness, prostrate, motionless, dying. CalBain! His features were wonderfully distinct, clearer than any cameo, more sharply outlined than those of any picture. It was a hard facesoftening at the threshold of eternity. The red tan of sun, the coarsesigns of drunkenness, the ferocity and hate so characteristic of Bainwere no longer there. This face represented a different Bain, showed allthat 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 agonyof thought. They revealed what might have been possible for this manif he lived--that he saw his mistake too late. Then they rolled, setblankly, and closed in death. 

That haunting visitation left Duane sitting there in a cold sweat, aremorse gnawing at his vitals, realizing the curse that was on him. He divined that never would he be able to keep off that phantom. Heremembered how his father had been eternally pursued by the furies ofaccusing guilt, how he had never been able to forget in work or in sleepthose men he had killed. 

The hour was late when Duane's mind let him sleep, and then dreamstroubled him. In the morning he bestirred himself so early that in thegray gloom he had difficulty in finding his horse. Day had just brokenwhen he struck the old trail again. 

He rode hard all morning and halted in a shady spot to rest and grazehis horse. In the afternoon he took to the trail at an easy trot. Thecountry grew wilder. Bald, rugged mountains broke the level of themonotonous horizon. About three in the afternoon he came to a littleriver which marked the boundary line of his hunting territory. 

The decision he made to travel up-stream for a while was owing to twofacts: the river was high with quicksand bars on each side, and he feltreluctant to cross into that region where his presence alone meant thathe was a marked man. The bottom-lands through which the river wound tothe southwest were more inviting than the barrens he had traversed. Therest or that day he rode leisurely up-stream. At sunset he penetratedthe brakes of willow and cottonwood to spend the night. It seemed tohim that in this lonely cover he would feel easy and content. But hedid not. Every feeling, every imagining he had experienced the previousnight returned somewhat more vividly and accentuated by newer ones ofthe same intensity and color. 

In this kind of travel and camping he spent three more days, duringwhich he crossed a number of trails, and one road where cattle--stolencattle, probably--had recently passed. Thus time exhausted his supplyof food, except salt, pepper, coffee, and sugar, of which he had aquantity. There were deer in the brakes; but, as he could not get closeenough to kill them with a revolver, he had to satisfy himself with arabbit. He knew he might as well content himself with the hard fare thatassuredly would be his lot. 

Somewhere up this river there was a village called Huntsville. Itwas distant about a hundred miles from Wellston, and had a reputationthroughout southwestern Texas. He had never been there. The fact wasthis reputation was such that honest travelers gave the town a wideberth. Duane had considerable money for him in his possession, and heconcluded to visit Huntsville, if he could find it, and buy a stock ofprovisions. 

The following day, toward evening, he happened upon a road whichhe believed might lead to the village. There were a good many freshhorse-tracks in the sand, and these made him thoughtful. Nevertheless, he followed the road, proceeding cautiously. He had not gone very farwhen the sound of rapid hoof-beats caught his ears. They came from hisrear. In the darkening twilight he could not see any great distance backalong the road. Voices, however, warned him that these riders, whoeverthey were, had approached closer than he liked. To go farther down theroad was not to be thought of, so he turned a little way in among themesquites and halted, hoping to escape being seen or heard. As he wasnow a fugitive, it seemed every man was his enemy and pursuer. 

The horsemen were fast approaching. Presently they were abreast ofDuane's position, so near that he could hear the creak of saddles, theclink of spurs. 

"Shore he crossed the river below, " said one man. 

"I reckon you're right, Bill. He's slipped us, " replied another. 

Rangers or a posse of ranchers in pursuit of a fugitive! The knowledgegave Duane a strange thrill. Certainly they could not have been huntinghim. But the feeling their proximity gave him was identical to whatit would have been had he been this particular hunted man. He heldhis breath; he clenched his teeth; he pressed a quieting hand upon hishorse. Suddenly he became aware that these horsemen had halted. Theywere whispering. He could just make out a dark group closely massed. What had made them halt so suspiciously?

"You're wrong, Bill, " said a man, in a low but distinct voice. 

"The idee of hearin' a hoss heave. You're wuss'n a ranger. And you'rehell-bent on killin' that rustler. Now I say let's go home and eat. "

"Wal, I'll just take a look at the sand, " replied the man called Bill. 

Duane heard the clink of spurs on steel stirrup and the thud of boots onthe ground. There followed a short silence which was broken by a sharplybreathed exclamation. 

Duane waited for no more. They had found his trail. He spurred his horsestraight into the brush. At the second crashing bound there came yellsfrom the road, and then shots. Duane heard the hiss of a bullet closeby 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 aquick, hot resentment which mounted into a passion almost ungovernable. He must escape, yet it seemed that he did not care whether he did ornot. Something grim kept urging him to halt and return the fire of thesemen. After running a couple of hundred yards he raised himself from overthe pommel, where he had bent to avoid the stinging branches, and triedto guide his horse. In the dark shadows under mesquites and cottonwoodshe was hard put to it to find open passage; however, he succeeded sowell and made such little noise that gradually he drew away from hispursuers. The sound of their horses crashing through the thickets diedaway. Duane reined in and listened. He had distanced them. Probably theywould go into camp till daylight, then follow his tracks. He started onagain, walking his horse, and peered sharply at the ground, so that hemight take advantage of the first trail he crossed. It seemed a longwhile until he came upon one. He followed it until a late hour, when, striking the willow brakes again and hence the neighborhood of theriver, 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 madeefforts to think of other things, but in vain. 

Every moment he expected the chill, the sense of loneliness that yetwas ominous of a strange visitation, the peculiarly imagined lights andshades of the night--these things that presaged the coming of Cal Bain. Doggedly Duane fought against the insidious phantom. He kept tellinghimself 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 notgive up; he would not accept the ghost of his victim as a reality. 

Gray dawn found him in the saddle again headed for the river. Half anhour 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 hereined in his horse and looked darkly back. This action marked hisacknowledgment of his situation: he had voluntarily sought the refugeof the outlaws; he was beyond the pale. A bitter and passionate cursepassed his lips as he spurred his horse into the brakes on that alienshore. 

He rode perhaps twenty miles, not sparing his horse nor caring whetheror not he left a plain trail. 

"Let them hunt me!" he muttered. 

When the heat of the day began to be oppressive, and hunger and thirstmade themselves manifest, Duane began to look about him for a place tohalt for the noon-hours. The trail led into a road which was hard packedand smooth from the tracks of cattle. He doubted not that he had comeacross one of the roads used by border raiders. He headed into it, andhad scarcely traveled a mile when, turning a curve, he came point-blankupon a single horseman riding toward him. Both riders wheeled theirmounts sharply and were ready to run and shoot back. Not more than ahundred paces separated them. They stood then for a moment watching eachother. 

"Mawnin', stranger, " called the man, dropping his hand from his hip. 

"Howdy, " replied Duane, shortly. 

They rode toward each other, closing half the gap, then they haltedagain. 

"I seen you ain't no ranger, " called the rider, "an' shore I ain'tnone. "

He laughed loudly, as if he had made a joke. 

"How'd you know I wasn't a ranger?" asked Duane, curiously. Somehowhe had instantly divined that his horseman was no officer, or even arancher trailing stolen stock. 

"Wal, " said the fellow, starting his horse forward at a walk, "aranger'd never git ready to run the other way from one man. "

He laughed again. He was small and wiry, slouchy of attire, and armed tothe teeth, and he bestrode a fine bay horse. He had quick, dancing browneyes, at once frank and bold, and a coarse, bronzed face. Evidently hewas a good-natured ruffian. 

Duane acknowledged the truth of the assertion, and turned over in hismind how shrewdly the fellow had guessed him to be a hunted man. 

"My name's Luke Stevens, an' I hail from the river. Who're you?" saidthis stranger. 

Duane was silent. 

"I reckon you're Buck Duane, " went on Stevens. "I heerd you was a damnbad man with a gun. "

This time Duane laughed, not at the doubtful compliment, but at theidea that the first outlaw he met should know him. Here was proof of howswiftly facts about gun-play traveled on the Texas border. 

"Wal, Buck, " said Stevens, in a friendly manner, "I ain't presumin' onyour time or company. I see you're headin' fer the river. But will youstop long enough to stake a feller to a bite of grub?"

"I'm out of grub, and pretty hungry myself, " admitted Duane. 

"Been pushin' your hoss, I see. Wal, I reckon you'd better stock upbefore you hit thet stretch of country. "

He made a wide sweep of his right arm, indicating the southwest, andthere was that in his action which seemed significant of a vast andbarren region. 

"Stock up?" queried Duane, thoughtfully. 

"Shore. A feller has jest got to eat. I can rustle along without whisky, but not without grub. Thet's what makes it so embarrassin' travelin'these parts dodgin' your shadow. Now, I'm on my way to Mercer. It'sa little two-bit town up the river a ways. I'm goin' to pack out somegrub. "

Stevens's tone was inviting. Evidently he would welcome Duane'scompanionship, but he did not openly say so. Duane kept silence, however, and then Stevens went on. 

"Stranger, in this here country two's a crowd. It's safer. I never wasmuch on this lone-wolf dodgin', though I've done it of necessity. Ittakes a damn good man to travel alone any length of time. Why, I've beenthet 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 afeller, an' I'm shore not presumin' to ask. But I just declares myselfsufficient. "

"You mean you'd like me to go with you?" asked Duane. 

Stevens grinned. "Wal, I should smile. I'd be particular proud to bebraced with a man of your reputation. "

"See here, my good fellow, that's all nonsense, " declared Duane, in somehaste. 

"Shore I think modesty becomin' to a youngster, " replied Stevens. "Ihate a brag. An' I've no use fer these four-flush cowboys thet 'realways lookin' fer trouble an' talkin' gun-play. Buck, I don't know muchabout you. But every man who's lived along the Texas border remembers alot about your Dad. It was expected of you, I reckon, an' much of yourrep was established before you thronged your gun. I jest heerd thet youwas lightnin' on the draw, an' when you cut loose with a gun, why thefigger 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 reputationmost sure to fly far an' swift ahead of a man in this country. An' thesafest, too; I'll gamble on thet. It's the land of the draw. I see nowyou'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. Mebbea little of my society won't hurt you none. You'll need to learn thecountry. "

There was something sincere and likable about this outlaw. 

"I dare say you're right, " replied Duane, quietly. "And I'll go toMercer with you. "

Next moment he was riding down the road with Stevens. Duane had neverbeen much of a talker, and now he found speech difficult. But hiscompanion 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 andheritage of blood his father had left to him. 

CHAPTER III

Late that day, a couple of hours before sunset, Duane and Stevens, having rested their horses in the shade of some mesquites near the townof Mercer, saddled up and prepared to move. 

"Buck, as we're lookin' fer grub, an' not trouble, I reckon you'd betterhang up out here, " Stevens was saying, as he mounted. "You see, townsan' sheriffs an' rangers are always lookin' fer new fellers gone bad. They sort of forget most of the old boys, except those as are plumbbad. Now, nobody in Mercer will take notice of me. Reckon there's beena thousand men run into the river country to become outlaws since yourstruly. 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 casethere'll be--"

His pause was significant. He grinned, and his brown eyes danced with akind of wild humor. 

"Stevens, have you got any money?" asked Duane. 

"Money!" exclaimed Luke, blankly. "Say, I haven't owned a two-bit piecesince--wal, fer some time. "

"I'll furnish money for grub, " returned Duane. "And for whisky, too, providing you hurry back here--without making trouble. "

"Shore you're a downright good pard, " declared Stevens, in admiration, as he took the money. "I give my word, Buck, an' I'm here to say I neverbroke it yet. Lay low, an' look fer me back quick. "

With that he spurred his horse and rode out of the mesquites toward thetown. At that distance, about a quarter of a mile, Mercer appeared to bea cluster of low adobe houses set in a grove of cottonwoods. Pasturesof alfalfa were dotted by horses and cattle. Duane saw a sheep-herderdriving in a meager flock. 

Presently Stevens rode out of sight into the town. Duane waited, hopingthe outlaw would make good his word. Probably not a quarter of an hourhad elapsed when Duane heard the clear reports of a Winchester rifle, the clatter of rapid hoof-beats, and yells unmistakably the kind to meandanger for a man like Stevens. Duane mounted and rode to the edge of themesquites. 

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 hada steady seat in his saddle and his riding, even at that moment, struckDuane as admirable. He carried a large pack over the pommel, and he keptlooking back. The shots had ceased, but the yells increased. Duane sawseveral men running and waving their arms. Then he spurred his horse andgot into a swift stride, so Stevens would not pass him. Presently theoutlaw caught up with him. Stevens was grinning, but there was now nofun in the dancing eyes. It was a devil that danced in them. His faceseemed a shade paler. 

"Was jest comin' out of the store, " yelled Stevens. "Run plumb into arancher--who knowed me. He opened up with a rifle. Think they'll chaseus. "

They covered several miles before there were any signs of pursuit, andwhen horsemen did move into sight out of the cottonwoods Duane and hiscompanion steadily drew farther away. 

"No hosses in thet bunch to worry us, " called out Stevens. 

Duane had the same conviction, and he did not look back again. He rodesomewhat to the fore, and was constantly aware of the rapid thudding ofhoofs behind, as Stevens kept close to him. At sunset they reached thewillow brakes and the river. Duane's horse was winded and lashed withsweat and lather. It was not until the crossing had been accomplishedthat Duane halted to rest his animal. Stevens was riding up the low, sandy bank. He reeled in the saddle. With an exclamation of surpriseDuane leaped off and ran to the outlaw's side. 

Stevens was pale, and his face bore beads of sweat. The whole front ofhis shirt was soaked with blood. 

"You're shot!" cried Duane. 

"Wal, who 'n hell said I wasn't? Would you mind givin' me a lift--onthis here pack?"

Duane lifted the heavy pack down and then helped Stevens to dismount. The outlaw had a bloody foam on his lips, and he was spitting blood. 

"Oh, why didn't you say so!" cried Duane. "I never thought. You seemedall right. "

"Wal, Luke Stevens may be as gabby as an old woman, but sometimes hedoesn't say anythin'. It wouldn't have done no good. "

Duane bade him sit down, removed his shirt, and washed the blood fromhis breast and back. Stevens had been shot in the breast, fairly lowdown, and the bullet had gone clear through him. His ride, holdinghimself and that heavy pack in the saddle, had been a feat little shortof marvelous. Duane did not see how it had been possible, and he felt nohope for the outlaw. But he plugged the wounds and bound them tightly. 

"Feller's name was Brown, " Stevens said. "Me an' him fell out over ahoss 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'tbreakin' my word to you. I kind of hoped he wouldn't spot me. But hedid--an' fust shot he got me here. What do you think of this hole?"

"It's pretty bad, " replied Duane; and he could not look the cheerfuloutlaw in the eyes. 

"I reckon it is. Wal, I've had some bad wounds I lived over. Guess mebbeI can stand this one. Now, Buck, get me some place in the brakes, leaveme some grub an' water at my hand, an' then you clear out. "

"Leave you here alone?" asked Duane, sharply. 

"Shore. You see, I can't keep up with you. Brown an' his friends willfoller us across the river a ways. You've got to think of number one inthis game. "

"What would you do in my case?" asked Duane, curiously. 

"Wal, I reckon I'd clear out an' save my hide, " replied Stevens. 

Duane felt inclined to doubt the outlaw's assertion. For his own part hedecided his conduct without further speech. First he watered the horses, filled canteens and water bag, and then tied the pack upon his ownhorse. That done, he lifted Stevens upon his horse, and, holding him inthe saddle, turned into the brakes, being careful to pick out hard orgrassy ground that left little signs of tracks. Just about dark he ranacross a trail that Stevens said was a good one to take into the wildcountry. 

"Reckon we'd better keep right on in the dark--till I drop, " concludedStevens, with a laugh. 

All that night Duane, gloomy and thoughtful, attentive to the woundedoutlaw, walked the trail and never halted till daybreak. He was tiredthen and very hungry. Stevens seemed in bad shape, although he was stillspirited and cheerful. Duane made camp. The outlaw refused food, butasked for both whisky and water. Then he stretched out. 

"Buck, will you take off my boots?" he asked, with a faint smile on hispallid face. 

Duane removed them, wondering if the outlaw had the thought that he didnot want to die with his boots on. Stevens seemed to read his mind. 

"Buck, my old daddy used to say thet I was born to be hanged. But Iwasn't--an' dyin' with your boots on is the next wust way to croak. "

"You've a chance to-to get over this, " said Duane. 

"Shore. But I want to be correct about the boots--an' say, pard, if I dogo over, jest you remember thet I was appreciatin' of your kindness. "

Then he closed his eyes and seemed to sleep. 

Duane could not find water for the horses, but there was an abundanceof dew-wet grass upon which he hobbled them. After that was done heprepared himself a much-needed meal. The sun was getting warm when helay down to sleep, and when he awoke it was sinking in the west. Stevenswas still alive, for he breathed heavily. The horses were in sight. Allwas quiet except the hum of insects in the brush. Duane listened awhile, then rose and went for the horses. 

When he returned with them he found Stevens awake, bright-eyed, cheerfulas usual, and apparently stronger. 

"Wal, Buck, I'm still with you an' good fer another night's ride, " hesaid. "Guess about all I need now is a big pull on thet bottle. Helpme, will you? There! thet was bully. I ain't swallowin' my blood thisevenin'. Mebbe I've bled all there was in me. "

While Duane got a hurried meal for himself, packed up the little outfit, and saddled the horses Stevens kept on talking. He seemed to be in ahurry to tell Duane all about the country. Another night ride would putthem beyond fear of pursuit, within striking distance of the Rio Grandeand the hiding-places of the outlaws. 

When it came time for mounting the horses Stevens said, "Reckon youcan pull on my boots once more. " In spite of the laugh accompanying thewords Duane detected a subtle change in the outlaw's spirit. 

On this night travel was facilitated by the fact that the trail wasbroad enough for two horses abreast, enabling Duane to ride whileupholding Stevens in the saddle. 

The difficulty most persistent was in keeping the horses in a walk. Theywere 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 starsbrightened. After a while Stevens ceased talking and drooped in hissaddle. Duane kept the horses going, however, and the slow hours woreaway. Duane thought the quiet night would never break to dawn, thatthere was no end to the melancholy, brooding plain. But at length agrayness blotted out the stars and mantled the level of mesquite andcactus. 

Dawn caught the fugitives at a green camping-site on the bank of a rockylittle stream. Stevens fell a dead weight into Duane's arms, and onelook at the haggard face showed Duane that the outlaw had taken his lastride. He knew it, too. Yet that cheerfulness prevailed. 

"Buck, my feet are orful tired packin' them heavy boots, " he said, andseemed immensely relieved when Duane had removed them. 

This matter of the outlaw's boots was strange, Duane thought. He madeStevens as comfortable as possible, then attended to his own needs. Andthe outlaw took up the thread of his conversation where he had left offthe night before. 

"This trail splits up a ways from here, an' every branch of it leadsto a hole where you'll find men--a few, mebbe, like yourself--some likeme--an' gangs of no-good hoss-thieves, rustlers, an' such. It's easylivin', Buck. I reckon, though, that you'll not find it easy. You'llnever mix in. You'll be a lone wolf. I seen that right off. Wal, ifa man can stand the loneliness, an' if he's quick on the draw, mebbelone-wolfin' it is the best. Shore I don't know. But these fellers inhere will be suspicious of a man who goes it alone. If they get a chancethey'll kill you. "

Stevens asked for water several times. He had forgotten or he did notwant the whisky. His voice grew perceptibly weaker. 

"Be quiet, " said Duane. "Talking uses up your strength. "

"Aw, I'll talk till--I'm done, " he replied, doggedly. "See here, pard, you can gamble on what I'm tellin' you. An' it'll be useful. From thiscamp we'll--you'll meet men right along. An' none of them will be honestmen. All the same, some are better'n others. I've lived along the riverfer twelve years. There's three big gangs of outlaws. King Fisher--youknow him, I reckon, fer he's half the time livin' among respectablefolks. King is a pretty good feller. It'll do to tie up with him ant hisgang. Now, there's Cheseldine, who hangs out in the Rim Rock way upthe river. He's an outlaw chief. I never seen him, though I stayed onceright in his camp. Late years he's got rich an' keeps back pretty wellhid. But Bland--I knowed Bland fer years. An' I haven't any use fer him. Bland has the biggest gang. You ain't likely to miss strikin' his placesometime or other. He's got a regular town, I might say. Shore there'ssome gamblin' an' gun-fightin' goin' on at Bland's camp all the time. Bland has killed some twenty men, an' thet's not countin' greasers. "

Here Stevens took another drink and then rested for a while. 

"You ain't likely to get on with Bland, " he resumed, presently. "You'retoo strappin' big an' good-lookin' to please the chief. Fer he's gotwomen in his camp. Then he'd be jealous of your possibilities with agun. Shore I reckon he'd be careful, though. Bland's no fool, an' heloves his hide. I reckon any of the other gangs would be better fer youwhen you ain't goin' it alone. "

Apparently that exhausted the fund of information and advice Stevens hadbeen eager to impart. He lapsed into silence and lay with closed eyes. Meanwhile the sun rose warm; the breeze waved the mesquites; the birdscame down to splash in the shallow stream; Duane dozed in a comfortableseat. By and by something roused him. Stevens was once more talking, butwith a changed tone. 

"Feller's name--was Brown, " he rambled. "We fell out--over a hoss Istole from him--in Huntsville. He stole it fuss. Brown's one of themsneaks--afraid of the open--he steals an' pretends to be honest. Say, Buck, mebbe you'll meet Brown some day--You an' me are pards now. "

"I'll remember, if I ever meet him, " said Duane. 

That seemed to satisfy the outlaw. Presently he tried to lift hishead, but had not the strength. A strange shade was creeping across thebronzed rough face. 

"My feet are pretty heavy. Shore you got my boots off?"

Duane held them up, but was not certain that Stevens could see them. The outlaw closed his eyes again and muttered incoherently. Then he fellasleep. Duane believed that sleep was final. The day passed, with Duanewatching and waiting. Toward sundown Stevens awoke, and his eyes seemedclearer. Duane went to get some fresh water, thinking his comrade wouldsurely want some. When he returned Stevens made no sign that he wantedanything. There was something bright about him, and suddenly Duanerealized what it meant. 

"Pard, you--stuck--to me!" the outlaw whispered. 

Duane caught a hint of gladness in the voice; he traced a faint surprisein the haggard face. Stevens seemed like a little child. 

To Duane the moment was sad, elemental, big, with a burden of mystery hecould not understand. 

Duane buried him in a shallow arroyo and heaped up a pile of stonesto mark the grave. That done, he saddled his comrade's horse, hung theweapons over the pommel; and, mounting his own steed, he rode down thetrail in the gathering twilight. 

CHAPTER IV

Two days later, about the middle of the forenoon, Duane dragged thetwo horses up the last ascent of an exceedingly rough trail and foundhimself on top of the Rim Rock, with a beautiful green valley at hisfeet, the yellow, sluggish Rio Grande shining in the sun, and the great, wild, mountainous barren of Mexico stretching to the south. 

Duane had not fallen in with any travelers. He had taken thelikeliest-looking trail he had come across. Where it had led him he hadnot the slightest idea, except that here was the river, and probably theinclosed valley was the retreat of some famous outlaw. 

No wonder outlaws were safe in that wild refuge! Duane had spent thelast two days climbing the roughest and most difficult trail he had everseen. From the looks of the descent he imagined the worst part of histravel was yet to come. Not improbably it was two thousand feet down tothe river. The wedge-shaped valley, green with alfalfa and cottonwood, and nestling down amid the bare walls of yellow rock, was a delight anda relief to his tired eyes. Eager to get down to a level and to find aplace to rest, Duane began the descent. 

The trail proved to be the kind that could not be descended slowly. Hekept dodging rocks which his horses loosed behind him. And in a shorttime he reached the valley, entering at the apex of the wedge. A streamof clear water tumbled out of the rocks here, and most of it ran intoirrigation-ditches. His horses drank thirstily. And he drank with thatfullness and gratefulness common to the desert traveler finding sweetwater. Then he mounted and rode down the valley wondering what would behis reception. 

The valley was much larger than it had appeared from the high elevation. Well watered, green with grass and tree, and farmed evidently by goodhands, it gave Duane a considerable surprise. Horses and cattle wereeverywhere. Every clump of cottonwoods surrounded a small adobe house. Duane saw Mexicans working in the fields and horsemen going to andfro. Presently he passed a house bigger than the others with a porchattached. A woman, young and pretty he thought, watched him from a door. No one else appeared to notice him. 

Presently the trail widened into a road, and that into a kind of squarelined by a number of adobe and log buildings of rudest structure. Within sight were horses, dogs, a couple of steers, Mexican women withchildren, and white men, all of whom appeared to be doing nothing. Hisadvent created no interest until he rode up to the white men, who werelolling in the shade of a house. This place evidently was a store andsaloon, and from the inside came a lazy hum of voices. 

As Duane reined to a halt one of the loungers in the shade rose with aloud exclamation:

"Bust me if thet ain't Luke's hoss!"

The others accorded their interest, if not assent, by rising to advancetoward Duane. 

"How about it, Euchre? Ain't thet Luke's bay?" queried the first man. 

"Plain as your nose, " replied the fellow called Euchre. 

"There ain't no doubt about thet, then, " laughed another, "fer Bosomer'snose is shore plain on the landscape. "

These men lined up before Duane, and as he coolly regarded them hethought they could have been recognized anywhere as desperadoes. Theman called Bosomer, who had stepped forward, had a forbidding face whichshowed yellow eyes, an enormous nose, and a skin the color of dust, witha thatch of sandy hair. 

"Stranger, who are you an' where in the hell did you git thet bay hoss?"he demanded. His yellow eyes took in Stevens's horse, then the weaponshung on the saddle, and finally turned their glinting, hard light upwardto Duane. 

Duane did not like the tone in which he had been addressed, and heremained silent. At least half his mind seemed busy with curiousinterest in regard to something that leaped inside him and made hisbreast feel tight. He recognized it as that strange emotion which hadshot through him often of late, and which had decided him to go out tothe meeting with Bain. Only now it was different, more powerful. 

"Stranger, who are you?" asked another man, somewhat more civilly. 

"My name's Duane, " replied Duane, curtly. 

"An' how'd you come by the hoss?"

Duane answered briefly, and his words were followed by a short silence, during which the men looked at him. Bosomer began to twist the ends ofhis beard. 

"Reckon he's dead, all right, or nobody'd hev his hoss an' guns, "presently said Euchre. 

"Mister Duane, " began Bosomer, in low, stinging tones, "I happen to beLuke Stevens's side-pardner. "

Duane looked him over, from dusty, worn-out boots to his slouchysombrero. That look seemed to inflame Bosomer. 

"An' I want the hoss an' them guns, " he shouted. 

"You or anybody else can have them, for all I care. I just fetched themin. But the pack is mine, " replied Duane. "And say, I befriended yourpard. If you can't use a civil tongue you'd better cinch it. "

"Civil? Haw, haw!" rejoined the outlaw. "I don't know you. How do weknow you didn't plug Stevens, an' stole his hoss, an' jest happened tostumble down here?"

"You'll have to take my word, that's all, " replied Duane, sharply. 

"I ain't takin' your word! Savvy thet? An' I was Luke's pard!"

With that Bosomer wheeled and, pushing his companions aside, he stampedinto the saloon, where his voice broke out in a roar. 

Duane dismounted and threw his bridle. 

"Stranger, Bosomer is shore hot-headed, " said the man Euchre. He did notappear unfriendly, nor were the others hostile. 

At this juncture several more outlaws crowded out of the door, andthe one in the lead was a tall man of stalwart physique. His mannerproclaimed him a leader. He had a long face, a flaming red beard, andclear, cold blue eyes that fixed in close scrutiny upon Duane. He wasnot a Texan; in truth, Duane did not recognize one of these outlaws asnative to his state. 

"I'm Bland, " said the tall man, authoritatively. "Who're you and what'reyou doing here?"

Duane looked at Bland as he had at the others. This outlaw chiefappeared to be reasonable, if he was not courteous. Duane told his storyagain, this time a little more in detail. 

"I believe you, " replied Bland, at once. "Think I know when a fellow islying. "

"I reckon you're on the right trail, " put in Euchre. "Thet about Lukewantin' his boots took off--thet satisfies me. Luke hed a mortal dreadof dyin' with his boots on. "

At this sally the chief and his men laughed. 

"You said Duane--Buck Duane?" queried Bland. "Are you a son of thatDuane who was a gunfighter some years back?"

"Yes, " replied Duane. 

"Never met him, and glad I didn't, " said Bland, with a grim humor. "Soyou got in trouble and had to go on the dodge? What kind of trouble?"

"Had a fight. "

"Fight? Do you mean gun-play?" questioned Bland. He seemed eager, curious, speculative. 

"Yes. It ended in gun-play, I'm sorry to say, " answered Duane. 

"Guess I needn't ask the son of Duane if he killed his man, " went onBland, ironically. "Well, I'm sorry you bucked against trouble in mycamp. But as it is, I guess you'd be wise to make yourself scarce. "

"Do you mean I'm politely told to move on?" asked Duane, quietly. 

"Not exactly that, " said Bland, as if irritated. "If this isn't a freeplace there isn't one on earth. Every man is equal here. Do you want tojoin my band?"

"No, I don't. "

"Well, even if you did I imagine that wouldn't stop Bosomer. He's anugly fellow. He's one of the few gunmen I've met who wants to killsomebody all the time. Most men like that are fourflushes. But Bosomeris all one color, and that's red. Merely for your own sake I advise youto hit the trail. "

"Thanks. But if that's all I'll stay, " returned Duane. Even as he spokehe felt that he did not know himself. 

Bosomer appeared at the door, pushing men who tried to detain him, andas he jumped clear of a last reaching hand he uttered a snarl like anangry dog. Manifestly the short while he had spent inside the saloon hadbeen devoted to drinking and talking himself into a frenzy. Bland andthe other outlaws quickly moved aside, letting Duane stand alone. WhenBosomer saw Duane standing motionless and watchful a strange changepassed quickly in him. He halted in his tracks, and as he did that themen who had followed him out piled over one another in their hurry toget to one side. 

Duane saw all the swift action, felt intuitively the meaning of it, andin Bosomer's sudden change of front. The outlaw was keen, and he hadexpected a shrinking, or at least a frightened antagonist. Duane knew hewas neither. He felt like iron, and yet thrill after thrill ran throughhim. It was almost as if this situation had been one long familiar tohim. Somehow he understood this yellow-eyed Bosomer. The outlaw hadcome out to kill him. And now, though somewhat checked by the stand ofa stranger, he still meant to kill. Like so many desperadoes of hisilk, he was victim of a passion to kill for the sake of killing. Duanedivined that no sudden animosity was driving Bosomer. It was just hischance. In that moment murder would have been joy to him. Very likelyhe had forgotten his pretext for a quarrel. Very probably his facultieswere absorbed in conjecture as to Duane's possibilities. 

But he did not speak a word. He remained motionless for a long moment, his eyes pale and steady, his right hand like a claw. 

That instant gave Duane a power to read in his enemy's eyes the thoughtthat preceded action. But Duane did not want to kill another man. Still he would have to fight, and he decided to cripple Bosomer. WhenBosomer's hand moved Duane's gun was spouting fire. Two shots only--bothfrom Duane's gun--and the outlaw fell with his right arm shattered. Bosomer cursed harshly and floundered in the dust, trying to reach thegun with his left hand. His comrades, however, seeing that Duane wouldnot kill unless forced, closed in upon Bosomer and prevented any furthermadness on his part. 

CHAPTER V

Of the outlaws present Euchre appeared to be the one most inclined tolend friendliness to curiosity; and he led Duane and the horses awayto a small adobe shack. He tied the horses in an open shed and removedtheir saddles. Then, gathering up Stevens's weapons, he invited hisvisitor to enter the house. 

It had two rooms--windows without coverings--bare floors. One roomcontained blankets, weapons, saddles, and bridles; the other a stonefireplace, rude table and bench, two bunks, a box cupboard, and variousblackened utensils. 

"Make yourself to home as long as you want to stay, " said Euchre. "Iain't rich in this world's goods, but I own what's here, an' you'rewelcome. "

"Thanks. I'll stay awhile and rest. I'm pretty well played out, " repliedDuane. 

Euchre gave him a keen glance. 

"Go ahead an' rest. I'll take your horses to grass. " Euchre left Duanealone in the house. Duane relaxed then, and mechanically he wiped thesweat from his face. He was laboring under some kind of a spell or shockwhich did not pass off quickly. When it had worn away he took off hiscoat and belt and made himself comfortable on the blankets. And he had athought that if he rested or slept what difference would it make on themorrow? 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 hetook notice of the outlaw. 

Euchre was old in years. What little hair he had was gray, his faceclean-shaven and full of wrinkles; his eyes were half shut from longgazing through the sun and dust. He stooped. But his thin frame denotedstrength and endurance still unimpaired. 

"Hey a drink or a smoke?" he asked. 

Duane shook his head. He had not been unfamiliar with whisky, and hehad used tobacco moderately since he was sixteen. But now, strangely, hefelt a disgust at the idea of stimulants. He did not understand clearlywhat he felt. There was that vague idea of something wild in his blood, something that made him fear himself. 

Euchre wagged his old head sympathetically. "Reckon you feel a littlesick. When it comes to shootin' I run. What's your age?"

"I'm twenty-three, " replied Duane. 

Euchre showed surprise. "You're only a boy! I thought you thirtyanyways. Buck, I heard what you told Bland, an' puttin' thet with myown figgerin', I reckon you're no criminal yet. Throwin' a gun inself-defense--thet ain't no crime!"

Duane, finding relief in talking, told more about himself. 

"Huh, " replied the old man. "I've been on this river fer years, an' I'veseen hundreds of boys come in on the dodge. Most of them, though, was nogood. An' thet kind don't last long. This river country has been an' isthe refuge fer criminals from all over the states. I've bunked withbank cashiers, forgers, plain thieves, an' out-an'-out murderers, allof which had no bizness on the Texas border. Fellers like Bland areexceptions. He's no Texan--you seen thet. The gang he rules here comefrom all over, an' they're tough cusses, you can bet on thet. They livefat an' easy. If it wasn't fer the fightin' among themselves they'dshore grow populous. The Rim Rock is no place for a peaceable, decentfeller. I heard you tell Bland you wouldn't join his gang. Thet'll notmake him take a likin' to you. Have you any money?"

"Not much, " replied Duane. 

"Could you live by gamblin'? Are you any good at cards?"

"No. "

"You wouldn't steal hosses or rustle cattle?"

"No. "

"When your money's gone how'n hell will you live? There ain't any worka decent feller could do. You can't herd with greasers. Why, Bland's menwould shoot at you in the fields. What'll you do, son?"

"God knows, " replied Duane, hopelessly. "I'll make my money last as longas possible--then starve. "

"Wal, I'm pretty pore, but you'll never starve while I got anythin'. "

Here it struck Duane again--that something human and kind and eagerwhich he had seen in Stevens. Duane's estimate of outlaws had lackedthis quality. He had not accorded them any virtues. To him, as to theoutside world, they had been merely vicious men without one redeemingfeature. 

"I'm much obliged to you, Euchre, " replied Duane. "But of course I won'tlive with any one unless I can pay my share. "

"Have it any way you like, my son, " said Euchre, good-humoredly. "Youmake a fire, an' I'll set about gettin' grub. I'm a sourdough, Buck. Thet man doesn't live who can beat my bread. "

"How do you ever pack supplies in here?" asked Duane, thinking of thealmost inaccessible nature of the valley. 

"Some comes across from Mexico, an' the rest down the river. Thet rivertrip is a bird. It's more'n five hundred miles to any supply point. Bland has mozos, greaser boatmen. Sometimes, too, he gets supplies infrom down-river. You see, Bland sells thousands of cattle in Cuba. An'all this stock has to go down by boat to meet the ships. "

"Where on earth are the cattle driven down to the river?" asked Duane. 

"Thet's not my secret, " replied Euchre, shortly. "Fact is, I don't know. I've rustled cattle for Bland, but he never sent me through the Rim Rockwith them. "

Duane experienced a sort of pleasure in the realization that interesthad been stirred in him. He was curious about Bland and his gang, andglad to have something to think about. For every once in a while he hada sensation that was almost like a pang. He wanted to forget. In thenext hour he did forget, and enjoyed helping in the preparation andeating of the meal. Euchre, after washing and hanging up the severalutensils, put on his hat and turned to go out. 

"Come along or stay here, as you want, " he said to Duane. 

"I'll stay, " rejoined Duane, slowly. 

The old outlaw left the room and trudged away, whistling cheerfully. 

Duane looked around him for a book or paper, anything to read; butall the printed matter he could find consisted of a few words oncartridge-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 wantto lie down any more. He began to walk to and fro, from one end of theroom to the other. And as he walked he fell into the lately acquiredhabit of brooding over his misfortune. 

Suddenly he straightened up with a jerk. Unconsciously he had drawn hisgun. Standing there with the bright cold weapon in his hand, he lookedat it in consternation. How had he come to draw it? With difficultyhe traced his thoughts backward, but could not find any that wasaccountable for his act. He discovered, however, that he had aremarkable tendency to drop his hand to his gun. That might have comefrom the habit long practice in drawing had given him. Likewise, itmight have come from a subtle sense, scarcely thought of at all, of thelate, close, and inevitable relation between that weapon and himself. Hewas amazed to find that, bitter as he had grown at fate, the desire tolive burned strong in him. If he had been as unfortunately situated, butwith the difference that no man wanted to put him in jail or take hislife, he felt that this burning passion to be free, to save himself, might not have been so powerful. Life certainly held no bright prospectsfor him. Already he had begun to despair of ever getting back to hishome. But to give up like a white-hearted coward, to let himself behandcuffed and jailed, to run from a drunken, bragging cowboy, or beshot in cold blood by some border brute who merely wanted to add anothernotch to his gun--these things were impossible for Duane because therewas in him the temper to fight. In that hour he yielded only to fate andthe spirit inborn in him. Hereafter this gun must be a living partof him. Right then and there he returned to a practice he had longdiscontinued--the draw. It was now a stern, bitter, deadly business withhim. He did not need to fire the gun, for accuracy was a gift and hadbecome assured. Swiftness on the draw, however, could be improved, andhe set himself to acquire the limit of speed possible to any man. Hestood still in his tracks; he paced the room; he sat down, lay down, put himself in awkward positions; and from every position he practicedthrowing his gun--practiced it till he was hot and tired and his armached and his hand burned. That practice he determined to keep up everyday. It was one thing, at least, that would help pass the weary hours. 

Later he went outdoors to the cooler shade of the cottonwoods. Fromthis point he could see a good deal of the valley. Under differentcircumstances Duane felt that he would have enjoyed such a beautifulspot. Euchre's shack sat against the first rise of the slope of thewall, 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 enormousflat-boats, crude of structure, moored along the banks of the river. TheRio Grande rolled away between high bluffs. A cable, sagging deep inthe middle, was stretched over the wide yellow stream, and an old scow, evidently used as a ferry, lay anchored on the far shore. 

The valley was an ideal retreat for an outlaw band operating on a bigscale. Pursuit scarcely need be feared over the broken trails of the RimRock. And the open end of the valley could be defended against almostany number of men coming down the river. Access to Mexico was easy andquick. 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 byuse of boats. 

Duane must have idled considerable time up on the hill, for when hereturned to the shack Euchre was busily engaged around the camp-fire. 

"Wal, glad to see you ain't so pale about the gills as you was, " hesaid, by way of greeting. "Pitch in an' we'll soon have grub ready. There's shore one consolin' fact round this here camp. "

"What's that?" asked Duane. 

"Plenty of good juicy beef to eat. An' it doesn't cost a short bit. "

"But it costs hard rides and trouble, bad conscience, and life, too, doesn't it?"

"I ain't shore about the bad conscience. Mine never bothered me none. An' as for life, why, thet's cheap in Texas. "

"Who is Bland?" asked Duane, quickly changing the subject. "What do youknow about him?"

"We don't know who he is or where he hails from, " replied Euchre. "Thet's always been somethin' to interest the gang. He must have beena young man when he struck Texas. Now he's middle-aged. I remember howyears ago he was soft-spoken an' not rough in talk or act like he isnow. Bland ain't likely his right name. He knows a lot. He can doctoryou, an' he's shore a knowin' feller with tools. He's the kind thetrules men. Outlaws are always ridin' in here to join his gang, an' ifit hadn't been fer the gamblin' an' gun-play he'd have a thousand menaround him. "

"How many in his gang now?"

"I reckon there's short of a hundred now. The number varies. Then Blandhas several small camps up an' down the river. Also he has men back onthe cattle-ranges. "

"How does he control such a big force?" asked Duane. "Especially whenhis band's composed of bad men. Luke Stevens said he had no use forBland. And I heard once somewhere that Bland was a devil. "

"Thet's it. He is a devil. He's as hard as flint, violent in temper, never made any friends except his right-hand men, Dave Rugg an' ChessAlloway. 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 isbecause 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 ofgold. But he's free with money. He gambles when he's not off with ashipment of cattle. He throws money around. An' the fact is there'salways plenty of money where he is. Thet's what holds the gang. Dirty, bloody money!"

"It's a wonder he hasn't been killed. All these years on the border!"exclaimed Duane. 

"Wal, " replied Euchre, dryly, "he's been quicker on the draw than theother fellers who hankered to kill him, thet's all. "

Euchre's reply rather chilled Duane's interest for the moment. Suchremarks always made his mind revolve round facts pertaining to himself. 

"Speakin' of this here swift wrist game, " went on Euchre, "there's beenconsiderable talk in camp about your throwin' of a gun. You know, Buck, thet among us fellers--us hunted men--there ain't anythin' calculatedto rouse respect like a slick hand with a gun. I heard Bland say thisafternoon--an' he said it serious-like an' speculative--thet he'dnever seen your equal. He was watchin' of you close, he said, an' justcouldn't follow your hand when you drawed. All the fellers who seen youmeet Bosomer had somethin' to say. Bo was about as handy with a gun asany man in this camp, barrin' Chess Alloway an' mebbe Bland himself. Chess is the captain with a Colt--or he was. An' he shore didn't likethe references made about your speed. Bland was honest in acknowledgin'it, but he didn't like it, neither. Some of the fellers allowed yourdraw 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. 'Pearsto 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 ailsyou locoed gents? Did young Duane budge an inch when Bo came roarin'out, blood in his eye? Wasn't he cool an' quiet, steady of lips, an'weren't his eyes readin' Bo's mind? An' thet lightnin' draw--can'tyou-all see thet's a family gift?'"

Euchre's narrow eyes twinkled, and he gave the dough he was rolling aslap with his flour-whitened hand. Manifestly he had proclaimed himselfa champion and partner of Duane's, with all the pride an old man couldfeel in a young one whom he admired. 

"Wal, " he resumed, presently, "thet's your introduction to the border, Buck. An' your card was a high trump. You'll be let severely alone byreal gun-fighters an' men like Bland, Alloway, Rugg, an' the bosses ofthe other gangs. After all, these real men are men, you know, an' onlessyou cross them they're no more likely to interfere with you than youare with them. But there's a sight of fellers like Bosomer in the rivercountry. They'll all want your game. An' every town you ride into willscare up some cowpuncher full of booze or a long-haired four-flushgunman or a sheriff--an' these men will be playin' to the crowd an'yellin' for your blood. Thet's the Texas of it. You'll have to hide ferever in the brakes or you'll have to KILL such men. Buck, I reckon thisain't cheerful news to a decent chap like you. I'm only tellin' youbecause I've taken a likin' to you, an' I seen right off thet you ain'tborder-wise. Let's eat now, an' afterward we'll go out so the gang cansee you're not hidin'. "

When Duane went out with Euchre the sun was setting behind a blue rangeof mountains across the river in Mexico. The valley appeared to open tothe southwest. It was a tranquil, beautiful scene. Somewhere in a housenear at hand a woman was singing. And in the road Duane saw a littleMexican boy driving home some cows, one of which wore a bell. Thesweet, happy voice of a woman and a whistling barefoot boy--these seemedutterly out of place here. 

Euchre presently led to the square and the row of rough houses Duaneremembered. He almost stepped on a wide imprint in the dust whereBosomer had confronted him. And a sudden fury beset him that he shouldbe affected strangely by the sight of it. 

"Let's have a look in here, " said Euchre. 

Duane had to bend his head to enter the door. He found himself in a verylarge room inclosed by adobe walls and roofed with brush. It was full ofrude benches, tables, seats. At one corner a number of kegs and barrelslay side by side in a rack. A Mexican boy was lighting lamps hung onposts that sustained the log rafters of the roof. 

"The only feller who's goin' to put a close eye on you is Benson, "said Euchre. "He runs the place an' sells drinks. The gang calls himJackrabbit Benson, because he's always got his eye peeled an' his earcocked. Don't notice him if he looks you over, Buck. Benson is scared todeath 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 froma sheriff or ranger! Men who hide from them don't act like JackrabbitBenson. 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 onBenson. Can't say I'd be grieved. "

Duane casually glanced in the direction indicated, and he saw a spare, gaunt man with a face strikingly white beside the red and bronze anddark skins of the men around him. It was a cadaverous face. The blackmustache hung down; a heavy lock of black hair dropped down over thebrow; deep-set, hollow, staring eyes looked out piercingly. The man hada restless, alert, nervous manner. He put his hands on the board thatserved as a bar and stared at Duane. But when he met Duane's glance heturned hurriedly to go on serving out liquor. 

"What have you got against him?" inquired Duane, as he sat down besideEuchre. He asked more for something to say than from real interest. Whatdid he care about a mean, haunted, craven-faced criminal?

"Wal, mebbe I'm cross-grained, " replied Euchre, apologetically. "Shorean outlaw an' rustler such as me can't be touchy. But I never stolenothin' but cattle from some rancher who never missed 'em anyway. Thetsneak Benson--he was the means of puttin' a little girl in Bland's way. "

"Girl?" queried Duane, now with real attention. 

"Shore. Bland's great on women. I'll tell you about this girl when weget out of here. Some of the gang are goin' to be sociable, an' I can'ttalk about the chief. "

During the ensuing half-hour a number of outlaws passed by Duane andEuchre, halted for a greeting or sat down for a moment. They were allgruff, loud-voiced, merry, and good-natured. Duane replied civillyand agreeably when he was personally addressed; but he refused allinvitations to drink and gamble. Evidently he had been accepted, in away, as one of their clan. No one made any hint of an allusion to hisaffair with Bosomer. Duane saw readily that Euchre was well liked. Oneoutlaw borrowed money from him: another asked for tobacco. 

By the time it was dark the big room was full of outlaws and Mexicans, most of whom were engaged at monte. These gamblers, especially theMexicans, were intense and quiet. The noise in the place came from thedrinkers, the loungers. Duane had seen gambling-resorts--some of thefamous ones in San Antonio and El Paso, a few in border towns wherelicense went unchecked. But this place of Jackrabbit Benson's impressedhim as one where guns and knives were accessories to the game. To hisperhaps rather distinguishing eye the most prominent thing about thegamesters appeared to be their weapons. On several of the tables werepiles of silver--Mexican pesos--as large and high as the crown of hishat. There were also piles of gold and silver in United States coin. Duane needed no experienced eyes to see that betting was heavy and thatheavy sums exchanged hands. The Mexicans showed a sterner obsession, anintenser passion. Some of the Americans staked freely, nonchalantly, as befitted men to whom money was nothing. These latter were manifestlywinning, for there were brother outlaws there who wagered coin withgrudging, sullen, greedy eyes. Boisterous talk and laughter among thedrinking men drowned, except at intervals, the low, brief talk of thegamblers. The clink of coin sounded incessantly; sometimes just low, steady musical rings; and again, when a pile was tumbled quickly, therewas a silvery crash. Here an outlaw pounded on a table with the butt ofhis gun; there another noisily palmed a roll of dollars while he studiedhis opponent's face. The noises, however, in Benson's den did notcontribute to any extent to the sinister aspect of the place. Thatseemed to come from the grim and reckless faces, from the bent, intentheads, from the dark lights and shades. There were bright lights, but these served only to make the shadows. And in the shadows lurkedunrestrained lust of gain, a spirit ruthless and reckless, a somethingat once suggesting lawlessness, theft, murder, and hell. 

"Bland's not here to-night, " Euchre was saying. "He left today on one ofhis trips, takin' Alloway an' some others. But his other man, Rugg, he'shere. 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', darnme! there's Hardin. You know him? He's got an outlaw gang as big asBland'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 seeBland. They're friends, which's shore strange. Do you see thet greaserthere--the one with gold an' lace on his sombrero? Thet's Manuel, aMexican bandit. He's a great gambler. Comes here often to drop his coin. Next to him is Bill Marr--the feller with the bandana round his head. Bill rode in the other day with some fresh bullet-holes. He's been shotmore'n any feller I ever heard of. He's full of lead. Funny, becauseBill's no troublehunter, an', like me, he'd rather run than shoot. Buthe's the best rustler Bland's got--a grand rider, an' a wonder withcattle. An' see the tow-headed youngster. Thet's Kid Fuller, the kid ofBland's gang. Fuller has hit the pace hard, an' he won't last the yearout on the border. He killed his sweetheart's father, got run out ofStaceytown, took to stealin' hosses. An' next he's here with Bland. Another boy gone wrong, an' now shore a hard nut. "

Euchre went on calling Duane's attention to other men, just as hehappened to glance over them. Any one of them would have been a markedman in a respectable crowd. Here each took his place with more or lessdistinction, according to the record of his past wild prowess and hispresent 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 suchruffians? Then in a flash of memory came the painful proof--he was acriminal in sight of Texas law; he, too, was an outcast. 

For the moment Duane was wrapped up in painful reflections; but Euchre'sheavy hand, clapping with a warning hold on his arm, brought him back tooutside things. 

The hum of voices, the clink of coin, the loud laughter had ceased. There was a silence that manifestly had followed some unusual word oraction sufficient to still the room. It was broken by a harsh curse andthe scrape of a bench on the floor. Some man had risen. 

"You stacked the cards, you--!"

"Say that twice, " another voice replied, so different in its cool, ominous tone from the other. 

"I'll say it twice, " returned the first gamester, in hot haste. "I'llsay it three times. I'll whistle it. Are you deaf? You light-fingeredgent! You stacked the cards!"

Silence ensued, deeper than before, pregnant with meaning. For all thatDuane saw, not an outlaw moved for a full moment. Then suddenly the roomwas full of disorder as men rose and ran and dived everywhere. 

"Run or duck!" yelled Euchre, close to Duane's ear. With that he dashedfor the door. Duane leaped after him. They ran into a jostling mob. Heavy gun-shots and hoarse yells hurried the crowd Duane was withpell-mell out into the darkness. There they all halted, and severalpeeped in at the door. 

"Who was the Kid callin'?" asked one outlaw. 

"Bud Marsh, " replied another. 

"I reckon them fust shots was Bud's. Adios Kid. It was comin' to him, "went on yet another. 

"How many shots?"

"Three or four, I counted. "

"Three heavy an' one light. Thet light one was the Kid's. 38. Listen!There's the Kid hollerin' now. He ain't cashed, anyway. "

At this juncture most of the outlaws began to file back into the room. Duane thought he had seen and heard enough in Benson's den for one nightand he started slowly down the walk. Presently Euchre caught up withhim. 

"Nobody hurt much, which's shore some strange, " he said. "The Kid--youngFuller thet I was tellin' you about--he was drinkin' an' losin'. Losthis nut, too, callin' Bud Marsh thet way. Bud's as straight at cards asany of 'em. Somebody grabbed Bud, who shot into the roof. An' Fuller'sarm was knocked up. He only hit a greaser. "

CHAPTER VI

Next morning Duane found that a moody and despondent spell had fastenedon him. Wishing to be alone, he went out and walked a trail leadinground the river bluff. He thought and thought. After a while he made outthat the trouble with him probably was that he could not resign himselfto his fate. He abhorred the possibility chance seemed to hold in storefor him. He could not believe there was no hope. But what to do appearedbeyond his power to tell. 

Duane had intelligence and keenness enough to see his peril--thedanger threatening his character as a man, just as much as that whichthreatened his life. He cared vastly more, he discovered, for what heconsidered honor and integrity than he did for life. He saw that it wasbad for him to be alone. But, it appeared, lonely months and perhapsyears inevitably must be his. Another thing puzzled him. In the brightlight of day he could not recall the state of mind that was his attwilight or dusk or in the dark night. By day these visitations becameto him what they really were--phantoms of his conscience. He coulddismiss the thought of them then. He could scarcely remember or believethat this strange feat of fancy or imagination had troubled him, painedhim, made him sleepless and sick. 

That morning Duane spent an unhappy hour wrestling decision out of theunstable condition of his mind. But at length he determined to createinterest in all that he came across and so forget himself as much aspossible. He had an opportunity now to see just what the outlaw'slife really was. He meant to force himself to be curious, sympathetic, clear-sighted. And he would stay there in the valley until itspossibilities had been exhausted or until circumstances sent him outupon his uncertain way. 

When he returned to the shack Euchre was cooking dinner. 

"Say, Buck, I've news for you, " he said; and his tone conveyed eitherpride in his possession of such news or pride in Duane. "Feller namedBradley rode in this mornin'. He's heard some about you. Told about theace of spades they put over the bullet holes in thet cowpuncher Bainyou plugged. Then there was a rancher shot at a water-hole twenty milessouth of Wellston. Reckon you didn't do it?"

"No, I certainly did not, " replied Duane. 

"Wal, you get the blame. It ain't nothin' for a feller to be saddledwith gun-plays he never made. An', Buck, if you ever get famous, asseems likely, you'll be blamed for many a crime. The border'll make anoutlaw an' murderer out of you. Wal, thet's enough of thet. I've morenews. You're goin' to be popular. "

"Popular? What do you mean?"

"I met Bland's wife this mornin'. She seen you the other day when yourode in. She shore wants to meet you, an' so do some of the other womenin camp. They always want to meet the new fellers who've just comein. It's lonesome for women here, an' they like to hear news from thetowns. "

"Well, Euchre, I don't want to be impolite, but I'd rather not meet anywomen, " rejoined Duane. 

"I was afraid you wouldn't. Don't blame you much. Women are hell. I washopin', though, you might talk a little to thet poor lonesome kid. "

"What kid?" inquired Duane, in surprise. 

"Didn't I tell you about Jennie--the girl Bland's holdin' here--the oneJackrabbit Benson had a hand in stealin'?"

"You mentioned a girl. That's all. Tell me now, " replied Duane, abruptly. 

"Wal, I got it this way. Mebbe it's straight, an' mebbe it ain't. Someyears ago Benson made a trip over the river to buy mescal an' otherdrinks. He'll sneak over there once in a while. An' as I get it he runacross a gang of greasers with some gringo prisoners. I don't know, butI reckon there was some barterin', perhaps murderin'. Anyway, Bensonfetched the girl back. She was more dead than alive. But it turned outshe 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 neverwent much on Jackrabbit's word. Bland seen the kid right off and tookher--bought her from Benson. You can gamble Bland didn't do thet fromnotions of chivalry. I ain't gainsayin, however, but thet Jennie wasbetter off with Kate Bland. She's been hard on Jennie, but she's keptBland an' the other men from treatin' the kid shameful. Late Jennie hasgrowed into an all-fired pretty girl, an' Kate is powerful jealous ofher. I can see hell brewin' over there in Bland's cabin. Thet's whyI wish you'd come over with me. Bland's hardly ever home. His wife'sinvited you. Shore, if she gets sweet on you, as she has on--Wal, thet'd complicate matters. But you'd get to see Jennie, an' mebbe you couldhelp her. Mind, I ain't hintin' nothin'. I'm just wantin' to put herin your way. You're a man an' can think fer yourself. I had a baby girlonce, an' if she'd lived she be as big as Jennie now, an', by Gawd, Iwouldn't want her here in Bland's camp. "

"I'll go, Euchre. Take me over, " replied Duane. He felt Euchre's eyesupon him. The old outlaw, however, had no more to say. 

In the afternoon Euchre set off with Duane, and soon they reachedBland's cabin. Duane remembered it as the one where he had seen thepretty woman watching him ride by. He could not recall what she lookedlike. The cabin was the same as the other adobe structures in thevalley, but it was larger and pleasantly located rather high up in agrove of cottonwoods. In the windows and upon the porch were evidencesof a woman's hand. Through the open door Duane caught a glimpse ofbright Mexican blankets and rugs. 

Euchre knocked upon the side of the door. 

"Is that you, Euchre?" asked a girl's voice, low, hesitatingly. The toneof it, rather deep and with a note of fear, struck Duane. He wonderedwhat she would be like. 

"Yes, it's me, Jennie. Where's Mrs. Bland?" answered Euchre. 

"She went over to Deger's. There's somebody sick, " replied the girl. 

Euchre turned and whispered something about luck. The snap of theoutlaw's eyes was added significance to Duane. 

"Jennie, come out or let us come in. Here's the young man I was tellin'you about, " Euchre said. 

"Oh, I can't! I look so--so--"

"Never mind how you look, " interrupted the outlaw, in a whisper. "Itain't no time to care fer thet. Here's young Duane. Jennie, he's norustler, no thief. He's different. Come out, Jennie, an' mebbe he'll--"

Euchre did not complete his sentence. He had spoken low, with his glanceshifting from side to side. 

But what he said was sufficient to bring the girl quickly. She appearedin the doorway with downcast eyes and a stain of red in her white cheek. She had a pretty, sad face and bright hair. 

"Don't be bashful, Jennie, " said Euchre. "You an' Duane have a chance totalk a little. Now I'll go fetch Mrs. Bland, but I won't be hurryin'. "

With that Euchre went away through the cottonwoods. 

"I'm glad to meet you, Miss--Miss Jennie, " said Duane. "Euchre didn'tmention your last name. He asked me to come over to--"

Duane's attempt at pleasantry halted short when Jennie lifted her lashesto look at him. Some kind of a shock went through Duane. Her gray eyeswere beautiful, but it had not been beauty that cut short his speech. Heseemed to see a tragic struggle between hope and doubt that shone in herpiercing gaze. She kept looking, and Duane could not break the silence. It was no ordinary moment. 

"What did you come here for?" she asked, at last. 

"To see you, " replied Duane, glad to speak. 

"Why?"

"Well--Euchre thought--he wanted me to talk to you, cheer you up a bit, "replied Duane, somewhat lamely. The earnest eyes embarrassed him. 

"Euchre's good. He's the only person in this awful place who's been goodto me. But he's afraid of Bland. He said you were different. Who areyou?"

Duane told her. 

"You're not a robber or rustler or murderer or some bad man come here tohide?"

"No, I'm not, " replied Duane, trying to smile. 

"Then why are you here?"

"I'm on the dodge. You know what that means. I got in a shooting-scrapeat home and had to run off. When it blows over I hope to go back. "

"But you can't be honest here?"

"Yes, I can. "

"Oh, I know what these outlaws are. Yes, you're different. " She kept thestrained gaze upon him, but hope was kindling, and the hard lines of heryouthful face were softening. 

Something sweet and warm stirred deep in Duane as he realized theunfortunate girl was experiencing a birth of trust in him. 

"O God! Maybe you're the man to save me--to take me away before it's toolate. "

Duane's spirit leaped. 

"Maybe I am, " he replied, instantly. 

She seemed to check a blind impulse to run into his arms. Her cheekflamed, her lips quivered, her bosom swelled under her ragged dress. Then the glow began to fade; doubt once more assailed her. 

"It can't be. You're only--after me, too, like Bland--like all of them. "

Duane's long arms went out and his hands clasped her shoulders. He shookher. 

"Look at me--straight in the eye. There are decent men. Haven't you afather--a brother?"

"They're dead--killed by raiders. We lived in Dimmit County. I wascarried away, " Jennie replied, hurriedly. She put up an appealing handto him. "Forgive me. I believe--I know you're good. It was only--I liveso much in fear--I'm half crazy--I've almost forgotten what good men arelike, Mister Duane, you'll help me?"

"Yes, Jennie, I will. Tell me how. What must I do? Have you any plan?"

"Oh no. But take me away. "

"I'll try, " said Duane, simply. "That won't be easy, though. I musthave 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. Areyou watched--kept prisoner?"

"No. I could have run off lots of times. But I was afraid. I'd only havefallen 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 otherdogs. She's been as good as that, and I'm grateful. She hasn't done itfor love of me, though. She always hated me. And lately she's growingjealous. There was' a man came here by the name of Spence--so he calledhimself. He tried to be kind to me. But she wouldn't let him. She wasin love with him. She's a bad woman. Bland finally shot Spence, andthat ended that. She's been jealous ever since. I hear her fighting withBland about me. She swears she'll kill me before he gets me. And Blandlaughs in her face. Then I've heard Chess Alloway try to persuade Blandto give me to him. But Bland doesn't laugh then. Just lately beforeBland went away things almost came to a head. I couldn't sleep. I wishedMrs. Bland would kill me. I'll certainly kill myself if they ruin me. Duane, you must be quick if you'd save me. "

"I realize that, " replied he, thoughtfully. "I think my difficulty willbe to fool Mrs. Bland. If she suspected me she'd have the whole gang ofoutlaws on me at once. "

"She would that. You've got to be careful--and quick. "

"What kind of woman is she?" inquired Duane. 

"She's--she's brazen. I've heard her with her lovers. They get drunksometimes 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 loweryourself to--to--"

"To make love to her?" interrupted Duane. 

Jennie bravely turned shamed eyes to meet his. 

"My girl, I'd do worse than that to get you away from here, " he said, bluntly. 

"But--Duane, " she faltered, and again she put out the appealing hand. "Bland will kill you. "

Duane made no reply to this. He was trying to still a rising strangetumult in his breast. The old emotion--the rush of an instinct to kill!He turned cold all over. 

"Chess Alloway will kill you if Bland doesn't, " went on Jennie, with hertragic eyes on Duane's. 

"Maybe he will, " replied Duane. It was difficult for him to force asmile. But he achieved one. 

"Oh, better take me off at once, " she said. "Save me without risking somuch--without making love to Mrs. Bland!"

"Surely, if I can. There! I see Euchre coming with a woman. "

"That's her. Oh, she mustn't see me with you. "

"Wait--a moment, " whispered Duane, as Jennie slipped indoors. "We'vesettled it. Don't forget. I'll find some way to get word to you, perhapsthrough Euchre. Meanwhile keep up your courage. Remember I'll save yousomehow. We'll try strategy first. Whatever you see or hear me do, don'tthink less of me--"

Jennie checked him with a gesture and a wonderful gray flash of eyes. 

"I'll bless you with every drop of blood in my heart, " she whispered, passionately. 

It was only as she turned away into the room that Duane saw she was lameand that she wore Mexican sandals over bare feet. 

He sat down upon a bench on the porch and directed his attention to theapproaching couple. The trees of the grove were thick enough for him tomake 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, boldattractiveness. Duane was more concerned with her expression than withher good looks; and as she appeared unsuspicious he felt relieved. Thesituation then took on a singular zest. 

Euchre came up on the porch and awkwardly introduced Duane to Mrs. Bland. She was young, probably not over twenty-five, and not quite soprepossessing at close range. Her eyes were large, rather prominent, andbrown in color. Her mouth, too, was large, with the lips full, and shehad white teeth. 

Duane took her proffered hand and remarked frankly that he was glad tomeet her. 

Mrs. Bland appeared pleased; and her laugh, which followed, was loud andrather musical. 

"Mr. Duane--Buck Duane, Euchre said, didn't he?" she asked. 

"Buckley, " corrected Duane. "The nickname's not of my choosing. "

"I'm certainly glad to meet you, Buckley Duane, " she said, as she tookthe seat Duane offered her. "Sorry to have been out. Kid Fuller's lyingover 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 itsure takes my time. Have you been waiting here alone? Didn't see thatslattern girl of mine?"

She gave him a sharp glance. The woman had an extraordinary play offeature, Duane thought, and unless she was smiling was not pretty atall. 

"I've been alone, " replied Duane. "Haven't seen anybody but asick-looking girl with a bucket. And she ran when she saw me. "

"That was Jen, " said Mrs. Bland. "She's the kid we keep here, and shesure hardly pays her keep. Did Euchre tell you about her?"

"Now that I think of it, he did say something or other. "

"What did he tell you about me?" bluntly asked Mrs. Bland. 

"Wal, Kate, " replied Euchre, speaking for himself, "you needn't worrynone, for I told Buck nothin' but compliments. "

Evidently the outlaw's wife liked Euchre, for her keen glance restedwith amusement upon him. 

"As for Jen, I'll tell you her story some day, " went on the woman. "It'sa common enough story along this river. Euchre here is a tender-heartedold fool, and Jen has taken him in. "

"Wal, seein' as you've got me figgered correct, " replied Euchre, dryly, "I'll go in an' talk to Jennie if I may. "

"Certainly. Go ahead. Jen calls you her best friend, " said Mrs. Bland, amiably. "You're always fetching some Mexican stuff, and that's why, Iguess. "

When Euchre had shuffled into the house Mrs. Bland turned to Duane withcuriosity and interest in her gaze. 

"Bland told me about you. "

"What did he say?" queried Duane, in pretended alarm. 

"Oh, you needn't think he's done you dirt Bland's not that kind of aman. He said: 'Kate, there's a young fellow in camp--rode in here on thedodge. 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 himand Chess meet out there in the road. ' Then Bland went on to tell howyou and Bosomer came together. "

"What did you say?" inquired Duane, as she paused. 

"Me? Why, I asked him what you looked like, " she replied, gayly. 

"Well?" went on Duane. 

"Magnificent chap, Bland said. Bigger than any man in the valley. Just agreat blue-eyed sunburned boy!"

"Humph!" exclaimed Duane. "I'm sorry he led you to expect somebody worthseeing. "

"But I'm not disappointed, " she returned, archly. "Duane, are you goingto stay long here in camp?"

"Yes, till I run out of money and have to move. Why?"

Mrs. Bland's face underwent one of the singular changes. The smiles andflushes and glances, all that had been coquettish about her, had lenther a certain attractiveness, almost beauty and youth. But with somepowerful emotion she changed and instantly became a woman of discontent, Duane imagined, of deep, violent nature. 

"I'll tell you, Duane, " she said, earnestly, "I'm sure glad if you meanto 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 inBrownsville. I never knew Bland was an outlaw till long after he marriedme. 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 familycast 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 hearanything about my old home or folks or friends. I'm buried here--buriedalive with a lot of thieves and murderers. Can you blame me for beingglad to see a young fellow--a gentleman--like the boys I used to gowith? I tell you it makes me feel full--I want to cry. I'm sick forsomebody to talk to. I have no children, thank God! If I had I'd notstay here. I'm sick of this hole. I'm lonely--"

There appeared to be no doubt about the truth of all this. Genuineemotion checked, then halted the hurried speech. She broke down andcried. It seemed strange to Duane that an outlaw's wife--and a womanwho fitted her consort and the wild nature of their surroundings--shouldhave weakness enough to weep. Duane believed and pitied her. 

"I'm sorry for you, " he said. 

"Don't be SORRY for me, " she said. "That only makes me see the--thedifference between you and me. And don't pay any attention to what theseoutlaws 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 lookingfor somebody to kill. He SWEARS not, but I don't believe him. Heexplains that gunplay gravitates to men who are the real thing--that itis provoked by the four-flushes, the bad men. I don't know. All I knowis that somebody is being killed every other day. He hated Spence beforeSpence ever saw me. "

"Would Bland object if I called on you occasionally?" inquired Duane. 

"No, he wouldn't. He likes me to have friends. Ask him yourself when hecomes back. The trouble has been that two or three of his men fell inlove with me, and when half drunk got to fighting. You're not going todo that. "

"I'm not going to get half drunk, that's certain, " replied Duane. 

He was surprised to see her eyes dilate, then glow with fire. Beforeshe could reply Euchre returned to the porch, and that put an end to theconversation. 

Duane was content to let the matter rest there, and had little more tosay. Euchre and Mrs. Bland talked and joked, while Duane listened. He tried to form some estimate of her character. Manifestly she hadsuffered 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 thingwhich struck Duane so forcibly was that she thirsted for respect. In that, better than in her weakness of vanity, he thought he haddiscovered a trait through which he could manage her. 

Once, while he was revolving these thoughts, he happened to glance intothe house, and deep in the shadow of a corner he caught a pale gleamof Jennie's face with great, staring eyes on him. She had been watchinghim, listening to what he said. He saw from her expression that she hadrealized 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 herface was wonderful. 

Later, after he had left Mrs. Bland with a meaning "Adios--manana, " andwas walking along beside the old outlaw, he found himself thinking ofthe girl instead of the woman, and of how he had seen her face blazewith hope and gratitude. 

CHAPTER VII

That night Duane was not troubled by ghosts haunting his waking andsleeping hours. He awoke feeling bright and eager, and grateful toEuchre for having put something worth while into his mind. Duringbreakfast, however, he was unusually thoughtful, working over the ideaof how much or how little he would confide in the outlaw. He was awareof Euchre's scrutiny. 

"Wal, " began the old man, at last, "how'd you make out with the kid?"

"Kid?" inquired Duane, tentatively. 

"Jennie, I mean. What'd you An' she talk about?"

"We had a little chat. You know you wanted me to cheer her up. "

Euchre sat with coffee-cup poised and narrow eyes studying Duane. 

"Reckon you cheered her, all right. What I'm afeared of is mebbe youdone the job too well. "

"How so?"

"Wal, when I went in to Jen last night I thought she was half crazy. She was burstin' with excitement, an' the look in her eyes hurt me. Shewouldn'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 ferbringin' you over. Buck, it was plain to me thet you'd either gone thelimit or else you'd been kinder prodigal of cheer an' hope. I'd hate tothink you'd led Jennie to hope more'n ever would come true. "

Euchre paused, and, as there seemed no reply forthcoming, he went on:

"Buck, I've seen some outlaws whose word was good. Mine is. You cantrust me. I trusted you, didn't I, takin' you over there an' puttin' youwise to my tryin' to help thet poor kid?"

Thus enjoined by Euchre, Duane began to tell the conversations withJennie and Mrs. Bland word for word. Long before he had reached an endEuchre set down the coffee-cup and began to stare, and at the conclusionof the story his face lost some of its red color and beads of sweatstood out thickly on his brow. 

"Wal, if thet doesn't floor me!" he ejaculated, blinking at Duane. "Young man, I figgered you was some swift, an' sure to make your mark onthis river; but I reckon I missed your real caliber. So thet's whatit means to be a man! I guess I'd forgot. Wal, I'm old, an' even if myheart was in the right place I never was built fer big stunts. Do youknow what it'll take to do all you promised Jen?"

"I haven't any idea, " replied Duane, gravely. 

"You'll have to pull the wool over Kate Bland's eyes, ant even if shefalls 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'tmistaken her none, are you?"

"Not me, Euchre. She's a woman. I'd fear her more than any man. "

"Wal, you'll have to kill Bland an' Chess Alloway an' Rugg, an' mebbesome others, before you can ride off into the hills with thet girl. "

"Why? Can't we plan to be nice to Mrs. Bland and then at an opportunetime sneak off without any gun-play?"

"Don't see how on earth, " returned Euchre, earnestly. "When Bland'saway 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 ishome there's a difference. Only, of course, him an' Chess keep theireyes peeled. They both stay to home pretty much, except when they'replayin' monte or poker over at Benson's. So I say the best bet is topick out a good time in the afternoon, drift over careless-like with acouple of hosses, choke Mrs. Bland or knock her on the head, take Jenniewith you, an' make a rush to git out of the valley. If you had luck youmight pull thet stunt without throwin' a gun. But I reckon the bestfiggerin' would include dodgin' some lead an' leavin' at least Bland orAlloway dead behind you. I'm figgerin', of course, thet when they comehome an' find out you're visitin' Kate frequent they'll jest naturallylook fer results. Chess don't like you, fer no reason except you'reswift on the draw--mebbe swifter 'n him. Thet's the hell of thisgun-play business. No one can ever tell who's the swifter of two gunmentill they meet. Thet fact holds a fascination mebbe you'll learn someday. 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 setChess or Rugg to put you out of the way. Still Bland's no coward, an' ifyou came across him at a bad moment you'd have to be quicker 'n you waswith Bosomer. "

"All right. I'll meet what comes, " said Duane, quickly. "The great pointis to have horses ready and pick the right moment, then rush the trickthrough. "

"Thet's the ONLY chance fer success. An' you can't do it alone. "

"I'll have to. I wouldn't ask you to help me. Leave you behind!"

"Wal, I'll take my chances, " replied Euchre, gruffly. "I'm goin' to helpJennie, you can gamble your last peso on thet. There's only four men inthis camp who would shoot me--Bland, an' his right-hand pards, an' thetrabbit-faced Benson. If you happened to put out Bland and Chess, I'dstand a good show with the other two. Anyway, I'm old an' tired--what'sthe 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, theright minnit, then rush the trick. ' Thet much 's settled. Now let'sfigger all the little details. "

They talked and planned, though in truth it was Euchre who planned, Duane who listened and agreed. While awaiting the return of Bland andhis lieutenants it would be well for Duane to grow friendly with theother outlaws, to sit in a few games of monte, or show a willingnessto spend a little money. The two schemers were to call upon Mrs. Blandevery day--Euchre to carry messages of cheer and warning to Jennie, Duane to blind the elder woman at any cost. These preliminaries decidedupon, they proceeded to put them into action. 

No hard task was it to win the friendship of the most of thosegood-natured outlaws. They were used to men of a better order thantheirs coming to the hidden camps and sooner or later sinking to theirlower level. Besides, with them everything was easy come, easy go. Thatwas why life itself went on so carelessly and usually ended so cheaply. There were men among them, however, that made Duane feel that terribleinexplicable wrath rise in his breast. He could not bear to be nearthem. He could not trust himself. He felt that any instant a word, a deed, something might call too deeply to that instinct he could nolonger control. Jackrabbit Benson was one of these men. Because ofhim and other outlaws of his ilk Duane could scarcely ever forgetthe reality of things. This was a hidden valley, a robbers' den, arendezvous 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 inruthless and tragic action. In an assemblage of desperate characters itcould not be otherwise. The terrible thing that Duane sensed was this. The valley was beautiful, sunny, fragrant, a place to dream in; themountaintops were always blue or gold rimmed, the yellow river slidslowly and majestically by, the birds sang in the cottonwoods, thehorses grazed and pranced, children played and women longed for love, freedom, happiness; the outlaws rode in and out, free with money andspeech; they lived comfortably in their adobe homes, smoked, gambled, talked, laughed, whiled away the idle hours--and all the time life therewas wrong, and the simplest moment might be precipitated by that evilinto the most awful of contrasts. Duane felt rather than saw a dark, brooding shadow over the valley. 

Then, without any solicitation or encouragement from Duane, the Blandwoman fell passionately in love with him. His conscience was nevertroubled about the beginning of that affair. She launched herself. Ittook no great perspicuity on his part to see that. And the thing whichevidently held her in check was the newness, the strangeness, and forthe moment the all-satisfying fact of his respect for her. Duane exertedhimself to please, to amuse, to interest, to fascinate her, and alwayswith deference. That was his strong point, and it had made his parteasy so far. He believed he could carry the whole scheme through withoutinvolving himself any deeper. 

He was playing at a game of love--playing with life and deaths Sometimeshe trembled, not that he feared Bland or Alloway or any other man, butat the deeps of life he had come to see into. He was carried out of hisold mood. Not once since this daring motive had stirred him had hebeen haunted by the phantom of Bain beside his bed. Rather had he beenhaunted by Jennie's sad face, her wistful smile, her eyes. He never wasable to speak a word to her. What little communication he had with herwas through Euchre, who carried short messages. But he caught glimpsesof her every time he went to the Bland house. She contrived somehow topass door or window, to give him a look when chance afforded. And Duanediscovered with surprise that these moments were more thrilling tohim than any with Mrs. Bland. Often Duane knew Jennie was sitting justinside the window, and then he felt inspired in his talk, and it wasall made for her. So at least she came to know him while as yet she wasalmost a stranger. Jennie had been instructed by Euchre to listen, tounderstand that this was Duane's only chance to help keep her mind fromconstant worry, to gather the import of every word which had a doublemeaning. 

Euchre said that the girl had begun to wither under the strain, to burnup with intense hope which had flamed within her. But all the differenceDuane could see was a paler face and darker, more wonderful eyes. Theeyes seemed to be entreating him to hurry, that time was flying, thatsoon it might be too late. Then there was another meaning in them, alight, a strange fire wholly inexplicable to Duane. It was only a flashgone in an instant. But he remembered it because he had never seen it inany other woman's eyes. And all through those waiting days he knew thatJennie's face, and especially the warm, fleeting glance she gave him, was responsible for a subtle and gradual change in him. This changehe fancied, was only that through remembrance of her he got rid of hispale, sickening ghosts. 

One day a careless Mexican threw a lighted cigarette up into the brushmatting that served as a ceiling for Benson's den, and there was a firewhich left little more than the adobe walls standing. The result wasthat while repairs were being made there was no gambling and drinking. Time hung very heavily on the hands of some two-score outlaws. Dayspassed by without a brawl, and Bland's valley saw more successive hoursof peace than ever before. Duane, however, found the hours anything butempty. He spent more time at Mrs. Bland's; he walked miles on all thetrails leading out of the valley; he had a care for the condition of histwo horses. 

Upon his return from the latest of these tramps Euchre suggested thatthey go down to the river to the boat-landing. 

"Ferry couldn't run ashore this mornin', " said Euchre. "River gettin'low an' sand-bars makin' it hard fer hosses. There's a greaserfreight-wagon stuck in the mud. I reckon we might hear news from thefreighters. Bland's supposed to be in Mexico. "

Nearly all the outlaws in camp were assembled on the riverbank, lollingin the shade of the cottonwoods. The heat was oppressive. Not anoutlaw offered to help the freighters, who were trying to dig a heavilyfreighted wagon out of the quicksand. Few outlaws would work forthemselves, let alone for the despised Mexicans. 

Duane and Euchre joined the lazy group and sat down with them. Euchrelighted a black pipe, and, drawing his hat over his eyes, lay back incomfort after the manner of the majority of the outlaws. But Duanewas alert, observing, thoughtful. He never missed anything. It washis belief that any moment an idle word might be of benefit to him. Moreover, these rough men were always interesting. 

"Bland's been chased across the river, " said one. 

"New, he's deliverin' cattle to thet Cuban ship, " replied another. 

"Big deal on, hey?"

"Some big. Rugg says the boss hed an order fer fifteen thousand. "

"Say, that order'll take a year to fill. "

"New. Hardin is in cahoots with Bland. Between 'em they'll fill ordersbigger 'n thet. "

"Wondered what Hardin was rustlin' in here fer. "

Duane could not possibly attend to all the conversation among theoutlaws. He endeavored to get the drift of talk nearest to him. 

"Kid Fuller's goin' to cash, " said a sandy-whiskered little outlaw. 

"So Jim was tellin' me. Blood-poison, ain't it? Thet hole wasn't bad. But he took the fever, " rejoined a comrade. 

"Deger says the Kid might pull through if he hed nursin'. "

"Wal, Kate Bland ain't nursin' any shot-up boys these days. She hasn'tgot time. "

A laugh followed this sally; then came a penetrating silence. Some ofthe outlaws glanced good-naturedly at Duane. They bore him no ill will. Manifestly they were aware of Mrs. Bland's infatuation. 

"Pete, 'pears to me you've said thet before. "

"Shore. Wal, it's happened before. "

This remark drew louder laughter and more significant glances at Duane. He did not choose to ignore them any longer. 

"Boys, poke all the fun you like at me, but don't mention any lady'sname again. My hand is nervous and itchy these days. "

He smiled as he spoke, and his speech was drawled; but the good humor inno wise weakened it. Then his latter remark was significant to a classof men who from inclination and necessity practiced at gun-drawing untilthey wore callous and sore places on their thumbs and inculcated inthe very deeps of their nervous organization a habit that made even thesimplest and most innocent motion of the hand end at or near the hip. There was something remarkable about a gun-fighter's hand. It neverseemed to be gloved, never to be injured, never out of sight or in anawkward position. 

There were grizzled outlaws in that group, some of whom had many notcheson their gun-handles, and they, with their comrades, accorded Duanesilence that carried conviction of the regard in which he was held. 

Duane could not recall any other instance where he had let fall afamiliar speech to these men, and certainly he had never before hintedof his possibilities. He saw instantly that he could not have donebetter. 

"Orful hot, ain't it?" remarked Bill Black, presently. Bill could notkeep quiet for long. He was a typical Texas desperado, had never beenanything else. He was stoop-shouldered and bow-legged from much riding;a wiry little man, all muscle, with a square head, a hard face partlyblack from scrubby beard and red from sun, and a bright, roving, crueleye. His shirt was open at the neck, showing a grizzled breast. 

"Is there any guy in this heah outfit sport enough to go swimmin'?" heasked. 

"My Gawd, Bill, you ain't agoin' to wash!" exclaimed a comrade. 

This raised a laugh in which Black joined. But no one seemed eager tojoin him in a bath. 

"Laziest outfit I ever rustled with, " went on Bill, discontentedly. "Nuthin' to do! Say, if nobody wants to swim maybe some of you'llgamble?"

He produced a dirty pack of cards and waved them at the motionlesscrowd. 

"Bill, you're too good at cards, " replied a lanky outlaw. 

"Now, Jasper, you say thet powerful sweet, an' you look sweet, er Imight take it to heart, " replied Black, with a sudden change of tone. 

Here it was again--that upflashing passion. What Jasper saw fit to replywould mollify the outlaw or it would not. There was an even balance. 

"No offense, Bill, " said Jasper, placidly, without moving. 

Bill grunted and forgot Jasper. But he seemed restless and dissatisfied. Duane knew him to be an inveterate gambler. And as Benson's place wasout of running-order, Black was like a fish on dry land. 

"Wal, if you-all are afraid of the cairds, what will you bet on?" heasked, in disgust. 

"Bill, I'll play you a game of mumbly peg fer two bits. " replied one. 

Black eagerly accepted. Betting to him was a serious matter. The gameobsessed him, not the stakes. He entered into the mumbly peg contestwith a thoughtful mien and a corded brow. He won. Other comrades triedtheir luck with him and lost. Finally, when Bill had exhausted theirsupply of two-bit pieces or their desire for that particular game, heoffered to bet on anything. 

"See thet turtle-dove there?" he said, pointing. "I'll bet he'll scareat one stone or he won't. Five pesos he'll fly or he won't fly when someone chucks a stone. Who'll take me up?"

That appeared to be more than the gambling spirit of several outlawscould withstand. 

"Take thet. Easy money, " said one. 

"Who's goin' to chuck the stone?" asked another. 

"Anybody, " replied Bill. 

"Wal, I'll bet you I can scare him with one stone, " said the firstoutlaw. 

"We're in on thet, Jim to fire the darnick, " chimed in the others. 

The money was put up, the stone thrown. The turtle-dove took flight, tothe great joy of all the outlaws except Bill. 

"I'll bet you-all he'll come back to thet tree inside of five minnits, "he offered, imperturbably. 

Hereupon the outlaws did not show any laziness in their alacrity tocover Bill's money as it lay on the grass. Somebody had a watch, andthey all sat down, dividing attention between the timepiece and thetree. The minutes dragged by to the accompaniment of various jocularremarks anent a fool and his money. When four and three-quarter minuteshad passed a turtle-dove alighted in the cottonwood. Then ensued animpressive silence while Bill calmly pocketed the fifty dollars. 

"But it hadn't the same dove!" exclaimed one outlaw, excitedly. "This'n'is smaller, dustier, not so purple. "

Bill eyed the speaker loftily. 

"Wal, you'll have to ketch the other one to prove thet. Sabe, pard? NowI'll bet any gent heah the fifty I won thet I can scare thet dove withone stone. "

No one offered to take his wager. 

"Wal, then, I'll bet any of you even money thet you CAN'T scare him withone stone. "

Not proof against this chance, the outlaws made up a purse, in no wisedisconcerted by Bill's contemptuous allusions to their banding together. The stone was thrown. The dove did not fly. Thereafter, in regard tothat bird, Bill was unable to coax or scorn his comrades into any kindof wager. 

He tried them with a multiplicity of offers, and in vain. Then heappeared at a loss for some unusual and seductive wager. Presently alittle ragged Mexican boy came along the river trail, a particularlystarved and poor-looking little fellow. Bill called to him and gave hima handful of silver coins. Speechless, dazed, he went his way huggingthe money. 

"I'll bet he drops some before he gits to the road, " declared Bill. "I'll bet he runs. Hurry, you four-flush gamblers. "

Bill failed to interest any of his companions, and forthwith becamesullen and silent. Strangely his good humor departed in spite of thefact that he had won considerable. 

Duane, watching the disgruntled outlaw, marveled at him and wonderedwhat was in his mind. These men were more variable than children, asunstable as water, as dangerous as dynamite. 

"Bill, I'll bet you ten you can't spill whatever's in the bucket thetpeon's packin', " said the outlaw called Jim. 

Black's head came up with the action of a hawk about to swoop. 

Duane glanced from Black to the road, where he saw a crippled peoncarrying a tin bucket toward the river. This peon was a half-wittedIndian who lived in a shack and did odd jobs for the Mexicans. Duane hadmet him often. 

"Jim, I'll take you up, " replied Black. 

Something, perhaps a harshness in his voice, caused Duane to whirl. Hecaught a leaping gleam in the outlaw's eye. 

"Aw, Bill, thet's too fur a shot, " said Jasper, as Black rested an elbowon his knee and sighted over the long, heavy Colt. The distance to thepeon was about fifty paces, too far for even the most expert shot to hita moving object so small as a bucket. 

Duane, marvelously keen in the alignment of sights, was positive thatBlack held too high. Another look at the hard face, now tense and darkwith blood, confirmed Duane's suspicion that the outlaw was not aimingat the bucket at all. Duane leaped and struck the leveled gun out of hishand. Another outlaw picked it up. 

Black fell back astounded. Deprived of his weapon, he did not seem thesame man, or else he was cowed by Duane's significant and formidablefront. Sullenly he turned away without even asking for his gun. 

CHAPTER VIII

What a contrast, Duane thought, the evening of that day presented to thestate of his soul!

The sunset lingered in golden glory over the distant Mexican mountains;twilight came slowly; a faint breeze blew from the river cool and sweet;the late cooing of a dove and the tinkle of a cowbell were the onlysounds; a serene and tranquil peace lay over the valley. 

Inside Duane's body there was strife. This third facing of a desperateman had thrown him off his balance. It had not been fatal, but itthreatened so much. The better side of his nature seemed to urge himto die rather than to go on fighting or opposing ignorant, unfortunate, savage men. But the perversity of him was so great that it dwarfedreason, conscience. He could not resist it. He felt something dying inhim. He suffered. Hope seemed far away. Despair had seized upon him andwas driving him into a reckless mood when he thought of Jennie. 

He had forgotten her. He had forgotten that he had promised to save her. He had forgotten that he meant to snuff out as many lives as might standbetween her and freedom. The very remembrance sheered off his morbidintrospection. She made a difference. How strange for him to realizethat! He felt grateful to her. He had been forced into outlawry; she hadbeen stolen from her people and carried into captivity. They had met inthe river fastness, he to instil hope into her despairing life, she tobe the means, perhaps, of keeping him from sinking to the level of hercaptors. He became conscious of a strong and beating desire to see her, talk with her. 

These thoughts had run through his mind while on his way to Mrs. Bland'shouse. He had let Euchre go on ahead because he wanted more timeto compose himself. Darkness had about set in when he reached hisdestination. There was no light in the house. Mrs. Bland was waiting forhim on the porch. 

She embraced him, and the sudden, violent, unfamiliar contact sent sucha 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 herembrace and the tender, incoherent words that flowed with it he gatheredthat Euchre had acquainted her of his action with Black. 

"He might have killed you, " she whispered, more clearly; and if Duanehad ever heard love in a voice he heard it then. It softened him. Afterall, she was a woman, weak, fated through her nature, unfortunate inher experience of life, doomed to unhappiness and tragedy. He met heradvance so far that he returned the embrace and kissed her. Emotion suchas she showed would have made any woman sweet, and she had a certaincharm. It was easy, even pleasant, to kiss her; but Duane resolved that, whatever her abandonment might become, he would not go further than thelie she made him act. 

"Buck, you love me?" she whispered. 

"Yes--yes, " he burst out, eager to get it over, and even as he spokehe caught the pale gleam of Jennie's face through the window. He felta shame he was glad she could not see. Did she remember that she hadpromised not to misunderstand any action of his? What did she think ofhim, seeing him out there in the dusk with this bold woman in hisarms? Somehow that dim sight of Jennie's pale face, the big dark eyes, thrilled him, inspired him to his hard task of the present. 

"Listen, dear, " he said to the woman, and he meant his words for thegirl. "I'm going to take you away from this outlaw den if I have to killBland, Alloway, Rugg--anybody who stands in my path. You were draggedhere. You are good--I know it. There's happiness for you somewhere--ahome among good people who will care for you. Just wait till--"

His voice trailed off and failed from excess of emotion. Kate Blandclosed her eyes and leaned her head on his breast. Duane felt her heartbeat against his, and conscience smote him a keen blow. If she lovedhim so much! But memory and understanding of her character hardened himagain, and he gave her such commiseration as was due her sex, and nomore. 

"Boy, that's good of you, " she whispered, "but it's too late. I'm donefor. I can't leave Bland. All I ask is that you love me a little andstop your gun-throwing. "

The moon had risen over the eastern bulge of dark mountain, and now thevalley was flooded with mellow light, and shadows of cottonwoods waveredagainst the silver. 

Suddenly the clip-clop, clip-clop of hoofs caused Duane to raise hishead and listen. Horses were coming down the road from the head ofthe valley. The hour was unusual for riders to come in. Presently thenarrow, moonlit lane was crossed at its far end by black moving objects. Two horses Duane discerned. 

"It's Bland!" whispered the woman, grasping Duane with shaking hands. "You must run! No, he'd see you. That 'd be worse. It's Bland! I knowhis horse's trot. "

"But you said he wouldn't mind my calling here, " protested Duane. "Euchre's with me. It'll be all right. "

"Maybe so, " she replied, with visible effort at self-control. Manifestlyshe had a great fear of Bland. "If I could only think!"

Then she dragged Duane to the door, pushed him in. 

"Euchre, come out with me! Duane, you stay with the girl! I'll tellBland you're in love with her. Jen, if you give us away I'll wring yourneck. "

The swift action and fierce whisper told Duane that Mrs. Bland washerself again. Duane stepped close to Jennie, who stood near the window. Neither spoke, but her hands were outstretched to meet his own. Theywere small, trembling hands, cold as ice. He held them close, trying toconvey what he felt--that he would protect her. She leaned against him, and they looked out of the window. Duane felt calm and sure of himself. His most pronounced feeling besides that for the frightened girl was acuriosity as to how Mrs. Bland would rise to the occasion. He saw theriders dismount down the lane and wearily come forward. A boy led awaythe horses. Euchre, the old fox, was talking loud and with remarkableease, considering what he claimed was his natural cowardice. 

"--that was way back in the sixties, about the time of the war, " hewas saying. "Rustlin' cattle wasn't nuthin' then to what it is now. An'times is rougher these days. This gun-throwin' has come to be a disease. Men have an itch for the draw same as they used to have fer poker. Theonly real gambler outside of greasers we ever had here was Bill, an' Ipresume Bill is burnin' now. "

The approaching outlaws, hearing voices, halted a rod or so from theporch. Then Mrs. Bland uttered an exclamation, ostensibly meant toexpress surprise, and hurried out to meet them. She greeted her husbandwarmly and gave welcome to the other man. Duane could not see wellenough in the shadow to recognize Bland's companion, but he believed itwas Alloway. 

"Dog-tired we are and starved, " said Bland, heavily. "Who's here withyou?"

"That's Euchre on the porch. Duane is inside at the window with Jen, "replied Mrs. Bland. 

"Duane!" he exclaimed. Then he whispered low--something Duane could notcatch. 

"Why, I asked him to come, " said the chief's wife. She spoke easily andnaturally and made no change in tone. "Jen has been ailing. She getsthinner and whiter every day. Duane came here one day with Euchre, sawJen, and went loony over her pretty face, same as all you men. So I lethim come. "

Bland cursed low and deep under his breath. The other man made a violentaction of some kind and apparently was quieted by a restraining hand. 

"Kate, you let Duane make love to Jennie?" queried Bland, incredulously. 

"Yes, I did, " replied the wife, stubbornly. "Why not? Jen's in love withhim. If he takes her away and marries her she can be a decent woman. "

Bland kept silent a moment, then his laugh pealed out loud and harsh. 

"Chess, did you get that? Well, by God! what do you think of my wife?"

"She's lyin' or she's crazy, " replied Alloway, and his voice carried anunpleasant ring. 

Mrs. Bland promptly and indignantly told her husband's lieutenant tokeep his mouth shut. 

"Ho, ho, ho!" rolled out Bland's laugh. 

Then he led the way to the porch, his spurs clinking, the weapons he wascarrying rattling, and he flopped down on a bench. 

"How are you, boss?" asked Euchre. 

"Hello, old man. I'm well, but all in. "

Alloway slowly walked on to the porch and leaned against the rail. He answered Euchre's greeting with a nod. Then he stood there a dark, silent figure. 

Mrs. Bland's full voice in eager questioning had a tendency to easethe situation. Bland replied briefly to her, reporting a remarkablysuccessful trip. 

Duane thought it time to show himself. He had a feeling that Bland andAlloway would let him go for the moment. They were plainly non-plussed, and Alloway seemed sullen, brooding. "Jennie, " whispered Duane, "thatwas clever of Mrs. Bland. We'll keep up the deception. Any day now beready!"

She pressed close to him, and a barely audible "Hurry!" came breathinginto his ear. 

"Good night, Jennie, " he said, aloud. "Hope you feel better to-morrow. "

Then he stepped out into the moonlight and spoke. Bland returned thegreeting, and, though he was not amiable, he did not show resentment. 

"Met Jasper as I rode in, " said Bland, presently. "He told me you madeBill Black mad, and there's liable to be a fight. What did you go offthe handle about?"

Duane explained the incident. "I'm sorry I happened to be there, " hewent on. "It wasn't my business. "

"Scurvy trick that 'd been, " muttered Bland. "You did right. All thesame, Duane, I want you to stop quarreling with my men. If you were oneof us--that'd be different. I can't keep my men from fighting. ButI'm not called on to let an outsider hang around my camp and plug myrustlers. "

"I guess I'll have to be hitting the trail for somewhere, " said Duane. 

"Why not join my band? You've got a bad start already, Duane, and if Iknow this border you'll never be a respectable citizen again. You'rea born killer. I know every bad man on this frontier. More than one ofthem have told me that something exploded in their brain, and when sensecame back there lay another dead man. It's not so with me. I've done alittle shooting, too, but I never wanted to kill another man just torid 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 newman--he's driven to it to forget the last one. "

"But I'm no gun-fighter, " protested Duane. "Circumstances made me--"

"No doubt, " interrupted Bland, with a laugh. "Circumstances made me arustler. 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'tsee any other career for you. Instead of going it alone--a lone wolf, as the Texans say--why not make friends with other outlaws? You'll livelonger. "

Euchre squirmed in his seat. 

"Boss, I've been givin' the boy egzactly thet same line of talk. Thet'swhy I took him in to bunk with me. If he makes pards among us therewon't be any more trouble. An' he'd be a grand feller fer the gang. I'veseen Wild Bill Hickok throw a gun, an' Billy the Kid, an' Hardin, an'Chess here--all the fastest men on the border. An' with apologies topresent company, I'm here to say Duane has them all skinned. His draw isdifferent. You can't see how he does it. "

Euchre's admiring praise served to create an effective little silence. Alloway shifted uneasily on his feet, his spurs jangling faintly, anddid not lift his head. Bland seemed thoughtful. 

"That's about the only qualification I have to make me eligible for yourband, " said Duane, easily. 

"It's good enough, " replied Bland, shortly. "Will you consider theidea?"

"I'll think it over. Good night. "

He left the group, followed by Euchre. When they reached the end of thelane, and before they had exchanged a word, Bland called Euchre back. Duane proceeded slowly along the moonlit road to the cabin and sat downunder the cottonwoods to wait for Euchre. The night was intense andquiet, a low hum of insects giving the effect of a congestion of life. The beauty of the soaring moon, the ebony canons of shadow under themountain, the melancholy serenity of the perfect night, made Duaneshudder in the realization of how far aloof he now was from enjoyment ofthese things. Never again so long as he lived could he be natural. Hismind was clouded. His eye and ear henceforth must register impressionsof nature, but the joy of them had fled. 

Still, as he sat there with a foreboding of more and darker work aheadof him there was yet a strange sweetness left to him, and it lay inthought of Jennie. The pressure of her cold little hands lingered inhis. He did not think of her as a woman, and he did not analyze hisfeelings. He just had vague, dreamy thoughts and imaginations that wereinterspersed in the constant and stern revolving of plans to save her. 

A shuffling step roused him. Euchre's dark figure came crossing themoonlit grass under the cottonwoods. The moment the outlaw reachedhim Duane saw that he was laboring under great excitement. It scarcelyaffected Duane. He seemed to be acquiring patience, calmness, strength. 

"Bland kept you pretty long, " he said. 

"Wait till I git my breath, " replied Euchre. He sat silent a littlewhile, fanning himself with a sombrero, though the night was cool, andthen he went into the cabin to return presently with a lighted pipe. 

"Fine night, " he said; and his tone further acquainted Duane withEuchre's quaint humor. "Fine night for love-affairs, by gum!"

"I'd noticed that, " rejoined Duane, dryly. 

"Wal, I'm a son of a gun if I didn't stand an' watch Bland choke hiswife till her tongue stuck out an' she got black in the face. "

"No!" ejaculated Duane. 

"Hope to die if I didn't. Buck, listen to this here yarn. When I gotback to the porch I seen Bland was wakin' up. He'd been too fagged outto figger much. Alloway an' Kate had gone in the house, where they litup the lamps. I heard Kate's high voice, but Alloway never chirped. He'snot the talkin' kind, an' he's damn dangerous when he's thet way. Blandasked me some questions right from the shoulder. I was ready for them, an' I swore the moon was green cheese. He was satisfied. Bland alwaystrusted me, an' liked me, too, I reckon. I hated to lie black thetway. But he's a hard man with bad intentions toward Jennie, an' I'ddouble-cross him any day. 

"Then we went into the house. Jennie had gone to her little room, an' Bland called her to come out. She said she was undressin'. An' heordered her to put her clothes back on. Then, Buck, his next move wassome surprisin'. He deliberately thronged a gun on Kate. Yes sir, hepointed his big blue Colt right at her, an' he says:

"'I've a mind to blow out your brains. '

"'Go ahead, ' says Kate, cool as could be. 

"'You lied to me, ' he roars. 

"Kate laughed in his face. Bland slammed the gun down an' made a grabfer her. She fought him, but wasn't a match fer him, an' he got her bythe throat. He choked her till I thought she was strangled. Alloway madehim stop. She flopped down on the bed an' gasped fer a while. When shecome to them hardshelled cusses went after her, trying to make her giveherself away. I think Bland was jealous. He suspected she'd got thickwith you an' was foolin' him. I reckon thet's a sore feelin' fer a manto have--to guess pretty nice, but not to BE sure. Bland gave it upafter a while. An' then he cussed an' raved at her. One sayin' of his isworth pinnin' in your sombrero: 'It ain't nuthin' to kill a man. I don'tneed much fer thet. But I want to KNOW, you hussy!'

"Then he went in an' dragged poor Jen out. She'd had time to dress. Hewas 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 twisther--hurt her--I had a queer hot feelin' deep down in me, an' fer theonly time in my life I wished I was a gun-fighter. 

"Wal, Jen amazed me. She was whiter'n a sheet, an' her eyes were big andstary, but she had nerve. Fust time I ever seen her show any. 

"'Jennie, ' he said, 'my wife said Duane came here to see you. I believeshe's lyin'. I think she's been carryin' on with him, an' I want toKNOW. If she's been an' you tell me the truth I'll let you go. I'll sendyou out to Huntsville, where you can communicate with your friends. I'llgive you money. '

"Thet must hev been a hell of a minnit fer Kate Bland. If evet I seendeath in a man's eye I seen it in Bland's. He loves her. Thet's thestrange part of it. 

"'Has Duane been comin' here to see my wife?' Bland asked, fierce-like. 

"'No, ' said Jennie. 

"'He's been after you?'

"'Yes. '

"'He has fallen in love with you? Kate said thet. '

"'I--I'm not--I don't know--he hasn't told me. '

"'But you're in love with him?'

"'Yes, ' she said; an', Buck, if you only could have seen her! Shethronged up her head, an' her eyes were full of fire. Bland seemed dazedat sight of her. An' Alloway, why, thet little skunk of an outlaw criedright out. He was hit plumb center. He's in love with Jen. An' the lookof her then was enough to make any feller quit. He jest slunk out of theroom. I told you, mebbe, thet he'd been tryin' to git Bland to marry Jento him. So even a tough like Alloway can love a woman!

"Bland stamped up an' down the room. He sure was dyin' hard. 

"'Jennie, ' he said, once more turnin' to her. 'You swear in fear of yourlife thet you're tellin' truth. Kate's not in love with Duane? She's lethim come to see you? There's been nuthin' between them?'

"'No. I swear, ' answered Jennie; an' Bland sat down like a man licked. 

"'Go to bed, you white-faced--' Bland choked on some word or other--abad one, I reckon--an' he positively shook in his chair. 

"Jennie went then, an' Kate began to have hysterics. An' your UncleEuchre ducked his nut out of the door an' come home. "

Duane did not have a word to say at the end of Euchre's long harangue. He experienced relief. As a matter of fact, he had expected a good dealworse. He thrilled at the thought of Jennie perjuring herself to savethat abandoned woman. What mysteries these feminine creatures were!

"Wal, there's where our little deal stands now, " resumed Euchre, meditatively. "You know, Buck, as well as me thet if you'd been somefeller who hadn't shown he was a wonder with a gun you'd now be full oflead. If you'd happen to kill Bland an' Alloway, I reckon you'd be assafe on this here border as you would in Santone. Such is gun fame inthis land of the draw. "

CHAPTER IX

Both men were awake early, silent with the premonition of trouble ahead, thoughtful of the fact that the time for the long-planned action was athand. It was remarkable that a man as loquacious as Euchre could holdhis tongue so long; and this was significant of the deadly nature ofthe intended deed. During breakfast he said a few words customary in theservice of food. At the conclusion of the meal he seemed to come to anend of deliberation. 

"Buck, the sooner the better now, " he declared, with a glint in his eye. "The more time we use up now the less surprised Bland'll be. "

"I'm ready when you are, " replied Duane, quietly, and he rose from thetable. 

"Wal, saddle up, then, " went on Euchre, gruffly. "Tie on them two packsI made, one fer each saddle. You can't tell--mebbe either hoss will becarryin' double. It's good they're both big, strong hosses. Guess thetwasn't a wise move of your Uncle Euchre's--bringin' in your hosses an'havin' them ready?"

"Euchre, I hope you're not going to get in bad here. I'm afraid you are. Let me do the rest now, " said Duane. 

The old outlaw eyed him sarcastically. 

"Thet 'd be turrible now, wouldn't it? If you want to know, why, I'm inbad already. I didn't tell you thet Alloway called me last night. He'sgettin' wise pretty quick. "

"Euchre, you're going with me?" queried Duane, suddenly divining thetruth. 

"Wal, I reckon. Either to hell or safe over the mountain! I wisht I wasa gun-fighter. I hate to leave here without takin' a peg at JackrabbitBenson. Now, Buck, you do some hard figgerin' while I go nosin' round. It's pretty early, which 's all the better. "

Euchre put on his sombrero, and as he went out Duane saw that he worea gun-and-cartridge belt. It was the first time Duane had ever seen theoutlaw armed. 

Duane packed his few belongings into his saddlebags, and then carriedthe saddles out to the corral. An abundance of alfalfa in the corralshowed that the horses had fared well. They had gotten almost fat duringhis stay in the valley. He watered them, put on the saddles looselycinched, and then the bridles. His next move was to fill the two canvaswater-bottles. That done, he returned to the cabin to wait. 

At the moment he felt no excitement or agitation of any kind. There wasno more thinking and planning to do. The hour had arrived, and he wasready. He understood perfectly the desperate chances he must take. His thoughts became confined to Euchre and the surprising loyalty andgoodness in the hardened old outlaw. Time passed slowly. Duane keptglancing at his watch. He hoped to start the thing and get away beforethe outlaws were out of their beds. Finally he heard the shuffle ofEuchre's boots on the hard path. The sound was quicker than usual. 

When Euchre came around the corner of the cabin Duane was not soastounded as he was concerned to see the outlaw white and shaking. Sweatdripped from him. He had a wild look. 

"Luck ours--so-fur, Buck!" he panted. 

"You don't look it, " replied Duane. 

"I'm turrible sick. Jest killed a man. Fust one I ever killed!"

"Who?" asked Duane, startled. 

"Jackrabbit Benson. An' sick as I am, I'm gloryin' in it. I went nosin'round up the road. Saw Alloway goin' into Deger's. He's thick with theDegers. Reckon he's askin' questions. Anyway, I was sure glad to see himaway from Bland's. An' he didn't see me. When I dropped into Benson'sthere wasn't nobody there but Jackrabbit an' some greasers he wasstartin' to work. Benson never had no use fer me. An' he up an' said hewouldn't give a two-bit piece fer my life. I asked him why. 

"'You're double-crossin' the boss an' Chess, ' he said. 

"'Jack, what 'd you give fer your own life?' I asked him. 

"He straightened up surprised an' mean-lookin'. An' I let him have it, plumb center! He wilted, an' the greasers run. I reckon I'll never sleepagain. But I had to do it. "

Duane asked if the shot had attracted any attention outside. 

"I didn't see anybody but the greasers, an' I sure looked sharp. Comin'back I cut across through the cottonwoods past Bland's cabin. I meant tokeep out of sight, but somehow I had an idee I might find out if Blandwas awake yet. Sure enough I run plumb into Beppo, the boy who tendsBland's hosses. Beppo likes me. An' when I inquired of his boss he saidBland had been up all night fightin' with the Senora. An', Buck, here'show I figger. Bland couldn't let up last night. He was sore, an' he wentafter Kate again, tryin' to wear her down. Jest as likely he might havewent after Jennie, with wuss intentions. Anyway, he an' Kate must havehad it hot an' heavy. We're pretty lucky. "

"It seems so. Well, I'm going, " said Duane, tersely. 

"Lucky! I should smiler Bland's been up all night after a most draggin'ride home. He'll be fagged out this mornin', sleepy, sore, an' he won'tbe 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 comesout an' you want to parley, you can jest say you'd thought over hisproposition an' was ready to join his band, or you ain't. You'll haveto kill him, an' it 'd save time to go fer your gun on sight. Might bewise, too, fer it's likely he'll do thet same. "

"How about the horses?"

"I'll fetch them an' come along about two minnits behind you. 'Pears tome you ought to have the job done an' Jennie outside by the time I gitthere. Once on them hosses, we can ride out of camp before Alloway oranybody else gits into action. Jennie ain't much heavier than a rabbit. Thet big black will carry you both. "

"All right. But once more let me persuade you to stay--not to mix anymore in this, " said Duane, earnestly. 

"Nope. I'm goin'. You heard what Benson told me. Alloway wouldn't giveme the benefit of any doubts. Buck, a last word--look out fer thet Blandwoman!"

Duane merely nodded, and then, saying that the horses were ready, hestrode away through the grove. Accounting for the short cut across groveand field, it was about five minutes' walk up to Bland's house. ToDuane it seemed long in time and distance, and he had difficulty inrestraining his pace. As he walked there came a gradual and subtlechange in his feelings. Again he was going out to meet a man inconflict. He could have avoided this meeting. But despite the fact ofhis courting the encounter he had not as yet felt that hot, inexplicablerush of blood. The motive of this deadly action was not personal, andsomehow that made a difference. 

No outlaws were in sight. He saw several Mexican herders with cattle. Blue columns of smoke curled up over some of the cabins. The fragrantsmell 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 inthe sunlight. 

Then he entered Bland's lane. 

While yet some distance from the cabin he heard loud, angry voices ofman and woman. Bland and Kate still quarreling! He took a quick surveyof the surroundings. There was now not even a Mexican in sight. Thenhe hurried a little. Halfway down the lane he turned his head to peerthrough the cottonwoods. This time he saw Euchre coming with the horses. There was no indication that the old outlaw might lose his nerve at theend. Duane had feared this. 

Duane now changed his walk to a leisurely saunter. He reached the porchand then distinguished what was said inside the cabin. 

"If you do, Bland, by Heaven I'll fix you and her!" That was panted outin Kate Bland's full voice. 

"Let me looser I'm going in there, I tell you!" replied Bland, hoarsely. 

"What for?"

"I want to make a little love to her. Ha! ha! It'll be fun to have thelaugh on her new lover. "

"You lie!" cried Kate Bland. 

"I'm not saying what I'll do to her AFTERWARD!" His voice grew hoarserwith passion. "Let me go now!"

"No! no! I won't let you go. You'll choke the--the truth out ofher--you'll kill her. "

"The TRUTH!" hissed Bland. 

"Yes. I lied. Jen lied. But she lied to save me. You needn't--murderher--for that. "

Bland cursed horribly. Then followed a wrestling sound of bodies inviolent straining contact--the scrape of feet--the jangle of spurs--acrash of sliding table or chair, and then the cry of a woman in pain. 

Duane stepped into the open door, inside the room. Kate Bland lay halfacross a table where she had been flung, and she was trying to get toher feet. Bland's back was turned. He had opened the door into Jennie'sroom and had one foot across the threshold. Duane caught the girl's low, shuddering cry. Then he called out loud and clear. 

With cat-like swiftness Bland wheeled, then froze on the threshold. His sight, quick as his action, caught Duane's menacing unmistakableposition. 

Bland's big frame filled the door. He was in a bad place to reach forhis gun. But he would not have time for a step. Duane read in his eyesthe desperate calculation of chances. For a fleeting instant Blandshifted his glance to his wife. Then his whole body seemed to vibratewith the swing of his arm. 

Duane shot him. He fell forward, his gun exploding as it hit into thefloor, and dropped loose from stretching fingers. Duane stood over him, stooped to turn him on his back. Bland looked up with clouded gaze, thengasped his last. 

"Duane, you've killed him!" cried Kate Bland, huskily. "I knew you'dhave to!"

She staggered against the wall, her eyes dilating, her strong handsclenching, her face slowly whitening. She appeared shocked, halfstunned, but showed no grief. 

"Jennie!" called Duane, sharply. 

"Oh--Duane!" came a halting reply. 

"Yes. Come out. Hurry!"

She came out with uneven steps, seeing only him, and she stumbled overBland's body. Duane caught her arm, swung her behind him. He fearedthe woman when she realized how she had been duped. His action wasprotective, and his movement toward the door equally as significant. 

"Duane, " cried Mrs. Bland. 

It was no time for talk. Duane edged on, keeping Jennie behind him. Atthat 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 waschanging to realization. 

"Where 're you taking Jen?" she cried, her voice like a man's. "Get outof my way, " replied Duane. His look perhaps, without speech, was enoughfor her. In an instant she was transformed into a fury. 

"You hound! All the time you were fooling me! You made love to me! Youlet me believe--you swore you loved me! Now I see what was queer aboutyou. All for that girl! But you can't have her. You'll never leave herealive. Give me that girl! Let me--get at her! She'll never win any moremen in this camp. "

She was a powerful woman, and it took all Duane's strength to ward offher onslaughts. She clawed at Jennie over his upheld arm. Every secondher fury increased. 

"HELP! HELP! HELP!" she shrieked, in a voice that must have penetratedto the remotest cabin in the valley. 

"Let go! Let go!" cried Duane, low and sharp. He still held his gun inhis right hand, and it began to be hard for him to ward the woman off. His coolness had gone with her shriek for help. "Let go!" he repeated, and he shoved her fiercely. 

Suddenly she snatched a rifle off the wall and backed away, her stronghands fumbling at the lever. As she jerked it down, throwing a shellinto the chamber and cocking the weapon, Duane leaped upon her. Hestruck up the rifle as it went off, the powder burning his face. 

"Jennie, run out! Get on a horse!" he said. 

Jennie flashed out of the door. 

With an iron grasp Duane held to the rifle-barrel. He had grasped itwith his left hand, and he gave such a pull that he swung the crazedwoman off the floor. But he could not loose her grip. She was as strongas he. 

"Kate! Let go!"

He tried to intimidate her. She did not see his gun thrust in her face, or reason had given way to such an extent to passion that she did notcare. She cursed. Her husband had used the same curses, and from herlips they seemed strange, unsexed, more deadly. Like a tigress shefought him; her face no longer resembled a woman's. The evil of thatoutlaw life, the wildness and rage, the meaning to kill, was even insuch a moment terribly impressed upon Duane. 

He heard a cry from outside--a man's cry, hoarse and alarming. 

It made him think of loss of time. This demon of a woman might yet blockhis plan. 

"Let go!" he whispered, and felt his lips stiff. In the grimness of thatinstant he relaxed his hold on the rifle-barrel. 

With sudden, redoubled, irresistible strength she wrenched the rifledown and discharged it. Duane felt a blow--a shock--a burning agonytearing through his breast. Then in a frenzy he jerked so powerfullyupon the rifle that he threw the woman against the wall. She fell andseemed stunned. 

Duane leaped back, whirled, flew out of the door to the porch. The sharpcracking of a gun halted him. He saw Jennie holding to the bridle of hisbay 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, andEuchre's ceased. He fell from the horse. 

A swift glance back showed to Duane a man coming down the lane. ChessAlloway! His gun was smoking. He broke into a run. Then in an instant hesaw Duane, and tried to check his pace as he swung up his arm. But thatslight pause was fatal. Duane shot, and Alloway was falling when his gunwent off. His bullet whistled close to Duane and thudded into the cabin. 

Duane bounded down to the horses. Jennie was trying to hold the plungingbay. Euchre lay flat on his back, dead, a bullet-hole in his shirt, hisface set hard, and his hands twisted round gun and bridle. 

"Jennie, you've nerve, all right!" cried Duane, as he dragged downthe horse she was holding. "Up with you now! There! Never mind--longstirrups! Hang on somehow!"

He caught his bridle out of Euchre's clutching grip and leaped astride. The frightened horses jumped into a run and thundered down the lane intothe road. Duane saw men running from cabins. He heard shouts. Butthere were no shots fired. Jennie seemed able to stay on her horse, butwithout stirrups she was thrown about so much that Duane rode closer andreached out to grasp her arm. 

Thus they rode through the valley to the trail that led up over, thesteep and broken Rim Rock. As they began to climb Duane looked back. Nopursuers were in sight. 

"Jennie, we're going to get away!" he cried, exultation for her in hisvoice. 

She was gazing horror-stricken at his breast, as in turning to look backhe faced her. 

"Oh, Duane, your shirt's all bloody!" she faltered, pointing withtrembling fingers. 

With her words Duane became aware of two things--the hand heinstinctively placed to his breast still held his gun, and he hadsustained a terrible wound. 

Duane had been shot through the breast far enough down to give him graveapprehension of his life. The clean-cut hole made by the bullet bledfreely both at its entrance and where it had come out, but with no signsof hemorrhage. He did not bleed at the mouth; however, he began to coughup a reddish-tinged foam. 

As they rode on, Jennie, with pale face and mute lips, looked at him. 

"I'm badly hurt, Jennie, " he said, "but I guess I'll stick it out. "

"The woman--did she shoot you?"

"Yes. She was a devil. Euchre told me to look out for her. I wasn'tquick enough. "

"You didn't have to--to--" shivered the girl. 

"No! no!" he replied. 

They did not stop climbing while Duane tore a scarf and made compresses, which he bound tightly over his wounds. The fresh horses made fasttime up the rough trail. From open places Duane looked down. When theysurmounted the steep ascent and stood on top of the Rim Rock, withno signs of pursuit down in the valley, and with the wild, brokenfastnesses before them, Duane turned to the girl and assured her thatthey now had every chance of escape. 

"But--your--wound!" she faltered, with dark, troubled eyes. "I see--theblood--dripping from your back!"

"Jennie, I'll take a lot of killing, " he said. 

Then he became silent and attended to the uneven trail. He was awarepresently that he had not come into Bland's camp by this route. Butthat did not matter; any trail leading out beyond the Rim Rock was safeenough. What he wanted was to get far away into some wild retreat wherehe could hide till he recovered from his wound. He seemed to feel a fireinside his breast, and his throat burned so that it was necessary forhim to take a swallow of water every little while. He began to sufferconsiderable pain, which increased as the hours went by and then gaveway to a numbness. From that time on he had need of his great strengthand endurance. Gradually he lost his steadiness and his keen sight; andhe realized that if he were to meet foes, or if pursuing outlaws shouldcome up with him, he could make only a poor stand. So he turned off on atrail that appeared seldom traveled. 

Soon after this move he became conscious of a further thickening of hissenses. He felt able to hold on to his saddle for a while longer, but hewas failing. Then he thought he ought to advise Jennie, so in case shewas left alone she would have some idea of what to do. 

"Jennie, I'll give out soon, " he said. "No-I don't mean--what you think. But I'll drop soon. My strength's going. If I die--you ride back tothe main trail. Hide and rest by day. Ride at night. That trail goesto water. I believe you could get across the Nueces, where some rancherwill take you in. "

Duane could not get the meaning of her incoherent reply. He rode on, and soon he could not see the trail or hear his horse. He did notknow whether they traveled a mile or many times that far. But he wasconscious when the horse stopped, and had a vague sense of falling andfeeling Jennie's arms before all became dark to him. 

When consciousness returned he found himself lying in a little hut ofmesquite branches. It was well built and evidently some years old. Therewere two doors or openings, one in front and the other at the back. Duane imagined it had been built by a fugitive--one who meant to keep aneye both ways and not to be surprised. Duane felt weak and had no desireto move. Where was he, anyway? A strange, intangible sense of time, distance, of something far behind weighed upon him. Sight of the twopacks Euchre had made brought his thought to Jennie. What had become ofher? There was evidence of her work in a smoldering fire and a littleblackened coffee-pot. Probably she was outside looking after the horsesor getting water. He thought he heard a step and listened, but he felttired, and presently his eyes closed and he fell into a doze. 

Awakening from this, he saw Jennie sitting beside him. In some wayshe seemed to have changed. When he spoke she gave a start and turnedeagerly to him. 

"Duane!" she cried. 

"Hello. How're you, Jennie, and how am I?" he said, finding it a littledifficult to talk. 

"Oh, I'm all right, " she replied. "And you've come to--your wound'shealed; but you've been sick. Fever, I guess. I did all I could. "

Duane saw now that the difference in her was a whiteness and tightnessof skin, a hollowness of eye, a look of strain. 

"Fever? How long have we been here?" he asked. 

She took some pebbles from the crown of his sombrero and counted them. 

"Nine. Nine days, " she answered. 

"Nine days!" he exclaimed, incredulously. But another look at herassured him that she meant what she said. "I've been sick all the time?You nursed me?"

"Yes. "

"Bland's men didn't come along here?"

"No. "

"Where are the horses?"

"I keep them grazing down in a gorge back of here. There's good grassand water. "

"Have you slept any?"

"A little. Lately I couldn't keep awake. "

"Good Lord! I should think not. You've had a time of it sitting here dayand night nursing me, watching for the outlaws. Come, tell me all aboutit. "

"There's nothing much to tell. "

"I want to know, anyway, just what you did--how you felt. "

"I can't remember very well, " she replied, simply. "We must have riddenforty miles that day we got away. You bled all the time. Toward eveningyou lay on your horse's neck. When we came to this place you fell out ofthe saddle. I dragged you in here and stopped your bleeding. I thoughtyou'd die that night. But in the morning I had a little hope. I hadforgotten the horses. But luckily they didn't stray far. I caught themand kept them down in the gorge. When your wounds closed and you beganto breathe stronger I thought you'd get well quick. It was fever thatput you back. You raved a lot, and that worried me, because I couldn'tstop you. Anybody trailing us could have heard you a good ways. I don'tknow whether I was scared most then or when you were quiet, and it wasso dark and lonely and still all around. Every day I put a stone in yourhat. "

"Jennie, you saved my life, " said Duane. 

"I don't know. Maybe. I did all I knew how to do, " she replied. "Yousaved mine--more than my life. "

Their eyes met in a long gaze, and then their hands in a close clasp. 

"Jennie, we're going to get away, " he said, with gladness. "I'll be wellin a few days. You don't know how strong I am. We'll hide by day andtravel by night. I can get you across the river. "

"And then?" she asked. 

"We'll find some honest rancher. "

"And then?" she persisted. 

"Why, " he began, slowly, "that's as far as my thoughts ever got. Itwas pretty hard, I tell you, to assure myself of so much. It means yoursafety. You'll tell your story. You'll be sent to some village or townand taken care of until a relative or friend is notified. "

"And you?" she inquired, in a strange voice. 

Duane kept silence. 

"What will you do?" she went on. 

"Jennie, I'll go back to the brakes. I daren't show my face amongrespectable people. I'm an outlaw. "

"You're no criminal!" she declared, with deep passion. 

"Jennie, on this border the little difference between an out law and acriminal doesn't count for much. "

"You won't go back among those terrible men? You, with your gentlenessand sweetness--all that's good about you? Oh, Duane, don't--don't go!"

"I can't go back to the outlaws, at least not Bland's band. No, I'll goalone. I'll lone-wolf it, as they say on the border. What else can I do, Jennie?"

"Oh, I don't know. Couldn't you hide? Couldn't you slip out of Texas--gofar away?"

"I could never get out of Texas without being arrested. I could hide, but a man must live. Never mind about me, Jennie. "

In three days Duane was able with great difficulty to mount his horse. During daylight, by short relays, he and Jennie rode back to the maintrail, where they hid again till he had rested. Then in the dark theyrode out of the canons and gullies of the Rim Rock, and early in themorning halted at the first water to camp. 

From that point they traveled after nightfall and went into hidingduring the day. Once across the Nueces River, Duane was assured ofsafety for her and great danger for himself. They had crossed intoa country he did not know. Somewhere east of the river there werescattered ranches. But he was as liable to find the rancher in touchwith the outlaws as he was likely to find him honest. Duane hoped hisgood fortune would not desert him in this last service to Jennie. Nextto the worry of that was realization of his condition. He had gottenup too soon; he had ridden too far and hard, and now he felt that anymoment he might fall from his saddle. At last, far ahead over a barrenmesquite-dotted stretch of dusty ground, he espied a patch of green anda little flat, red ranch-house. He headed his horse for it and turned aface he tried to make cheerful for Jennie's sake. She seemed both happyand sorry. 

When near at hand he saw that the rancher was a thrifty farmer. Andthrift spoke for honesty. There were fields of alfalfa, fruit-trees, corrals, windmill pumps, irrigation-ditches, all surrounding a neatlittle adobe house. Some children were playing in the yard. The waythey ran at sight of Duane hinted of both the loneliness and the fearof their isolated lives. Duane saw a woman come to the door, then a man. The latter looked keenly, then stepped outside. He was a sandy-haired, freckled Texan. 

"Howdy, stranger, " he called, as Duane halted. "Get down, you an' yourwoman. Say, now, air you sick or shot or what? Let me--"

Duane, reeling in his saddle, bent searching eyes upon the rancher. Hethought he saw good will, kindness, honesty. He risked all on that onesharp glance. Then he almost plunged from the saddle. 

The rancher caught him, helped him to a bench. 

"Martha, come out here!" he called. "This man's sick. No; he's shot, orI don't know blood-stains. "

Jennie had slipped off her horse and to Duane's side. Duane appearedabout to faint. 

"Air you his wife?" asked the rancher. 

"No. I'm only a girl he saved from outlaws. Oh, he's so paler Duane, Duane!"

"Buck Duane!" exclaimed the rancher, excitedly. "The man who killedBland an' Alloway? Say, I owe him a good turn, an' I'll pay it, youngwoman. "

The rancher's wife came out, and with a manner at once kind andpractical essayed to make Duane drink from a flask. He was not so fargone that he could not recognize its contents, which he refused, andweakly asked for water. When that was given him he found his voice. 

"Yes, I'm Duane. I've only overdone myself--just all in. The wounds Igot at Bland's are healing. Will you take this girl in--hide her awhiletill the excitement's over among the outlaws?"

"I shore will, " replied the Texan. 

"Thanks. I'll remember you--I'll square it. "

"What 're you goin' to do?"

"I'll rest a bit--then go back to the brakes. "

"Young man, you ain't in any shape to travel. See here--any rustlers onyour trail?"

"I think we gave Bland's gang the slip. "

"Good. I'll tell you what. I'll take you in along with the girl, an'hide both of you till you get well. It'll be safe. My nearest neighboris five miles off. We don't have much company. "

"You risk a great deal. Both outlaws and rangers are hunting me, " saidDuane. 

"Never seen a ranger yet in these parts. An' have always got along withoutlaws, mebbe exceptin' Bland. I tell you I owe you a good turn. "

"My horses might betray you, " added Duane. 

"I'll hide them in a place where there's water an' grass. Nobody goes toit. Come now, let me help you indoors. "

Duane's last fading sensations of that hard day were the strange feel ofa bed, a relief at the removal of his heavy boots, and of Jennie's soft, cool hands on his hot face. 

He lay ill for three weeks before he began to mend, and it was anotherweek 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 endof this long siege that he recovered his spirits. During most of hisillness he had been silent, moody. 

"Jennie, I'll be riding off soon, " he said, one evening. "I can't imposeon this good man Andrews much longer. I'll never forget his kindness. His wife, too--she's been so good to us. Yes, Jennie, you and I willhave to say good-by very soon. "

"Don't hurry away, " she replied. 

Lately Jennie had appeared strange to him. She had changed from thegirl he used to see at Mrs. Bland's house. He took her reluctance to saygood-by as another indication of her regret that he must go back to thebrakes. Yet somehow it made him observe her more closely. She wore aplain, white dress made from material Mrs. Andrews had given her. Sleepand good food had improved her. If she had been pretty out there in theoutlaw 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, witha growing certainty that he would be sorry not to see her again. 

"It's likely we won't ever see each other again, " he said. "That'sstrange to think of. We've been through some hard days, and I seem tohave known you a long time. "

Jennie appeared shy, almost sad, so Duane changed the subject tosomething less personal. 

Andrews returned one evening from a several days' trip to Huntsville. 

"Duane, everybody's talkie' about how you cleaned up the Bland outfit, "he said, important and full of news. "It's some exaggerated, accordin'to what you told me; but you've shore made friends on this side of theNueces. I reckon there ain't a town where you wouldn't find people towelcome you. Huntsville, you know, is some divided in its ideas. Halfthe people are crooked. Likely enough, all them who was so loud inpraise of you are the crookedest. For instance, I met King Fisher, theboss 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' honestcattlemen. Now that Bland and Alloway are done for, King Fisher willfind rustlin' easier. There's talk of Hardin movie' his camp over toBland's. But I don't know how true it is. I reckon there ain't muchto it. In the past when a big outlaw chief went under, his band almostalways broke up an' scattered. There's no one left who could run thetoutfit. "

"Did you hear of any outlaws hunting me?" asked Duane. 

"Nobody from Bland's outfit is huntin' you, thet's shore, " repliedAndrews. "Fisher said there never was a hoss straddled to go on yourtrail. Nobody had any use for Bland. Anyhow, his men would be afraid totrail you. An' you could go right in to Huntsville, where you'd be somepopular. Reckon you'd be safe, too, except when some of them fool saloonloafers or bad cowpunchers would try to shoot you for the glory in it. Them kind of men will bob up everywhere you go, Duane. "

"I'll be able to ride and take care of myself in a day or two, " went onDuane. "Then I'll go--I'd like to talk to you about Jennie. "

"She's welcome to a home here with us. "

"Thank you, Andrews. You're a kind man. But I want Jennie to get fartheraway from the Rio Grande. She'd never be safe here. Besides, she may beable to find relatives. She has some, though she doesn't know where theyare. "

"All right, Duane. Whatever you think best. I reckon now you'd bettertake 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 helpher. You needn't ride into town at all. "

"Which place is nearer, and how far is it?"

"Shelbyville. I reckon about two days' ride. Poor stock country, so youain't liable to meet rustlers. All the same, better hit the trail atnight an' go careful. "

At sunset two days later Duane and Jennie mounted their horses and saidgood-by to the rancher and his wife. Andrews would not listen to Duane'sthanks. 

"I tell you I'm beholden to you yet, " he declared. 

"Well, what can I do for you?" asked Duane. "I may come along here againsome day. "

"Get down an' come in, then, or you're no friend of mine. I reckon thereain't nothin' I can think of--I just happen to remember--" Here he ledDuane out of earshot of the women and went on in a whisper. "Buck, Iused to be well-to-do. Got skinned by a man named Brown--Rodney Brown. He lives in Huntsville, an' he's my enemy. I never was much on fightin', or I'd fixed him. Brown ruined me--stole all I had. He's a hoss an'cattle thief, an' he has pull enough at home to protect him. I reckon Ineedn't say any more. "

"Is this Brown a man who shot an outlaw named Stevens?" queried Duane, curiously. 

"Shore, he's the same. I heard thet story. Brown swears he pluggedStevens through the middle. But the outlaw rode off, an' nobody everknew for shore. "

"Luke Stevens died of that shot. I buried him, " said Duane. 

Andrews made no further comment, and the two men returned to the women. 

"The main road for about three miles, then where it forks take theleft-hand road and keep on straight. That what you said, Andrews?"

"Shore. An' good luck to you both!"

Duane and Jennie trotted away into the gathering twilight. At the momentan insistent thought bothered Duane. Both Luke Stevens and the rancherAndrews had hinted to Duane to kill a man named Brown. Duane wishedwith all his heart that they had not mentioned it, let alone taken forgranted the execution of the deed. What a bloody place Texas was! Menwho robbed and men who were robbed both wanted murder. It was in thespirit of the country. Duane certainly meant to avoid ever meeting thisRodney Brown. And that very determination showed Duane how dangeroushe really was--to men and to himself. Sometimes he had a feeling of howlittle stood between his sane and better self and a self utterly wildand terrible. He reasoned that only intelligence could save him--only athoughtful understanding of his danger and a hold upon some ideal. 

Then he fell into low conversation with Jennie, holding out hopefulviews of her future, and presently darkness set in. The sky was overcastwith heavy clouds; there was no air moving; the heat and oppressionthreatened 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 wasbothered by the blackness of the night. Traveling fast was impossible, and any moment he might miss the road that led off to the left. Sohe was compelled to give all his attention to peering into the thickshadows ahead. As good luck would have it, he came to higher groundwhere there was less mesquite, and therefore not such impenetrabledarkness; and at this point he came to where the road split. 

Once headed in the right direction, he felt easier in mind. To hisannoyance, however, a fine, misty rain set in. Jennie was not welldressed for wet weather; and, for that matter, neither was he. His coat, which in that dry warm climate he seldom needed, was tied behind hissaddle, and he put it on Jennie. 

They traveled on. The rain fell steadily; if anything, growing thicker. Duane grew uncomfortably wet and chilly. Jennie, however, fared somewhatbetter by reason of the heavy coat. The night passed quickly despite thediscomfort, and soon a gray, dismal, rainy dawn greeted the travelers. 

Jennie insisted that he find some shelter where a fire could be built todry 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 barrenwaste seemed a futile task. Quite unexpectedly, however, they happenedupon a deserted adobe cabin situated a little off the road. Not only didit prove to have a dry interior, but also there was firewood. Waterwas available in pools everywhere; however, there was no grass for thehorses. 

A good fire and hot food and drink changed the aspect of their conditionas far as comfort went. And Jennie lay down to sleep. For Duane, however, there must be vigilance. This cabin was no hiding-place. Therain fell harder all the time, and the wind changed to the north. "It'sa norther, all right, " muttered Duane. "Two or three days. " And he feltthat his extraordinary luck had not held out. Still one point favoredhim, and it was that travelers were not likely to come along during thestorm. Jennie slept while Duane watched. The saving of this girl meantmore to him than any task he had ever assumed. First it had been partlyfrom a human feeling to succor an unfortunate woman, and partly a motiveto establish clearly to himself that he was no outlaw. Lately, however, had come a different sense, a strange one, with something personal andwarm and protective in it. 

As he looked down upon her, a slight, slender girl with bedraggled dressand 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 herfragility, her prettiness, her femininity as never before. But for himshe might at that very moment have been a broken, ruined girl lyingback in that cabin of the Blands'. The fact gave him a feeling of hisimportance in this shifting of her destiny. She was unharmed, stillyoung; she would forget and be happy; she would live to be a goodwife and mother. Somehow the thought swelled his heart. His act, death-dealing as it had been, was a noble one, and helped him to holdon to his drifting hopes. Hardly once since Jennie had entered into histhought had those ghosts returned to torment him. 

To-morrow she would be gone among good, kind people with a possibilityof finding her relatives. He thanked God for that; nevertheless, he felta pang. 

She slept more than half the day. Duane kept guard, always alert, whether he was sitting, standing, or walking. The rain pattered steadilyon the roof and sometimes came in gusty flurries through the door. The horses were outside in a shed that afforded poor shelter, and theystamped restlessly. Duane kept them saddled and bridled. 

About the middle of the afternoon Jennie awoke. They cooked a mealand afterward sat beside the little fire. She had never been, in hisobservation of her, anything but a tragic figure, an unhappy girl, thefarthest removed from serenity and poise. That characteristic capacityfor agitation struck him as stronger in her this day. He attributed it, however, to the long strain, the suspense nearing an end. Yet sometimeswhen her eyes were on him she did not seem to be thinking of herfreedom, of her future. 

"This time to-morrow you'll be in Shelbyville, " he said. 

"Where will you be?" she asked, quickly. 

"Me? Oh, I'll be making tracks for some lonesome place, " he replied. 

The girl shuddered. 

"I've been brought up in Texas. I remember what a hard lot the men of myfamily had. But poor as they were, they had a roof over their heads, a hearth with a fire, a warm bed--somebody to love them. And you, Duane--oh, my God! What must your life be? You must ride and hide andwatch eternally. No decent food, no pillow, no friendly word, no cleanclothes, no woman's hand! Horses, guns, trails, rocks, holes--these mustbe the important things in your life. You must go on riding, hiding, killing until you meet--"

She ended with a sob and dropped her head on her knees. Duane wasamazed, deeply touched. 

"My girl, thank you for that thought of me, " he said, with a tremor inhis voice. "You don't know how much that means to me. "

She raised her face, and it was tear-stained, eloquent, beautiful. 

"I've heard tell--the best of men go to the bad out there. You won't. Promise me you won't. I never--knew any man--like you. I--I--we maynever see each other again--after to-day. I'll never forget you. I'llpray for you, and I'll never give up trying to--to do something. Don'tdespair. It's never too late. It was my hope that kept me alive--outthere at Bland's--before you came. I was only a poor weak girl. But ifI could hope--so can you. Stay away from men. Be a lone wolf. Fight foryour life. Stick out your exile--and maybe--some day--"

Then she lost her voice. Duane clasped her hand and with feeling as deepas hers promised to remember her words. In her despair for him she hadspoken wisdom--pointed out the only course. 

Duane's vigilance, momentarily broken by emotion, had no soonerreasserted itself than he discovered the bay horse, the one Jennie rode, had broken his halter and gone off. The soft wet earth had deadened thesound of his hoofs. His tracks were plain in the mud. There were clumpsof mesquite in sight, among which the horse might have strayed. Itturned out, however, that he had not done so. 

Duane did not want to leave Jennie alone in the cabin so near the road. So he put her up on his horse and bade her follow. The rain had ceasedfor the time being, though evidently the storm was not yet over. Thetracks led up a wash to a wide flat where mesquite, prickly pear, andthorn-bush grew so thickly that Jennie could not ride into it. Duane wasthoroughly concerned. He must have her horse. Time was flying. It wouldsoon be night. He could not expect her to scramble quickly through thatbrake on foot. Therefore he decided to risk leaving her at the edge ofthe thicket and go in alone. 

As he went in a sound startled him. Was it the breaking of a branchhe had stepped on or thrust aside? He heard the impatient pound ofhis horse's hoofs. Then all was quiet. Still he listened, not whollysatisfied. He was never satisfied in regard to safety; he knew too wellthat there never could be safety for him in this country. 

The bay horse had threaded the aisles of the thicket. Duane wonderedwhat had drawn him there. Certainly it had not been grass, for there wasnone. Presently he heard the horse tramping along, and then he ran. Themud was deep, and the sharp thorns made going difficult. He came upwith the horse, and at the same moment crossed a multitude of freshhorse-tracks. 

He bent lower to examine them, and was alarmed to find that they hadbeen made very recently, even since it had ceased raining. They weretracks of well-shod horses. Duane straightened up with a cautious glanceall around. His instant decision was to hurry back to Jennie. But hehad come a goodly way through the thicket, and it was impossible to rushback. Once or twice he imagined he heard crashings in the brush, butdid not halt to make sure. Certain he was now that some kind of dangerthreatened. 

Suddenly there came an unmistakable thump of horses' hoofs off somewhereto the fore. Then a scream rent the air. It ended abruptly. Duane leapedforward, tore his way through the thorny brake. He heard Jennie cryagain--an appealing call quickly hushed. It seemed more to his right, and he plunged that way. He burst into a glade where a smoldering fireand ground covered with footprints and tracks showed that campers hadlately been. Rushing across this, he broke his passage out to the open. But he was too late. His horse had disappeared. Jennie was gone. Therewere no riders in sight. There was no sound. There was a heavy trail ofhorses going north. Jennie had been carried off--probably by outlaws. Duane realized that pursuit was out of the question--that Jennie waslost. 

CHAPTER X

A hundred miles from the haunts most familiar with Duane's deeds, farup where the Nueces ran a trickling clear stream between yellow cliffs, stood a small deserted shack of covered mesquite poles. It had been madelong ago, but was well preserved. A door faced the overgrown trail, and another faced down into a gorge of dense thickets. On the borderfugitives from law and men who hid in fear of some one they had wrongednever lived in houses with only one door. 

It was a wild spot, lonely, not fit for human habitation except for theoutcast. He, perhaps, might have found it hard to leave for most of theother wild nooks in that barren country. Down in the gorge therewas never-failing sweet water, grass all the year round, cool, shadyretreats, deer, rabbits, turkeys, fruit, and miles and miles ofnarrow-twisting, deep canon full of broken rocks and impenetrablethickets. The scream of the panther was heard there, the squall of thewildcat, the cough of the jaguar. Innumerable bees buzzed in the springblossoms, and, it seemed, scattered honey to the winds. All day therewas continuous song of birds, that of the mocking-bird loud and sweetand mocking above the rest. 

On clear days--and rare indeed were cloudy days--with the subsidingof the wind at sunset a hush seemed to fall around the little hut. Far-distant dim-blue mountains stood gold-rimmed gradually to fade withthe shading of light. 

At this quiet hour a man climbed up out of the gorge and sat in thewestward door of the hut. This lonely watcher of the west and listenerto the silence was Duane. And this hut was the one where, three yearsbefore, Jennie had nursed him back to life. 

The killing of a man named Sellers, and the combination of circumstancesthat had made the tragedy a memorable regret, had marked, if not achange, at least a cessation in Duane's activities. He had trailedSellers to kill him for the supposed abducting of Jennie. He had trailedhim long after he had learned Sellers traveled alone. Duane wantedabsolute assurance of Jennie's death. Vague rumors, a few words here andthere, unauthenticated stories, were all Duane had gathered in years tosubstantiate his belief--that Jennie died shortly after the beginning ofher second captivity. But Duane did not know surely. Sellers might havetold him. Duane expected, if not to force it from him at the end, toread it in his eyes. But the bullet went too unerringly; it locked hislips and fixed his eyes. 

After that meeting Duane lay long at the ranchhouse of a friend, andwhen he recovered from the wound Sellers had given him he started withtwo horses and a pack for the lonely gorge on the Nueces. There hehad been hidden for months, a prey to remorse, a dreamer, a victim ofphantoms. 

It took work for him to find subsistence in that rocky fastness. Andwork, action, helped to pass the hours. But he could not work all thetime, even if he had found it to do. Then in his idle moments and atnight his task was to live with the hell in his mind. 

The sunset and the twilight hour made all the rest bearable. The littlehut on the rim of the gorge seemed to hold Jennie's presence. It was notas if he felt her spirit. If it had been he would have been sure of herdeath. He hoped Jennie had not survived her second misfortune; and thatintense hope had burned into belief, if not surety. Upon his return tothat locality, on the occasion of his first visit to the hut, he hadfound things just as they had left them, and a poor, faded piece ofribbon Jennie had used to tie around her bright hair. No wanderingoutlaw or traveler had happened upon the lonely spot, which furtherendeared it to Duane. 

A strange feature of this memory of Jennie was the freshness of it--thefailure of years, toil, strife, death-dealing to dim it--to deadenthe thought of what might have been. He had a marvelous gift ofvisualization. He could shut his eyes and see Jennie before him just asclearly 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 wouldtaste. He saw Jennie's slender, graceful figure, the old brown raggeddress in which he had seen her first at Bland's, her little feet inMexican sandals, her fine hands coarsened by work, her round arms andswelling throat, and her pale, sad, beautiful face with its staring darkeyes. He remembered every look she had given him, every word she hadspoken to him, every time she had touched him. He thought of her beautyand sweetness, of the few things which had come to mean to him thatshe must have loved him; and he trained himself to think of these inpreference to her life at Bland's, the escape with him, and then herrecapture, because such memories led to bitter, fruitless pain. He hadto fight suffering because it was eating out his heart. 

Sitting there, eyes wide open, he dreamed of the old homestead and hiswhite-haired mother. He saw the old home life, sweetened and filled bydear new faces and added joys, go on before his eyes with him a part ofit. 

Then in the inevitable reaction, in the reflux of bitter reality, hewould send out a voiceless cry no less poignant because it was silent:"Poor fool! No, I shall never see mother again--never go home--neverhave 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, awife? No bright-haired boy, no dark-eyed girl will ever love me. I aman outlaw, an outcast, dead to the good and decent world. I amalone--alone. Better be a callous brute or better dead! I shall go madthinking! Man, what is left to you? A hiding-place like a wolf's--lonelysilent days, lonely nights with phantoms! Or the trail and the road withtheir bloody tracks, and then the hard ride, the sleepless, hungry rideto some hole in rocks or brakes. What hellish thing drives me? Why can'tI end it all? What is left? Only that damned unquenchable spirit of thegun-fighter to live--to hang on to miserable life--to have no fear ofdeath, yet to cling like a leach--to die as gun-fighters seldom die, with boots off! Bain, you were first, and you're long avenged. I'dchange with you. And Sellers, you were last, and you're avenged. And youothers--you're avenged. Lie quiet in your graves and give me peace!"

But they did not lie quiet in their graves and give him peace. 

A group of specters trooped out of the shadows of dusk and, gatheringround him, escorted him to his bed. 

When Duane had been riding the trails passion-bent to escape pursuers, or passion-bent in his search, the constant action and toil andexhaustion made him sleep. But when in hiding, as time passed, graduallyhe required less rest and sleep, and his mind became more active. Littleby little his phantoms gained hold on him, and at length, but for thesaving power of his dreams, they would have claimed him utterly. 

How many times he had said to himself: "I am an intelligent man. I'mnot crazy. I'm in full possession of my faculties. All this isfancy--imagination--conscience. I've no work, no duty, no ideal, nohope--and my mind is obsessed, thronged with images. And these imagesnaturally 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 growsweak, then maybe I'm not just right till the mood wears out and lets mesleep. "

So he reasoned as he lay down in his comfortable camp. The night wasstar-bright above the canon-walls, darkly shadowing down between them. The insects hummed and chirped and thrummed a continuous thick song, lowand monotonous. Slow-running water splashed softly over stones in thestream-bed. From far down the canon came the mournful hoot of an owl. The moment he lay down, thereby giving up action for the day, all thesethings weighed upon him like a great heavy mantle of loneliness. Intruth, they did not constitute loneliness. 

And he could no more have dispelled thought than he could have reachedout to touch a cold, bright star. 

He wondered how many outcasts like him lay under this star-studded, velvety sky across the fifteen hundred miles of wild country betweenEl Paso and the mouth of the river. A vast wild territory--a refuge foroutlaws! Somewhere he had heard or read that the Texas Rangers kept abook with names and records of outlaws--three thousand known outlaws. Yet these could scarcely be half of that unfortunate horde which hadbeen recruited from all over the states. Duane had traveled from camp tocamp, den to den, hiding-place to hiding-place, and he knew these men. Most of them were hopeless criminals; some were avengers; a few werewronged wanderers; and among them occasionally was a man, human in hisway, honest as he could be, not yet lost to good. 

But all of them were akin in one sense--their outlawry; and that starrynight 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 muchdifference in Duane's thought of them that the majority were steeped incrime and brutality, more often than not stupid from rum, incapable of afine feeling, just lost wild dogs. 

Duane doubted that there was a man among them who did not realize hismoral 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 ofall their lives--the hardened outlaw, coarse, ignorant, bestial, whomurdered as Bill Black had murdered, who stole for the sake of stealing, who craved money to gamble and drink, defiantly ready for death, and, like that terrible outlaw, Helm, who cried out on the scaffold, "Let herrip!"

The wild youngsters seeking notoriety and reckless adventure; thecowboys with a notch on their guns, with boastful pride in the knowledgethat they were marked by rangers; the crooked men from the North, defaulters, forgers, murderers, all pale-faced, flat-chested men not fitfor that wilderness and not surviving; the dishonest cattlemen, handand glove with outlaws, driven from their homes; the old grizzled, bow-legged genuine rustlers--all these Duane had come in contact with, had watched and known, and as he felt with them he seemed to see that astheir lives were bad, sooner or later to end dismally or tragically, sothey must pay some kind of earthly penalty--if not of conscience, thenof fear; if not of fear, then of that most terrible of all things torestless, active men--pain, the pang of flesh and bone. 

Duane knew, for he had seen them pay. Best of all, moreover, he knew theinternal life of the gun-fighter of that select but by no means smallclass of which he was representative. The world that judged him and hiskind judged him as a machine, a killing-machine, with only mind enoughto hunt, to meet, to slay another man. It had taken three endless yearsfor Duane to understand his own father. Duane knew beyond all doubt thatthe gun-fighters like Bland, like Alloway, like Sellers, men who wereevil and had no remorse, no spiritual accusing Nemesis, had somethingfar more torturing to mind, more haunting, more murderous of rest andsleep and peace; and that something was abnormal fear of death. Duaneknew this, for he had shot these men; he had seen the quick, dark shadowin eyes, the presentiment that the will could not control, and then thehorrible certainty. These men must have been in agony at every meetingwith a possible or certain foe--more agony than the hot rend of abullet. They were haunted, too, haunted by this fear, by every victimcalling from the grave that nothing was so inevitable as death, whichlurked behind every corner, hid in every shadow, lay deep in the darktube of every gun. These men could not have a friend; they could notlove or trust a woman. They knew their one chance of holding on to lifelay in their own distrust, watchfulness, dexterity, and that hope, bythe very nature of their lives, could not be lasting. They had doomedthemselves. What, then, could possibly have dwelt in the depths oftheir minds as they went to their beds on a starry night like this, withmystery in silence and shadow, with time passing surely, and the darkfuture and its secret approaching every hour--what, then, but hell?

The hell in Duane's mind was not fear of man or fear of death. He wouldhave been glad to lay down the burden of life, providing death camenaturally. Many times he had prayed for it. But that overdeveloped, superhuman spirit of defense in him precluded suicide or the inviting ofan enemy's bullet. Sometimes he had a vague, scarcely analyzed idea thatthis spirit was what had made the Southwest habitable for the white man. 

Every one of his victims, singly and collectively, returned to him forever, it seemed, in cold, passionless, accusing domination of thesehaunted hours. They did not accuse him of dishonor or cowardice orbrutality or murder; they only accused him of Death. It was as if theyknew more than when they were alive, had learned that life was a divinemysterious gift not to be taken. They thronged about him with theirvoiceless clamoring, drifted around him with their fading eyes. 

CHAPTER XI

After nearly six months in the Nueces gorge the loneliness and inactionof his life drove Duane out upon the trails seeking anything rather thanto hide longer alone, a prey to the scourge of his thoughts. The momenthe rode into sight of men a remarkable transformation occurred in him. Astrange warmth stirred in him--a longing to see the faces of people, to hear their voices--a pleasurable emotion sad and strange. But it wasonly 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 forceand will went to the preservation of his life. 

Mercer was the first village he rode into. He had many friends there. Mercer claimed to owe Duane a debt. On the outskirts of the villagethere was a grave overgrown by brush so that the rude-lettered postwhich marked it was scarcely visible to Duane as he rode by. He hadnever read the inscription. But he thought now of Hardin, no other thanthe erstwhile ally of Bland. For many years Hardin had harassed thestockmen and ranchers in and around Mercer. On an evil day for him heor his outlaws had beaten and robbed a man who once succored Duanewhen 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, andkilled him in the act. 

Duane went to the house of one Jones, a Texan who had known his father, and there he was warmly received. The feel of an honest hand, the voiceof a friend, the prattle of children who were not afraid of him or hisgun, good wholesome food, and change of clothes--these things for thetime being made a changed man of Duane. To be sure, he did not oftenspeak. The price of his head and the weight of his burden made himsilent. But eagerly he drank in all the news that was told him. Inthe years of his absence from home he had never heard a word about hismother or uncle. Those who were his real friends on the border wouldhave been the last to make inquiries, to write or receive letters thatmight give a clue to Duane's whereabouts. 

Duane remained all day with this hospitable Jones, and as twilightfell was loath to go and yielded to a pressing invitation to remainovernight. It was seldom indeed that Duane slept under a roof. Earlyin the evening, while Duane sat on the porch with two awed andhero-worshiping sons of the house, Jones returned from a quick visitdown to the post-office. Summarily he sent the boys off. He laboredunder intense excitement. 

"Duane, there's rangers in town, " he whispered. "It's all over town, too, that you're here. You rode in long after sunup. Lots of people sawyou. I don't believe there's a man or boy that 'd squeal on you. But thewomen might. They gossip, and these rangers are handsome fellows--devilswith the women. "

"What company of rangers?" asked Duane, quickly. 

"Company A, under Captain MacNelly, that new ranger. He made a big namein the war. And since he's been in the ranger service he's done wonders. He's cleaned up some bad places south, and he's working north. "

"MacNelly. I've heard of him. Describe him to me. "

"Slight-built chap, but wiry and tough. Clean face, black mustache andhair. Sharp black eyes. He's got a look of authority. MacNelly's a fineman, Duane. Belongs to a good Southern family. I'd hate to have him lookyou up. "

Duane did not speak. 

"MacNelly's got nerve, and his rangers are all experienced men. If theyfind 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 anyofficer except a rotten sheriff now and then, like Rod Brown. "

Still Duane kept silence. He was not thinking of danger, but of the factof how fleeting must be his stay among friends. 

"I've already fixed up a pack of grub, " went on Jones. "I'll slip out tosaddle your horse. You watch here. "

He had scarcely uttered the last word when soft, swift footsteps soundedon the hard path. A man turned in at the gate. The light was dim, yetclean enough to disclose an unusually tall figure. When it appearednearer he was seen to be walking with both arms raised, hands high. Heslowed his stride. 

"Does Burt Jones live here?" he asked, in a low, hurried voice. 

"I reckon. I'm Burt. What can I do for you?" replied Jones. 

The stranger peered around, stealthily came closer, still with his handsup. 

"It is known that Buck Duane is here. Captain MacNelly's camping on theriver just out of town. He sends word to Duane to come out there afterdark. "

The stranger wheeled and departed as swiftly and strangely as he hadcome. 

"Bust me! Duane, whatever do you make of that?" exclaimed Jones. 

"A new one on me, " replied Duane, thoughtfully. 

"First fool thing I ever heard of MacNelly doing. Can't make head nortails of it. I'd have said offhand that MacNelly wouldn't double-crossanybody. He struck me as a square man, sand all through. But, hell! hemust mean treachery. I can't see anything else in that deal. "

"Maybe the Captain wants to give me a fair chance to surrender withoutbloodshed, " observed Duane. "Pretty decent of him, if he meant that. "

"He INVITES YOU out to his camp AFTER DARK. Something strange aboutthis, Duane. But MacNelly's a new man out here. He does some queerthings. Perhaps he's getting a swelled head. Well, whatever hisintentions, his presence around Mercer is enough for us. Duane, youhit the road and put some miles between you the amiable Captain beforedaylight. To-morrow I'll go out there and ask him what in the devil hemeant. "

"That messenger he sent--he was a ranger, " said Duane. 

"Sure he was, and a nervy one! It must have taken sand to come bracingyou that way. Duane, the fellow didn't pack a gun. I'll swear to that. Pretty odd, this trick. But you can't trust it. Hit the road, Duane. "

A little later a black horse with muffled hoofs, bearing a tall, darkrider who peered keenly into every shadow, trotted down a pasture laneback of Jones's house, turned into the road, and then, breaking intoswifter gait, rapidly left Mercer behind. 

Fifteen or twenty miles out Duane drew rein in a forest of mesquite, dismounted, and searched about for a glade with a little grass. Here hestaked his horse on a long lariat; and, using his saddle for a pillow, his saddle-blanket for covering, he went to sleep. 

Next morning he was off again, working south. During the next few dayshe paid brief visits to several villages that lay in his path. And ineach some one particular friend had a piece of news to impart that madeDuane profoundly thoughtful. A ranger had made a quiet, unobtrusive callupon these friends and left this message, "Tell Buck Duane to ride intoCaptain MacNelly's camp some time after night. "

Duane concluded, and his friends all agreed with him, that the newranger's main purpose in the Nueces country was to capture or kill BuckDuane, and that this message was simply an original and striking ruse, the daring of which might appeal to certain outlaws. 

But it did not appeal to Duane. His curiosity was aroused; it did not, however, tempt him to any foolhardy act. He turned southwest and rode ahundred miles until he again reached the sparsely settled country. Herehe heard no more of rangers. It was a barren region he had never butonce ridden through, and that ride had cost him dear. He had beencompelled to shoot his way out. Outlaws were not in accord with thefew ranchers and their cowboys who ranged there. He learned that bothoutlaws and Mexican raiders had long been at bitter enmity with theseranchers. Being unfamiliar with roads and trails, Duane had pushed oninto the heart of this district, when all the time he really believed hewas traveling around it. A rifle-shot from a ranch-house, a deliberateattempt to kill him because he was an unknown rider in those parts, discovered to Duane his mistake; and a hard ride to get away persuadedhim to return to his old methods of hiding by day and traveling bynight. 

He got into rough country, rode for three days without covering muchground, but believed that he was getting on safer territory. Twice hecame to a wide bottom-land green with willow and cottonwood and thick aschaparral, somewhere through the middle of which ran a river he decidedmust be the lower Nueces. 

One evening, as he stole out from a covert where he had camped, he sawthe lights of a village. He tried to pass it on the left, but was unableto because the brakes of this bottom-land extended in almost to theoutskirts of the village, and he had to retrace his steps and go roundto the right. Wire fences and horses in pasture made this a task, so itwas well after midnight before he accomplished it. He made ten miles ormore then by daylight, and after that proceeded cautiously along a roadwhich appeared to be well worn from travel. He passed several thicketswhere he would have halted to hide during the day but for the fact thathe had to find water. 

He was a long while in coming to it, and then there was no thicket orclump of mesquite near the waterhole that would afford him covert. So hekept on. 

The country before him was ridgy and began to show cottonwoods here andthere in the hollows and yucca and mesquite on the higher ground. As hemounted a ridge he noted that the road made a sharp turn, and he couldnot see what was beyond it. He slowed up and was making the turn, whichwas down-hill between high banks of yellow clay, when his mettlesomehorse heard something to frighten him or shied at something and bolted. 

The few bounds he took before Duane's iron arm checked him were enoughto reach the curve. One flashing glance showed Duane the open once more, a little valley below with a wide, shallow, rocky stream, a clump ofcottonwoods beyond, a somber group of men facing him, and two dark, limp, strangely grotesque figures hanging from branches. 

The sight was common enough in southwest Texas, but Duane had neverbefore found himself so unpleasantly close. 

A hoarse voice pealed out: "By hell! there's another one!"

"Stranger, ride down an' account fer yourself!" yelled another. 

"Hands up!"

"Thet's right, Jack; don't take no chances. Plug him!"

These remarks were so swiftly uttered as almost to be continuous. Duanewas wheeling his horse when a rifle cracked. The bullet struck his leftforearm and he thought broke it, for he dropped the rein. The frightenedhorse leaped. Another bullet whistled past Duane. Then the bend in theroad saved him probably from certain death. Like the wind his fleetsteed wend down the long hill. 

Duane was in no hurry to look back. He knew what to expect. His chiefconcern of the moment was for his injured arm. He found that the boneswere still intact; but the wound, having been made by a soft bullet, wasan exceedingly bad one. Blood poured from it. Giving the horse his head, Duane wound his scarf tightly round the holes, and with teeth and handtied it tightly. That done, he looked back over his shoulder. 

Riders were making the dust fly on the hillside road. There were morecoming round the cut where the road curved. The leader was perhaps aquarter of a mile back, and the others strung out behind him. Duaneneeded only one glance to tell him that they were fast and hard-ridingcowboys in a land where all riders were good. They would not have ownedany but strong, swift horses. Moreover, it was a district where ranchershad suffered beyond all endurance the greed and brutality of outlaws. Duane had simply been so unfortunate as to run right into a lynchingparty at a time of all times when any stranger would be in danger andany outlaw put to his limit to escape with his life. 

Duane did not look back again till he had crossed the ridgy pieceof ground and had gotten to the level road. He had gained upon hispursuers. When he ascertained this he tried to save his horse, to checka 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 onehorse very long at a time, and this one was an unknown quantity. 

Duane had only one plan--the only plan possible in this case--and thatwas to make the river-bottoms, where he might elude his pursuers in thewillow brakes. Fifteen miles or so would bring him to the river, andthis was not a hopeless distance for any good horse if not too closelypressed. Duane concluded presently that the cowboys behind were losing alittle in the chase because they were not extending their horses. It wasdecidedly unusual for such riders to save their mounts. Duane ponderedover this, looking backward several times to see if their horses werestretched out. They were not, and the fact was disturbing. Only onereason presented itself to Duane's conjecturing, and it was that withhim headed straight on that road his pursuers were satisfied not toforce the running. He began to hope and look for a trail or a roadturning off to right or left. There was none. A rough, mesquite-dottedand yucca-spired country extended away on either side. Duane believedthat he would be compelled to take to this hard going. One thing wascertain--he had to go round the village. The river, however, was on theoutskirts of the village; and once in the willows, he would be safe. 

Dust-clouds far ahead caused his alarm to grow. He watched with his eyesstrained; he hoped to see a wagon, a few stray cattle. But no, he soondescried several horsemen. Shots and yells behind him attested to thefact that his pursuers likewise had seen these new-comers on the scene. More than a mile separated these two parties, yet that distance did notkeep them from soon understanding each other. Duane waited only to seethis new factor show signs of sudden quick action, and then, with amuttered curse, he spurred his horse off the road into the brush. 

He chose the right side, because the river lay nearer that way. Therewere patches of open sandy ground between clumps of cactus and mesquite, and he found that despite a zigzag course he made better time. It wasimpossible for him to locate his pursuers. They would come together, hedecided, and take to his tracks. 

What, then, was his surprise and dismay to run out of a thicket rightinto 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 toa harder soil, where his horse did not labor so. Here the growths ofmesquite and cactus became scanter, affording better travel but poorcover. He kept sharp eyes ahead, and, as he had expected, soon sawmoving dust-clouds and the dark figures of horses. They were half a mileaway, and swinging obliquely across the flat, which fact proved thatthey had entertained a fair idea of the country and the fugitive'sdifficulty. 

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 madeimpossible by a deep wash from which he had to turn, Duane began to feelcold and sick. Was this the end? Always there had to be an end to anoutlaw's career. He wanted then to ride straight at these pursuers. Butreason outweighed instinct. He was fleeing for his life; nevertheless, the strongest instinct at the time was his desire to fight. 

He knew when these three horsemen saw him, and a moment afterward helost sight of them as he got into the mesquite again. He meant nowto try to reach the road, and pushed his mount severely, though stillsaving him for a final burst. Rocks, thickets, bunches of cactus, washes--all operated against his following a straight line. Almost helost his bearings, and finally would have ridden toward his enemieshad not good fortune favored him in the matter of an open burned-overstretch of ground. 

Here he saw both groups of pursuers, one on each side and almost withingun-shot. Their sharp yells, as much as his cruel spurs, drove his horseinto that pace which now meant life or death for him. And never hadDuane bestrode a gamer, swifter, stancher beast. He seemed about toaccomplish the impossible. In the dragging sand he was far superior toany horse in pursuit, and on this sandy open stretch he gained enoughto spare a little in the brush beyond. Heated now and thoroughlyterrorized, he kept the pace through thickets that almost tore Duanefrom his saddle. Something weighty and grim eased off Duane. He wasgoing to get out in front! The horse had speed, fire, stamina. 

Duane dashed out into another open place dotted by few trees, and here, right in his path, within pistol-range, stood horsemen waiting. Theyyelled, they spurred toward him, but did not fire at him. He turned hishorse--faced to the right. Only one thing kept him from standing hisground to fight it out. He remembered those dangling limp figureshanging from the cottonwoods. These ranchers would rather hang an outlawthan do anything. They might draw all his fire and then capture him. Hishorror of hanging was so great as to be all out of proportion comparedto his gun-fighter's instinct of self-preservation. 

A race began then, a dusty, crashing drive through gray mesquite. Duanecould scarcely see, he was so blinded by stinging branches across hiseyes. The hollow wind roared in his ears. He lost his sense of thenearness of his pursuers. But they must have been close. Did theyshoot at him? He imagined he heard shots. But that might have beenthe cracking of dead snags. His left arm hung limp, almost useless; hehandled the rein with his right; and most of the time he hung low overthe pommel. The gray walls flashing by him, the whip of twigs, the rushof wind, the heavy, rapid pound of hoofs, the violent motion of hishorse--these vied in sensation with the smart of sweat in his eyes, therack of his wound, the cold, sick cramp in his stomach. With these alsowas dull, raging fury. He had to run when he wanted to fight. It tookall his mind to force back that bitter hate of himself, of his pursuers, of this race for his useless life. 

Suddenly he burst out of a line of mesquite into the road. A longstretch of lonely road! How fiercely, with hot, strange joy, he wheeledhis horse upon it! Then he was sweeping along, sure now that he was outin front. His horse still had strength and speed, but showed signs ofbreaking. Presently Duane looked back. Pursuers--he could not count howmany--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 tofoil them. 

He passed a few scattered ranch-houses where horses whistled fromcorrals, and men curiously watched him fly past. He saw one rancherrunning, and he felt intuitively that this fellow was going to join inthe chase. Duane's steed pounded on, not noticeably slower, but with alack of former smoothness, with a strained, convulsive, jerking stridewhich showed he was almost done. 

Sight of the village ahead surprised Duane. He had reached it soonerthan he expected. Then he made a discovery--he had entered the zone ofwire fences. As he dared not turn back now, he kept on, intending toride through the village. Looking backward, he saw that his pursuerswere half a mile distant, too far to alarm any villagers in time tointercept him in his flight. As he rode by the first houses his horsebroke and began to labor. Duane did not believe he would last longenough to go through the village. 

Saddled horses in front of a store gave Duane an idea, not by any meansnew, and one he had carried out successfully before. As he pulled inhis heaving mount and leaped off, a couple of ranchers came out of theplace, and one of them stepped to a clean-limbed, fiery bay. He wasabout to get into his saddle when he saw Duane, and then he halted, afoot in the stirrup. 

Duane strode forward, grasped the bridle of this man's horse. 

"Mine's done--but not killed, " he panted. "Trade with me. "

"Wal, stranger, I'm shore always ready to trade, " drawled the man. "Butain't you a little swift?"

Duane glanced back up the road. His pursuers were entering the village. 

"I'm Duane--Buck Duane, " he cried, menacingly. "Will you trade? Hurry!"

The rancher, turning white, dropped his foot from the stirrup and fellback. 

"I reckon I'll trade, " he said. 

Bounding up, Duane dug spurs into the bay's flanks. The horse snortedin fright, plunged into a run. He was fresh, swift, half wild. Duaneflashed by the remaining houses on the street out into the open. But theroad ended at that village or else led out from some other quarter, forhe 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 findsix horsemen within rifle-shot of him, and more coming behind them. 

His new horse had not had time to get warm before Duane reached a highsandy bluff below which lay the willow brakes. As far as he could seeextended an immense flat strip of red-tinged willow. How welcome it wasto his eye! He felt like a hunted wolf that, weary and lame, had reachedhis hole in the rocks. Zigzagging down the soft slope, he put the bay tothe dense wall of leaf and branch. But the horse balked. 

There was little time to lose. Dismounting, he dragged the stubbornbeast into the thicket. This was harder and slower work than Duane caredto risk. If he had not been rushed he might have had better success. Sohe had to abandon the horse--a circumstance that only such sore straitscould have driven him to. Then he went slipping swiftly through thenarrow aisles. 

He had not gotten under cover any too soon. For he heard his pursuerspiling over the bluff, loud-voiced, confident, brutal. They crashed intothe willows. 

"Hi, Sid! Heah's your hoss!" called one, evidently to the man Duane hadforced into a trade. 

"Say, if you locoed gents'll hold up a little I'll tell you somethin', "replied a voice from the bluff. 

"Come on, Sid! We got him corralled, " said the first speaker. 

"Wal, mebbe, an' if you hev it's liable to be damn hot. THET FELLER WASBUCK DUANE!"

Absolute silence followed that statement. Presently it was broken by arattling of loose gravel and then low voices. 

"He can't git across the river, I tell you, " came to Duane's ears. "He'scorralled in the brake. I know thet hole. "

Then Duane, gliding silently and swiftly through the willows, heard nomore from his pursuers. He headed straight for the river. Threading apassage through a willow brake was an old task for him. Many days andnights had gone to the acquiring of a skill that might have been enviedby an Indian. 

The Rio Grande and its tributaries for the most of their length in Texasran between wide, low, flat lands covered by a dense growth of willow. Cottonwood, mesquite, prickly pear, and other growths mingled with thewillow, and altogether they made a matted, tangled copse, a thicket thatan inexperienced man would have considered impenetrable. From above, these wild brakes looked green and red; from the inside they were grayand yellow--a striped wall. Trails and glades were scarce. There werea few deer-runways and sometimes little paths made by peccaries--thejabali, 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 agrowth of cottonwood had held back the encroachment of the willows thereusually was thick grass and underbrush. The willows were short, slenderpoles with stems so close together that they almost touched, and withthe leafy foliage forming a thick covering. The depths of this brakeDuane had penetrated was a silent, dreamy, strange place. In the middleof the day the light was weird and dim. When a breeze fluttered thefoliage, then slender shafts and spears of sunshine pierced the greenmantle and danced like gold on the ground. 

Duane had always felt the strangeness of this kind of place, andlikewise he had felt a protecting, harboring something which alwaysseemed to him to be the sympathy of the brake for a hunted creature. Anyunwounded creature, strong and resourceful, was safe when he had glidedunder the low, rustling green roof of this wild covert. It was not hardto conceal tracks; the springy soil gave forth no sound; and men couldhunt each other for weeks, pass within a few yards of each other andnever know it. The problem of sustaining life was difficult; but, then, hunted men and animals survived on very little. 

Duane wanted to cross the river if that was possible, and, keepingin the brake, work his way upstream till he had reached country morehospitable. Remembering what the man had said in regard to the river, Duane had his doubts about crossing. But he would take any chance to putthe river between him and his hunters. He pushed on. His left arm had tobe favored, as he could scarcely move it. Using his right to spread thewillows, he slipped sideways between them and made fast time. Therewere narrow aisles and washes and holes low down and paths brushed byanimals, all of which he took advantage of, running, walking, crawling, stooping any way to get along. To keep in a straight line was noteasy--he did it by marking some bright sunlit stem or tree ahead, andwhen he reached it looked straight on to mark another. His progressnecessarily grew slower, for as he advanced the brake became wilder, denser, darker. Mosquitoes began to whine about his head. He kept onwithout pause. Deepening shadows under the willows told him that theafternoon was far advanced. He began to fear he had wandered in a wrongdirection. Finally a strip of light ahead relieved his anxiety, andafter a toilsome penetration of still denser brush he broke through tothe bank of the river. 

He faced a wide, shallow, muddy stream with brakes on the opposite bankextending like a green and yellow wall. Duane perceived at a glance thefutility of his trying to cross at this point. Everywhere the sluggishwater raved quicksand bars. In fact, the bed of the river was allquicksand, and very likely there was not a foot of water anywhere. Hecould not swim; he could not crawl; he could not push a log across. Anysolid thing touching that smooth yellow sand would be grasped and suckeddown. To prove this he seized a long pole and, reaching down from thehigh bank, thrust it into the stream. Right there near shore thereapparently was no bottom to the treacherous quicksand. He abandoned anyhope of crossing the river. Probably for miles up and down it would bejust the same as here. Before leaving the bank he tied his hat upon thepole and lifted enough water to quench his thirst. Then he worked hisway back to where thinner growth made advancement easier, and kept onup-stream till the shadows were so deep he could not see. Feeling aroundfor a place big enough to stretch out on, he lay down. For the timebeing 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 painin his arm he dropped at once into sleep. 

CHAPTER XII

Some time during the night Duane awoke. A stillness seemingly so thickand heavy as to have substance blanketed the black willow brake. Hecould not see a star or a branch or tree-trunk or even his hand beforehis eyes. He lay there waiting, listening, sure that he had beenawakened by an unusual sound. Ordinary noises of the night in thewilderness never disturbed his rest. His faculties, like those ofold fugitives and hunted creatures, had become trained to a marvelouskeenness. A long low breath of slow wind moaned through the willows, passed away; some stealthy, soft-footed beast trotted by him in thedarkness; there was a rustling among dry leaves; a fox barked lonesomelyin the distance. But none of these sounds had broken his slumber. 

Suddenly, piercing the stillness, came a bay of a bloodhound. QuicklyDuane sat up, chilled to his marrow. The action made him aware ofhis crippled arm. Then came other bays, lower, more distant. Silenceenfolded him again, all the more oppressive and menacing in hissuspense. Bloodhounds had been put on his trail, and the leader was notfar away. All his life Duane had been familiar with bloodhounds; and heknew that if the pack surrounded him in this impenetrable darkness hewould be held at bay or dragged down as wolves dragged a stag. Rising tohis feet, prepared to flee as best he could, he waited to be sure of thedirection he should take. 

The leader of the hounds broke into cry again, a deep, full-toned, ringing bay, strange, ominous, terribly significant in its power. Itcaused a cold sweat to ooze out all over Duane's body. He turned fromit, and with his uninjured arm outstretched to feel for the willowshe groped his way along. As it was impossible to pick out the narrowpassages, he had to slip and squeeze and plunge between the yieldingstems. He made such a crashing that he no longer heard the baying ofthe hounds. He had no hope to elude them. He meant to climb the firstcottonwood that he stumbled upon in his blind flight. But it appearedhe 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 workso hard was the fact that he had only one arm to open a clump ofclose-growing stems and his feet would catch or tangle in the narrowcrotches, holding him fast. He had to struggle desperately. It was as ifthe willows were clutching hands, his enemies, fiendishly impeding hisprogress. He tore his clothes on sharp branches and his flesh sufferedmany a prick. But in a terrible earnestness he kept on until he broughtup hard against a cottonwood tree. 

There he leaned and rested. He found himself as nearly exhausted as hehad ever been, wet with sweat, his hands torn and burning, his breastlaboring, his legs stinging from innumerable bruises. While he leanedthere to catch his breath he listened for the pursuing hounds. For along time there was no sound from them. This, however, did not deceivehim into any hopefulness. There were bloodhounds that bayed often on atrail, and others that ran mostly silent. The former were more valuableto their owner and the latter more dangerous to the fugitive. PresentlyDuane's ears were filled by a chorus of short ringing yelps. The packhad found where he had slept, and now the trail was hot. Satisfied thatthey would soon overtake him, Duane set about climbing the cottonwood, which in his condition was difficult of ascent. 

It happened to be a fairly large tree with a fork about fifteen feet up, and branches thereafter in succession. Duane climbed until he got abovethe enshrouding belt of blackness. A pale gray mist hung above thebrake, and through it shone a line of dim lights. Duane decided thesewere bonfires made along the bluff to render his escape more difficulton that side. Away round in the direction he thought was north heimagined he saw more fires, but, as the mist was thick, he could not besure. While he sat there pondering the matter, listening for the hounds, the mist and the gloom on one side lightened; and this side he concludedwas east and meant that dawn was near. Satisfying himself on this score, he descended to the first branch of the tree. 

His situation now, though still critical, did not appear to be sohopeless as it had been. The hounds would soon close in on him, andhe would kill them or drive them away. It was beyond the bounds ofpossibility that any men could have followed running hounds through thatbrake in the night. The thing that worried Duane was the fact of thebonfires. He had gathered from the words of one of his pursuers that thebrake was a kind of trap, and he began to believe there was only one wayout of it, and that was along the bank where he had entered, and whereobviously all night long his pursuers had kept fires burning. Furtherconjecture on this point, however, was interrupted by a crashing in thewillows and the rapid patter of feet. 

Underneath Duane lay a gray, foggy obscurity. He could not see theground, nor any object but the black trunk of the tree. Sight wouldnot be needed to tell him when the pack arrived. With a pattering rushthrough the willows the hounds reached the tree; and then high abovecrash of brush and thud of heavy paws rose a hideous clamor. Duane'spursuers 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 thebrake, guided by the baying of hounds that had treed their quarry. 

It wanted only a few moments, however, till Duane could distinguish thevague forms of the hounds in the gray shadow below. Still he waited. Hehad no shots to spare. And he knew how to treat bloodhounds. Graduallythe obscurity lightened, and at length Duane had good enough sight ofthe hounds for his purpose. His first shot killed the huge brute leaderof the pack. Then, with unerring shots, he crippled several others. Thatstopped the baying. Piercing howls arose. The pack took fright and fled, its course easily marked by the howls of the crippled members. Duanereloaded his gun, and, making certain all the hounds had gone, hedescended to the ground and set off at a rapid pace to the northward. 

The mist had dissolved under a rising sun when Duane made his firsthalt some miles north of the scene where he had waited for the hounds. Abarrier to further progress, in shape of a precipitous rocky bluff, rosesheer from the willow brake. He skirted the base of the cliff, wherewalking was comparatively easy, around in the direction of the river. Hereached the end finally to see there was absolutely no chance to escapefrom the brake at that corner. It took extreme labor, attended by somehazard and considerable pain to his arm, to get down where he could fillhis sombrero with water. After quenching his thirst he had a look at hiswound. It was caked over with blood and dirt. When washed off the armwas seen to be inflamed and swollen around the bullet-hole. He bathedit, experiencing a soothing relief in the cool water. Then he bandagedit as best he could and arranged a sling round his neck. This mitigatedthe pain of the injured member and held it in a quiet and restfulposition, where it had a chance to begin mending. 

As Duane turned away from the river he felt refreshed. His greatstrength and endurance had always made fatigue something almost unknownto him. However, tramping on foot day and night was as unusual to him asto 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 comeupon the bluff, and here he determined to follow along its base in theother direction until he found a way out or discovered the futility ofsuch effort. 

Duane covered ground rapidly. From time to time he paused to listen. Buthe was always listening, and his eyes were ever roving. This alertnesshad become second nature with him, so that except in extreme casesof caution he performed it while he pondered his gloomy and fatefulsituation. Such habit of alertness and thought made time fly swiftly. 

By noon he had rounded the wide curve of the brake and was facingsouth. The bluff had petered out from a high, mountainous wall to alow abutment of rock, but it still held to its steep, rough nature andafforded no crack or slope where quick ascent could have been possible. He pushed on, growing warier as he approached the danger-zone, findingthat as he neared the river on this side it was imperative to go deeperinto the willows. In the afternoon he reached a point where he could seemen pacing to and fro on the bluff. This assured him that whatever placewas guarded was one by which he might escape. He headed toward these menand approached to within a hundred paces of the bluff where they were. There were several men and several boys, all armed and, after the mannerof Texans, taking their task leisurely. Farther down Duane made outblack dots on the horizon of the bluff-line, and these he concluded weremore guards stationed at another outlet. Probably all the available menin the district were on duty. Texans took a grim pleasure in such work. Duane remembered that upon several occasions he had served such dutyhimself. 

Duane peered through the branches and studied the lay of the land. Forseveral hundred yards the bluff could be climbed. He took stock of thosecareless guards. They had rifles, and that made vain any attempt to passthem in daylight. He believed an attempt by night might be successful;and he was swiftly coming to a determination to hide there till dark andthen try it, when the sudden yelping of a dog betrayed him to the guardson the bluff. 

The dog had likely been placed there to give an alarm, and he waslustily true to his trust. Duane saw the men run together and begin totalk excitedly and peer into the brake, which was a signal for him toslip away under the willows. He made no noise, and he assured himself hemust be invisible. Nevertheless, he heard shouts, then the cracking ofrifles, and bullets began to zip and swish through the leafy covert. Theday was hot and windless, and Duane concluded that whenever he toucheda willow stem, even ever so slightly, it vibrated to the top and senta quiver among the leaves. Through this the guards had located hisposition. Once a bullet hissed by him; another thudded into the groundbefore him. This shooting loosed a rage in Duane. He had to fly fromthese men, and he hated them and himself because of it. Always inthe fury of such moments he wanted to give back shot for shot. Buthe slipped on through the willows, and at length the rifles ceased tocrack. 

He sheered to the left again, in line with the rocky barrier, and kepton, wondering what the next mile would bring. 

It brought worse, for he was seen by sharp-eyed scouts, and a hotfusillade drove him to run for his life, luckily to escape with no morethan a bullet-creased shoulder. 

Later that day, still undaunted, he sheered again toward the trap-wall, and found that the nearer he approached to the place where he hadcome down into the brake the greater his danger. To attempt to run theblockade of that trail by day would be fatal. He waited for night, andafter the brightness of the fires had somewhat lessened he assayed tocreep 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 ofa shadow when a hound again betrayed his position. Retreating to thewillows was as perilous a task as had ever confronted Duane, and when hehad accomplished it, right under what seemed a hundred blazing rifles, he felt that he had indeed been favored by Providence. This time menfollowed him a goodly ways into the brake, and the ripping of leadthrough the willows sounded on all sides of him. 

When the noise of pursuit ceased Duane sat down in the darkness, hismind clamped between two things--whether to try again to escape orwait for possible opportunity. He seemed incapable of decision. Hisintelligence told him that every hour lessened his chances for escape. He had little enough chance in any case, and that was what made anotherattempt so desperately hard. Still it was not love of life that boundhim. There would come an hour, sooner or later, when he would wrenchdecision out of this chaos of emotion and thought. But that time was notyet. He had remained quiet long enough to cool off and recover from hisrun he found that he was tired. He stretched out to rest. But the swarmsof vicious mosquitoes prevented sleep. This corner of the brake was lowand near the river, a breeding-ground for the blood-suckers. They sangand hummed and whined around him in an ever-increasing horde. He coveredhis head and hands with his coat and lay there patiently. That was along and wretched night. Morning found him still strong physically, butin a dreadful state of mind. 

First he hurried for the river. He could withstand the pangs of hunger, but it was imperative to quench thirst. His wound made him feverish, and therefore more than usually hot and thirsty. Again he was refreshed. That morning he was hard put to it to hold himself back from attemptingto cross the river. If he could find a light log it was within thebounds of possibility that he might ford the shallow water and bars ofquicksand. But not yet! Wearily, doggedly he faced about toward thebluff. 

All that day and all that night, all the next day and all the nextnight, he stole like a hunted savage from river to bluff; and every hourforced upon him the bitter certainty that he was trapped. 

Duane lost track of days, of events. He had come to an evil pass. There arrived an hour when, closely pressed by pursuers at the extremesouthern corner of the brake, he took to a dense thicket of willows, driven to what he believed was his last stand. 

If only these human bloodhounds would swiftly close in on him! Let himfight to the last bitter gasp and have it over! But these hunters, eageras they were to get him, had care of their own skins. They took fewrisks. They had him cornered. 

It was the middle of the day, hot, dusty, oppressive, threatening storm. Like a snake Duane crawled into a little space in the darkest part ofthe thicket and lay still. Men had cut him off from the bluff, from theriver, seemingly from all sides. But he heard voices only from in frontand toward his left. Even if his passage to the river had not beenblocked, it might just as well have been. 

"Come on fellers--down hyar, " called one man from the bluff. 

"Got him corralled at last, " shouted another. 

"Reckon ye needn't be too shore. We thought thet more'n once, " tauntedanother. 

"I seen him, I tell you. "

"Aw, thet was a deer. "

"But Bill found fresh tracks an' blood on the willows. "

"If he's winged we needn't hurry. "

"Hold on thar, you boys, " came a shout in authoritative tones fromfarther up the bluff. "Go slow. You-all air gittin' foolish at the endof a long chase. "

"Thet's right, Colonel. Hold 'em back. There's nothin' shorer thansomebody'll be stoppin' lead pretty quick. He'll be huntin' us soon!"

"Let's surround this corner an' starve him out. "

"Fire the brake. "

How clearly all this talk pierced Duane's ears! In it he seemed to hearhis doom. This, then, was the end he had always expected, which had beenclose to him before, yet never like now. 

"By God!" whispered Duane, "the thing for me to do now--is go out--meetthem!"

That was prompted by the fighting, the killing instinct in him. In thatmoment it had almost superhuman power. If he must die, that was the wayfor him to die. What else could be expected of Buck Duane? He got to hisknees and drew his gun. With his swollen and almost useless hand he heldwhat spare ammunition he had left. He ought to creep out noiselessly tothe edge of the willows, suddenly face his pursuers, then, while therewas a beat left in his heart, kill, kill, kill. These men all hadrifles. The fight would be short. But the marksmen did not live on earthwho could make such a fight go wholly against him. Confronting themsuddenly he could kill a man for every shot in his gun. 

Thus Duane reasoned. So he hoped to accept his fate--to meet this end. But when he tried to step forward something checked him. He forcedhimself; yet he could not go. The obstruction that opposed his will wasas insurmountable as it had been physically impossible for him to climbthe bluff. 

Slowly he fell back, crouched low, and then lay flat. The grim andghastly dignity that had been his a moment before fell away from him. Helay there stripped of his last shred of self-respect. He wondered washe afraid; had he, the last of the Duanes--had he come to feel fear? No!Never in all his wild life had he so longed to go out and meet men faceto face. It was not fear that held him back. He hated this hiding, this eternal vigilance, this hopeless life. The damnable paradox of thesituation was that if he went out to meet these men there was absolutelyno doubt of his doom. If he clung to his covert there was a chance, amerest chance, for his life. These pursuers, dogged and unflagging asthey had been, were mortally afraid of him. It was his fame that madethem cowards. Duane's keenness told him that at the very darkest andmost perilous moment there was still a chance for him. And the blood inhim, the temper of his father, the years of his outlawry, the pride ofhis unsought and hated career, the nameless, inexplicable something inhim made him accept that slim chance. 

Waiting then became a physical and mental agony. He lay under theburning sun, parched by thirst, laboring to breathe, sweating andbleeding. His uncared-for wound was like a red-hot prong in hisflesh. Blotched and swollen from the never-ending attack of flies andmosquitoes his face seemed twice its natural size, and it ached andstung. 

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 thoughtand imagination had never been so swift. If death found him presently, how would it come? Would he get decent burial or be left for thepeccaries and the coyotes? Would his people ever know where he hadfallen? How wretched, how miserable his state! It was cowardly, it wasmonstrous for him to cling longer to this doomed life. Then the hate inhis heart, the hellish hate of these men on his trail--that was like ascourge. He felt no longer human. He had degenerated into an animal thatcould think. His heart pounded, his pulse beat, his breast heaved;and this internal strife seemed to thunder into his ears. He was nowenacting the tragedy of all crippled, starved, hunted wolves at bay intheir dens. Only his tragedy was infinitely more terrible because hehad mind enough to see his plight, his resemblance to a lonely wolf, bloody-fanged, dripping, snarling, fire-eyed in a last instinctivedefiance. 

Mounted upon the horror of Duane's thought was a watching, listeningintensity so supreme that it registered impressions which were creationsof his imagination. He heard stealthy steps that were not there; he sawshadowy moving figures that were only leaves. A hundred times when hewas about to pull trigger he discovered his error. Yet voices came froma distance, and steps and crackings in the willows, and other soundsreal enough. But Duane could not distinguish the real from the false. There were times when the wind which had arisen sent a hot, patteringbreath down the willow aisles, and Duane heard it as an approachingarmy. 

This straining of Duane's faculties brought on a reaction which initself was a respite. He saw the sun darkened by thick slow spreadingclouds. A storm appeared to be coming. How slowly it moved! The airwas like steam. If there broke one of those dark, violent storms commonthough rare to the country, Duane believed he might slip away in thefury of wind and rain. Hope, that seemed unquenchable in him, resurgedagain. He hailed it with a bitterness that was sickening. 

Then at a rustling step he froze into the old strained attention. Heheard a slow patter of soft feet. A tawny shape crossed a little openingin the thicket. It was that of a dog. The moment while that beast cameinto full view was an age. The dog was not a bloodhound, and if he hada trail or a scent he seemed to be at fault on it. Duane waited for theinevitable discovery. Any kind of a hunting-dog could have found himin 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 thelittle shaded covert. Duane expected a yelping, a baying, or at leasta bark that would tell of his hiding-place. A strange relief swiftlyswayed over Duane. The end was near now. He had no further choice. Letthem come--a quick fierce exchange of shots--and then this torture past!He waited for the dog to give the alarm. 

But the dog looked at him and trotted by into the thicket without ayelp. Duane could not believe the evidence of his senses. He thought hehad suddenly gone deaf. He saw the dog disappear, heard him running toand fro among the willows, getting farther and farther away, till allsound from him ceased. 

"Thar's Rover, " called a voice from the bluff-side. "He's been throughthet black patch. "

"Nary a rabbit in there, " replied another. 

"Bah! Thet pup's no good, " scornfully growled another man. "Put a houndat thet clump of willows. "

"Fire's the game. Burn the brake before the rain comes. "

The voices droned off as their owners evidently walked up the ridge. 

Then upon Duane fell the crushing burden of the old waiting, watching, listening spell. After all, it was not to end just now. His chance stillpersisted--looked a little brighter--led him on, perhaps, to forlornhope. 

All at once twilight settled quickly down upon the willow brake, or elseDuane noted it suddenly. He imagined it to be caused by the approachingstorm. But there was little movement of air or cloud, and thunder stillmuttered and rumbled at a distance. The fact was the sun had set, and atthis time of overcast sky night was at hand. 

Duane realized it with the awakening of all his old force. He would yetelude his pursuers. That was the moment when he seized the significanceof all these fortunate circumstances which had aided him. Without hasteand without sound he began to crawl in the direction of the river. Itwas not far, and he reached the bank before darkness set in. There weremen up on the bluff carrying wood to build a bonfire. For a moment hehalf yielded to a temptation to try to slip along the river-shore, closein under the willows. But when he raised himself to peer out he saw thatan attempt of this kind would be liable to failure. At the same momenthe saw a rough-hewn plank lying beneath him, lodged against somewillows. 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 hetied his gun in an oilskin bag and put it in his pocket. 

The bank was steep and crumbly. He must not break off any earth tosplash into the water. There was a willow growing back some few feetfrom the edge of the bank. Cautiously he pulled it down, bent it overthe water so that when he released it there would be no springing back. Then he trusted his weight to it, with his feet sliding carefullydown the bank. He went into the water almost up to his knees, feltthe quicksand grip his feet; then, leaning forward till he reached theplank, he pulled it toward him and lay upon it. 

Without a sound one end went slowly under water and the farther endappeared lightly braced against the overhanging willows. Very carefullythen 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 amovement upward, and he pulled with all the power he dared use. Itcame slowly and at length was free. The left one he released with lessdifficulty. The next few moments he put all his attention on the plankto ascertain if his weight would sink it into the sand. The far endslipped off the willows with a little splash and gradually settledto rest upon the bottom. But it sank no farther, and Duane's greatestconcern was relieved. However, as it was manifestly impossible for himto keep his head up for long he carefully crawled out upon the plankuntil he could rest an arm and shoulder upon the willows. 

When he looked up it was to find the night strangely luminous withfires. There was a bonfire on the extreme end of the bluff, anothera hundred paces beyond. A great flare extended over the brake in thatdirection. Duane heard a roaring on the wind, and he knew his pursuershad 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 thebonfires he discovered that the men, probably having run out of wood, were keeping up the light with oil and stuff from the village. A dozenmen kept watch on the bluff scarcely fifty paces from where Duane layconcealed by the willows. They talked, cracked jokes, sang songs, andmanifestly considered this outlaw-hunting a great lark. As long as thebright light lasted Duane dared not move. He had the patience and theendurance to wait for the breaking of the storm, and if that did notcome, then the early hour before dawn when the gray fog and gloom wereover the river. 

Escape was now in his grasp. He felt it. And with that in his mind hewaited, strong as steel in his conviction, capable of withstanding anystrain endurable by the human frame. 

The wind blew in puffs, grew wilder, and roared through the willows, carrying bright sparks upward. Thunder rolled down over the river, andlightning began to flash. Then the rain fell in heavy sheets, butnot steadily. The flashes of lightning and the broad flares played soincessantly that Duane could not trust himself out on the open river. Certainly the storm rather increased the watchfulness of the men onthe bluff. He knew how to wait, and he waited, grimly standing pain andcramp 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 wasparalyzed, others when he grew sick, giddy, weak from the strainedposture. The first paling of the stars quickened him with a kind of wildjoy. He watched them grow paler, dimmer, disappear one by one. A shadowhovered down, rested upon the river, and gradually thickened. Thebonfire on the bluff showed as through a foggy veil. The watchers weremere groping dark figures. 

Duane, aware of how cramped he had become from long inaction, beganto move his legs and uninjured arm and body, and at length overcame aparalyzing stiffness. Then, digging his hand in the sand and holding theplank with his knees, he edged it out into the river. Inch by inch headvanced until clear of the willows. Looking upward, he saw the shadowyfigures of the men on the bluff. He realized they ought to see him, feared that they would. But he kept on, cautiously, noiselessly, with aheart-numbing slowness. From time to time his elbow made a little gurgleand splash in the water. Try as he might, he could not prevent this. Itgot to be like the hollow roar of a rapid filling his ears with mockingsound. There was a perceptible current out in the river, and it hinderedstraight advancement. Inch by inch he crept on, expecting to hearthe bang of rifles, the spattering of bullets. He tried not to lookbackward, but failed. The fire appeared a little dimmer, the movingshadows a little darker. 

Once the plank stuck in the sand and felt as if it were settling. Bringing feet to aid his hand, he shoved it over the treacherous place. This way he made faster progress. The obscurity of the river seemed tobe enveloping him. When he looked back again the figures of the men werecoalescing with the surrounding gloom, the fires were streaky, blurredpatches of light. But the sky above was brighter. Dawn was not far off. 

To the west all was dark. With infinite care and implacable spiritand waning strength Duane shoved the plank along, and when at last hediscerned the black border of bank it came in time, he thought, to savehim. He crawled out, rested till the gray dawn broke, and then headednorth through the willows. 

CHAPTER XIII

How long Duane was traveling out of that region he never knew. But hereached familiar country and found a rancher who had before befriendedhim. Here his arm was attended to; he had food and sleep; and in acouple of weeks he was himself again. 

When the time came for Duane to ride away on his endless trail hisfriend reluctantly imparted the information that some thirty milessouth, near the village of Shirley, there was posted at a certaincross-road a reward for Buck Duane dead or alive. Duane had heard ofsuch notices, but he had never seen one. His friend's reluctance andrefusal to state for what particular deed this reward was offered rousedDuane's curiosity. He had never been any closer to Shirley than thisrancher's home. Doubtless some post-office burglary, some gun-shootingscrape had been attributed to him. And he had been accused of worsedeeds. Abruptly Duane decided to ride over there and find out who wantedhim dead or alive, and why. 

As he started south on the road he reflected that this was the firsttime he had ever deliberately hunted trouble. Introspection awarded himthis knowledge; during that last terrible flight on the lower Nuecesand 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 backfrom his fate. 

That fate was to become an outlaw in every sense of the term, to bewhat he was credited with being--that is to say, to embrace evil. Hehad never committed a crime. He wondered now was crime close to him? Hereasoned finally that the desperation of crime had been forced uponhim, if not its motive; and that if driven, there was no limit to hispossibilities. He understood now many of the hitherto inexplicableactions of certain noted outlaws--why they had returned to the sceneof the crime that had outlawed them; why they took such strangely fatalchances; why life was no more to them than a breath of wind; why theyrode straight into the jaws of death to confront wronged men orhunting rangers, vigilantes, to laugh in their very faces. It was suchbitterness as this that drove these men. 

Toward afternoon, from the top of a long hill, Duane saw the greenfields and trees and shining roofs of a town he considered must beShirley. And at the bottom of the hill he came upon an intersectingroad. There was a placard nailed on the crossroad sign-post. Duane drewrein near it and leaned close to read the faded print. $1000 REWARD FORBUCK DUANE DEAD OR ALIVE. Peering closer to read the finer, more fadedprint, Duane learned that he was wanted for the murder of Mrs. JeffAiken at her ranch near Shirley. The month September was named, but thedate was illegible. The reward was offered by the woman's husband, whosename appeared with that of a sheriff's at the bottom of the placard. 

Duane read the thing twice. When he straightened he was sick with thehorror of his fate, wild with passion at those misguided fools who couldbelieve that he had harmed a woman. Then he remembered Kate Bland, and, as always when she returned to him, he quaked inwardly. Years beforeword had gone abroad that he had killed her, and so it was easy formen wanting to fix a crime to name him. Perhaps it had been done often. Probably he bore on his shoulders a burden of numberless crimes. 

A dark, passionate fury possessed him. It shook him like a stormshakes the oak. When it passed, leaving him cold, with clouded brow andpiercing eye, his mind was set. Spurring his horse, he rode straighttoward the village. 

Shirley appeared to be a large, pretentious country town. A branch ofsome railroad terminated there. The main street was wide, bordered bytrees and commodious houses, and many of the stores were of brick. A large plaza shaded by giant cottonwood trees occupied a centrallocation. 

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 aspreading cottonwood. How many times had Duane seen just that kind oflazy shirt-sleeved Texas group! Not often, however, had he seen suchplacid, lolling, good-natured men change their expression, theirattitude so swiftly. His advent apparently was momentous. They evidentlytook him for an unusual visitor. So far as Duane could tell, not one ofthem recognized him, had a hint of his identity. 

He slid off his horse and threw the bridle. 

"I'm Buck Duane, " he said. "I saw that placard--out there on asign-post. It's a damn lie! Somebody find this man Jeff Aiken. I want tosee him. "

His announcement was taken in absolute silence. That was the only effecthe noted, for he avoided looking at these villagers. The reason wassimple enough; Duane felt himself overcome with emotion. There weretears in his eyes. He sat down on a bench, put his elbows on his kneesand his hands to his face. For once he had absolutely no concern for hisfate. This ignominy was the last straw. 

Presently, however, he became aware of some kind of commotion amongthese villagers. He heard whisperings, low, hoarse voices, then theshuffle of rapid feet moving away. All at once a violent hand jerkedhis gun from its holster. When Duane rose a gaunt man, livid of face, shaking like a leaf, confronted him with his own gun. 

"Hands up, thar, you Buck Duane!" he roared, waving the gun. 

That appeared to be the cue for pandemonium to break loose. Duane openedhis lips to speak, but if he had yelled at the top of his lungs he couldnot have made himself heard. In weary disgust he looked at the gauntman, and then at the others, who were working themselves into a frenzy. He made no move, however, to hold up his hands. The villagers surroundedhim, emboldened by finding him now unarmed. Then several men lay hold ofhis arms and pinioned them behind his back. Resistance was useless evenif Duane had had the spirit. Some one of them fetched his halter fromhis saddle, and with this they bound him helpless. 

People were running now from the street, the stores, the houses. Oldmen, cowboys, clerks, boys, ranchers came on the trot. The crowd grew. The increasing clamor began to attract women as well as men. A group ofgirls ran up, then hung back in fright and pity. 

The presence of cowboys made a difference. They split up the crowd, gotto Duane, and lay hold of him with rough, businesslike hands. One ofthem lifted his fists and roared at the frenzied mob to fall back, tostop the racket. He beat them back into a circle; but it was some littletime before the hubbub quieted down so a voice could be heard. 

"Shut up, will you-all?" he was yelling. "Give us a chance to hearsomethin'. Easy now--soho. There ain't nobody goin' to be hurt. Thet'sright; everybody quiet now. Let's see what's come off. "

This cowboy, evidently one of authority, or at least one of strongpersonality, turned to the gaunt man, who still waved Duane's gun. 

"Abe, put the gun down, " he said. "It might go off. Here, give it to me. Now, what's wrong? Who's this roped gent, an' what's he done?"

The gaunt fellow, who appeared now about to collapse, lifted a shakinghand and pointed. 

"Thet thar feller--he's Buck Duane!" he panted. 

An angry murmur ran through the surrounding crowd. 

"The rope! The rope! Throw it over a branch! String him up!" cried anexcited villager. 

"Buck Duane! Buck Duane!"

"Hang him!"

The cowboy silenced these cries. 

"Abe, how do you know this fellow is Buck Duane?" he asked, sharply. 

"Why--he said so, " replied the man called Abe. 

"What!" came the exclamation, incredulously. 

"It's a tarnal fact, " panted Abe, waving his hands importantly. He wasan old man and appeared to be carried away with the significance of hisdeed. "He like to rid' his hoss right over us-all. Then he jumped off, says he was Buck Duane, an' he wanted to see Jeff Aiken bad. "

This speech caused a second commotion as noisy though not so enduringas the first. When the cowboy, assisted by a couple of his mates, hadrestored order again some one had slipped the noose-end of Duane's ropeover his head. 

"Up with him!" screeched a wild-eyed youth. 

The mob surged closer was shoved back by the cowboys. 

"Abe, if you ain't drunk or crazy tell thet over, " ordered Abe'sinterlocutor. 

With some show of resentment and more of dignity Abe reiterated hisformer statement. 

"If he's Buck Duane how'n hell did you get hold of his gun?" bluntlyqueried the cowboy. 

"Why--he set down thar--an' he kind of hid his face on his hand. An' Igrabbed his gun an' got the drop on him. "

What the cowboy thought of this was expressed in a laugh. His mateslikewise grinned broadly. Then the leader turned to Duane. 

"Stranger, I reckon you'd better speak up for yourself, " he said. 

That stilled the crowd as no command had done. 

"I'm Buck Duane, all right. " said Duane, quietly. "It was this way--"

The big cowboy seemed to vibrate with a shock. All the ruddy warmth lefthis face; his jaw began to bulge; the corded veins in his neck stood outin knots. In an instant he had a hard, stern, strange look. He shot outa powerful hand that fastened in the front of Duane's blouse. 

"Somethin' queer here. But if you're Duane you're sure in bad. Any foolought to know that. You mean it, then?"

"Yes. "

"Rode in to shoot up the town, eh? Same old stunt of you gunfighters?Meant to kill the man who offered a reward? Wanted to see Jeff Aikenbad, huh?"

"No, " replied Duane. "Your citizen here misrepresented things. He seemsa little off his head. "

"Reckon he is. Somebody is, that's sure. You claim Buck Duane, then, an'all his doings?"

"I'm Duane; yes. But I won't stand for the blame of things I never did. That's why I'm here. I saw that placard out there offering the reward. Until now I never was within half a day's ride of this town. I'm blamedfor what I never did. I rode in here, told who I was, asked somebody tosend for Jeff Aiken. "

"An' then you set down an' let this old guy throw your own gun on you?"queried the cowboy in amazement. 

"I guess that's it, " replied Duane. 

"Well, it's powerful strange, if you're really Buck Duane. "

A man elbowed his way into the circle. 

"It's Duane. I recognize him. I seen him in more'n one place, " he said. "Sibert, you can rely on what I tell you. I don't know if he's locoed orwhat. But I do know he's the genuine Buck Duane. Any one who'd ever seenhim onct would never forget him. "

"What do you want to see Aiken for?" asked the cowboy Sibert. 

"I want to face him, and tell him I never harmed his wife. "

"Why?"

"Because I'm innocent, that's all. "

"Suppose we send for Aiken an' he hears you an' doesn't believe you;what then?"

"If he won't believe me--why, then my case's so bad--I'd be better offdead. "

A momentary silence was broken by Sibert. 

"If this isn't a queer deal! Boys, reckon we'd better send for Jeff. "

"Somebody went fer him. He'll be comin' soon, " replied a man. 

Duane stood a head taller than that circle of curious faces. He gazedout above and beyond them. It was in this way that he chanced to see anumber of women on the outskirts of the crowd. Some were old, withhard faces, like the men. Some were young and comely, and most of theseseemed agitated by excitement or distress. They cast fearful, pityingglances 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 oldwomen who were voluble, loud in expression of their feelings. 

Near the trunk of the cottonwood stood a slender woman in white. Duane'swandering glance rested upon her. Her eyes were riveted upon him. Asoft-hearted woman, probably, who did not want to see him hanged!

"Thar comes Jeff Aiken now, " called a man, loudly. 

The crowd shifted and trampled in eagerness. 

Duane saw two men coming fast, one of whom, in the lead, was of stalwartbuild. He had a gun in his hand, and his manner was that of fierceenergy. 

The cowboy Sibert thrust open the jostling circle of men. 

"Hold on, Jeff, " he called, and he blocked the man with the gun. Hespoke so low Duane could not hear what he said, and his form hid Aiken'sface. At that juncture the crowd spread out, closed in, and Aikenand Sibert were caught in the circle. There was a pushing forward, apressing of many bodies, hoarse cries and flinging hands--again theinsane tumult was about to break out--the demand for an outlaw's blood, the call for a wild justice executed a thousand times before on Texas'sbloody soil. 

Sibert bellowed at the dark encroaching mass. The cowboys with him beatand cuffed in vain. 

"Jeff, will you listen?" broke in Sibert, hurriedly, his hand on theother man's arm. 

Aiken nodded coolly. Duane, who had seen many men in perfect control ofthemselves under circumstances like these, recognized the spirit thatdominated Aiken. He was white, cold, passionless. There were lines ofbitter grief deep round his lips. If Duane ever felt the meaning ofdeath he felt it then. 

"Sure this 's your game, Aiken, " said Sibert. "But hear me a minute. Reckon there's no doubt about this man bein' Buck Duane. He seen theplacard out at the cross-roads. He rides in to Shirley. He says he'sBuck Duane an' he's lookin' for Jeff Aiken. That's all clear enough. You know how these gunfighters go lookin' for trouble. But here'swhat stumps me. Duane sits down there on the bench and lets old AbeStrickland grab his gun ant get the drop on him. More'n that, he givesme some strange talk about how, if he couldn't make you believe he'sinnocent, he'd better be dead. You see for yourself Duane ain't drunk orcrazy 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 tosay. "

Then for the first time the drawn-faced, hungry-eyed giant turned hisgaze upon Duane. He had intelligence which was not yet subservient topassion. Moreover, he seemed the kind of man Duane would care to havejudge him in a critical moment like this. 

"Listen, " said Duane, gravely, with his eyes steady on Aiken's, "I'mBuck Duane. I never lied to any man in my life. I was forced intooutlawry. I've never had a chance to leave the country. I've killedmen to save my own life. I never intentionally harmed any woman. I rodethirty miles to-day--deliberately to see what this reward was, who madeit, what for. When I read the placard I went sick to the bottom ofmy soul. So I rode in here to find you--to tell you this: I never sawShirley before to-day. It was impossible for me to have--killed yourwife. Last September I was two hundred miles north of here on the upperNueces. I can prove that. Men who know me will tell you I couldn'tmurder a woman. I haven't any idea why such a deed should be laid at myhands. It's just that wild border gossip. I have no idea what reasonsyou have for holding me responsible. I only know--you're wrong. You'vebeen 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 Isay--why, by God! you can kill me!"

Aiken heaved a great breath. 

"Buck Duane, whether I'm impressed or not by what you say needn'tmatter. 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 mywife's assailant. "

He motioned for the crowd of men to open up. 

"Somebody--you, Sibert--go for Lucy. That'll settle this thing. "

Duane heard as a man in an ugly dream. The faces around him, the hum ofvoices, all seemed far off. His life hung by the merest thread. Yet hedid not think of that so much as of the brand of a woman-murderer whichmight be soon sealed upon him by a frightened, imaginative child. 

The crowd trooped apart and closed again. Duane caught a blurred imageof a slight girl clinging to Sibert's hand. He could not see distinctly. Aiken lifted the child, whispered soothingly to her not to be afraid. Then he fetched her closer to Duane. 

"Lucy, tell me. Did you ever see this man before?" asked Aiken, huskilyand low. "Is he the one--who came in the house that day--struck youdown--and dragged mama--?"

Aiken's voice failed. 

A lightning flash seemed to clear Duane's blurred sight. He saw a pale, sad face and violet eyes fixed in gloom and horror upon his. No terriblemoment in Duane's life ever equaled this one of silence--of suspense. 

"It's ain't him!" cried the child. 

Then Sibert was flinging the noose off Duane's neck and unwinding thebonds round his arms. The spellbound crowd awoke to hoarse exclamations. 

"See there, my locoed gents, how easy you'd hang the wrong man, " burstout the cowboy, as he made the rope-end hiss. "You-all are a lot of wiserangers. Haw! haw!"

He freed Duane and thrust the bone-handled gun back in Duane's holster. 

"You Abe, there. Reckon you pulled a stunt! But don't try the likeagain. And, men, I'll gamble there's a hell of a lot of bad work BuckDuane's named for--which all he never done. Clear away there. Where'shis hoss? Duane, the road's open out of Shirley. "

Sibert swept the gaping watchers aside and pressed Duane toward thehorse, which another cowboy held. Mechanically Duane mounted, felt alift as he went up. Then the cowboy's hard face softened in a smile. 

"I reckon it ain't uncivil of me to say--hit that road quick!" he said, frankly. 

He led the horse out of the crowd. Aiken joined him, and between themthey escorted Duane across the plaza. The crowd appeared irresistiblydrawn to follow. 

Aiken paused with his big hand on Duane's knee. In it, unconsciouslyprobably, he still held the gun. 

"Duane, a word with you, " he said. "I believe you're not so black asyou've been painted. I wish there was time to say more. Tell me this, anyway. Do you know the Ranger Captain MacNelly?"

"I do not, " replied Duane, in surprise. 

"I met him only a week ago over in Fairfield, " went on Aiken, hurriedly. "He declared you never killed my wife. I didn't believe him--argued withhim. We almost had hard words over it. Now--I'm sorry. The last thing hesaid was: 'If you ever see Duane don't kill him. Send him into my campafter dark!' He meant something strange. What--I can't say. But he wasright, 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 rangertactics. I tell you for all it's worth. Good-by. May God help youfurther as he did this day!"

Duane said good-by and touched the horse with his spurs. 

"So long, Buck!" called Sibert, with that frank smile breaking warm overhis brown face; and he held his sombrero high. 

CHAPTER XIV

When Duane reached the crossing of the roads the name Fairfield on thesign-post seemed to be the thing that tipped the oscillating balance ofdecision in favor of that direction. 

He answered here to unfathomable impulse. If he had been driven to huntup Jeff Aiken, now he was called to find this unknown ranger captain. In Duane's state of mind clear reasoning, common sense, or keenness wereout of the question. He went because he felt he was compelled. 

Dusk had fallen when he rode into a town which inquiry discovered to beFairfield. Captain MacNelly's camp was stationed just out of the villagelimits on the other side. 

No one except the boy Duane questioned appeared to notice his arrival. Like Shirley, the town of Fairfield was large and prosperous, comparedto the innumerable hamlets dotting the vast extent of southwesternTexas. 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 ofhis old home. 

There did not appear to be any camp on the outskirts of the town. But asDuane sat his horse, peering around and undecided what further move tomake, he caught the glint of flickering lights through the darkness. Heading toward them, he rode perhaps a quarter of a mile to come upon agrove of mesquite. The brightness of several fires made the surroundingdarkness all the blacker. Duane saw the moving forms of men and heardhorses. He advanced naturally, expecting any moment to be halted. 

"Who goes there?" came the sharp call out of the gloom. 

Duane pulled his horse. The gloom was impenetrable. 

"One man--alone, " replied Duane. 

"A stranger?"

"Yes. "

"What do you want?"

"I'm trying to find the ranger camp. "

"You've struck it. What's your errand?"

"I want to see Captain MacNelly. "

"Get down and advance. Slow. Don't move your hands. It's dark, but I cansee. "

Duane dismounted, and, leading his horse, slowly advanced a few paces. He saw a dully bright object--a gun--before he discovered the man whoheld it. A few more steps showed a dark figure blocking the trail. HereDuane halted. 

"Come closer, stranger. Let's have a look at you, " the guard ordered, curtly. 

Duane advanced again until he stood before the man. Here the rays oflight from the fires flickered upon Duane's face. 

"Reckon you're a stranger, all right. What's your name and your businesswith the Captain?"

Duane hesitated, pondering what best to say. 

"Tell Captain MacNelly I'm the man he's been asking to ride into hiscamp--after dark, " finally said Duane. 

The ranger bent forward to peer hard at this night visitor. His mannerhad been alert, and now it became tense. 

"Come here, one of you men, quick, " he called, without turning in theleast toward the camp-fire. 

"Hello! What's up, Pickens?" came the swift reply. It was followed by arapid thud of boots on soft ground. A dark form crossed the gleams fromthe 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. Thesecond ranger swore under his breath. Then he turned away and startedback. 

"Here, ranger, before you go, understand this. My visit ispeaceful--friendly if you'll let it be. Mind, I was asked to comehere--after dark. "

Duane's clear, penetrating voice carried far. The listening rangers atthe camp-fire heard what he said. 

"Ho, Pickens! Tell that fellow to wait, " replied an authoritative voice. Then a slim figure detached itself from the dark, moving group at thecamp-fire and hurried out. 

"Better be foxy, Cap, " shouted a ranger, in warning. 

"Shut up--all of you, " was the reply. 

This officer, obviously Captain MacNelly, soon joined the two rangerswho were confronting Duane. He had no fear. He strode straight up toDuane. 

"I'm MacNelly, " he said. "If you're my man, don't mention yourname--yet. "

All this seemed so strange to Duane, in keeping with much that hadhappened lately. 

"I met Jeff Aiken to-day, " said Duane. "He sent me--"

"You've met Aiken!" exclaimed MacNelly, sharp, eager, low. "By allthat's bully!" Then he appeared to catch himself, to grow restrained. 

"Men, fall back, leave us alone a moment. "

The rangers slowly withdrew. 

"Buck Duane! It's you?" he whispered, eagerly. 

"Yes. "

"If I give my word you'll not be arrested--you'll be treatedfairly--will you come into camp and consult with me?"

"Certainly. "

"Duane, I'm sure glad to meet you, " went on MacNelly; and he extendedhis hand. 

Amazed and touched, scarcely realizing this actuality, Duane gave hishand and felt no unmistakable grip of warmth. 

"It doesn't seem natural, Captain MacNelly, but I believe I'm glad tomeet you, " said Duane, soberly. 

"You will be. Now we'll go back to camp. Keep your identity mum for thepresent. "

He led Duane in the direction of the camp-fire. 

"Pickers, go back on duty, " he ordered, "and, Beeson, you look afterthis horse. "

When Duane got beyond the line of mesquite, which had hid a good view ofthe camp-site, he saw a group of perhaps fifteen rangers sitting aroundthe fires, near a long low shed where horses were feeding, and a smalladobe house at one side. 

"We've just had grub, but I'll see you get some. Then we'll talk, " saidMacNelly. "I've taken up temporary quarters here. Have a rustler job onhand. Now, when you've eaten, come right into the house. "

Duane was hungry, but he hurried through the ample supper that was setbefore him, urged on by curiosity and astonishment. The only wayhe could account for his presence there in a ranger's camp was thatMacNelly hoped to get useful information out of him. Still that wouldhardly have made this captain so eager. There was a mystery here, andDuane could scarcely wait for it to be solved. While eating he hadbent keen eyes around him. After a first quiet scrutiny the rangersapparently paid no more attention to him. They were all veterans inservice--Duane saw that--and rugged, powerful men of iron constitution. Despite the occasional joke and sally of the more youthful members, anda general conversation of camp-fire nature, Duane was not deceived aboutthe fact that his advent had been an unusual and striking one, which hadcaused an undercurrent of conjecture and even consternation among them. These rangers were too well trained to appear openly curious about theircaptain's guest. If they had not deliberately attempted to be obliviousof his presence Duane would have concluded they thought him an ordinaryvisitor, somehow of use to MacNelly. As it was, Duane felt a suspensethat must have been due to a hint of his identity. 

He was not long in presenting himself at the door of the house. 

"Come in and have a chair, " said MacNelly, motioning for the one otheroccupant of the room to rise. "Leave us, Russell, and close the door. I'll be through these reports right off. "

MacNelly sat at a table upon which was a lamp and various papers. Seenin 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 uphe pushed a cigar-case toward Duane, and upon Duane's refusal tosmoke 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 tohide what must have been the fulfilment of a long-nourished curiosity. 

"Duane, I've been hoping for this for two years, " he began. 

Duane smiled a little--a smile that felt strange on his face. He hadnever been much of a talker. And speech here seemed more than ordinarilydifficult. 

MacNelly must have felt that. 

He looked long and earnestly at Duane, and his quick, nervous mannerchanged to grave thoughtfulness. 

"I've lots to say, but where to begin, " he mused. "Duane, you've hada hard life since you went on the dodge. I never met you before, don'tknow what you looked like as a boy. But I can see what--well, evenranger life isn't all roses. "

He rolled his cigar between his lips and puffed clouds of smoke. 

"Ever hear from home since you left Wellston?" he asked, abruptly. 

"No. "

"Never a word?"

"Not one, " replied Duane, sadly. 

"That's tough. I'm glad to be able to tell you that up to just latelyyour mother, sister, uncle--all your folks, I believe--were well. I'vekept posted. But haven't heard lately. "

Duane averted his face a moment, hesitated till the swelling left histhroat, and then said, "It's worth what I went through to-day to hearthat. "

"I can imagine how you feel about it. When I was in the war--but let'sget down to the business of this meeting. "

He pulled his chair close to Duane's. 

"You've had word more than once in the last two years that I wanted tosee you?"

"Three times, I remember, " replied Duane. 

"Why didn't you hunt me up?"

"I supposed you imagined me one of those gun-fighters who couldn't takea dare and expected me to ride up to your camp and be arrested. "

"That was natural, I suppose, " went on MacNelly. "You didn't know me, otherwise you would have come. I've been a long time getting to you. But the nature of my job, as far as you're concerned, made me cautious. Duane, you're aware of the hard name you bear all over the Southwest?"

"Once in a while I'm jarred into realizing, " replied Duane. 

"It's the hardest, barring Murrell and Cheseldine, on the Texas border. But there's this difference. Murrell in his day was known to deserve hisinfamous name. Cheseldine in his day also. But I've found hundredsof men in southwest Texas who're your friends, who swear you nevercommitted 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 reasonableTexan. "

"That way my hands are clean, " replied Duane. 

"You never held up a man, robbed a store for grub, stole a horse whenyou needed him bad--never anything like that?"

"Somehow I always kept out of that, just when pressed the hardest. "

"Duane, I'm damn glad!" MacNelly exclaimed, gripping Duane's hand. "Gladfor you mother's sakel But, all the same, in spite of this, you are aTexas outlaw accountable to the state. You're perfectly aware that underexisting circumstances, if you fell into the hands of the law, you'dprobably hang, at least go to jail for a long term. "

"That's what kept me on the dodge all these years, " replied Duane. 

"Certainly. " MacNelly removed his cigar. His eyes narrowed andglittered. The muscles along his brown cheeks set hard and tense. Heleaned closer to Duane, laid sinewy, pressing fingers upon Duane's knee. 

"Listen to this, " he whispered, hoarsely. "If I place a pardon in yourhand--make you a free, honest citizen once more, clear your name ofinfamy, make your mother, your sister proud of you--will you swearyourself to a service, ANY service I demand of you?"

Duane sat stock still, stunned. 

Slowly, more persuasively, with show of earnest agitation, CaptainMacNelly reiterated his startling query. 

"My God!" burst from Duane. "What's this? MacNelly, you CAN'T be inearnest!"

"Never more so in my life. I've a deep game. I'm playing it square. Whatdo you say?"

He rose to his feet. Duane, as if impelled, rose with him. Ranger andoutlaw then locked eyes that searched each other's souls. In MacNelly'sDuane read truth, strong, fiery purpose, hope, even gladness, and afugitive mounting assurance of victory. 

Twice Duane endeavored to speak, failed of all save a hoarse, incoherentsound, until, forcing back a flood of speech, he found a voice. 

"Any service? Every service! MacNelly, I give my word, " said Duane. 

A light played over MacNelly's face, warming out all the grim darkness. He held out his hand. Duane met it with his in a clasp that menunconsciously give in moments of stress. 

When they unclasped and Duane stepped back to drop into a chair MacNellyfumbled for another cigar--he had bitten the other into shreds--and, lighting it as before, he turned to his visitor, now calm and cool. Hehad the look of a man who had justly won something at considerablecost. His next move was to take a long leather case from his pocket andextract from it several folded papers. 

"Here's your pardon from the Governor, " he said, quietly. "You'll see, when you look it over, that it's conditional. When you sign this paper Ihave here the condition will be met. "

He smoothed out the paper, handed Duane a pen, ran his forefinger alonga dotted line. 

Duane's hand was shaky. Years had passed since he had held a pen. Itwas with difficulty that he achieved his signature. Buckley Duane--howstrange the name looked!

"Right here ends the career of Buck Duane, outlaw and gunfighter, " saidMacNelly; and, seating himself, he took the pen from Duane's fingers andwrote several lines in several places upon the paper. Then with a smilehe handed it to Duane. 

"That makes you a member of Company A, Texas Rangers. "

"So that's it!" burst out Duane, a light breaking in upon hisbewilderment. "You want me for ranger service?"

"Sure. That's it, " replied the Captain, dryly. "Now to hear what thatservice is to be. I've been a busy man since I took this job, and, asyou may have heard, I've done a few things. I don't mind telling youthat political influence put me in here and that up Austin way there's agood deal of friction in the Department of State in regard to whether ornot the ranger service is any good--whether it should be discontinued ornot. I'm on the party side who's defending the ranger service. I contendthat it's made Texas habitable. Well, it's been up to me to produceresults. So far I have been successful. My great ambition is to breakup the outlaw gangs along the river. I have never ventured in thereyet because I've been waiting to get the lieutenant I needed. You, ofcourse, are the man I had in mind. It's my idea to start way up the RioGrande and begin with Cheseldine. He's the strongest, the worst outlawof the times. He's more than rustler. It's Cheseldine and his gangwho are operating on the banks. They're doing bank-robbing. That's myprivate opinion, but it's not been backed up by any evidence. Cheseldinedoesn't leave evidences. He's intelligent, cunning. No one seems to haveseen him--to know what he looks like. I assume, of course, that you area stranger to the country he dominates. It's five hundred miles west ofyour ground. There's a little town over there called Fairdale. It's thenest of a rustler gang. They rustle and murder at will. Nobody knows whothe leader is. I want you to find out. Well, whatever way you decide isbest you will proceed to act upon. You are your own boss. You know suchmen 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, andthat will be a difficult matter. For Cheseldine dominates several wholecounties. You must find some way to let me know when I and my rangersare needed. The plan is to break up Cheseldine's gang. It's the toughestjob on the border. Arresting him alone isn't to be heard of. He couldn'tbe brought out. Killing him isn't much better, for his select men, theones he operates with, are as dangerous to the community as he is. Wewant to kill or jail this choice selection of robbers and break up therest of the gang. To find them, to get among them somehow, to learntheir movements, to lay your trap for us rangers to spring--that, Duane, is your service to me, and God knows it's a great one!"

"I have accepted it, " replied Duane. 

"Your work will be secret. You are now a ranger in my service. But noone except the few I choose to tell will know of it until we pull offthe job. You will simply be Buck Duane till it suits our purpose toacquaint Texas with the fact that you're a ranger. You'll see there'sno date on that paper. No one will ever know just when you entered theservice. Perhaps we can make it appear that all or most of your outlawryhas really been good service to the state. At that, I'll believe it'llturn out so. "

MacNelly paused a moment in his rapid talk, chewed his cigar, drew hisbrows together in a dark frown, and went on. "No man on the border knowsso well as you the deadly nature of this service. It's a thousand to onethat you'll be killed. I'd say there was no chance at all for any otherman beside you. Your reputation will go far among the outlaws. Maybethat and your nerve and your gun-play will pull you through. I'm hopingso. But it's a long, long chance against your ever coming back. "

"That's not the point, " said Duane. "But in case I get killed outthere--what--"

"Leave that to me, " interrupted Captain MacNelly. "Your folks will knowat once of your pardon and your ranger duty. If you lose your life outthere I'll see your name cleared--the service you render known. You canrest assured of that. "

"I am satisfied, " replied Duane. "That's so much more than I've dared tohope. "

"Well, it's settled, then. I'll give you money for expenses. You'llstart as soon as you like--the sooner the better. I hope to think ofother suggestions, especially about communicating with me. "

Long after the lights were out and the low hum of voices had ceasedround the camp-fire Duane lay wide awake, eyes staring into theblackness, marveling over the strange events of the day. He was humble, grateful to the depths of his soul. A huge and crushing burden had beenlifted from his heart. He welcomed this hazardous service to the man whohad saved him. Thought of his mother and sister and Uncle Jim, of hishome, of old friends came rushing over him the first time in years thathe had happiness in the memory. The disgrace he had put upon them wouldnow 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 theiraspects. And as he lay there, with the approach of sleep finally dimmingthe vividness of his thought, so full of mystery, shadowy faces floatedin the blackness around him, haunting him as he had always been haunted. 

It was broad daylight when he awakened. MacNelly was calling him tobreakfast. Outside sounded voices of men, crackling of fires, snortingand stamping of horses, the barking of dogs. Duane rolled out of hisblankets and made good use of the soap and towel and razor and brushnear by on a bench--things of rare luxury to an outlaw on the ride. Theface he saw in the mirror was as strange as the past he had tried sohard to recall. Then he stepped to the door and went out. 

The rangers were eating in a circle round a tarpaulin spread upon theground. 

"Fellows, " said MacNelly, "shake hands with Buck Duane. He's on secretranger service for me. Service that'll likely make you all hump soon!Mind you, keep mum about it. "

The rangers surprised Duane with a roaring greeting, the warmth of whichhe soon divined was divided between pride of his acquisition to theirranks and eagerness to meet that violent service of which their captainhinted. They were jolly, wild fellows, with just enough gravity intheir welcome to show Duane their respect and appreciation, while notforgetting his lone-wolf record. When he had seated himself in thatcircle, now one of them, a feeling subtle and uplifting pervaded him. 

After the meal Captain MacNelly drew Duane aside. 

"Here's the money. Make it go as far as you can. Better strike straightfor 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 theRim Rock. Somewhere up there Cheseldine holds fort. Somewhere to thenorth is the town Fairdale. But he doesn't hide all the time in therocks. Only after some daring raid or hold-up. Cheseldine's got bordertowns on his staff, or scared of him, and these places we want to knowabout, 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 ahundred, two hundred miles, if necessary, or go clear to El Paso. "

MacNelly stopped with an air of finality, and then Duane slowly rose. 

"I'll start at once, " he said, extending his hand to the Captain. "Iwish--I'd like to thank you. "

"Hell, man! Don't thank me!" replied MacNelly, crushing the profferedhand. "I've sent a lot of good men to their deaths, and maybe you'reanother. But, as I've said, you've one chance in a thousand. And, byHeaven! I'd hate to be Cheseldine or any other man you were trailing. No, not good-by--Adios, Duane! May we meet again!"

BOOK II. THE RANGER

CHAPTER XV

West of the Pecos River Texas extended a vast wild region, barren in thenorth where the Llano Estacado spread its shifting sands, fertile inthe south along the Rio Grande. A railroad marked an undeviating courseacross five hundred miles of this country, and the only villages andtowns lay on or near this line of steel. Unsettled as was this westernTexas, and despite the acknowledged dominance of the outlaw bands, thepioneers pushed steadily into it. First had come the lone rancher; thenhis neighbors in near and far valleys; then the hamlets; at last therailroad and the towns. And still the pioneers came, spreadingdeeper into the valleys, farther and wider over the plains. It wasmesquite-dotted, cactus-covered desert, but rich soil upon which wateracted like magic. There was little grass to an acre, but there weremillions of acres. The climate was wonderful. Cattle flourished andranchers prospered. 

The Rio Grande flowed almost due south along the western boundary for athousand miles, and then, weary of its course, turned abruptly north, to make what was called the Big Bend. The railroad, running west, cutacross this bend, and all that country bounded on the north by therailroad 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, asif to isolate it, stretched the Ord mountain range, of which MountOrd, Cathedral Mount, and Elephant Mount raised bleak peaks above theirfellows. In the valleys of the foothills and out across the plains wereranches, and farther north villages, and the towns of Alpine and Marfa. 

Like other parts of the great Lone Star State, this section of Texaswas a world in itself--a world where the riches of the rancher wereever enriching the outlaw. The village closest to the gateway of thisoutlaw-infested region was a little place called Ord, named after thedark peak that loomed some miles to the south. It had been settledoriginally by Mexicans--there were still the ruins of adobemissions--but with the advent of the rustler and outlaw many inhabitantswere shot or driven away, so that at the height of Ord's prosperity andevil sway there were but few Mexicans living there, and these had theirchoice between holding hand-and-glove with the outlaws or furnishingtarget practice for that wild element. 

Toward the close of a day in September a stranger rode into Ord, and ina community where all men were remarkable for one reason or anotherhe excited interest. His horse, perhaps, received the first andmost engaging attention--horses in that region being apparently moreimportant than men. This particular horse did not attract with beauty. At first glance he seemed ugly. But he was a giant, black as coal, roughdespite the care manifestly bestowed upon him, long of body, ponderousof limb, huge in every way. A bystander remarked that he had a grandhead. True, if only his head had been seen he would have been abeautiful horse. Like men, horses show what they are in the shape, thesize, 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. Hisface was solid black, except in the middle of his forehead, where therewas a round spot of white. 

"Say mister, mind tellin' me his name?" asked a ragged urchin, with bornlove of a horse in his eyes. 

"Bullet, " replied the rider. 

"Thet there's fer the white mark, ain't it?" whispered the youngster toanother. "Say, ain't he a whopper? Biggest hoss I ever seen. "

Bullet carried a huge black silver-ornamented saddle of Mexican make, alariat and canteen, and a small pack rolled into a tarpaulin. 

This rider apparently put all care of appearances upon his horse. Hisapparel was the ordinary jeans of the cowboy without vanity, and itwas torn and travel-stained. His boots showed evidence of an intimateacquaintance with cactus. Like his horse, this man was a giant instature, but rangier, not so heavily built. Otherwise the only strikingthing about him was his somber face with its piercing eyes, and hairwhite over the temples. He packed two guns, both low down--but that wastoo common a thing to attract notice in the Big Bend. A close observer, however, would have noted a singular fact--this rider's right hand wasmore bronzed, more weather-beaten than his left. He never wore a gloveon that right hand!

He had dismounted before a ramshackle structure that bore upon its wide, high-boarded front the sign, "Hotel. " There were horsemen coming andgoing down the wide street between its rows of old stores, saloons, and houses. Ord certainly did not look enterprising. Americans hadmanifestly assimilated much of the leisure of the Mexicans. The hotelhad 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 werebooted, belted, and spurred. No man there wore a coat, but all worevests. The guns in that group would have outnumbered the men. 

It was a crowd seemingly too lazy to be curious. Good nature did notappear to be wanting, but it was not the frank and boisterous kindnatural to the cowboy or rancher in town for a day. These men wereidlers; what else, perhaps, was easy to conjecture. Certainly to thisarriving stranger, who flashed a keen eye over them, they wore anatmosphere never associated with work. 

Presently a tall man, with a drooping, sandy mustache, leisurelydetached himself from the crowd. 

"Howdy, stranger, " he said. 

The stranger had bent over to loosen the cinches; he straightened up andnodded. Then: "I'm thirsty!"

That brought a broad smile to faces. It was characteristic greeting. One and all trooped after the stranger into the hotel. It was a dark, ill-smelling barn of a place, with a bar as high as a short man's head. A bartender with a scarred face was serving drinks. 

"Line up, gents, " said the stranger. 

They piled over one another to get to the bar, with coarse jests andoaths and laughter. None of them noted that the stranger did not appearso thirsty as he had claimed to be. In fact, though he went through themotions, he did not drink at all. 

"My name's Jim Fletcher, " said the tall man with the drooping, sandymustache. He spoke laconically, nevertheless there was a tone thatshowed he expected to be known. Something went with that name. Thestranger did not appear to be impressed. 

"My name might be Blazes, but it ain't, " he replied. "What do you callthis burg?"

"Stranger, this heah me-tropoles bears the handle Ord. Is thet new toyou?"

He leaned back against the bar, and now his little yellow eyes, clear ascrystal, flawless as a hawk's, fixed on the stranger. Other men crowdedclose, forming a circle, curious, ready to be friendly or otherwise, according to how the tall interrogator marked the new-comer. 

"Sure, Ord's a little strange to me. Off the railroad some, ain't it?Funny trails hereabouts. "

"How fur was you goin'?"

"I reckon I was goin' as far as I could, " replied the stranger, with ahard laugh. 

His reply had subtle reaction on that listening circle. Some of themen exchanged glances. Fletcher stroked his drooping mustache, seemedthoughtful, but lost something of that piercing scrutiny. 

"Wal, Ord's the jumpin'-off place, " he said, presently. "Sure you'veheerd of the Big Bend country?"

"I sure have, an' was makin' tracks fer it, " replied the stranger. 

Fletcher turned toward a man in the outer edge of the group. "Knell, come in heah. "

This individual elbowed his way in and was seen to be scarcely more thana boy, almost pale beside those bronzed men, with a long, expressionlessface, thin and sharp. 

"Knell, this heah's--" Fletcher wheeled to the stranger. "What'd youcall yourself?"

"I'd hate to mention what I've been callin' myself lately. "

This sally fetched another laugh. The stranger appeared cool, careless, indifferent. Perhaps he knew, as the others present knew, that this showof Fletcher's, this pretense of introduction, was merely talk while hewas looked over. 

Knell stepped up, and it was easy to see, from the way Fletcherrelinquished his part in the situation, that a man greater than he hadappeared upon the scene. 

"Any business here?" he queried, curtly. When he spoke hisexpressionless face was in strange contrast with the ring, the quality, the cruelty of his voice. This voice betrayed an absence of humor, offriendliness, of heart. 

"Nope, " replied the stranger. 

"Know anybody hereabouts?"

"Nary one. "

"Jest ridin' through?"

"Yep. "

"Slopin' fer back country, eh?"

There came a pause. The stranger appeared to grow a little resentful anddrew himself up disdainfully. 

"Wal, considerin' you-all seem so damn friendly an' oncurious downhere in this Big Bend country, I don't mind sayin' yes--I am in on thedodge, " he replied, with deliberate sarcasm. 

"From west of Ord--out El Paso way, mebbe?"

"Sure. "

"A-huh! Thet so?" Knell's words cut the air, stilled the room. "You'refrom way down the river. Thet's what they say down there--'on thedodge. '. .. Stranger, you're a liar!"

With swift clink of spur and thump of boot the crowd split, leavingKnell and the stranger in the center. 

Wild breed of that ilk never made a mistake in judging a man's nerve. Knell had cut out with the trenchant call, and stood ready. The strangersuddenly lost his every semblance to the rough and easy character beforemanifest in him. He became bronze. That situation seemed familiarto him. His eyes held a singular piercing light that danced like acompass-needle. 

"Sure I lied, " he said; "so I ain't takin' offense at the way you calledme. I'm lookin' to make friends, not enemies. You don't strike me as oneof them four-flushes, achin' to kill somebody. But if you are--go aheadan' open the ball. .. . You see, I never throw a gun on them fellers tillthey go fer theirs. "

Knell coolly eyed his antagonist, his strange face not changing in theleast. Yet somehow it was evident in his look that here was metal whichrang differently from what he had expected. Invited to start a fightor withdraw, as he chose, Knell proved himself big in the mannercharacteristic of only the genuine gunman. 

"Stranger, I pass, " he said, and, turning to the bar, he ordered liquor. 

The tension relaxed, the silence broke, the men filled up the gap; theincident seemed closed. Jim Fletcher attached himself to the stranger, and now both respect and friendliness tempered his asperity. 

"Wal, fer want of a better handle I'll call you Dodge, " he said. 

"Dodge's as good as any. .. . Gents, line up again--an' if you can't befriendly, be careful!"

Such was Buck Duane's debut in the little outlaw hamlet of Ord. 

Duane had been three months out of the Nueces country. At El Pasohe bought the finest horse he could find, and, armed and otherwiseoutfitted to suit him, he had taken to unknown trails. Leisurely he rodefrom town to town, village to village, ranch to ranch, fitting his talkand his occupation to the impression he wanted to make upon differentpeople 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 thewild and inhospitable Ord he had acted the part of an outlaw, driftinginto new territory. He passed on leisurely because he wanted to learnthe lay of the country, the location of villages and ranches, the work, habit, gossip, pleasures, and fears of the people with whom he camein contact. The one subject most impelling to him--outlaws--he nevermentioned; but by talking all around it, sifting the old ranch andcattle story, he acquired a knowledge calculated to aid his plot. Inthis game time was of no moment; if necessary he would take years toaccomplish his task. The stupendous and perilous nature of it showedin the slow, wary preparation. When he heard Fletcher's name and facedKnell he knew he had reached the place he sought. Ord was a hamlet onthe fringe of the grazing country, of doubtful honesty, from which, surely, winding trails led down into that free and never-disturbedparadise of outlaws--the Big Bend. 

Duane made himself agreeable, yet not too much so, to Fletcher andseveral other men disposed to talk and drink and eat; and then, afterhaving a care for his horse, he rode out of town a couple of miles toa grove he had marked, and there, well hidden, he prepared to spend thenight. This proceeding served a double purpose--he was safer, and thehabit would look well in the eyes of outlaws, who would be more inclinedto see in him the lone-wolf fugitive. 

Long since Duane had fought out a battle with himself, won a hard-earnedvictory. His outer life, the action, was much the same as it had been;but the inner life had tremendously changed. He could never become ahappy man, he could never shake utterly those haunting phantoms that hadonce been his despair and madness; but he had assumed a task impossiblefor any man save one like him, he had felt the meaning of it growstrangely and wonderfully, and through that flourished up consciousnessof how passionately he now clung to this thing which would blot out hisformer infamy. The iron fetters no more threatened his hands; the irondoor no more haunted his dreams. He never forgot that he was free. Strangely, too, along with this feeling of new manhood there gatheredthe force of imperious desire to run these chief outlaws to their dooms. He never called them outlaws--but rustlers, thieves, robbers, murderers, criminals. He sensed the growth of a relentless driving passion, andsometimes he feared that, more than the newly acquired zeal and pride inthis ranger service, it was the old, terrible inherited killing instinctlifting its hydra-head in new guise. But of that he could not be sure. He dreaded the thought. He could only wait. 

Another aspect of the change in Duane, neither passionate nor driving, yet not improbably even more potent of new significance to life, wasthe imperceptible return of an old love of nature dead during his outlawdays. 

For years a horse had been only a machine of locomotion, to carry himfrom 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 riddenwith an intense appreciation of his great speed and endurance. For yearsthe daytime, with its birth of sunrise on through long hours to theruddy close, had been used for sleep or rest in some rocky hole orwillow brake or deserted hut, had been hated because it augmented dangerof pursuit, because it drove the fugitive to lonely, wretched hiding;now the dawn was a greeting, a promise of another day to ride, to plan, to remember, and sun, wind, cloud, rain, sky--all were joys to him, somehow speaking his freedom. For years the night had been a blackspace, during which he had to ride unseen along the endless trails, topeer with cat-eyes through gloom for the moving shape that ever pursuedhim; now the twilight and the dusk and the shadows of grove and canondarkened into night with its train of stars, and brought him calmreflection of the day's happenings, of the morrow's possibilities, perhaps a sad, brief procession of the old phantoms, then sleep. Foryears canons and valleys and mountains had been looked at as retreatsthat might be dark and wild enough to hide even an outlaw; now he sawthese features of the great desert with something of the eyes of the boywho had once burned for adventure and life among them. 

This night a wonderful afterglow lingered long in the west, and againstthe golden-red of clear sky the bold, black head of Mount Ord reareditself aloft, beautiful but aloof, sinister yet calling. Small wonderthat Duane gazed in fascination upon the peak! Somewhere deep inits corrugated sides or lost in a rugged canon was hidden the secretstronghold of the master outlaw Cheseldine. All down along the ride fromEl Paso Duane had heard of Cheseldine, of his band, his fearful deeds, his cunning, his widely separated raids, of his flitting here and therelike a Jack-o'-lantern; but never a word of his den, never a word of hisappearance. 

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 beenused occasionally for cattle-driving. As he had ridden in from the west, this northern direction led him into totally unfamiliar country. Whilehe passed on, however, he exercised such keen observation that in thefuture he would know whatever might be of service to him if he chancedthat way again. 

The rough, wild, brush-covered slope down from the foothills graduallyleveled out into plain, a magnificent grazing country, upon which tillnoon of that day Duane did not see a herd of cattle or a ranch. Aboutthat time he made out smoke from the railroad, and after a couple ofhours' riding he entered a town which inquiry discovered to be Bradford. It was the largest town he had visited since Marfa, and he calculatedmust have a thousand or fifteen hundred inhabitants, not includingMexicans. He decided this would be a good place for him to hold up fora while, being the nearest town to Ord, only forty miles away. So hehitched his horse in front of a store and leisurely set about studyingBradford. 

It was after dark, however, that Duane verified his suspicionsconcerning Bradford. The town was awake after dark, and there was onelong row of saloons, dance-halls, gambling-resorts in full blast. Duanevisited them all, and was surprised to see wildness and license equal tothat of the old river camp of Bland's in its palmiest days. Here it wasforced upon him that the farther west one traveled along the riverthe sparser the respectable settlements, the more numerous the hardcharacters, and in consequence the greater the element of lawlessness. Duane returned to his lodging-house with the conviction that MacNelly'stask of cleaning up the Big Bend country was a stupendous one. Yet, hereflected, a company of intrepid and quick-shooting rangers could havesoon cleaned up this Bradford. 

The innkeeper had one other guest that night, a long black-coated andwide-sombreroed Texan who reminded Duane of his grandfather. This manhad penetrating eyes, a courtly manner, and an unmistakable leaningtoward companionship and mint-juleps. The gentleman introduced himselfas Colonel Webb, of Marfa, and took it as a matter of course that Duanemade no comment about himself. 

"Sir, it's all one to me, " he said, blandly, waving his hand. "I havetraveled. Texas is free, and this frontier is one where it's healthierand just as friendly for a man to have no curiosity about his companion. You might be Cheseldine, of the Big Bend, or you might be Judge Little, of El Paso-it's all one to me. I enjoy drinking with you anyway. "

Duane thanked him, conscious of a reserve and dignity that he could nothave felt or pretended three months before. And then, as always, he wasa good listener. Colonel Webb told, among other things, that he had comeout to the Big Bend to look over the affairs of a deceased brother whohad been a rancher and a sheriff of one of the towns, Fairdale by name. 

"Found no affairs, no ranch, not even his grave, " said Colonel Webb. "And I tell you, sir, if hell's any tougher than this Fairdale I don'twant to expiate my sins there. "

"Fairdale. .. . I imagine sheriffs have a hard row to hoe out here, "replied Duane, trying not to appear curious. 

The Colonel swore lustily. 

"My brother was the only honest sheriff Fairdale ever had. It waswonderful 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 workto offenders of his own town and neighborhood. He let the riding outlawsalone, else he wouldn't have lasted at all. .. . What this frontier needs, sir, is about six companies of Texas Rangers. "

Duane was aware of the Colonel's close scrutiny. 

"Do you know anything about the service?" he asked. 

"I used to. Ten years ago when I lived in San Antonio. A fine body ofmen, sir, and the salvation of Texas. "

"Governor Stone doesn't entertain that opinion, " said Duane. 

Here Colonel Webb exploded. Manifestly the governor was not his choicefor a chief executive of the great state. He talked politics for awhile, and of the vast territory west of the Pecos that seemed never toget a benefit from Austin. He talked enough for Duane to realize thathere was just the kind of intelligent, well-informed, honest citizenthat he had been trying to meet. He exerted himself thereafter tobe agreeable and interesting; and he saw presently that here was anopportunity to make a valuable acquaintance, if not a friend. 

"I'm a stranger in these parts, " said Duane, finally. "What is thisoutlaw situation you speak of?"

"It's damnable, sir, and unbelievable. Not rustling any more, but justwholesale herd-stealing, in which some big cattlemen, supposed to behonest, are equally guilty with the outlaws. On this border, you know, the rustler has always been able to steal cattle in any numbers. But toget rid of big bunches--that's the hard job. The gang operating betweenhere and Valentine evidently have not this trouble. Nobody knows wherethe stolen stock goes. But I'm not alone in my opinion that most ofit goes to several big stockmen. They ship to San Antonio, Austin, NewOrleans, also to El Paso. If you travel the stock-road between here andMarfa and Valentine you'll see dead cattle all along the line and straycattle out in the scrub. The herds have been driven fast and far, andstragglers are not rounded up. "

"Wholesale business, eh?" remarked Duane. "Who are these--er--bigstock-buyers?"

Colonel Webb seemed a little startled at the abrupt query. He bent hispenetrating gaze upon Duane and thoughtfully stroked his pointed beard. 

"Names, of course, I'll not mention. Opinions are one thing, directaccusation another. This is not a healthy country for the informer. "

When it came to the outlaws themselves Colonel Webb was disposed to talkfreely. Duane could not judge whether the Colonel had a hobby of thatsubject or the outlaws were so striking in personality and deed thatany man would know all about them. The great name along the river wasCheseldine, but it seemed to be a name detached from an individual. Noperson of veracity known to Colonel Webb had ever seen Cheseldine, and those who claimed that doubtful honor varied so diversely indescriptions of the chief that they confused the reality and lent tothe outlaw only further mystery. Strange to say of an outlaw leader, asthere was no one who could identify him, so there was no one who couldprove he had actually killed a man. Blood flowed like water over theBig Bend country, and it was Cheseldine who spilled it. Yet the factremained there were no eye-witnesses to connect any individual calledCheseldine with these deeds of violence. But in striking contrast tothis mystery was the person, character, and cold-blooded action ofPoggin and Knell, the chief's lieutenants. They were familiar figures inall 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 hundredstories of his nerve, his wonderful speed with a gun, his passion forgambling, his love of a horse--his cold, implacable, inhuman wiping outof his path any man that crossed it. 

"Cheseldine is a name, a terrible name, " said Colonel Webb. "SometimesI wonder if he's not only a name. In that case where does the brains ofthis gang come from? No; there must be a master craftsman behind thisborder pillage; a master capable of handling those terrors Poggin andKnell. Of all the thousands of outlaws developed by western Texas in thelast twenty years these three are the greatest. In southern Texas, downbetween the Pecos and the Nueces, there have been and are still manybad men. But I doubt if any outlaw there, possibly excepting Buck Duane, ever equaled Poggin. You've heard of this Duane?"

"Yes, a little, " replied Duane, quietly. "I'm from southern Texas. BuckDuane then is known out here?"

"Why, man, where isn't his name known?" returned Colonel Webb. "I'vekept 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 likeCheseldine. Out here there have drifted many stories of Duane, horriblesome of them. But despite them a sort of romance clings to that Nuecesoutlaw. He's killed three great outlaw leaders, I believe--Bland, Hardin, and the other I forgot. Hardin was known in the Big Bend, hadfriends there. Bland had a hard name at Del Rio. "

"Then this man Duane enjoys rather an unusual repute west of the Pecos?"inquired Duane. 

"He's considered more of an enemy to his kind than to honest men. I understand Duane had many friends, that whole counties swear byhim--secretly, of course, for he's a hunted outlaw with rewards on hishead. His fame in this country appears to hang on his matchless gun-playand his enmity toward outlaw chiefs. I've heard many a rancher say: 'Iwish to God that Buck Duane would drift out here! I'd give a hundredpesos to see him and Poggin meet. ' It's a singular thing, stranger, howjealous these great outlaws are of each other. "

"Yes, indeed, all about them is singular, " replied Duane. "HasCheseldine's gang been busy lately?"

"No. This section has been free of rustling for months, though there'sunexplained movements of stock. Probably all the stock that's beingshipped now was rustled long ago. Cheseldine works over a wide section, too wide for news to travel inside of weeks. Then sometimes he's notheard of at all for a spell. These lulls are pretty surely indicative ofa big storm sooner or later. And Cheseldine's deals, as they grow fewerand farther between, certainly get bigger, more daring. There are somepeople who think Cheseldine had nothing to do with the bank-robberiesand train-holdups during the last few years in this country. But that'spoor reasoning. The jobs have been too well done, too surely covered, tobe the work of greasers or ordinary outlaws. "

"What's your view of the outlook? How's all this going to wind up? Willthe outlaw ever be driven out?" asked Duane. 

"Never. There will always be outlaws along the Rio Grande. All thearmies in the world couldn't comb the wild brakes of that fifteenhundred miles of river. But the sway of the outlaw, such as is enjoyedby these great leaders, will sooner or later be past. The criminalelement flock to the Southwest. But not so thick and fast as thepioneers. Besides, the outlaws kill themselves, and the ranchers areslowly rising in wrath, if not in action. That will come soon. If theyonly had a leader to start the fight! But that will come. There's talkof Vigilantes, the same hat were organized in California and are now inforce in Idaho. So far it's only talk. But the time will come. And thedays of Cheseldine and Poggin are numbered. "

Duane went to bed that night exceedingly thoughtful. The long trail wasgrowing hot. This voluble colonel had given him new ideas. It cameto Duane in surprise that he was famous along the upper Rio Grande. Assuredly he would not long be able to conceal his identity. He hadno doubt that he would soon meet the chiefs of this clever and boldrustling gang. He could not decide whether he would be safer unknown orknown. In the latter case his one chance lay in the fatality connectedwith his name, in his power to look it and act it. Duane had neverdreamed of any sleuth-hound tendency in his nature, but now he feltsomething like one. Above all others his mind fixed on Poggin--Pogginthe brute, the executor of Cheseldine's will, but mostly upon Poggin thegunman. This in itself was a warning to Duane. He felt terrible forcesat work within him. There was the stern and indomitable resolve tomake MacNelly's boast good to the governor of the state--to break upCheseldine's gang. Yet this was not in Duane's mind before a strangegrim and deadly instinct--which he had to drive away for fear he wouldfind in it a passion to kill Poggin, not for the state, nor for his wordto MacNelly, but for himself. Had his father's blood and the hard yearsmade Duane the kind of man who instinctively wanted to meet Poggin? Hewas sworn to MacNelly's service, and he fought himself to keep that, andthat only, in his mind. 

Duane ascertained that Fairdale was situated two days' ride fromBradford toward the north. There was a stage which made the journeytwice a week. 

Next morning Duane mounted his horse and headed for Fairdale. He rodeleisurely, as he wanted to learn all he could about the country. There were few ranches. The farther he traveled the better grazing heencountered, and, strange to note, the fewer herds of cattle. 

It was just sunset when he made out a cluster of adobe houses thatmarked the half-way point between Bradford and Fairdale. Here, Duane hadlearned, was stationed a comfortable inn for wayfarers. 

When he drew up before the inn the landlord and his family and a numberof loungers greeted him laconically. 

"Beat the stage in, hey?" remarked one. 

"There she comes now, " said another. "Joel shore is drivin' to-night. "

Far down the road Duane saw a cloud of dust and horses and a lumberingcoach. When he had looked after the needs of his horse he returned tothe group before the inn. They awaited the stage with thatinterest common to isolated people. Presently it rolled up, a largemud-bespattered and dusty vehicle, littered with baggage on top andtied on behind. A number of passengers alighted, three of whom excitedDuane's interest. One was a tall, dark, striking-looking man, and theother two were ladies, wearing long gray ulsters and veils. Duane heardthe proprietor of the inn address the man as Colonel Longstreth, and asthe party entered the inn Duane's quick ears caught a few words whichacquainted him with the fact that Longstreth was the Mayor of Fairdale. 

Duane passed inside himself to learn that supper would soon be ready. At table he found himself opposite the three who had attracted hisattention. 

"Ruth, I envy the lucky cowboys, " Longstreth was saying. 

Ruth was a curly-headed girl with gray or hazel eyes. 

"I'm crazy to ride bronchos, " she said. 

Duane gathered she was on a visit to western Texas. The other girl'sdeep voice, sweet like a bell, made Duane regard her closer. She hadbeauty as he had never seen it in another woman. She was slender, butthe development of her figure gave Duane the impression she was twentyyears old or more. She had the most exquisite hands Duane had ever seen. She did not resemble the Colonel, who was evidently her father. Shelooked 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 somethingnervous and delicate about it which made Duane think of a thoroughbred;and a mouth by no means small, but perfectly curved; and hair likejet--all these features proclaimed her beauty to Duane. Duane believedher a descendant of one of the old French families of eastern Texas. Hewas sure of it when she looked at him, drawn by his rather persistentgaze. There were pride, fire, and passion in her eyes. Duane felthimself blushing in confusion. His stare at her had been rude, perhaps, but unconscious. How many years had passed since he had seen a girl likeher! Thereafter he kept his eyes upon his plate, yet he seemed to beaware that he had aroused the interest of both girls. 

After supper the guests assembled in a big sitting-room where an openfire 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-facedmen, strangers who had not appeared before, and were peering in from adoorway. When they saw Duane had observed them they stepped back out ofsight. 

It flashed over Duane that the strangers acted suspiciously. In Texasin 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 drinksto the two strangers. They glanced up when he entered, and one of themwhispered. He imagined he had seen one of them before. In Texas, whereoutdoor 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 onthe 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 thesestrangers were dishonest. 

"Hey somethin'?" one of them asked, leering. Both looked Duane up anddown. 

"No thanks, I don't drink, " Duane replied, and returned their scrutinywith interest. "How's tricks in the Big Bend?"

Both men stared. It had taken only a close glance for Duane to recognizea type of ruffian most frequently met along the river. These strangershad that stamp, and their surprise proved he was right. Here theinnkeeper showed signs of uneasiness, and seconded the surprise of hiscustomers. No more was said at the instant, and the two rather hurriedlywent out. 

"Say, boss, do you know those fellows?" Duane asked the innkeeper. 

"Nope. "

"Which way did they come?"

"Now I think of it, them fellers rid in from both corners today, " hereplied, and he put both hands on the bar and looked at Duane. "Theynooned heah, comin' from Bradford, they said, an' trailed in after thestage. "

When Duane returned to the sitting-room Colonel Longstreth was absent, also several of the other passengers. Miss Ruth sat in the chair he hadvacated, and across the table from her sat Miss Longstreth. Duane wentdirectly to them. 

"Excuse me, " said Duane, addressing them. "I want to tell you there area couple of rough-looking men here. I've just seen them. They meanevil. Tell your father to be careful. Lock your doors--bar your windowsto-night. "

"Oh!" cried Ruth, very low. "Ray, do you hear?"

"Thank you; we'll be careful, " said Miss Longstreth, gracefully. Therich color had faded in her cheek. "I saw those men watching youfrom that door. They had such bright black eyes. Is there reallydanger--here?"

"I think so, " was Duane's reply. 

Soft swift steps behind him preceded a harsh voice: "Hands up!"

No man quicker than Duane to recognize the intent in those words! Hishands shot up. Miss Ruth uttered a little frightened cry and sank intoher chair. Miss Longstreth turned white, her eyes dilated. Both girlswere staring at some one behind Duane. 

"Turn around!" ordered the harsh voice. 

The big, dark stranger, the bearded one who had whispered to his comradein the bar-room and asked Duane to drink, had him covered with a cockedgun. He strode forward, his eyes gleaming, pressed the gun against him, and with his other hand dove into his inside coat pocket and tore outhis roll of bills. Then he reached low at Duane's hip, felt his gun, andtook it. Then he slapped the other hip, evidently in search of anotherweapon. That done, he backed away, wearing an expression of fiendishsatisfaction that made Duane think he was only a common thief, a noviceat this kind of game. 

His comrade stood in the door with a gun leveled at two other men, whostood there frightened, speechless. 

"Git a move on, Bill, " called this fellow; and he took a hasty glancebackward. A stamp of hoofs came from outside. Of course the robbers hadhorses waiting. The one called Bill strode across the room, and withbrutal, careless haste began to prod the two men with his weapon and tosearch them. The robber in the doorway called "Rustle!" and disappeared. 

Duane wondered where the innkeeper was, and Colonel Longstreth and theother two passengers. The bearded robber quickly got through with hissearching, and from his growls Duane gathered he had not been wellremunerated. Then he wheeled once more. Duane had not moved a muscle, stood perfectly calm with his arms high. The robber strode back with hisbloodshot eyes fastened upon the girls. Miss Longstreth never flinched, but the little girl appeared about to faint. 

"Don't yap, there!" he said, low and hard. He thrust the gun close toRuth. Then Duane knew for sure that he was no knight of the road, but aplain cutthroat robber. Danger always made Duane exult in a kind of coldglow. But now something hot worked within him. He had a little gun inhis pocket. The robber had missed it. And he began to calculate chances. 

"Any money, jewelry, diamonds!" ordered the ruffian, fiercely. 

Miss Ruth collapsed. Then he made at Miss Longstreth. She stood withher hands at her breast. Evidently the robber took this position tomean that she had valuables concealed there. But Duane fancied she hadinstinctively pressed her hands against a throbbing heart. 

"Come out with it!" he said, harshly, reaching for her. 

"Don't dare touch me!" she cried, her eyes ablaze. She did not move. Shehad nerve. 

It made Duane thrill. He saw he was going to get a chance. Waiting hadbeen 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 helpedDuane, yet made injury possible to her. She eluded two lunges the manmade at her. Then his rough hand caught her waist, and with one pullripped it asunder, exposing her beautiful shoulder, white as snow. 

She cried out. The prospect of being robbed or even killed had notshaken Miss Longstreth's nerve as had this brutal tearing off of halfher waist. 

The ruffian was only turned partially away from Duane. For himselfhe could have waited no longer. But for her! That gun was still helddangerously upward close to her. Duane watched only that. Then a bellowmade him jerk his head. Colonel Longstreth stood in the doorway in amagnificent rage. He had no weapon. Strange how he showed no fear! Hebellowed something again. 

Duane's shifting glance caught the robber's sudden movement. It wasa kind of start. He seemed stricken. Duane expected him to shootLongstreth. Instead the hand that clutched Miss Longstreth's torn waistloosened its hold. The other hand with its cocked weapon slowly droppedtill it pointed to the floor. That was Duane's chance. 

Swift as a flash he drew his gun and fired. Thud! went his bullet, andhe could not tell on the instant whether it hit the robber or went intothe ceiling. Then the robber's gun boomed harmlessly. He fell with bloodspurting over his face. Duane realized he had hit him, but the smallbullet had glanced. 

Miss Longstreth reeled and might have fallen had Duane not supportedher. It was only a few steps to a couch, to which he half led, halfcarried her. Then he rushed out of the room, across the patio, throughthe bar to the yard. Nevertheless, he was cautious. In the gloom stood asaddled horse, probably the one belonging to the fellow he had shot. His comrade had escaped. Returning to the sitting-room, Duane found acondition approaching pandemonium. 

The innkeeper rushed in, pitchfork in hands. Evidently he had been outat 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. Thewoman, wife of one of the men, had come in, and she had hysterics. Thegirls were still and white. The robber Bill lay where he had fallen, andDuane guessed he had made a fair shot, after all. And, lastly, the thingthat struck Duane most of all was Longstreth's rage. He never saw suchpassion. Like a caged lion Longstreth stalked and roared. There came aquieter moment in which the innkeeper shrilly protested:

"Man, what're you ravin' aboot? Nobody's hurt, an' thet's lucky. I swearto God I hadn't nothin' to do with them fellers!"

"I ought to kill you anyhow!" replied Longstreth. And his voice nowastounded Duane, it was so full of power. 

Upon examination Duane found that his bullet had furrowed the robber'stemple, torn a great piece out of his scalp, and, as Duane had guessed, had glanced. He was not seriously injured, and already showed signs ofreturning consciousness. 

"Drag him out of here!" ordered Longstreth; and he turned to hisdaughter. 

Before the innkeeper reached the robber Duane had secured the money andgun taken from him; and presently recovered the property of the othermen. Joel helped the innkeeper carry the injured man somewhere outside. 

Miss Longstreth was sitting white but composed upon the couch, where layMiss Ruth, who evidently had been carried there by the Colonel. Duanedid not think she had wholly lost consciousness, and now she lay verystill, with eyes dark and shadowy, her face pallid and wet. The Colonel, now that he finally remembered his women-folk, seemed to be gentle andkind. He talked soothingly to Miss Ruth, made light of the adventure, said she must learn to have nerve out here where things happened. 

"Can I be of any service?" asked Duane, solicitously. 

"Thanks; I guess there's nothing you can do. Talk to these frightenedgirls while I go see what's to be done with that thick-skulled robber, "he replied, and, telling the girls that there was no more danger, hewent out. 

Miss Longstreth sat with one hand holding her torn waist in place; theother she extended to Duane. He took it awkwardly, and he felt a strangethrill. 

"You saved my life, " she said, in grave, sweet seriousness. 

"No, no!" Duane exclaimed. "He might have struck you, hurt you, but nomore. "

"I saw murder in his eyes. He thought I had jewels under my dress. Icouldn't bear his touch. The beast! I'd have fought. Surely my life wasin peril. "

"Did you kill him?" asked Miss Ruth, who lay listening. 

"Oh no. He's not badly hurt. "

"I'm very glad he's alive, " said Miss Longstreth, shuddering. 

"My intention was bad enough, " Duane went on. "It was a ticklish placefor me. You see, he was half drunk, and I was afraid his gun might gooff. Fool careless he was!"

"Yet you say you didn't save me, " Miss Longstreth returned, quickly. 

"Well, let it go at that, " Duane responded. "I saved you something. "

"Tell me all about it?" asked Miss Ruth, who was fast recovering. 

Rather embarrassed, Duane briefly told the incident from his point ofview. 

"Then you stood there all the time with your hands up thinking ofnothing--watching for nothing except a little moment when you might drawyour gun?" asked Miss Ruth. 

"I guess that's about it, " he replied. 

"Cousin, " said Miss Longstreth, thoughtfully, "it was fortunate for usthat this gentleman happened to be here. Papa scouts--laughs at danger. He seemed to think there was no danger. Yet he raved after it came. "

"Go with us all the way to Fairdale--please?" asked Miss Ruth, sweetlyoffering her hand. "I am Ruth Herbert. And this is my cousin, RayLongstreth. "

"I'm traveling that way, " replied Duane, in great confusion. He did notknow how to meet the situation. 

Colonel Longstreth returned then, and after bidding Duane a good night, which seemed rather curt by contrast to the graciousness of the girls, he led them away. 

Before going to bed Duane went outside to take a look at the injuredrobber and perhaps to ask him a few questions. To Duane's surprise, hewas gone, and so was his horse. The innkeeper was dumfounded. He saidthat he left the fellow on the floor in the bar-room. 

"Had he come to?" inquired Duane. 

"Sure. He asked for whisky. "

"Did he say anything else?"

"Not to me. I heard him talkin' to the father of them girls. "

"You mean Colonel Longstreth?"

"I reckon. He sure was some riled, wasn't he? Jest as if I was to blamefer that two-bit of a hold-up!"

"What did you make of the old gent's rage?" asked Duane, watching theinnkeeper. He scratched his head dubiously. He was sincere, and Duanebelieved in his honesty. 

"Wal, I'm doggoned if I know what to make of it. But I reckon he'seither crazy or got more nerve than most Texans. "

"More nerve, maybe, " Duane replied. "Show me a bed now, innkeeper. "

Once in bed in the dark, Duane composed himself to think over theseveral events of the evening. He called up the details of the holdupand carefully revolved them in mind. The Colonel's wrath, undercircumstances where almost any Texan would have been cool, nonplussedDuane, and he put it down to a choleric temperament. He pondered long onthe action of the robber when Longstreth's bellow of rage burst inupon him. This ruffian, as bold and mean a type as Duane had everencountered, had, from some cause or other, been startled. From whateverpoint Duane viewed the man's strange indecision he could come toonly one conclusion--his start, his check, his fear had been that ofrecognition. Duane compared this effect with the suddenly acquired sensehe had gotten of Colonel Longstreth's powerful personality. Why had thatdesperate robber lowered his gun and stood paralyzed at sight and soundof the Mayor of Fairdale? This was not answerable. There might have beena number of reasons, all to Colonel Longstreth's credit, but Duanecould not understand. Longstreth had not appeared to see danger for hisdaughter, even though she had been roughly handled, and had advanced infront of a cocked gun. Duane probed deep into this singular fact, and hebrought to bear on the thing all his knowledge and experience ofviolent Texas life. And he found that the instant Colonel Longstrethhad appeared on the scene there was no further danger threatening hisdaughter. Why? That likewise Duane could not answer. Then his rage, Duane concluded, had been solely at the idea of HIS daughter beingassaulted by a robber. This deduction was indeed a thought-disturber, but Duane put it aside to crystallize and for more carefulconsideration. 

Next morning Duane found that the little town was called Sanderson. Itwas larger than he had at first supposed. He walked up the main streetand back again. Just as he arrived some horsemen rode up to the inn anddismounted. And at this juncture the Longstreth party came out. Duaneheard Colonel Longstreth utter an exclamation. Then he saw him shakehands with a tall man. Longstreth looked surprised and angry, and hespoke with force; but Duane could not hear what it was he said. Thefellow laughed, yet somehow he struck Duane as sullen, until suddenlyhe espied Miss Longstreth. Then his face changed, and he removed hissombrero. Duane went closer. 

"Floyd, did you come with the teams?" asked Longstreth, sharply. 

"Not me. I rode a horse, good and hard, " was the reply. 

"Humph! I'll have a word to say to you later. " Then Longstreth turned tohis daughter. "Ray, here's the cousin I've told you about. You used toplay with him ten years ago--Floyd Lawson. Floyd, my daughter--and myniece, Ruth Herbert. "

Duane always scrutinized every one he met, and now with a dangerous gameto play, with a consciousness of Longstreth's unusual and significantpersonality, he bent a keen and searching glance upon this Floyd Lawson. 

He was under thirty, yet gray at his temples--dark, smooth-shaven, withlines left by wildness, dissipation, shadows under dark eyes, a mouthstrong and bitter, and a square chin--a reckless, careless, handsome, sinister face strangely losing the hardness when he smiled. The graceof 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 tothe frontier, where rough and wild life had wrought sternly but had notquite effaced the mark of good family. 

Colonel Longstreth apparently did not share the pleasure of his daughterand his niece in the advent of this cousin. Something hinged on thismeeting. Duane grew intensely curious, but, as the stage appeared readyfor the journey, he had no further opportunity to gratify it. 

CHAPTER XVI

Duane followed the stage through the town, out into the open, on to awide, hard-packed road showing years of travel. It headed northwest. Tothe 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 coveredground rapidly. 

The stage made three stops in the forenoon, one at a place where thehorses could be watered, the second at a chuck-wagon belonging tocowboys who were riding after stock, and the third at a small clusterof adobe and stone houses constituting a hamlet the driver calledLongstreth, named after the Colonel. From that point on to Fairdalethere were only a few ranches, each one controlling great acreage. 

Early in the afternoon from a ridge-top Duane sighted Fairdale, a greenpatch in the mass of gray. For the barrens of Texas it was indeed a fairsight. But he was more concerned with its remoteness from civilizationthan its beauty. At that time, in the early seventies, when the vastwestern third of Texas was a wilderness, the pioneer had done wonders tosettle there and establish places like Fairdale. 

It needed only a glance for Duane to pick out Colonel Longstreth'sranch. The house was situated on the only elevation around Fairdale, andit was not high, nor more than a few minutes' walk from the edge of thetown. It was a low, flat-roofed structure made of red adobe bricks, andcovered what appeared to be fully an acre of ground. All was green aboutit, except where the fenced corrals and numerous barns or sheds showedgray and red. 

Duane soon reached the shady outskirts of Fairdale, and entered thetown with mingled feelings of curiosity, eagerness, and expectation. Thestreet he rode down was a main one, and on both sides of the street wasa solid row of saloons, resorts, hotels. Saddled horses stood hitchedall along the sidewalk in two long lines, with a buckboard and team hereand there breaking the continuity. This block was busy and noisy. 

From all outside appearances Fairdale was no different from otherfrontier towns, and Duane's expectations were scarcely realized. As theafternoon was waning he halted at a little inn. A boy took charge of hishorse. Duane questioned the lad about Fairdale and gradually drew to thesubject most in mind. 

"Colonel Longstreth has a big outfit, eh?"

"Reckon he has, " replied the lad. "Doan know how many cowboys. They'realways comin' and goin'. I ain't acquainted with half of them. "

"Much movement of stock these days?"

"Stock's always movin', " he replied, with a queer look. 

"Rustlers?"

But he did not follow up that look with the affirmative Duane expected. 

"Lively place, I hear--Fairdale is?"

"Ain't so lively as Sanderson, but it's bigger. "

"Yes, I heard it was. Fellow down there was talking about two cowboyswho were arrested. "

"Sure. I heered all about that. Joe Bean an' Brick Higgins--they belongheah, but they ain't heah much. Longstreth's boys. "

Duane did not want to appear over-inquisitive, so he turned the talkinto other channels. 

After getting supper Duane strolled up and down the main street. Whendarkness set in he went into a hotel, bought cigars, sat around, andwatched. Then he passed out and went into the next place. This was ofrough crude exterior, but the inside was comparatively pretentious andablaze with lights. It was full of men coming and going--a dusty-bootedcrowd that smelled of horses and smoke. Duane sat down for a while, withwide eyes and open ears. Then he hunted up the bar, where most of theguests had been or were going. He found a great square room lighted bysix huge lamps, a bar at one side, and all the floor-space taken upby tables and chairs. This was the only gambling place of any size insouthern Texas in which he had noted the absence of Mexicans. There wassome card-playing going on at this moment. Duane stayed in there fora while, and knew that strangers were too common in Fairdale to beconspicuous. Then he returned to the inn where he had engaged a room. 

Duane sat down on the steps of the dingy little restaurant. Two men wereconversing inside, and they had not noticed Duane. 

"Laramie, what's the stranger's name?" asked one. 

"He didn't say, " replied the other. 

"Sure was a strappin' big man. Struck me a little odd, he did. Nocattleman, him. How'd you size him?"

"Well, like one of them cool, easy, quiet Texans who's been lookin' fora man for years--to kill him when he found him. "

"Right you are, Laramie; and, between you an' me, I hope he's lookin'for Long--"

"'S--sh!" interrupted Laramie. "You must be half drunk, to go talkie'that way. "

Thereafter they conversed in too low a tone for Duane to hear, andpresently Laramie's visitor left. Duane went inside, and, making himselfagreeable, began to ask casual questions about Fairdale. Laramie was notcommunicative. 

Duane went to his room in a thoughtful frame of mind. Had Laramie'svisitor meant he hoped some one had come to kill Longstreth? Duaneinferred just that from the interrupted remark. There was somethingwrong about the Mayor of Fairdale. Duane felt it. And he felt also, ifthere was a crooked and dangerous man, it was this Floyd Lawson. Theinnkeeper Laramie would be worth cultivating. And last in Duane'sthoughts that night was Miss Longstreth. He could not help thinking ofher--how strangely the meeting with her had affected him. It made himremember 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 thepresent! He had no right even to dream of a beautiful woman like RayLongstreth. That conviction, however, did not dispel her; indeed, it seemed perversely to make her grow more fascinating. Duane grewconscious of a strange, unaccountable hunger, a something that was likea pang in his breast. 

Next day he lounged about the inn. He did not make any overtures tothe taciturn proprietor. Duane had no need of hurry now. He contentedhimself with watching and listening. And at the close of that day hedecided Fairdale was what MacNelly had claimed it to be, and that he wason the track of an unusual adventure. The following day he spent in muchthe same way, though on one occasion he told Laramie he was looking fora 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 learnthat Laramie had seen better days--that he was now broken, bitter, andhard. Some one had wronged him. 

Several days passed. Duane did not succeed in getting any closer toLaramie, but he found the idlers on the corners and in front of thestores unsuspicious and willing to talk. It did not take him long tofind out that Fairdale stood parallel with Huntsville for gambling, drinking, and fighting. The street was always lined with dusty, saddledhorses, the town full of strangers. Money appeared more abundant than inany place Duane had ever visited; and it was spent with the abandonthat spoke forcibly of easy and crooked acquirement. Duane decidedthat Sanderson, Bradford, and Ord were but notorious outposts to thisFairdale, which was a secret center of rustlers and outlaws. And whatstruck Duane strangest of all was the fact that Longstreth was mayorhere and held court daily. Duane knew intuitively, before a chanceremark gave him proof, that this court was a sham, a farce. And hewondered if it were not a blind. This wonder of his was equivalent tosuspicion of Colonel Longstreth, and Duane reproached himself. Thenhe realized that the reproach was because of the daughter. Inquiry hadbrought him the fact that Ray Longstreth had just come to live with herfather. Longstreth had originally been a planter in Louisiana, where hisfamily 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. FloydLawson was his lieutenant and associate in deals. 

On the afternoon of the fifth day of Duane's stay in Fairdale hereturned to the inn from his usual stroll, and upon entering was amazedto have a rough-looking young fellow rush by him out of the door. InsideLaramie was lying on the floor, with a bloody bruise on his face. He didnot appear to be dangerously hurt. 

"Bo Snecker! He hit me and went after the cash-drawer, " said Laramie, laboring to his feet. 

"Are you hurt much?" queried Duane. 

"I guess not. But Bo needn't to have soaked me. I've been robbed beforewithout that. "

"Well, I'll take a look after Bo, " replied Duane. 

He went out and glanced down the street toward the center of the town. He did not see any one he could take for the innkeeper's assailant. Thenhe looked up the street, and he saw the young fellow about a block away, hurrying along and gazing back. 

Duane yelled for him to stop and started to go after him. Snecker brokeinto a run. Then Duane set out to overhaul him. There were two motivesin Duane's action--one of anger, and the other a desire to make a friendof this man Laramie, whom Duane believed could tell him much. 

Duane was light on his feet, and he had a giant stride. He gainedrapidly upon Snecker, who, turning this way and that, could not getout of sight. Then he took to the open country and ran straight forthe green hill where Longstreth's house stood. Duane had almost caughtSnecker 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 theroad into the courtyard, and he saw Snecker go straight for Longstreth'shouse. 

Duane was not to be turned back by that, singular as it was. He did notstop to consider. It seemed enough to know that fate had directed him tothe path of this rancher Longstreth. Duane entered the first open dooron that side of the court. It opened into a corridor which led into aplaza. It had wide, smooth stone porches, and flowers and shrubbery inthe center. Duane hurried through to burst into the presence of MissLongstreth and a number of young people. Evidently she was giving alittle party. 

Lawson stood leaning against one of the pillars that supported theporch roof; at sight of Duane his face changed remarkably, expressingamazement, consternation, then fear. 

In the quick ensuing silence Miss Longstreth rose white as her dress. The young women present stared in astonishment, if they were not equallyperturbed. There were cowboys present who suddenly grew intent andstill. By these things Duane gathered that his appearance mustbe disconcerting. He was panting. He wore no hat or coat. His biggun-sheath showed plainly at his hip. 

Sight of Miss Longstreth had an unaccountable effect upon Duane. He wasplunged into confusion. For the moment he saw no one but her. 

"Miss Longstreth--I came--to search--your house, " panted Duane. 

He hardly knew what he was saying, yet the instant he spoke he realizedthat that should have been the last thing for him to say. He hadblundered. But he was not used to women, and this dark-eyed girl madehim thrill and his heart beat thickly and his wits go scattering. 

"Search my house!" exclaimed Miss Longstreth; and red succeeded thewhite in her cheeks. She appeared astonished and angry. "What for? Why, how dare you! This is unwarrantable!"

"A man--Bo Snecker--assaulted and robbed Jim Laramie, " replied Duane, hurriedly. "I chased Snecker here--saw him run into the house. "

"Here? Oh, sir, you must be mistaken. We have seen no one. In theabsence of my father I'm mistress here. I'll not permit you to search. "

Lawson appeared to come out of his astonishment. He stepped forward. 

"Ray, don't be bothered now, " he said, to his cousin. "This fellow'smaking a bluff. I'll settle him. See here, Mister, you clear out!"

"I want Snecker. He's here, and I'm going to get him, " replied Duane, quietly. 

"Bah! That's all a bluff, " sneered Lawson. "I'm on to your game. Youjust wanted an excuse to break in here--to see my cousin again. When yousaw the company you invented that excuse. Now, be off, or it'll be theworse for you. "

Duane felt his face burn with a tide of hot blood. Almost he felt thathe was guilty of such motive. Had he not been unable to put this RayLongstreth out of his mind? There seemed to be scorn in her eyes now. And somehow that checked his embarrassment. 

"Miss Longstreth, will you let me search the house?" he asked. 

"No. "

"Then--I regret to say--I'll do so without your permission. "

"You'll not dare!" she flashed. She stood erect, her bosom swelling. 

"Pardon me, yes, I will. "

"Who are you?" she demanded, suddenly. 

"I'm a Texas Ranger, " replied Duane. 

"A TEXAS RANGER!" she echoed. 

Floyd Lawson's dark face turned pale. 

"Miss Longstreth, I don't need warrants to search houses, " said Duane. "I'm sorry to annoy you. I'd prefer to have your permission. A ruffianhas taken refuge here--in your father's house. He's hidden somewhere. May I look for him?"

"If you are indeed a ranger. "

Duane produced his papers. Miss Longstreth haughtily refused to look atthem. 

"Miss Longstreth, I've come to make Fairdale a safer, cleaner, betterplace for women and children. I don't wonder at your resentment. But todoubt me--insult me. Some day you may be sorry. "

Floyd Lawson made a violent motion with his hands. 

"All stuff! Cousin, go on with your party. I'll take a couple of cowboysand go with this--this Texas Ranger. "

"Thanks, " said Duane, coolly, as he eyed Lawson. "Perhaps you'll be ableto find Snecker quicker than I could. "

"What do you mean?" demanded Lawson, and now he grew livid. Evidently hewas a man of fierce quick passions. 

"Don't quarrel, " said Miss Longstreth. "Floyd, you go with him. Pleasehurry. I'll be nervous till--the man's found or you're sure there's notone. "

They started with several cowboys to search the house. They went throughthe rooms searching, calling out, peering into dark places. It struckDuane more than forcibly that Lawson did all the calling. He washurried, too, tried to keep in the lead. Duane wondered if he knew hisvoice would be recognized by the hiding man. Be that as it might, it wasDuane who peered into a dark corner and then, with a gun leveled, said"Come out!"

He came forth into the flare--a tall, slim, dark-faced youth, wearingsombrero, blouse and trousers. Duane collared him before any of theothers could move and held the gun close enough to make him shrink. Buthe did not impress Duane as being frightened just then; nevertheless, hehad a clammy face, the pallid look of a man who had just gotten over ashock. He peered into Duane's face, then into that of the cowboy next tohim, then into Lawson's, and if ever in Duane's life he beheld reliefit was then. That was all Duane needed to know, but he meant to find outmore if he could. 

"Who're you?" asked Duane, quietly. 

"Bo Snecker, " he said. 

"What'd you hide here for?"

He appeared to grow sullen. 

"Reckoned I'd be as safe in Longstreth's as anywheres. "

"Ranger, what'll you do with him?" Lawson queried, as if uncertain, nowthe capture was made. 

"I'll see to that, " replied Duane, and he pushed Snecker in front of himout into the court. 

Duane had suddenly conceived the idea of taking Snecker before MayorLongstreth in the court. 

When Duane arrived at the hall where court was held there were other menthere, a dozen or more, and all seemed excited; evidently, news of Duanehad preceded him. Longstreth sat at a table up on a platform. Nearhim sat a thick-set grizzled man, with deep eyes, and this was HanfordOwens, county judge. To the right stood a tall, angular, yellow-facedfellow with a drooping sandy mustache. Conspicuous on his vest was ahuge silver shield. This was Gorsech, one of Longstreth's sheriffs. There were four other men whom Duane knew by sight, several whose faceswere familiar, and half a dozen strangers, all dusty horsemen. 

Longstreth pounded hard on the table to be heard. Mayor or not, he wasunable at once to quell the excitement. Gradually, however, it subsided, and from the last few utterances before quiet was restored Duanegathered that he had intruded upon some kind of a meeting in the hall. 

"What'd you break in here for, " demanded Longstreth. 

"Isn't this the court? Aren't you the Mayor of Fairdale?" interrogatedDuane. His voice was clear and loud, almost piercing. 

"Yes, " replied Longstreth. Like flint he seemed, yet Duane felt hisintense interest. 

"I've arrested a criminal, " said Duane. 

"Arrested a criminal!" ejaculated Longstreth. "You? Who're you?"

"I'm a ranger, " replied Duane. 

A significant silence ensued. 

"I charge Snecker with assault on Laramie and attempted robbery--if notmurder. He's had a shady past here, as this court will know if it keepsa record. "

"What's this I hear about you, Bo? Get up and speak for yourself, " saidLongstreth, gruffly. 

Snecker got up, not without a furtive glance at Duane, and he hadshuffled forward a few steps toward the Mayor. He had an evil front, butnot the boldness even of a rustler. 

"It ain't so, Longstreth, " he began, loudly. "I went in Laramie's placefer grub. Some feller I never seen before come in from the hall an' hitLaramie an' wrestled him on the floor. I went out. Then this big rangerchased me an' fetched me here. I didn't do nothin'. This ranger'shankerin' to arrest somebody. Thet's my hunch, Longstreth. "

Longstreth said something in an undertone to Judge Owens, and thatworthy nodded his great bushy head. 

"Bo, you're discharged, " said Longstreth, bluntly. "Now the rest of youclear out of here. "

He absolutely ignored the ranger. That was his rebuff to Duane--his slapin the face to an interfering ranger service. If Longstreth was crookedhe certainly had magnificent nerve. Duane almost decided he was abovesuspicion. But his nonchalance, his air of finality, his authoritativeassurance--these to Duane's keen and practiced eyes were in significantcontrast to a certain tenseness of line about his mouth and a slowpaling of his olive skin. In that momentary lull Duane's scrutiny ofLongstreth gathered an impression of the man's intense curiosity. 

Then the prisoner, Snecker, with a cough that broke the spell ofsilence, shuffled a couple of steps toward the door. 

"Hold on!" called Duane. The call halted Snecker, as if it had been abullet. 

"Longstreth, I saw Snecker attack Laramie, " said Duane, his voice stillringing. "What has the court to say to that?"

"The court has this to say. West of the Pecos we'll not aid any rangerservice. We don't want you out here. Fairdale doesn't need you. "

"That's a lie, Longstreth, " retorted Duane. "I've letters from Fairdalecitizens all begging for ranger service. "

Longstreth turned white. The veins corded at his temples. He appearedabout to burst into rage. He was at a loss for quick reply. 

Floyd Lawson rushed in and up to the table. The blood showed black andthick in his face; his utterance was incoherent, his uncontrollableoutbreak of temper seemed out of all proportion to any cause he shouldreasonably have had for anger. Longstreth shoved him back with a curseand a warning glare. 

"Where's your warrant to arrest Snecker?" shouted Longstreth. 

"I don't need warrants to make arrests. Longstreth, you're ignorant ofthe power of Texas Rangers. "

"You'll come none of your damned ranger stunts out here. I'll blockyou. "

That passionate reply of Longstreth's was the signal Duane hadbeen waiting for. He had helped on the crisis. He wanted to forceLongstreth's hand and show the town his stand. 

Duane backed clear of everybody. 

"Men! I call on you all!" cried Duane, piercingly. "I call on you towitness the arrest of a criminal prevented by Longstreth, Mayor ofFairdale. It will be recorded in the report to the Adjutant-General atAustin. Longstreth, you'll never prevent another arrest. "

Longstreth sat white with working jaw. 

"Longstreth, you've shown your hand, " said Duane, in a voice thatcarried far and held those who heard. "Any honest citizen of Fairdalecan now see what's plain--yours is a damn poor hand! You're going tohear me call a spade a spade. In the two years you've been Mayoryou've never arrested one rustler. Strange, when Fairdale's a nest forrustlers! You've never sent a prisoner to Del Rio, let alone toAustin. You have no jail. There have been nine murders during youroffice--innumerable street-fights and holdups. Not one arrest! But youhave ordered arrests for trivial offenses, and have punished these outof all proportion. There have been lawsuits in your court-suits overwater-rights, cattle deals, property lines. Strange how in theselawsuits you or Lawson or other men close to you were always involved!Strange how it seems the law was stretched to favor your interest!"

Duane paused in his cold, ringing speech. In the silence, both outsideand inside the hall, could be heard the deep breathing of agitated men. Longstreth was indeed a study. Yet did he betray anything but rage atthis interloper?

"Longstreth, here's plain talk for you and Fairdale, " went on Duane. "Idon't accuse you and your court of dishonesty. I say STRANGE! Law herehas been a farce. The motive behind all this laxity isn't plain tome--yet. But I call your hand!"

CHAPTER XVII

Duane left the hall, elbowed his way through the crowd, and went downthe street. He was certain that on the faces of some men he had seenill-concealed wonder and satisfaction. He had struck some kind of a hottrait, and he meant to see where it led. It was by no means unlikelythat Cheseldine might be at the other end. Duane controlled a mountingeagerness. But ever and anon it was shot through with a remembrance ofRay Longstreth. He suspected her father of being not what he pretended. He might, very probably would, bring sorrow and shame to this youngwoman. 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 thedisgrace he might bring upon her. Some strange emotion, long lockedinside Duane's heart, knocked to be heard, to be let out. He wastroubled. 

Upon returning to the inn he found Laramie there, apparently none theworse for his injury. 

"How are you, Laramie?" he asked. 

"Reckon I'm feelin' as well as could be expected, " replied Laramie. Hishead was circled by a bandage that did not conceal the lump where he hadbeen struck. He looked pale, but was bright enough. 

"That was a good crack Snecker gave you, " remarked Duane. 

"I ain't accusin' Bo, " remonstrated Laramie, with eyes that made Duanethoughtful. 

"Well, I accuse him. I caught him--took him to Longstreth's court. Butthey let him go. "

Laramie appeared to be agitated by this intimation of friendship. 

"See here, Laramie, " went on Duane, "in some parts of Texas it's policyto be close-mouthed. Policy and health-preserving! Between ourselves, Iwant you to know I lean on your side of the fence. "

Laramie gave a quick start. Presently Duane turned and frankly met hisgaze. He had startled Laramie out of his habitual set taciturnity; buteven as he looked the light that might have been amaze and joy faded outof his face, leaving it the same old mask. Still Duane had seen enough. Like a bloodhound he had a scent. 

"Talking about work, Laramie, who'd you say Snecker worked for?"

"I didn't say. "

"Well, say so now, can't you? Laramie, you're powerful peevish to-day. It's that bump on your head. Who does Snecker work for?"

"When he works at all, which sure ain't often, he rides for Longstreth. "

"Humph! Seems to me that Longstreth's the whole circus round Fairdale. I was some sore the other day to find I was losing good money atLongstreth's faro game. Sure if I'd won I wouldn't have been sore--ha, ha! But I was surprised to hear some one say Longstreth owned the HopeSo joint. "

"He owns considerable property hereabouts, " replied Laramie, constrainedly. 

"Humph again! Laramie, like every other fellow I meet in this town, you're afraid to open your trap about Longstreth. Get me straight, Laramie. I don't care a damn for Colonel Mayor Longstreth. And for causeI'd throw a gun on him just as quick as on any rustler in Pecos. "

"Talk's cheap, " replied Laramie, making light of his bluster, but thered was deeper in his face. 

"Sure. I know that, " Duane said. "And usually I don't talk. Then it'snot well known that Longstreth owns the Hope So?"

"Reckon it's known in Pecos, all right. But Longstreth's name isn'tconnected with the Hope So. Blandy runs the place. "

"That Blandy. His faro game's crooked, or I'm a locoed bronch. Not thatwe 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 HopeSo place ought to be run by a good fellow like you, Laramie. "

"Thanks, " replied he; and Duane imagined his voice a little husky. "Didn't you hear I used to run it?"

"No. Did you?" Duane said, quickly. 

"I reckon. I built the place, made additions twice, owned it for elevenyears. "

"Well, I'll be doggoned. " It was indeed Duane's turn to be surprised, and with the surprise came a glimmering. "I'm sorry you're not therenow. Did you sell out?"

"No. Just lost the place. "

Laramie was bursting for relief now--to talk, to tell. Sympathy had madehim soft. 

"It was two years ago-two years last March, " he went on. "I was in a bigcattle deal with Longstreth. We got the stock--an' my share, eighteenhundred head, was rustled off. I owed Longstreth. He pressed me. It cometo a lawsuit--an' I--was ruined. "

It hurt Duane to look at Laramie. He was white, and tears rolled downhis cheeks. Duane saw the bitterness, the defeat, the agony of theman. He had failed to meet his obligations; nevertheless, he had beenswindled. All that he suppressed, all that would have been passion hadthe man's spirit not been broken, lay bare for Duane to see. He had nowthe secret of his bitterness. But the reason he did not openly accuseLongstreth, the secret of his reticence and fear--these Duane thoughtbest to try to learn at some later time. 

"Hard luck! It certainly was tough, " Duane said. "But you're a goodloser. And the wheel turns! Now, Laramie, here's what. I need youradvice. I've got a little money. But before I lose it I want to investsome. Buy some stock, or buy an interest in some rancher's herd. What Iwant you to steer me on is a good square rancher. Or maybe a couple ofranchers, if there happen to be two honest ones. Ha, ha! No deals withranchers who ride in the dark with rustlers! I've a hunch Fairdale isfull of them. Now, Laramie, you've been here for years. Sure you mustknow a couple of men above suspicion. "

"Thank God I do, " he replied, feelingly. "Frank Morton an' Si Zimmer, myfriends an' neighbors all my prosperous days, an' friends still. Youcan gamble on Frank and Si. But if you want advice from me--don't investmoney in stock now. "

"Why?"

"Because any new feller buyin' stock these days will be rustled quicker'n he can say Jack Robinson. The pioneers, the new cattlemen--theseare easy pickin' for the rustlers. Lord knows all the ranchers are easyenough pickin'. But the new fellers have to learn the ropes. They don'tknow anythin' or anybody. An' the old ranchers are wise an' sore. They'dfight if they--"

"What?" Duane put in, as he paused. "If they knew who was rustling thestock?"

"Nope. "

"If they had the nerve?"

"Not thet so much. "

"What then? What'd make them fight?"

"A leader!"

"Howdy thar, Jim, " boomed a big voice. 

A man of great bulk, with a ruddy, merry face, entered the room. 

"Hello, Morton, " replied Laramie. "I'd introduce you to my guest here, but I don't know his name. "

"Haw! Haw! Thet's all right. Few men out hyar go by their right names. "

"Say, Morton, " put in Duane, "Laramie gave me a hunch you'd be a goodman to tie to. Now, I've a little money and before I lose it I'd like toinvest it in stock. "

Morton smiled broadly. 

"I'm on the square, " Duane said, bluntly. "If you fellows never size upyour neighbors any better than you have sized me--well, you won't getany richer. "

It was enjoyment for Duane to make his remarks to these men pregnantwith meaning. Morton showed his pleasure, his interest, but his faithheld aloof. 

"I've got some money. Will you let me in on some kind of deal? Will youstart me up as a stockman with a little herd all my own?"

"Wal, stranger, to come out flat-footed, you'd be foolish to buy cattlenow. I don't want to take your money an' see you lose out. Better goback across the Pecos where the rustlers ain't so strong. I haven't hadmore'n twenty-five hundred herd of stock for ten years. The rustlers letme hang on to a breedin' herd. Kind of them, ain't it?"

"Sort of kind. All I hear is rustlers, Morton, " replied Duane, withimpatience. "You see, I haven't ever lived long in a rustler-run county. Who heads the gang, anyway?"

Morton looked at Duane with a curiously amused smile, then snapped hisbig jaw as if to shut in impulsive words. 

"Look here, Morton. It stands to reason, no matter how strong theserustlers are, how hidden their work, however involved with supposedlyhonest men--they CAN'T last. "

"They come with the pioneers, an' they'll last till thar's a singlesteer left, " he declared. 

"Well, if you take that view of circumstances I just figure you as oneof the rustlers. "

Morton looked as if he were about to brain Duane with the butt of hiswhip. His anger flashed by then, evidently as unworthy of him, and, something striking him as funny, he boomed out a laugh. 

"It's not so funny, " Duane went on. "If you're going to pretend a yellowstreak, what else will I think?"

"Pretend?" he repeated. 

"Sure. I know men of nerve. And here they're not any different fromthose in other places. I say if you show anything like a lack of sandit's all bluff. By nature you've got nerve. There are a lot of menaround Fairdale who're afraid of their shadows--afraid to be out afterdark--afraid to open their mouths. But you're not one. So I say if youclaim these rustlers will last you're pretending lack of nerve just tohelp the popular idea along. For they CAN'T last. What you need out hereis some new blood. Savvy what I mean?"

"Wal, I reckon I do, " he replied, looking as if a storm had blown overhim. "Stranger, I'll look you up the next time I come to town. "

Then he went out. 

Laramie had eyes like flint striking fire. 

He breathed a deep breath and looked around the room before his gazefixed again on Duane. 

"Wal, " he replied, speaking low. "You've picked the right men. Now, whoin the hell are you?"

Reaching into the inside pocket of his buckskin vest, Duane turned thelining out. A star-shaped bright silver object flashed as he shoved it, pocket and all, under Jim's hard eyes. 

"RANGER!" he whispered, cracking the table with his fist. "You sure rungtrue to me. "

"Laramie, do you know who's boss of this secret gang of rustlershereabouts?" asked Duane, bluntly. It was characteristic of him tocome sharp to the point. His voice--something deep, easy, cool abouthim--seemed to steady Laramie. 

"No, " replied Laramie. 

"Does anybody know?" went on Duane. 

"Wal, I reckon there's not one honest native who KNOWS. "

"But you have your suspicions?"

"We have. "

"Give me your idea about this crowd that hangs round the saloons--theregulars. "

"Jest a bad lot, " replied Laramie, with the quick assurance ofknowledge. "Most of them have been here years. Others have drifted in. Some of them work, odd times. They rustle a few steers, steal, rob, anythin' for a little money to drink an' gamble. Jest a bad lot!"

"Have you any idea whether Cheseldine and his gang are associated withthis gang here?"

"Lord knows. I've always suspected them the same gang. None of us everseen Cheseldine--an' thet's strange, when Knell, Poggin, PanhandleSmith, Blossom Kane, and Fletcher, they all ride here often. No, Poggindoesn't come often. But the others do. For thet matter, they're aroundall over west of the Pecos. "

"Now I'm puzzled over this, " said Duane. "Why do men--apparently honestmen--seem to be so close-mouthed here? Is that a fact, or only myimpression?"

"It's a sure fact, " replied Laramie, darkly. "Men have lost cattle an'property in Fairdale--lost them honestly or otherwise, as hasn't beenproved. An' in some cases when they talked--hinted a little--they wasfound dead. Apparently held up an robbed. But dead. Dead men don't talk!Thet's why we're close mouthed. "

Duane felt a dark, somber sternness. Rustling cattle was notintolerable. Western Texas had gone on prospering, growing in spite ofthe hordes of rustlers ranging its vast stretches; but a cold, secret, murderous hold on a little struggling community was something toostrange, too terrible for men to stand long. 

The ranger was about to speak again when the clatter of hoofsinterrupted him. Horses halted out in front, and one rider got down. Floyd Lawson entered. He called for tobacco. 

If his visit surprised Laramie he did not show any evidence. But Lawsonshowed rage as he saw the ranger, and then a dark glint flitted fromthe eyes that shifted from Duane to Laramie and back again. Duane leanedeasily against the counter. 

"Say, that was a bad break of yours, " Lawson said. "If you come foolinground the ranch again there'll be hell. "

It seemed strange that a man who had lived west of the Pecos for tenyears could not see in Duane something which forbade that kind of talk. It certainly was not nerve Lawson showed; men of courage were seldomintolerant. With the matchless nerve that characterized the great gunmenof the day there was a cool, unobtrusive manner, a speech brief, almostgentle, certainly courteous. Lawson was a hot-headed Louisianian ofFrench extraction; a man, evidently, who had never been crossed inanything, and who was strong, brutal, passionate, which qualities in theface of a situation like this made him simply a fool. 

"I'm saying again, you used your ranger bluff just to get near RayLongstreth, " Lawson sneered. "Mind you, if you come up there againthere'll be hell. "

"You're right. But not the kind you think, " Duane retorted, his voicesharp and cold. 

"Ray Longstreth wouldn't stoop to know a dirty blood-tracker like you, "said Lawson, hotly. He did not seem to have a deliberate intentionto rouse Duane; the man was simply rancorous, jealous. "I'll callyou right. You cheap bluffer! You four-flush! You damned interfering, conceited ranger!"

"Lawson, I'll not take offense, because you seem to be championing yourbeautiful cousin, " replied Duane, in slow speech. "But let me returnyour compliment. You're a fine Southerner! Why, you're only a cheapfour-flush--damned, bull-headed RUSTLER!"

Duane hissed the last word. Then for him there was the truth in Lawson'sworking passion-blackened face. 

Lawson jerked, moved, meant to draw. But how slow! Duane lunged forward. His long arm swept up. And Lawson staggered backward, knocking table andchairs, to fall hard, in a half-sitting posture against the wall. 

"Don't draw!" warned Duane. 

"Lawson, git away from your gun!" yelled Laramie. 

But Lawson was crazed with fury. He tugged at his hip, his face cordedwith purple welts, malignant, murderous. Duane kicked the gun out of hishand. Lawson got up, raging, and rushed out. 

Laramie lifted his shaking hands. 

"What'd you wing him for?" he wailed. "He was drawin' on you. Kickin'men like him won't do out here. "

"That bull-headed fool will roar and butt himself with all his gangright into our hands. He's just the man I've needed to meet. Besides, shooting him would have been murder. "

"Murder!" exclaimed Laramie. 

"Yes, for me, " replied Duane. 

"That may be true--whoever you are--but if Lawson's the man you think heis he'll begin thet secret underground bizness. Why, Lawson won't sleepof nights now. He an' Longstreth have always been after me. "

"Laramie, what are your eyes for?" demanded Duane. "Watch out. And nowhere. See your friend Morton. Tell him this game grows hot. Together youapproach four or five men you know well and can absolutely trust. I mayneed your help. "

Then Duane went from place to place, corner to corner, bar to bar, watching, listening, recording. The excitement had preceded him, andspeculation was rife. He thought best to keep out of it. After dark hestole up to Longstreth's ranch. The evening was warm; the doors wereopen; and in the twilight the only lamps that had been lit were inLongstreth's big sitting-room, at the far end of the house. When abuckboard drove up and Longstreth and Lawson alighted, Duane was wellhidden in the bushes, so well screened that he could get but a fleetingglimpse of Longstreth as he went in. For all Duane could see, heappeared to be a calm and quiet man, intense beneath the surface, withan air of dignity under insult. Duane's chance to observe Lawson waslost. They went into the house without speaking and closed the door. 

At the other end of the porch, close under a window, was an offsetbetween step and wall, and there in the shadow Duane hid. So Duanewaited there in the darkness with patience born of many hours of hiding. 

Presently a lamp was lit; and Duane heard the swish of skirts. 

"Something's happened surely, Ruth, " he heard Miss Longstreth say, anxiously. "Papa just met me in the hall and didn't speak. He seemedpale, worried. "

"Cousin Floyd looked like a thunder-cloud, " said Ruth. "For once hedidn't try to kiss me. Something's happened. Well, Ray, this had been abad day. "

"Oh, dear! Ruth, what can we do? These are wild men. Floyd makes lifemiserable for me. And he teases you unmer--"

"I don't call it teasing. Floyd wants to spoon, " declared Ruth, emphatically. "He'd run after any woman. "

"A fine compliment to me, Cousin Ruth, " laughed Ray. 

"I don't care, " replied Ruth, stubbornly, "it's so. He's mushy. And whenhe's been drinking and tries to kiss me--I hate him!"

There were steps on the hall floor. 

"Hello, girls!" sounded out Lawson's voice, minus its usual gaiety. 

"Floyd, what's the matter?" asked Ray, presently. "I never saw papa ashe is to-night, nor you so--so worried. Tell me, what has happened?"

"Well, Ray, we had a jar to-day, " replied Lawson, with a blunt, expressive laugh. 

"Jar?" echoed both the girls, curiously. 

"We had to submit to a damnable outrage, " added Lawson, passionately, as if the sound of his voice augmented his feeling. "Listen, girls; I'lltell you-all about it. " He coughed, cleared his throat in a way thatbetrayed he had been drinking. 

Duane sunk deeper into the shadow of his covert, and, stiffening hismuscles for a protected spell of rigidity, prepared to listen with allacuteness and intensity. Just one word from this Lawson, inadvertentlyuttered in a moment of passion, might be the word Duane needed for hisclue. 

"It happened at the town hall, " began Lawson, rapidly. "Your father andJudge Owens and I were there in consultation with three ranchers fromout of town. Then that damned ranger stalked in dragging Snecker, thefellow who hid here in the house. He had arrested Snecker for allegedassault on a restaurant-keeper named Laramie. Snecker being obviouslyinnocent, he was discharged. Then this ranger began shouting hisinsults. Law was a farce in Fairdale. The court was a farce. Therewas no law. Your father's office as mayor should be impeached. Hemade arrests only for petty offenses. He was afraid of the rustlers, highwaymen, murderers. He was afraid or--he just let them alone. He usedhis office to cheat ranchers and cattlemen in lawsuits. All this theranger yelled for every one to hear. A damnable outrage. Your father, Ray, insulted in his own court by a rowdy ranger!"

"Oh!" cried Ray Longstreth, in mingled distress and anger. 

"The ranger service wants to rule western Texas, " went on Lawson. "Theserangers are all a low set, many of them worse than the outlaws theyhunt. Some of them were outlaws and gun-fighters before they becamerangers. 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. Hewanted to kill. He would kill. If your father had made the least move hewould have shot him. He's a cold-nerved devil--the born gunman. My God, any instant I expected to see your father fall dead at my feet!"

"Oh, Floyd! The unspeakable ruffian!" cried Ray Longstreth, passionately. 

"You see, Ray, this fellow, like all rangers, seeks notoriety. He madethat play with Snecker just for a chance to rant against your father. Hetried to inflame all Fairdale against him. That about the lawsuits wasthe worst! Damn him! He'll make us enemies. "

"What do you care for the insinuations of such a man?" said RayLongstreth, her voice now deep and rich with feeling. "After a moment'sthought no one will be influenced by them. Do not worry, Floyd. Tellpapa not to worry. Surely after all these years he can't be injured inreputation by--by an adventurer. "

"Yes, he can be injured, " replied Floyd, quickly. "The frontier is aqueer place. There are many bitter men here--men who have failed atranching. And your father has been wonderfully successful. The rangerhas dropped poison, and it'll spread. "

CHAPTER XVIII

Strangers rode into Fairdale; and other hard-looking customers, newto Duane if not to Fairdale, helped to create a charged and waitingatmosphere. The saloons did unusual business and were never closed. Respectable citizens of the town were awakened in the early dawn byrowdies carousing in the streets. 

Duane kept pretty close under cover during the day. He did not entertainthe opinion that the first time he walked down-street he would be atarget for guns. Things seldom happened that way; and when they didhappen so, it was more accident than design. But at night he was notidle. He met Laramie, Morton, Zimmer, and others of like character; asecret club had been formed; and all the members were ready for action. Duane spent hours at night watching the house where Floyd Lawson stayedwhen he was not up at Longstreth's. At night he was visited, or at leastthe house was, by strange men who were swift, stealthy, mysterious--allthat kindly disposed friends or neighbors would not have been. Duane hadnot been able to recognize any of these night visitors; and he didnot 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 someone in that house, to be in touch with crooked men. 

Laramie was right. Not twenty-four hours after his last talk with Duane, in which he advised quick action, he was found behind the little bar ofhis restaurant with a bullet-hole in his breast, dead. No one could befound who had heard a shot. It had been deliberate murder, for upon thebar had been left a piece of paper rudely scrawled with a pencil: "Allfriends of rangers look for the same. "

This roused Duane. His first move, however, was to bury Laramie. Noneof Laramie's neighbors evinced any interest in the dead man or theunfortunate family he had left. Duane saw that these neighbors were heldin check by fear. Mrs. Laramie was ill; the shock of her husband'sdeath was hard on her; and she had been left almost destitute with fivechildren. Duane rented a small adobe house on the outskirts of town andmoved the family into it. Then he played the part of provider and nurseand friend. 

After several days Duane went boldly into town and showed that he meantbusiness. It was his opinion that there were men in Fairdale secretlyglad of a ranger's presence. What he intended to do was food for greatspeculation. A company of militia could not have had the effect upon thewild element of Fairdale that Duane's presence had. It got out that hewas a gunman lightning swift on the draw. It was death to face him. Hehad killed thirty men--wildest rumor of all--it was actually said of himhe had the gun-skill of Buck Duane or of Poggin. 

At first there had not only been great conjecture among the viciouselement, but also a very decided checking of all kinds of actioncalculated to be conspicuous to a keen-eyed ranger. At the tables, atthe bars and lounging-places Duane heard the remarks: "Who's thet rangerafter? What'll he do fust off? Is he waitin' fer somebody? Who's goin'to draw on him fust--an' go to hell? Jest about how soon will he befound somewheres full of lead?"

When it came out somewhere that Duane was openly cultivating the honeststay-at-home citizens to array them in time against the other element, then Fairdale showed its wolf-teeth. Several times Duane was shot atin the dark and once slightly injured. Rumor had it that Poggin, thegunman, was coming to meet him. But the lawless element did not rise upin a mass to slay Duane on sight. It was not so much that the enemiesof the law awaited his next move, but just a slowness peculiar tothe frontier. The ranger was in their midst. He was interesting, ifformidable. He would have been welcomed at card-tables, at the bars, toplay and drink with the men who knew they were under suspicion. Therewas a rude kind of good humor even in their open hostility. 

Besides, one ranger or a company of rangers could not have held theundivided attention of these men from their games and drinks andquarrels except by some decided move. Excitement, greed, appetite wererife in them. Duane marked, however, a striking exception to the usualrun of strangers he had been in the habit of seeing. Snecker had goneor was under cover. Again Duane caught a vague rumor of the coming ofPoggin, yet he never seemed to arrive. Moreover, the goings-on among thehabitues of the resorts and the cowboys who came in to drink and gamblewere unusually mild in comparison with former conduct. This lull, however, did not deceive Duane. It could not last. The wonder was thatit had lasted so long. 

Duane went often to see Mrs. Laramie and her children. One afternoonwhile he was there he saw Miss Longstreth and Ruth ride up to thedoor. They carried a basket. Evidently they had heard of Mrs. Laramie'strouble. Duane felt strangely glad, but he went into an adjoining roomrather than meet them. 

"Mrs. Laramie, I've come to see you, " said Miss Longstreth, cheerfully. 

The little room was not very light, there being only one window andthe doors, but Duane could see plainly enough. Mrs. Laramie lay, hollow-checked and haggard, on a bed. Once she had evidently been awoman of some comeliness. The ravages of trouble and grief were there toread in her worn face; it had not, however, any of the hard and bitterlines that had characterized her husband's. 

Duane wondered, considering that Longstreth had ruined Laramie, how Mrs. Laramie was going to regard the daughter of an enemy. 

"So you're Granger Longstreth's girl?" queried the woman, with herbright, black eyes fixed on her visitor. 

"Yes, " replied Miss Longstreth, simply. "This is my cousin, RuthHerbert. We've come to nurse you, take care of the children, help you inany way you'll let us. "

There was a long silence. 

"Well, you look a little like Longstreth, " finally said Mrs. Laramie, "but you're not at ALL like him. You must take after your mother. MissLongstreth, I don't know if I can--if I ought accept anything from you. Your father ruined my husband. "

"Yes, I know, " replied the girl, sadly. "That's all the more reason youshould let me help you. Pray don't refuse. It will--mean so much to me. "

If this poor, stricken woman had any resentment it speedily melted inthe warmth and sweetness of Miss Longstreth's manner. Duane's ideawas that the impression of Ray Longstreth's beauty was always swiftlysucceeded by that of her generosity and nobility. At any rate, she hadstarted well with Mrs. Laramie, and no sooner had she begun to talk tothe children than both they and the mother were won. The opening of thatbig basket was an event. Poor, starved little beggars! Duane's feelingsseemed too easily roused. Hard indeed would it have gone with JimLaramie's slayer if he could have laid eyes on him then. However, MissLongstreth and Ruth, after the nature of tender and practical girls, didnot appear to take the sad situation to heart. The havoc was wrought inthat household. 

The needs now were cheerfulness, kindness, help, action--and these thegirls furnished with a spirit that did Duane good. 

"Mrs. Laramie, who dressed this baby?" presently asked Miss Longstreth. Duane peeped in to see a dilapidated youngster on her knee. That sight, if any other was needed, completed his full and splendid estimate of RayLongstreth and wrought strangely upon his heart. 

"The ranger, " replied Mrs. Laramie. 

"The ranger!" exclaimed Miss Longstreth. 

"Yes, he's taken care of us all since--since--" Mrs. Laramie choked. 

"Oh! So you've had no help but his, " replied Miss Longstreth, hastily. "No women. Too bad! I'll send some one, Mrs. Laramie, and I'll comemyself. "

"It'll be good of you, " went on the older woman. "You see, Jim hadfew friends--that is, right in town. And they've been afraid to helpus--afraid they'd get what poor Jim--"

"That's awful!" burst out Miss Longstreth, passionately. "A brave lot offriends! Mrs. Laramie, don't you worry any more. We'll take care of you. Here, Ruth, help me. Whatever is the matter with baby's dress?"

Manifestly Miss Longstreth had some difficulty in subduing her emotion. 

"Why, it's on hind side before, " declared Ruth. "I guess Mr. Rangerhasn't dressed many babies. "

"He did the best he could, " said Mrs. Laramie. "Lord only knows whatwould have become of us!"

"Then he is--is something more than a ranger?" queried Miss Longstreth, with a little break in her voice. 

"He's more than I can tell, " replied Mrs. Laramie. "He buried Jim. Hepaid our debts. He fetched us here. He bought food for us. He cooked forus and fed us. He washed and dressed the baby. He sat with me the firsttwo nights after Jim's death, when I thought I'd die myself. He's sokind, 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 howfalse were all these tales Jim heard about him and believed at first. Why, he plays with the children just--just like any good man might. Whenhe has the baby up I just can't believe he's a bloody gunman, as theysay. He's good, but he isn't happy. He has such sad eyes. He looks faroff sometimes when the children climb round him. They love him. His lifeis sad. Nobody need tell me--he sees the good in things. Once he saidsomebody had to be a ranger. Well, I say, 'Thank God for a ranger likehim!'"

Duane did not want to hear more, so he walked into the room. 

"It was thoughtful of you, " Duane said. "Womankind are needed here. Icould 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 topuzzle out the way your clothes went on! Well, Mrs. Laramie, didn't Itell you--friends would come? So will the brighter side. "

"Yes, I've more faith than I had, " replied Mrs. Laramie. "GrangerLongstreth's daughter has come to me. There for a while after Jim'sdeath I thought I'd sink. We have nothing. How could I ever take care ofmy little ones? But I'm gaining courage to--"

"Mrs. Laramie, do not distress yourself any more, " said Miss Longstreth. "I shall see you are well cared for. I promise you. "

"Miss Longstreth, that's fine!" exclaimed Duane. "It's what I'dhave--expected of you. "

It must have been sweet praise to her, for the whiteness of her faceburned out in a beautiful blush. 

"And it's good of you, too, Miss Herbert, to come, " added Duane. "Let methank you both. I'm glad I have you girls as allies in part of my lonelytask here. More than glad for the sake of this good woman and the littleones. But both of you be careful about coming here alone. There'srisk. And now I'll be going. Good-by, Mrs. Laramie. I'll drop in againto-night. Good-by. "

"Mr. Ranger, wait!" called Miss Longstreth, as he went out. She waswhite and wonderful. She stepped out of the door close to him. 

"I have wronged you, " she said, impulsively. 

"Miss Longstreth! How can you say that?" he returned. 

"I believed what my father and Floyd Lawson said about you. Now I see--Iwronged you. "

"You make me very glad. But, Miss Longstreth, please don't speak ofwronging me. I have been a--a gunman, I am a ranger--and much said of meis true. My duty is hard on others--sometimes on those who are innocent, alas! But God knows that duty is hard, too, on me. "

"I did wrong you. If you entered my home again I would think it anhonor. I--"

"Please--please don't, Miss Longstreth, " interrupted Duane. 

"But, sir, my conscience flays me, " she went on. There was no othersound like her voice. "Will you take my hand? Will you forgive me?"

She gave it royally, while the other was there pressing at her breast. Duane took the proffered hand. He did not know what else to do. 

Then it seemed to dawn upon him that there was more behind this white, sweet, noble intensity of her than just the making amends for a fanciedor real wrong. Duane thought the man did not live on earth who couldhave resisted her then. 

"I honor you for your goodness to this unfortunate woman, " she said, andnow her speech came swiftly. "When she was all alone and helpless youwere her friend. It was the deed of a man. But Mrs. Laramie isn't theonly unfortunate woman in the world. I, too, am unfortunate. Ah, howI may soon need a friend! Will you be my friend? I'm so alone. I'mterribly worried. I fear--I fear--Oh, surely I'll need a friendsoon--soon. Oh, I'm afraid of what you'll find out sooner or later. Iwant to help you. Let us save life if not honor. Must I stand alone--allalone? Will you--will you be--" Her voice failed. 

It seemed to Duane that she must have discovered what he had begun tosuspect--that her father and Lawson were not the honest ranchers theypretended to be. Perhaps she knew more! Her appeal to Duane shook himdeeply. He wanted to help her more than he had ever wanted anything. Andwith the meaning of the tumultuous sweetness she stirred in him therecame realization of a dangerous situation. 

"I must be true to my duty, " he said, hoarsely. 

"If you knew me you'd know I could never ask you to be false to it. "

"Well, then--I'll do anything for you. "

"Oh, thank you! I'm ashamed that I believed my cousin Floyd! He lied--helied. I'm all in the dark, strangely distressed. My father wants me togo back home. Floyd is trying to keep me here. They've quarreled. Oh, Iknow something dreadful will happen. I know I'll need you if--if--Willyou help me?"

"Yes, " replied Duane, and his look brought the blood to her face. 

CHAPTER XIX

After supper Duane stole out for his usual evening's spying. The nightwas dark, without starlight, and a stiff wind rustled the leaves. Duanebent his steps toward the Longstreth's ranchhouse. He had so much tothink about that he never knew where the time went. This night when hereached the edge of the shrubbery he heard Lawson's well-known footstepsand saw Longstreth's door open, flashing a broad bar of light in thedarkness. Lawson crossed the threshold, the door closed, and all wasdark again outside. Not a ray of light escaped from the window. 

Little doubt there was that his talk with Longstreth would beinteresting to Duane. He tiptoed to the door and listened, but couldhear only a murmur of voices. Besides, that position was too risky. Hewent round the corner of the house. 

This side of the big adobe house was of much older construction thanthe back and larger part. There was a narrow passage between the houses, leading from the outside through to the patio. 

This passage now afforded Duane an opportunity, and he decided toavail himself of it in spite of the very great danger. Crawling on verystealthily, he got under the shrubbery to the entrance of the passage. In the blackness a faint streak of light showed the location of a crackin the wall. He had to slip in sidewise. It was a tight squeeze, but heentered without the slightest noise. As he progressed the passage grewa very little wider in that direction, and that fact gave rise to thethought that in case of a necessary and hurried exit he would do best byworking toward the patio. It seemed a good deal of time was consumed inreaching a vantage-point. When he did get there the crack he had markedwas a foot over his head. There was nothing to do but find toe-holes inthe crumbling walls, and by bracing knees on one side, back against theother, hold himself up Once with his eye there he did not care what riskhe ran. Longstreth appeared disturbed; he sat stroking his mustache; hisbrow was clouded. Lawson's face seemed darker, more sullen, yet lightedby some indomitable resolve. 

"We'll settle both deals to-night, " Lawson was saying. "That's what Icame for. "

"But suppose I don't choose to talk here?" protested Longstreth, impatiently. "I never before made my house a place to--"

"We've waited long enough. This place's as good as any. You've lost yournerve since that ranger hit the town. First now, will you give Ray tome?"

"Floyd; you talk like a spoiled boy. Give Ray to you! Why, she's awoman, and I'm finding out that she's got a mind of her own. I told youI was willing for her to marry you. I tried to persuade her. But Rayhasn't any use for you now. She liked you at first. But now she doesn't. So what can I do?"

"You can make her marry me, " replied Lawson. 

"Make that girl do what she doesn't want to? It couldn't be done even ifI tried. And I don't believe I'll try. I haven't the highest opinionof you as a prospective son-in-law, Floyd. But if Ray loved you I wouldconsent. We'd all go away together before this damned miserable businessis out. Then she'd never know. And maybe you might be more like you usedto be before the West ruined you. But as matters stand, you fight yourown game with her. And I'll tell you now you'll lose. "

"What'd you want to let her come out here for?" demanded Lawson, hotly. "It was a dead mistake. I've lost my head over her. I'll have her ordie. 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 aholler. No, Longstreth, we've got to settle things to-night. "

"Well, we can settle what Ray's concerned in, right now, " repliedLongstreth, rising. "Come on; we'll ask her. See where you stand. "

They went out, leaving the door open. Duane dropped down to rest himselfand to wait. He would have liked to hear Miss Longstreth's answer. Buthe could guess what it would be. Lawson appeared to be all Duane hadthought him, and he believed he was going to find out presently that hewas worse. 

The men seemed to be absent a good while, though that feeling might havebeen occasioned by Duane's thrilling interest and anxiety. Finallyhe heard heavy steps. Lawson came in alone. He was leaden-faced, humiliated. Then something abject in him gave place to rage. He strodethe room; he cursed. Then Longstreth returned, now appreciably calmer. Duane could not but decide that he felt relief at the evident rejectionof Lawson's proposal. 

"Don't fuss about it, Floyd, " he said. "You see I can't help it. We'repretty wild out here, but I can't rope my daughter and give her to youas I would an unruly steer. "

"Longstreth, I can MAKE her marry me, " declared Lawson, thickly. 

"How?"

"You know the hold I got on you--the deal that made you boss of thisrustler gang?"

"It isn't likely I'd forget, " replied Longstreth, grimly. 

"I can go to Ray, tell her that, make her believe I'd tell itbroadcast--tell this ranger--unless she'd marry me. "

Lawson spoke breathlessly, with haggard face and shadowed eyes. He hadno shame. He was simply in the grip of passion. Longstreth gazed withdark, controlled fury at this relative. In that look Duane saw a strong, unscrupulous man fallen into evil ways, but still a man. It betrayedLawson to be the wild and passionate weakling. Duane seemed to see alsohow during all the years of association this strong man had upheldthe weak one. But that time had gone for ever, both in intent onLongstreth's part and in possibility. Lawson, like the great majorityof evil and unrestrained men on the border, had reached a point whereinfluence was futile. Reason had degenerated. He saw only himself. 

"But, Floyd, Ray's the one person on earth who must never know I'm arustler, a thief, a red-handed ruler of the worst gang on the border, "replied Longstreth, impressively. 

Floyd bowed his head at that, as if the significance had just occurredto him. But he was not long at a loss. 

"She's going to find it out sooner or later. I tell you she knows nowthere's something wrong out here. She's got eyes. Mark what I say. "

"Ray has changed, I know. But she hasn't any idea yet that her daddy'sa 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 tocertain property. "

Lawson halted in his restless walk and leaned against the stonemantelpiece. He had his hands in his pockets. He squared himself as ifthis was his last stand. He looked desperate, but on the moment showedan absence of his usual nervous excitement. 

"Longstreth, that may well be true, " he said. "No doubt all you say istrue. But it doesn't help me. I want the girl. If I don't get her--Ireckon we'll all go to hell!"

He might have meant anything, probably meant the worst. He certainlyhad something more in mind. Longstreth gave a slight start, barelyperceptible, like the switch of an awakening tiger. He sat there, headdown, stroking his mustache. Almost Duane saw his thought. He had longexperience in reading men under stress of such emotion. He had no meansto vindicate his judgment, but his conviction was that Longstreth rightthen 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 aconclusion before. Not improbably the advent of his daughter had putLongstreth in conflict with himself. 

Suddenly he threw off a somber cast of countenance, and he began totalk. He talked swiftly, persuasively, yet Duane imagined he was talkingto smooth Lawson's passion for the moment. Lawson no more caught thefateful significance of a line crossed, a limit reached, a decreedecided 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 goneso far among the exacting conditions of the Southwest? The answer was, perhaps, that Longstreth had guided him, upheld him, protected him. Thecoming of Ray Longstreth had been the entering-wedge of dissension. 

"You're too impatient, " concluded Longstreth. "You'll ruin any chanceof happiness if you rush Ray. She might be won. If you told her who I amshe'd hate you for ever. She might marry you to save me, but she'd hateyou. 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 outhere--stock, ranch, property--and leave the country. Then you'd have ashow with her. "

"I told you we've got to stick, " growled Lawson. "The gang won'tstand for our going. It can't be done unless you want to sacrificeeverything. "

"You mean double-cross the men? Go without their knowing? Leave themhere to face whatever comes?"

"I mean just that. "

"I'm bad enough, but not that bad, " returned Longstreth. "If I can'tget 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 yearshave been YOURS?"

"Yes. If I hadn't rung them in there wouldn't have been any. You've hadcold feet, and especially since this ranger has been here. "

"Well, call it cold feet if you like. But I call it sense. We reachedour limit long ago. We began by rustling a few cattle--at a time whenrustling was laughed at. But as our greed grew so did our boldness. Thencame the gang, the regular trips, the one thing and another till, beforewe knew it--before I knew it--we had shady deals, holdups, and MURDERSon our record. Then we HAD to go on. Too late to turn back!"

"I reckon we've all said that. None of the gang wants to quit. They allthink, and I think, we can't be touched. We may be blamed, but nothingcan be proved. We're too strong. "

"There's where you're dead wrong, " rejoined Longstreth, emphatically. "I imagined that once, not long ago. I was bullheaded. Who would everconnect 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 wecan't last. It's the nature of life, even here, for conditions to growbetter. The wise deal for us would be to divide equally and leave thecountry, all of us. "

"But you and I have all the stock--all the gain, " protested Lawson. 

"I'll split mine. "

"I won't--that settles that, " added Lawson, instantly. 

Longstreth spread wide his hands as if it was useless to try to convincethis man. Talking had not increased his calmness, and he now showed morethan impatience. A dull glint gleamed deep in his eyes. 

"Your stock and property will last a long time--do you lots of good whenthis ranger--"

"Bah!" hoarsely croaked Lawson. The ranger's name was a match applied topowder. "Haven't I told you he'd be dead soon--any time--same as Laramieis?"

"Yes, you mentioned the--the supposition, " replied Longstreth, sarcastically. "I inquired, too, just how that very desired event was tobe brought about. "

"The gang will lay him out. "

"Bah!" retorted Longstreth, in turn. He laughed contemptuously. 

"Floyd, don't be a fool. You've been on the border for ten years. You'vepacked a gun and you've used it. You've been with rustlers when theykilled their men. You've been present at many fights. But you never inall that time saw a man like this ranger. You haven't got sense enoughto see him right if you had a chance. Neither have any of you. The onlyway to get rid of him is for the gang to draw on him, all at once. Thenhe's going to drop some of them. "

"Longstreth, you say that like a man who wouldn't care much if he diddrop some of them, " declared Lawson; and now he was sarcastic. 

"To tell you the truth, I wouldn't, " returned the other, bluntly. "I'mpretty sick of this mess. "

Lawson cursed in amazement. His emotions were all out of proportion tohis intelligence. He was not at all quick-witted. Duane had never seen avainer or more arrogant man. 

"Longstreth, I don't like your talk, " he said. 

"If you don't like the way I talk you know what you can do, " repliedLongstreth, quickly. He stood up then, cool and quiet, with flash ofeyes and set of lips that told Duane he was dangerous. 

"Well, after all, that's neither here nor there, " went on Lawson, unconsciously cowed by the other. "The thing is, do I get the girl?"

"Not by any means except her consent. "

"You'll not make her marry me?"

"No. No, " replied Longstreth, his voice still cold, low-pitched. 

"All right. Then I'll make her. "

Evidently Longstreth understood the man before him so well that hewasted no more words. Duane knew what Lawson never dreamed of, and thatwas that Longstreth had a gun somewhere within reach and meant to useit. Then heavy footsteps sounded outside tramping upon the porch. Duanemight have been mistaken, but he believed those footsteps saved Lawson'slife. 

"There they are, " said Lawson, and he opened the door. 

Five masked men entered. They all wore coats hiding any weapons. A bigman with burly shoulders shook hands with Longstreth, and the othersstood back. 

The atmosphere of that room had changed. Lawson might have been anonentity for all he counted. Longstreth was another man--a stranger toDuane. 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 ofthese men. There was power here, and he was bound. 

The big man spoke in low, hoarse whispers, and at this all the othersgathered around him close to the table. There were evidently some signsof membership not plain to Duane. Then all the heads were bent over thetable. Low voices spoke, queried, answered, argued. By straining hisears Duane caught a word here and there. They were planning, and theywere brief. Duane gathered they were to have a rendezvous at or nearOrd. 

Then the big man, who evidently was the leader of the presentconvention, got up to depart. He went as swiftly as he had come, and wasfollowed by his comrades. Longstreth prepared for a quiet smoke. Lawsonseemed uncommunicative and unsociable. He smoked fiercely and drankcontinually. All at once he straightened up as if listening. 

"What's that?" he called, suddenly. 

Duane's strained ears were pervaded by a slight rustling sound. 

"Must be a rat, " replied Longstreth. 

The rustle became a rattle. 

"Sounds like a rattlesnake to me, " said Lawson. 

Longstreth got up from the table and peered round the room. 

Just at that instant Duane felt an almost inappreciable movement of theadobe wall which supported him. He could scarcely credit his senses. Butthe rattle inside Longstreth's room was mingling with little dull thudsof falling dirt. The adobe wall, merely dried mud, was crumbling. Duanedistinctly felt a tremor pass through it. Then the blood gushed back tohis heart. 

"What in the hell!" exclaimed Longstreth. 

"I smell dust, " said Lawson, sharply. 

That was the signal for Duane to drop down from his perch, yet despitehis care he made a noise. 

"Did you hear a step?" queried Longstreth. 

No one answered. But a heavy piece of the adobe wall fell with a thud. Duane heard it crack, felt it shake. 

"There's somebody between the walls!" thundered Longstreth. 

Then a section of the wall fell inward with a crash. Duane began tosqueeze his body through the narrow passage toward the patio. 

"Hear him!" yelled Lawson. "This side!"

"No, he's going that way, " yelled Longstreth. 

The tramp of heavy boots lent Duane the strength of desperation. Hewas not shirking a fight, but to be cornered like a trapped coyote wasanother matter. He almost tore his clothes off in that passage. The dustnearly stifled him. When he burst into the patio it was not a singleinstant 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 footstepsturned him back. While there was a chance to get away he did not want tofight. He thought he heard someone running into the patio from the otherend. He stole along, and coming to a door, without any idea of where itmight lead, he softly pushed it open a little way and slipped in. 

CHAPTER XX

A low cry greeted Duane. The room was light. He saw Ray Longstrethsitting on her bed in her dressing-gown. With a warning gesture to herto be silent he turned to close the door. It was a heavy door withoutbolt or bar, and when Duane had shut it he felt safe only for themoment. Then he gazed around the room. There was one window with blindclosely drawn. He listened and seemed to hear footsteps retreating, dying away. 

Then Duane turned to Miss Longstreth. She had slipped off the bed, halfto her knees, and was holding out trembling hands. She was as white asthe pillow on her bed. She was terribly frightened. Again with warninghand commanding silence, Duane stepped softly forward, meaning toreassure her. 

"Oh!" she whispered, wildly; and Duane thought she was going to faint. When he got close and looked into her eyes he understood the strange, dark expression in them. She was terrified because she believed he meantto kill her, or do worse, probably worse. Duane realized he must havelooked pretty hard and fierce bursting into her room with that big gunin hand. 

The way she searched Duane's face with doubtful, fearful eyes hurt him. 

"Listen. I didn't know this was your room. I came here to get away--tosave my life. I was pursued. I was spying on--on your father andhis men. They heard me, but did not see me. They don't know who waslistening. They're after me now. "

Her eyes changed from blank gulfs to dilating, shadowing, quickeningwindows of thought. 

Then she stood up and faced Duane with the fire and intelligence of awoman in her eyes. 

"Tell me now. You were spying on my father?"

Briefly Duane told her what had happened before he entered her room, notomitting a terse word as to the character of the men he had watched. 

"My God! So it's that? I knew something was terribly wrong here--withhim--with the place--the people. And right off I hated Floyd Lawson. Oh, it'll kill me if--if--It's so much worse than I dreamed. What shall Ido?"

The sound of soft steps somewhere near distracted Duane's attention, reminded him of her peril, and now, what counted more with him, madeclear the probability of being discovered in her room. 

"I'll have to get out of here, " whispered Duane. 

"Wait, " she replied. "Didn't you say they were hunting for you?"

"They sure are, " he returned, grimly. 

"Oh, then you mustn't go. They might shoot you before you got away. Stay. If we hear them you can hide. I'll turn out the light. I'll meetthem at the door. You can trust me. Wait till all quiets down, if wehave to wait till morning. Then you can slip out. "

"I oughtn't to stay. I don't want to--I won't, " Duane replied, perplexedand stubborn. 

"But you must. It's the only safe way. They won't come here. "

"Suppose they should? It's an even chance Longstreth'll search everyroom and corner in this old house. If they found me here I couldn'tstart a fight. You might be hurt. Then--the fact of my being here--"

Duane did not finish what he meant, but instead made a step toward thedoor. 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 beeneither resolute or strong, for the clasp of her hand was enough to makeDuane weak. 

"Up yet, Ray?" came Longstreth's clear voice, too strained, too eager tobe natural. 

"No. I'm in bed reading. Good night, " instantly replied Miss Longstreth, so calmly and naturally that Duane marveled at the difference betweenman and woman. Then she motioned for Duane to hide in the closet. Heslipped in, but the door would not close altogether. 

"Are you alone?" went on Longstreth's penetrating voice. 

"Yes, " she replied. "Ruth went to bed. "

The door swung inward with a swift scrape and jar. Longstreth halfentered, haggard, flaming-eyed. Behind him Duane saw Lawson, andindistinctly another man. 

Longstreth barred Lawson from entering, which action showed control aswell as distrust. He wanted to see into the room. When he had glancedaround he went out and closed the door. 

Then what seemed a long interval ensued. The house grew silent oncemore. Duane could not see Miss Longstreth, but he heard her quickbreathing. How long did she mean to let him stay hidden there? Hard andperilous as his life had been, this was a new kind of adventure. Hehad divined the strange softness of his feeling as something due to themagnetism of this beautiful woman. It hardly seemed possible that he, who had been outside the pale for so many years, could have fallen inlove. Yet that must be the secret of his agitation. 

Presently he pushed open the closet door and stepped forth. MissLongstreth had her head lowered upon her arms and appeared to be indistress. At his touch she raised a quivering face. 

"I think I can go now--safely, " he whispered. 

"Go then, if you must, but you may stay till you're safe, " she replied. 

"I--I couldn't thank you enough. It's been hard on me--this findingout--and you his daughter. I feel strange. I don't understand myselfwell. But I want you to know--if I were not an outlaw--a ranger--I'd laymy life at your feet. "

"Oh! You have seen so--so little of me, " she faltered. 

"All the same it's true. And that makes me feel more the trouble mycoming caused you. "

"You will not fight my father?"

"Not if I can help it. I'm trying to get out of his way. '

"But you spied upon him. "

"I am a ranger, Miss Longstreth. "

"And oh! I am a rustler's daughter, " she cried. "That's so much moreterrible than I'd suspected. It was tricky cattle deals I imagined hewas engaged in. But only to-night I had strong suspicions aroused. "

"How? Tell me. "

"I overheard Floyd say that men were coming to-night to arrange ameeting for my father at a rendezvous near Ord. Father did not want togo. Floyd taunted him with a name. "

"What name?" queried Duane. 

"It was Cheseldine. "

"CHESELDINE! My God! Miss Longstreth, why did you tell me that?"

"What difference does that make?"

"Your father and Cheseldine are one and the same, " whispered Duane, hoarsely. 

"I gathered so much myself, " she replied, miserably. "But Longstreth isfather's real name. "

Duane felt so stunned he could not speak at once. It was the girl's partin this tragedy that weakened him. The instant she betrayed the secretDuane realized perfectly that he did love her. The emotion was like agreat flood. 

"Miss Longstreth, all this seems so unbelievable, " he whispered. "Cheseldine is the rustler chief I've come out here to get. He's only aname. Your father is the real man. I've sworn to get him. I'm bound bymore than law or oaths. I can't break what binds me. And I must disgraceyou--wreck your lifer Why, Miss Longstreth, I believe I--I loveyou. It's all come in a rush. I'd die for you if I could. Howfatal--terrible--this is! How things work out!"

She slipped to her knees, with her hands on his. 

"You won't kill him?" she implored. "If you care for me--you won't killhim?"

"No. That I promise you. "

With a low moan she dropped her head upon the bed. 

Duane opened the door and stealthily stole out through the corridor tothe court. 

When Duane got out into the dark, where his hot face cooled in the wind, his relief equaled his other feelings. 

The night was dark, windy, stormy, yet there was no rain. Duane hoped assoon 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 histhroat and an ache in his breast. All his thought centered around RayLongstreth. What a woman she had turned out to be! He seemed to havea vague, hopeless hope that there might be, there must be, some way hecould save her. 

CHAPTER XXI

Before going to sleep that night Duane had decided to go to Ord and tryto find the rendezvous where Longstreth was to meet his men. These menDuane wanted even more than their leader. If Longstreth, or Cheseldine, was the brains of that gang, Poggin was the executor. It was Poggin whoneeded to be found and stopped. Poggin and his right-hand men! Duaneexperienced a strange, tigerish thrill. It was thought of Poggin morethan thought of success for MacNelly's plan. Duane felt dubious overthis emotion. 

Next day he set out for Bradford. He was glad to get away from Fairdalefor a while. But the hours and the miles in no wise changed the new painin his heart. The only way he could forget Miss Longstreth was to lethis mind dwell upon Poggin, and even this was not always effective. 

He avoided Sanderson, and at the end of the day and a half he arrived atBradford. 

The night of the day before he reached Bradford, No. 6, the mail andexpress train going east, was held up by train-robbers, the Wells-Fargomessenger killed over his safe, the mail-clerk wounded, the bags carriedaway. The engine of No. 6 came into town minus even a tender, andengineer and fireman told conflicting stories. A posse of railroad menand citizens, led by a sheriff Duane suspected was crooked, was made upbefore the engine steamed back to pick up the rest of the train. Duanehad the sudden inspiration that he had been cudgeling his mind tofind; and, acting upon it, he mounted his horse again and left Bradfordunobserved. As he rode out into the night, over a dark trail in thedirection of Ord, he uttered a short, grim, sardonic laugh at the hopethat he might be taken for a train-robber. 

He rode at an easy trot most of the night, and when the black peak ofOrd Mountain loomed up against the stars he halted, tied his horse, andslept until dawn. He had brought a small pack, and now he took his timecooking breakfast. When the sun was well up he saddled Bullet, and, leaving the trail where his tracks showed plain in the ground, he puthis horse to the rocks and brush. He selected an exceedingly rough, roundabout, and difficult course to Ord, hid his tracks with the skillof a long-hunted fugitive, and arrived there with his horse winded andcovered with lather. It added considerable to his arrival that the manDuane remembered as Fletcher and several others saw him come in the backway through the lots and jump a fence into the road. 

Duane led Bullet up to the porch where Fletcher stood wiping his beard. He was hatless, vestless, and evidently had just enjoyed a morningdrink. 

"Howdy, Dodge, " said Fletcher, laconically. 

Duane replied, and the other man returned the greeting with interest. 

"Jim, my hoss 's done up. I want to hide him from any chance tourists asmight happen to ride up curious-like. "

"Haw! haw! haw!"

Duane gathered encouragement from that chorus of coarse laughter. 

"Wal, if them tourists ain't too durned snooky the hoss'll be safe inthe 'dobe shack back of Bill's here. Feed thar, too, but you'll hev torustle water. "

Duane led Bullet to the place indicated, had care of his welfare, andleft him there. Upon returning to the tavern porch Duane saw the groupof 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 whereverone of the tracks of his horse showed he carefully obliterated it. Thisprocedure was attentively watched by Fletcher and his companions. 

"Wal, Dodge, " remarked Fletcher, as Duane returned, "thet's safer 'nprayin' fer rain. "

Duanes reply was a remark as loquacious as Fletcher's, to the effectthat a long, slow, monotonous ride was conducive to thirst. They alljoined him, unmistakably friendly. But Knell was not there, and mostassuredly not Poggin. Fletcher was no common outlaw, but, whatever hisability, it probably lay in execution of orders. Apparently at thattime these men had nothing to do but drink and lounge around the tavern. Evidently they were poorly supplied with money, though Duane observedthey could borrow a peso occasionally from the bartender. Duane setout to make himself agreeable and succeeded. There was card-playingfor small stakes, idle jests of coarse nature, much bantering among theyounger fellows, and occasionally a mild quarrel. All morning men cameand went, until, all told, Duane calculated he had seen at least fifty. Toward the middle of the afternoon a young fellow burst into the saloonand yelled one word:

"Posse!"

From the scramble to get outdoors Duane judged that word and the ensuingaction was rare in Ord. 

"What the hell!" muttered Fletcher, as he gazed down the road at a dark, compact bunch of horses and riders. "Fust time I ever seen thet in Ord!We're gettin' popular like them camps out of Valentine. Wish Phil washere or Poggy. Now all you gents keep quiet. I'll do the talkin'. "

The posse entered the town, trotted up on dusty horses, and halted ina bunch before the tavern. The party consisted of about twenty men, all heavily armed, and evidently in charge of a clean-cut, lean-limbedcowboy. Duane experienced considerable satisfaction at the absence ofthe sheriff who he had understood was to lead the posse. Perhaps he wasout in another direction with a different force. 

"Hello, Jim Fletcher, " called the cowboy. 

"Howdy, " replied Fletcher. 

At his short, dry response and the way he strode leisurely out beforethe posse Duane found himself modifying his contempt for Fletcher. Theoutlaw was different now. 

"Fletcher, we've tracked a man to all but three miles of this place. Tracks as plain as the nose on your face. Found his camp. Then he hitinto 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 therest of the way, seein' Ord was so close. Anybody come in here late lastnight or early this mornin'?"

"Nope, " replied Fletcher. 

His response was what Duane had expected from his manner, and evidentlythe cowboy took it as a matter of course. He turned to the others of theposse, entering into a low consultation. Evidently there was differenceof opinion, if not real dissension, in that posse. 

"Didn't I tell ye this was a wild-goose chase, comin' way out here?"protested an old hawk-faced rancher. "Them hoss tracks we follored ain'tlike any of them we seen at the water-tank where the train was held up. "

"I'm not so sure of that, " replied the leader. 

"Wal, Guthrie, I've follored tracks all my life--'

"But you couldn't keep to the trail this feller made in the brush. "

"Gimme time, an' I could. Thet takes time. An' heah you go hell-bentfer election! But it's a wrong lead out this way. If you're right thisroad-agent, after he killed his pals, would hev rid back right throughtown. An' with them mail-bags! Supposin' they was greasers? Somegreasers has sense, an' when it comes to thievin' they're shore cute. "

"But we sent got any reason to believe this robber who murdered thegreasers is a greaser himself. I tell you it was a slick job done by noordinary sneak. Didn't you hear the facts? One greaser hopped the enginean' covered the engineer an' fireman. Another greaser kept flashin' hisgun outside the train. The big man who shoved back the car-door an' didthe killin'--he was the real gent, an' don't you forget it. "

Some of the posse sided with the cowboy leader and some with the oldcattleman. Finally the young leader disgustedly gathered up his bridle. 

"Aw, hell! Thet sheriff shoved you off this trail. Mebbe he hed reasonsSavvy thet? If I hed a bunch of cowboys with me--I tell you what--I'dtake a chance an' clean up this hole!"

All the while Jim Fletcher stood quietly with his hands in his pockets. 

"Guthrie, I'm shore treasurin' up your friendly talk, " he said. Themenace was in the tone, not the content of his speech. 

"You can--an' be damned to you, Fletcher!" called Guthrie, as the horsesstarted. 

Fletcher, standing out alone before the others of his clan, watched theposse out of sight. 

"Luck fer you-all thet Poggy wasn't here, " he said, as they disappeared. Then with a thoughtful mien he strode up on the porch and led Duane awayfrom the others into the bar-room. When he looked into Duane's face itwas somehow an entirely changed scrutiny. 

"Dodge, where'd you hide the stuff? I reckon I git in on this deal, seein' I staved off Guthrie. "

Duane played his part. Here was his a tiger after prey he seized it. First he coolly eyed the outlaw and then disclaimed any knowledgewhatever of the train-robbery other than Fletcher had heard himself. Then at Fletcher's persistence and admiration and increasing show offriendliness he laughed occasionally and allowed himself to swellwith pride, though still denying. Next he feigned a lack of consistentwill-power and seemed to be wavering under Fletcher's persuasion andgrew silent, then surly. Fletcher, evidently sure of ultimate victory, desisted for the time being; however, in his solicitous regard and closecompanionship for the rest of that day he betrayed the bent of his mind. 

Later, when Duane started up announcing his intention to get his horseand make for camp out in the brush, Fletcher seemed grievously offended. 

"Why don't you stay with me? I've got a comfortable 'dobe over here. Didn't I stick by you when Guthrie an' his bunch come up? Supposin' Ihedn't showed down a cold hand to him? You'd be swingin' somewheres now. I tell you, Dodge, it ain't square. "

"I'll square it. I pay my debts, " replied Duane. "But I can't put uphere all night. If I belonged to the gang it 'd be different. "

"What gang?" asked Fletcher, bluntly. 

"Why, Cheseldine's. "

Fletcher's beard nodded as his jaw dropped. 

Duane laughed. "I run into him the other day. Knowed him on sight. Sure, he's the king-pin rustler. When he seen me an' asked me what reason Ihad for bein' on earth or some such like--why, I up an' told him. "

Fletcher appeared staggered. 

"Who in all-fired hell air you talkin' about?"

"Didn't I tell you once? Cheseldine. He calls himself Longstreth overthere. "

All of Fletcher's face not covered by hair turned a dirty white. "Cheseldine--Longstreth!" he whispered, hoarsely. "Gord Almighty! Youbraced the--" Then a remarkable transformation came over the outlaw. Hegulped; he straightened his face; he controlled his agitation. But hecould not send the healthy brown back to his face. Duane, watching thisrude man, marveled at the change in him, the sudden checking movement, the proof of a wonderful fear and loyalty. It all meant Cheseldine, amaster of men!

"WHO AIR YOU?" queried Fletcher, in a queer, strained voice. 

"You gave me a handle, didn't you? Dodge. Thet's as good as any. Shoreit hits me hard. Jim, I've been pretty lonely for years, an' I'm gettin'in need of pals. Think it over, will you? See you manana. "

The outlaw watched Duane go off after his horse, watched him as hereturned to the tavern, watched him ride out into the darkness--allwithout a word. 

Duane left the town, threaded a quiet passage through cactus andmesquite 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 playinghis game. He sensed the first slow heave of a mighty crisis. The end, always haunting, had to be sternly blotted from thought. It was theapproach that needed all his mind. 

He passed the night there, and late in the morning, after watching trailand road from a ridge, he returned to Ord. If Jim Fletcher tried todisguise his surprise the effort was a failure. Certainly he had notexpected to see Duane again. Duane allowed himself a little freedom withFletcher, an attitude hitherto lacking. 

That afternoon a horseman rode in from Bradford, an outlaw evidentlywell known and liked by his fellows, and Duane beard him say, before hecould possibly have been told the train-robber was in Ord, that the lossof money in the holdup was slight. Like a flash Duane saw the luck ofthis report. He pretended not to have heard. 

In the early twilight at an opportune moment he called Fletcher to him, and, linking his arm within the outlaw's, he drew him off in a stroll toa log bridge spanning a little gully. Here after gazing around, he tookout a roll of bills, spread it out, split it equally, and without a wordhanded one half to Fletcher. With clumsy fingers Fletcher ran throughthe roll. 

"Five hundred!" he exclaimed. "Dodge, thet's damn handsome of you, considerin' the job wasn't--"

"Considerin' nothin', " interrupted Duane. "I'm makin' no reference toa job here or there. You did me a good turn. I split my pile. Ifthet doesn't make us pards, good turns an' money ain't no use in thiscountry. "

Fletcher was won. 

The two men spent much time together. Duane made up a short fictitioushistory about himself that satisfied the outlaw, only it drew forth alaughing jest upon Duane's modesty. For Fletcher did not hide his beliefthat this new partner was a man of achievements. Knell and Poggin, andthen Cheseldine himself, would be persuaded of this fact, so Fletcherboasted. He had influence. He would use it. He thought he pulled astroke with Knell. But nobody on earth, not even the boss, had anyinfluence on Poggin. Poggin was concentrated ice part of the time; allthe rest he was bursting hell. But Poggin loved a horse. He never lovedanything else. He could be won with that black horse Bullet. Cheseldinewas already won by Duane's monumental nerve; otherwise he would havekilled Duane. 

Little by little the next few days Duane learned the points he longedto 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 executedhe basked in the sunshine before one or another of the public placeshe owned. He was there in the Ord den now, getting ready to plan thebiggest job yet. It was a bank-robbery; but where, Fletcher had not asyet been advised. 

Then when Duane had pumped the now amenable outlaw of all detailspertaining to the present he gathered data and facts and places coveringa period of ten years Fletcher had been with Cheseldine. And herewithwas unfolded a history so dark in its bloody regime, so incredible inits brazen daring, so appalling in its proof of the outlaw's sweep andgrasp of the country from Pecos to Rio Grande, that Duane wasstunned. Compared to this Cheseldine of the Big Bend, to this rancher, stock-buyer, cattle-speculator, property-holder, all the outlaws Duanehad ever known sank into insignificance. The power of the man stunnedDuane; the strange fidelity given him stunned Duane; the intricateinside working of his great system was equally stunning. But when Duanerecovered from that the old terrible passion to kill consumed him, and it raged fiercely and it could not be checked. If that red-handedPoggin, if that cold-eyed, dead-faced Knell had only been at Ord! Butthey were not, and Duane with help of time got what he hoped was theupper hand of himself. 

CHAPTER XXII

Again inaction and suspense dragged at Duane's spirit. Like a leashedhound with a keen scent in his face Duane wanted to leap forth when hewas bound. He almost fretted. Something called to him over the bold, wild brow of Mount Ord. But while Fletcher stayed in Ord waiting forKnell and Poggin, or for orders, Duane knew his game was again a waitingone. 

But one day there were signs of the long quiet of Ord being broken. Amessenger strange to Duane rode in on a secret mission that had to dowith Fletcher. When he went away Fletcher became addicted to thoughtfulmoods and lonely walks. He seldom drank, and this in itself was astriking contrast to former behavior. The messenger came again. Whatevercommunication he brought, it had a remarkable effect upon the outlaw. Duane was present in the tavern when the fellow arrived, saw the fewwords whispered, but did not hear them. Fletcher turned white with angeror fear, perhaps both, and he cursed like a madman. The messenger, a lean, dark-faced, hard-riding fellow reminding Duane of the cowboyGuthrie, left the tavern without even a drink and rode away off to thewest. This west mystified and fascinated Duane as much as the southbeyond Mount Ord. Where were Knell and Poggin? Apparently they were notat present with the leader on the mountain. After the messenger leftFletcher grew silent and surly. He had presented a variety of moods toDuane's observation, and this latest one was provocative of thought. Fletcher was dangerous. It became clear now that the other outlawsof the camp feared him, kept out of his way. Duane let him alone, yetclosely watched him. 

Perhaps an hour after the messenger had left, not longer, Fletchermanifestly arrived at some decision, and he called for his horse. Thenhe went to his shack and returned. To Duane the outlaw looked in shapeboth to ride and to fight. He gave orders for the men in camp to keepclose until he returned. Then he mounted. 

"Come here, Dodge, " he called. 

Duane went up and laid a hand on the pommel of the saddle. Fletcherwalked his horse, with Duane beside him, till they reached the logbridge, when he halted. 

"Dodge, I'm in bad with Knell, " he said. "An' it 'pears I'm the causeof friction between Knell an' Poggy. Knell never had any use fer me, butPoggy'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 onthe mountain to give orders to Knell or Poggy, an' neither one'sshowin' up. I've got to stand in the breach, an' I ain't enjoyin' theprospects. "

"What's the trouble about, Jim?" asked Duane. 

"Reckon it's a little about you, Dodge, " said Fletcher, dryly. "Knellhadn't any use fer you thet day. He ain't got no use fer a man onless hecan rule him. Some of the boys here hev blabbed before I edged in withmy say, an' there's hell to pay. Knell claims to know somethin' aboutyou that'll make both the boss an' Poggy sick when he springs it. Buthe's keepin' quiet. Hard man to figger, thet Knell. Reckon you'd bettergo back to Bradford fer a day or so, then camp out near here till I comeback. "

"Why?"

"Wal, because there ain't any use fer you to git in bad, too. "

"The gang will ride over here any day. If they're friendly, I'll light afire on the hill there, say three nights from to-night. If you don't seeit thet night you hit the trail. I'll do what I can. Jim Fletcher sticksto his pals. So long, Dodge. "

Then he rode away. 

He left Duane in a quandary. This news was black. Things had beenworking out so well. Here was a setback. At the moment Duane did notknow which way to turn, but certainly he had no idea of going back toBradford. Friction between the two great lieutenants of Cheseldine! Openhostility between one of them and another of the chief's right-handmen! Among outlaws that sort of thing was deadly serious. Generally suchmatters were settled with guns. Duane gathered encouragement even fromdisaster. Perhaps the disintegration of Cheseldine's great band hadalready begun. But what did Knell know? Duane did not circle aroundthe idea with doubts and hopes; if Knell knew anything it was that thisstranger in Ord, this new partner of Fletcher's, was no less than BuckDuane. Well, it was about time, thought Duane, that he made use of hisname 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 toride off after Fletcher and stay with him. This, however, would hardlybe fair to an outlaw who had been fair to him. Duane concluded to awaitdevelopments and when the gang rode in to Ord, probably from theirvarious hiding-places, he would be there ready to be denounced by Knell. Duane could not see any other culmination of this series of events thana meeting between Knell and himself. If that terminated fatally forKnell there was all probability of Duane's being in no worse situationthan he was now. If Poggin took up the quarrel! Here Duane accusedhimself again--tried in vain to revolt from a judgment that he was onlyreasoning out excuses to meet these outlaws. 

Meanwhile, instead of waiting, why not hunt up Cheseldine in hismountain retreat? The thought no sooner struck Duane than he washurrying for his horse. 

He left Ord, ostensibly toward Bradford, but, once out of sight, heturned off the road, circled through the brush, and several miles southof town he struck a narrow grass-grown trail that Fletcher had told himled to Cheseldine's camp. The horse tracks along this trail were notless than a week old, and very likely much more. It wound betweenlow, brush-covered foothills, through arroyos and gullies lined withmesquite, cottonwood, and scrub-oak. 

In an hour Duane struck the slope of Mount Ord, and as he climbed hegot a view of the rolling, black-spotted country, partly desert, partlyfertile, with long, bright lines of dry stream-beds winding away to growdim in the distance. He got among broken rocks and cliffs, and here theopen, downward-rolling land disappeared, and he was hard put to it tofind the trail. He lost it repeatedly and made slow progress. Finallyhe climbed into a region of all rock benches, rough here, smooth there, with only an occasional scratch of iron horseshoe to guide him. Manytimes he had to go ahead and then work to right or left till he foundhis way again. It was slow work; it took all day; and night found himhalf-way up the mountain. He halted at a little side-canon with grassand water, and here he made camp. The night was clear and cool at thatheight, with a dark-blue sky and a streak of stars blinking across. Withthis day of action behind him he felt better satisfied than he had beenfor some time. Here, on this venture, he was answering to a call thathad so often directed his movements, perhaps his life, and it was onethat logic or intelligence could take little stock of. And on thisnight, lonely like the ones he used to spend in the Nueces gorge, andmemorable of them because of a likeness to that old hiding-place, hefelt the pressing return of old haunting things--the past so long ago, wild flights, dead faces--and the places of these were taken by onequiveringly alive, white, tragic, with its dark, intent, speakingeyes--Ray Longstreth's. 

That last memory he yielded to until he slept. 

In the morning, satisfied that he had left still fewer tracks thanhe had followed up this trail, he led his horse up to the head of thecanon, there a narrow crack in low cliffs, and with branches of cedarfenced him in. Then he went back and took up the trail on foot. 

Without the horse he made better time and climbed through deep clefts, wide canons, over ridges, up shelving slopes, along precipices--a long, hard climb--till he reached what he concluded was a divide. Going downwas easier, though the farther he followed this dim and winding trailthe wider the broken battlements of rock. Above him he saw the blackfringe of pinon and pine, and above that the bold peak, bare, yellow, like a desert butte. Once, through a wide gateway between greatescarpments, 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 theBig Bend. He went down and down, wondering how a horse could follow thatbroken trail, believing there must be another better one somewhere intoCheseldine's hiding-place. 

He rounded a jutting corner, where view had been shut off, and presentlycame out upon the rim of a high wall. Beneath, like a green gulf seenthrough blue haze, lay an amphitheater walled in on the two sides hecould see. It lay perhaps a thousand feet below him; and, plain as allthe other features of that wild environment, there shone out a big redstone or adobe cabin, white water shining away between great borders, and horses and cattle dotting the levels. It was a peaceful, beautifulscene. Duane could not help grinding his teeth at the thought ofrustlers living there in quiet and ease. 

Duane worked half-way down to the level, and, well hidden in a niche, he settled himself to watch both trail and valley. He made note of theposition of the sun and saw that if anything developed or if he decidedto descend any farther there was small likelihood of his getting back tohis camp before dark. To try that after nightfall he imagined would bevain effort. 

Then he bent his keen eyes downward. The cabin appeared to be a crudestructure. Though large in size, it had, of course, been built byoutlaws. 

There was no garden, no cultivated field, no corral. Excepting for therude pile of stones and logs plastered together with mud, the valley wasas wild, probably, as on the day of discovery. Duane seemed to have beenwatching for a long time before he saw any sign of man, and this oneapparently went to the stream for water and returned to the cabin. 

The sun went down behind the wall, and shadows were born in the darkerplaces 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, tryingto evolve further plans. 

While he was pondering the shadows quickly gathered and darkened. If hewas to go back to camp he must set out at once. Still he lingered. Andsuddenly his wide-roving eye caught sight of two horsemen riding up thevalley. The must have entered at a point below, round the huge abutmentof rock, beyond Duane's range of sight. Their horses were tired andstopped at the stream for a long drink. 

Duane left his perch, took to the steep trail, and descended as fastas he could without making noise. It did not take him long to reach thevalley floor. It was almost level, with deep grass, and here and thereclumps of bushes. Twilight was already thick down there. Duane markedthe location of the trail, and then began to slip like a shadow throughthe grass and from bush to bush. He saw a bright light before hemade out the dark outline of the cabin. Then he heard voices, a merrywhistle, a coarse song, and the clink of iron cooking-utensils. Hesmelled fragrant wood-smoke. He saw moving dark figures cross the light. Evidently there was a wide door, or else the fire was out in the open. 

Duane swerved to the left, out of direct line with the light, and thuswas able to see better. Then he advanced noiselessly but swiftly towardthe back of the house. There were trees close to the wall. He would makeno noise, and he could scarcely be seen--if only there was no watch-dog!But all his outlaw days he had taken risks with only his useless lifeat stake; now, with that changed, he advanced stealthy and bold as anIndian. He reached the cover of the trees, knew he was hidden in theirshadows, for at few paces' distance he had been able to see only theirtops. From there he slipped up to the house and felt along the wall withhis hands. 

He came to a little window where light shone through. He peeped in. Hesaw a room shrouded in shadows, a lamp turned low, a table, chairs. Hesaw an open door, with bright flare beyond, but could not see thefire. Voices came indistinctly. Without hesitation Duane stole fartheralong--all the way to the end of the cabin. Peeping round, he saw onlythe flare of light on bare ground. Retracing his cautious steps, hepaused at the crack again, saw that no man was in the room, and thenhe went on round that end of the cabin. Fortune favored him. Therewere bushes, an old shed, a wood-pile, all the cover he needed at thatcorner. He did not even need to crawl. 

Before he peered between the rough corner of wall and the bush growingclose to it Duane paused a moment. This excitement was different fromthat he had always felt when pursued. It had no bitterness, no pain, nodread. There was as much danger here, perhaps more, yet it was not thesame. Then he looked. 

He saw a bright fire, a red-faced man bending over it, whistling, whilehe handled a steaming pot. Over him was a roofed shed built againstthe wall, with two open sides and two supporting posts. Duane's secondglance, not so blinded by the sudden bright light, made out other men, three in the shadow, two in the flare, but with backs to him. 

"It's a smoother trail by long odds, but ain't so short as this oneright over the mountain, " one outlaw was saying. 

"What's eatin' you, Panhandle?" ejaculated another. "Blossom an' me rodefrom Faraway Springs, where Poggin is with some of the gang. "

"Excuse me, Phil. Shore I didn't see you come in, an' Boldt never saidnothin'. "

"It took you a long time to get here, but I guess that's just as well, "spoke up a smooth, suave voice with a ring in it. 

Longstreth's voice--Cheseldine's voice!

Here they were--Cheseldine, Phil Knell, Blossom Kane, Panhandle Smith, Boldt--how well Duane remembered the names!--all here, the big men ofCheseldine's gang, except the biggest--Poggin. Duane had holed them, andhis sensations of the moment deadened sight and sound of what was beforehim. He sank down, controlled himself, silenced a mounting exultation, then from a less-strained position he peered forth again. 

The outlaws were waiting for supper. Their conversation might have beenthat of cowboys in camp, ranchers at a roundup. Duane listened witheager ears, waiting for the business talk that he felt would come. Allthe time he watched with the eyes of a wolf upon its quarry. BlossomKane was the lean-limbed messenger who had so angered Fletcher. Boldtwas a giant in stature, dark, bearded, silent. Panhandle Smith was thered-faced cook, merry, profane, a short, bow-legged man resembling manyrustlers Duane had known, particularly Luke Stevens. And Knell, who satthere, tall, slim, like a boy in build, like a boy in years, withhis pale, smooth, expressionless face and his cold, gray eyes. AndLongstreth, who leaned against the wall, handsome, with his dark faceand beard like an aristocrat, resembled many a rich Louisiana planterDuane had met. The sixth man sat so much in the shadow that he could notbe plainly discerned, and, though addressed, his name was not mentioned. 

Panhandle Smith carried pots and pans into the cabin, and cheerfullycalled out: "If you gents air hungry fer grub, don't look fer me to feedyou with a spoon. "

The outlaws piled inside, made a great bustle and clatter as they sat totheir meal. Like hungry men, they talked little. 

Duane waited there awhile, then guardedly got up and crept round tothe other side of the cabin. After he became used to the dark againhe ventured to steal along the wall to the window and peeped in. Theoutlaws were in the first room and could not be seen. 

Duane waited. The moments dragged endlessly. His heart pounded. Longstreth entered, turned up the light, and, taking a box of cigarsfrom the table, he carried it out. 

"Here, you fellows, go outside and smoke, " he said. "Knell, come on innow. Let's get it over. "

He returned, sat down, and lighted a cigar for himself. He put hisbooted feet on the table. 

Duane saw that the room was comfortably, even luxuriously furnished. There must have been a good trail, he thought, else how could all thatstuff have been packed in there. Most assuredly it could not have comeover the trail he had traveled. Presently he heard the men go outside, and their voices became indistinct. Then Knell came in and seatedhimself without any of his chief's ease. He seemed preoccupied and, asalways, cold. 

"What's wrong, Knell? Why didn't you get here sooner?" queriedLongstreth. 

"Poggin, damn him! We're on the outs again. "

"What for?"

"Aw, he needn't have got sore. He's breakin' a new hoss over at Faraway, an you know him where a hoss 's concerned. That kept him, I reckon, morethan anythin'. "

"What else? Get it out of your system so we can go on to the new job. "

"Well, it begins back a ways. I don't know how long ago--weeks--astranger 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' Ileft, tryin' to place him in my mind. "

"What'd he look like?"

"Rangy, powerful man, white hair over his temples, still, hard face, eyes like knives. The way he packed his guns, the way he walked an'stood an' swung his right hand showed me what he was. You can't fool meon the gun-sharp. An' he had a grand horse, a big black. "

"I've met your man, " said Longstreth. 

"No!" exclaimed Knell. It was wonderful to hear surprise expressed bythis man that did not in the least show it in his strange physiognomy. Knell laughed a short, grim, hollow laugh. "Boss, this here big gentdrifts into Ord again an' makes up to Jim Fletcher. Jim, you know, iseasy led. He likes men. An' when a posse come along trailin' a blindlead, huntin' the wrong way for the man who held up No. 6, why, Jim--heup 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 thisman's game? I happen to know, boss, that he couldn't have held up No. 6. "

"How do you know?" demanded Longstreth. 

"Because I did the job myself. "

A dark and stormy passion clouded the chief's face. 

"Damn you, Knell! You're incorrigible. You're unreliable. Another breaklike that queers you with me. Did you tell Poggin?"

"Yes. That's one reason we fell out. He raved. I thought he was goin' tokill me. "

"Why did you tackle such a risky job without help or plan?"

"It offered, that's all. An' it was easy. But it was a mistake. I gotthe country an' the railroad hollerin' for nothin'. I just couldn't helpit. You know what idleness means to one of us. You know also that thisvery life breeds fatality. It's wrong--that's why. I was born of goodparents, an' I know what's right. We're wrong, an' we can't beat theend, that's all. An' for my part I don't care a damn when that comes. "

"Fine wise talk from you, Knell, " said Longstreth, scornfully. "Go onwith your story. "

"As I said, Jim cottons to the pretender, an' they get chummy. They'retogether all the time. You can gamble Jim told all he knew an' thensome. A little liquor loosens his tongue. Several of the boys rode overfrom Ord, an' one of them went to Poggin an' says Jim Fletcher has a newman 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 ratherliked the way this new part of Jim's was boosted. Jim an' Poggin alwayshit it up together. So until I got on the deal Jim's pard was already inthe 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 neverhad seen him, which accounts for my bein' doubtful. I'd never forgetany man I'd seen. I dug up a lot of old papers from my kit an' went overthem. Letters, pictures, clippin's, an' all that. I guess I had a prettygood notion what I was lookin' for an' who I wanted to make sure of. Atlast 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 bewilder than a trapped wolf. I sent Blossom over to Ord to get word fromJim, an' when he verified all this talk I sent Blossom again with amessage calculated to make Jim hump. Poggin got sore, said he'd wait forJim, an' I could come over here to see you about the new job. He'd meetme in Ord. "

Knell had spoken hurriedly and low, now and then with passion. His paleeyes glinted like fire in ice, and now his voice fell to a whisper. 

"Who do you think Fletcher's new man is?"

"Who?" demanded Longstreth. 

"BUCK DUANE!"

Down came Longstreth's boots with a crash, then his body grew rigid. 

"That Nueces outlaw? That two-shot ace-of-spades gun-thrower who killedBland, Alloway--?"

"An' Hardin. " Knell whispered this last name with more feeling than theapparent circumstance demanded. 

"Yes; and Hardin, the best one of the Rim Rock fellows--Buck Duane!"

Longstreth was so ghastly white now that his black mustache seemedoutlined against chalk. He eyed his grim lieutenant. They understoodeach other without more words. It was enough that Buck Duane was therein the Big Bend. Longstreth rose presently and reached for a flask, fromwhich he drank, then offered it to Knell. He waved it aside. 

"Knell, " began the chief, slowly, as he wiped his lips, "I gathered youhave some grudge against this Buck Duane. "

"Yes. "

"Well, don't be a fool now and do what Poggin or almost any of you menwould--don't meet this Buck Duane. I've reason to believe he's a TexasRanger now. "

"The hell you say!" exclaimed Knell. 

"Yes. Go to Ord and give Jim Fletcher a hunch. He'll get Poggin, andthey'll fix even Buck Duane. "

"All right. I'll do my best. But if I run into Duane--"

"Don't run into him!" Longstreth's voice fairly rang with the force ofits passion and command. He wiped his face, drank again from the flask, sat down, resumed his smoking, and, drawing a paper from his vest pockethe began to study it. 

"Well, I'm glad that's settled, " he said, evidently referring to theDuane matter. "Now for the new job. This is October the eighteenth. Onor before the twenty-fifth there will be a shipment of gold reach theRancher's Bank of Val Verde. After you return to Ord give Poggin theseorders. Keep the gang quiet. You, Poggin, Kane, Fletcher, PanhandleSmith, and Boldt to be in on the secret and the job. Nobody else. You'llleave Ord on the twenty-third, ride across country by the trail till youget within sight of Mercer. It's a hundred miles from Bradford to ValVerde--about the same from Ord. Time your travel to get you near ValVerde on the morning of the twenty-sixth. You won't have to more thantrot your horses. At two o'clock in the afternoon, sharp, ride into townand up to the Rancher's Bank. Val Verde's a pretty big town. Never beenany holdups there. Town feels safe. Make it a clean, fast, daylight job. That's all. Have you got the details?"

Knell did not even ask for the dates again. 

"Suppose Poggin or me might be detained?" he asked. 

Longstreth bent a dark glance upon his lieutenant. 

"You never can tell what'll come off, " continued Knell. "I'll do mybest. "

"The minute you see Poggin tell him. A job on hand steadies him. And Isay again--look to it that nothing happens. Either you or Poggin carrythe job through. But I want both of you in it. Break for the hills, andwhen you get up in the rocks where you can hide your tracks head forMount Ord. When all's quiet again I'll join you here. That's all. Callin the boys. "

Like a swift shadow and as noiseless Duane stole across the level towardthe dark wall of rock. Every nerve was a strung wire. For a little whilehis mind was cluttered and clogged with whirling thoughts, from which, like a flashing scroll, unrolled the long, baffling order of action. Thegame was now in his hands. He must cross Mount Ord at night. The featwas improbable, but it might be done. He must ride into Bradford, fortymiles from the foothills before eight o'clock next morning. He musttelegraph MacNelly to be in Val Verde on the twenty-fifth. He must rideback to Ord, to intercept Knell, face him be denounced, kill him, andwhile the iron was hot strike hard to win Poggin's half-won interest ashe had wholly won Fletcher's. Failing that last, he must let the outlawsalone to bide their time in Ord, to be free to ride on to their new jobin Val Verde. In the mean time he must plan to arrest Longstreth. Itwas a magnificent outline, incredible, alluring, unfathomable inits nameless certainty. He felt like fate. He seemed to be the ironconsequences falling upon these doomed outlaws. 

Under the wall the shadows were black, only the tips of trees and cragsshowing, yet he went straight to the trail. It was merely a graynessbetween borders of black. He climbed and never stopped. It did notseem steep. His feet might have had eyes. He surmounted the wall, and, looking down into the ebony gulf pierced by one point of light, helifted a menacing arm and shook it. Then he strode on and did not faltertill he reached the huge shelving cliffs. Here he lost the trail; therewas none; but he remembered the shapes, the points, the notches of rockabove. Before he reached the ruins of splintered ramparts and jumbles ofbroken walls the moon topped the eastern slope of the mountain, and themystifying blackness he had dreaded changed to magic silver light. It seemed as light as day, only soft, mellow, and the air held atransparent 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 hisway and lost no time looking for a trail. He crossed the divide and thenhad all downhill before him. Swiftly he descended, almost always sure ofhis memory of the landmarks. He did not remember having studied them inthe ascent, yet here they were, even in changed light, familiar to hissight. What he had once seen was pictured on his mind. And, true asa deer striking for home, he reached the canon where he had left hishorse. 

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 blackgullies, a thousand openings in a maze of broken stone--these Duane hadto descend in fast time, leading a giant of a horse. Bullet cracked theloose fragments, sent them rolling, slid on the scaly slopes, plungeddown the steps, followed like a faithful dog at Duane's heels. 

Hours passed as moments. Duane was equal to his great opportunity. Buthe could not quell that self in him which reached back over the lapseof lonely, searing years and found the boy in him. He who had been worsethan dead was now grasping at the skirts of life--which meant victory, honor, happiness. Duane knew he was not just right in part of his mind. Small wonder that he was not insane, he thought! He tramped on downward, his marvelous faculty for covering rough ground and holding to the truecourse never before even in flight so keen and acute. Yet all the timea spirit was keeping step with him. Thought of Ray Longstreth as he hadleft her made him weak. But now, with the game clear to its end, withthe trap to spring, with success strangely haunting him, Duane could notdispel memory of her. He saw her white face, with its sweet sad lips andthe dark eyes so tender and tragic. And time and distance and risk andtoil were nothing. 

The moon sloped to the west. Shadows of trees and crags now crossed tothe 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 workof the long slope and the foothills and the rolling land leading downto Ord. The little outlaw camp, with its shacks and cabins and row ofhouses, lay silent and dark under the paling moon. Duane passed by onthe lower trail, headed into the road, and put Bullet to a gallop. Hewatched the dying moon, the waning stars, and the east. He had timeto spare, so he saved the horse. Knell would be leaving the rendezvousabout the time Duane turned back toward Ord. Between noon and sunsetthey would meet. 

The night wore on. The moon sank behind low mountains in the west. The stars brightened for a while, then faded. Gray gloom enveloped theworld, thickened, lay like smoke over the road. Then shade by shade itlightened, until through the transparent obscurity shone a dim light. 

Duane reached Bradford before dawn. He dismounted some distance from thetracks, tied his horse, and then crossed over to the station. He heardthe clicking of the telegraph instrument, and it thrilled him. Anoperator sat inside reading. When Duane tapped on the window he lookedup with startled glance, then went swiftly to unlock the door. 

"Hello. Give me paper and pencil. Quick, " whispered Duane. 

With trembling hands the operator complied. Duane wrote out the messagehe had carefully composed. 

"Send this--repeat it to make sure--then keep mum. I'll see you again. Good-by. "

The operator stared, but did not speak a word. 

Duane left as stealthily and swiftly as he had come. He walked his horsea couple miles back on the road and then rested him till break of day. The east began to redden, Duane turned grimly in the direction of Ord. 

When Duane swung into the wide, grassy square on the outskirts of Ordhe saw a bunch of saddled horses hitched in front of the tavern. He knewwhat that meant. Luck still favored him. If it would only hold! But hecould ask no more. The rest was a matter of how greatly he could makehis power felt. An open conflict against odds lay in the balance. Thatwould be fatal to him, and to avoid it he had to trust to his name and apresence he must make terrible. He knew outlaws. He knew what qualitiesheld them. He knew what to exaggerate. 

There was not an outlaw in sight. The dusty horses had covered distancethat morning. As Duane dismounted he heard loud, angry voices inside thetavern. He removed coat and vest, hung them over the pommel. He packedtwo guns, one belted high on the left hip, the other swinging low on theright side. He neither looked nor listened, but boldly pushed the doorand stepped inside. 

The big room was full of men, and every face pivoted toward him. Knell'spale face flashed into Duane's swift sight; then Boldt's, then BlossomKane's, then Panhandle Smith's, then Fletcher's, then others that werefamiliar, and last that of Poggin. Though Duane had never seen Poggin orheard him described, he knew him. For he saw a face that was a record ofgreat and evil deeds. 

There was absolute silence. The outlaws were lined back of a long tableupon which were papers, stacks of silver coin, a bundle of bills, and ahuge gold-mounted gun. 

"Are you gents lookin' for me?" asked Duane. He gave his voice all theringing force and power of which he was capable. And he stepped back, free of anything, with the outlaws all before him. 

Knell stood quivering, but his face might have been a mask. The otheroutlaws looked from him to Duane. Jim Fletcher flung up his hands. 

"My Gawd, Dodge, what'd you bust in here fer?" he said, plaintively, andslowly stepped forward. His action was that of a man true to himself. Hemeant he had been sponsor for Duane and now he would stand by him. 

"Back, Fletcher!" called Duane, and his voice made the outlaw jump. 

"Hold on, Dodge, an' you-all, everybody, " said Fletcher. "Let me talk, seein' I'm in wrong here. "

His persuasions did not ease the strain. 

"Go ahead. Talk, " said Poggin. 

Fletcher turned to Duane. "Pard, I'm takin' it on myself thet you meetenemies here when I swore you'd meet friends. It's my fault. I'll standby you if you let me. "

"No, Jim, " replied Duane. 

"But what'd you come fer without the signal?" burst out Fletcher, indistress. He saw nothing but catastrophe in this meeting. 

"Jim, I ain't pressin' my company none. But when I'm wanted bad--"

Fletcher stopped him with a raised hand. Then he turned to Poggin with arude dignity. 

"Poggy, he's my pard, an' he's riled. I never told him a word thet'dmake him sore. I only said Knell hadn't no more use fer him than ferme. 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' tobe hell if you don't. An' us with a big job on hand!"

While Fletcher toiled over his slow, earnest persuasion Duane had hisgaze riveted upon Poggin. There was something leonine about Poggin. Hewas tawny. He blazed. He seemed beautiful as fire was beautiful. Butlooked at closer, with glance seeing the physical man, instead of thatthing which shone from him, he was of perfect build, with muscles thatswelled and rippled, bulging his clothes, with the magnificent head andface of the cruel, fierce, tawny-eyed jaguar. 

Looking at this strange Poggin, instinctively divining his abnormaland hideous power, Duane had for the first time in his life the inwardquaking fear of a man. It was like a cold-tongued bell ringing withinhim and numbing his heart. The old instinctive firing of blood followed, but did not drive away that fear. He knew. He felt something here deeperthan thought could go. And he hated Poggin. 

That individual had been considering Fletcher's appeal. 

"Jim, I ante up, " he said, "an' if Phil doesn't raise us out with a bighand--why, he'll get called, an' your pard can set in the game. "

Every eye shifted to Knell. He was dead white. He laughed, and any onehearing that laugh would have realized his intense anger equally with anassurance which made him master of the situation. 

"Poggin, you're a gambler, you are--the ace-high, straight-flush hand ofthe Big Bend, " he said, with stinging scorn. "I'll bet you my roll to agreaser peso that I can deal you a hand you'll be afraid to play. "

"Phil, you're talkin' wild, " growled Poggin, with both advice and menacein his tone. 

"If there's anythin' you hate it's a man who pretends to be somebodyelse when he's not. Thet so?"

Poggin nodded in slow-gathering wrath. 

"Well, Jim's new pard--this man Dodge--he's not who he seems. Oh-ho!He's a hell of a lot different. But _I_ know him. An' when I springhis name on you, Poggin, you'll freeze to your gizzard. Do you getme? You'll freeze, an' your hand'll be stiff when it ought to belightnin'--All because you'll realize you've been standin' there fiveminutes--five minutes ALIVE before him!"

If not hate, then assuredly great passion toward Poggin manifesteditself in Knell's scornful, fiery address, in the shaking hand he thrustbefore Poggin's face. In the ensuing silent pause Knell's panting couldbe plainly heard. The other men were pale, watchful, cautiously edgingeither way to the wall, leaving the principals and Duane in the centerof the room. 

"Spring his name, then, you--" said Poggin, violently, with a curse. 

Strangely Knell did not even look at the man he was about to denounce. He leaned toward Poggin, his hands, his body, his long head all somewhatexpressive of what his face disguised. 

"BUCK DUANE!" he yelled, suddenly. 

The name did not make any great difference in Poggin. But Knell'spassionate, swift utterance carried the suggestion that the name oughtto bring Poggin to quick action. It was possible, too, that Knell'smanner, the import of his denunciation the meaning back of all hispassion held Poggin bound more than the surprise. For the outlawcertainly was surprised, perhaps staggered at the idea that he, Poggin, had been about to stand sponsor with Fletcher for a famous outlaw hatedand feared by all outlaws. 

Knell waited a long moment, and then his face broke its cold immobilityin an extraordinary expression of devilish glee. He had hounded thegreat Poggin into something that gave him vicious, monstrous joy. 

"BUCK DUANE! Yes, " he broke out, hotly. "The Nueces gunman! Thattwo-shot, ace-of-spades lone wolf! You an' I--we've heard a thousandtimes of him--talked about him often. An' here he IN FRONT of you!Poggin, you were backin' Fletcher's new pard, Buck Duane. An' he'dfooled you both but for me. But _I_ know him. An' I know why he driftedin here. To flash a gun on Cheseldine--on you--on me! Bah! Don't tell mehe 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 tomeet a real man, not a four-flush? It's the madness of the gunman, an' Iknow it. Well, Duane faced you--called you! An' when I sprung his name, what ought you have done? What would the boss--anybody--have expected ofPoggin? Did you throw your gun, swift, like you have so often? Naw; youfroze. An' why? Because here's a man with the kind of nerve you'd loveto have. Because he's great--meetin' us here alone. Because you knowhe's a wonder with a gun an' you love life. Because you an' I an' everydamned man here had to take his front, each to himself. If we all drewwe'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 alesser man--me--who've lived to see you a coward. It comes once to everygunman. You've met your match in Buck Duane. An', by God, I'm glad!Here's once I show you up!"

The hoarse, taunting voice failed. Knell stepped back from the comradehe hated. He was wet, shaking, haggard, but magnificent. 

"Buck Duane, do you remember Hardin?" he asked, in scarcely audiblevoice. 

"Yes, " replied Duane, and a flash of insight made clear Knell'sattitude. 

"You met him--forced him to draw--killed him?"

"Yes. "

"Hardin was the best pard I ever had. "

His teeth clicked together tight, and his lips set in a thin line. 

The room grew still. Even breathing ceased. The time for wordshad passed. In that long moment of suspense Knell's body graduallystiffened, and at last the quivering ceased. He crouched. His eyes had asoul-piercing fire. 

Duane watched them. He waited. He caught the thought--the breaking ofKnell's muscle-bound rigidity. Then he drew. 

Through the smoke of his gun he saw two red spurts of flame. Knell'sbullets thudded into the ceiling. He fell with a scream like a wildthing in agony. 

Duane did not see Knell die. He watched Poggin. And Poggin, like astricken and astounded man, looked down upon his prostrate comrade. 

Fletcher ran at Duane with hands aloft. 

"Hit the trail, you liar, or you'll hev to kill me!" he yelled. 

With hands still up, he shouldered and bodied Duane out of the room. 

Duane leaped on his horse, spurred, and plunged away. 

CHAPTER XXIII

Duane returned to Fairdale and camped in the mesquite till thetwenty-third of the month. The few days seemed endless. All he couldthink of was that the hour in which he must disgrace Ray Longstreth wasslowly but inexorably coming. In that waiting time he learned whatlove was and also duty. When the day at last dawned he rode like onepossessed down the rough slope, hurdling the stones and crashing throughthe brush, with a sound in his ears that was not all the rush of thewind. Something dragged at him. 

Apparently one side of his mind was unalterably fixed, while the otherwas a hurrying conglomeration of flashes of thought, reception ofsensations. 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 tocontinue. Had he turned his back upon love, happiness, perhaps on lifeitself?

There seemed no use to go on farther until he was absolutely sure ofhimself. Duane received a clear warning thought that such work as seemedhaunting and driving him could never be carried out in the mood underwhich he labored. He hung on to that thought. Several times he slowedup, then stopped, only to go on again. At length, as he mounted a lowridge, Fairdale lay bright and green before him not far away, and thesight was a conclusive check. There were mesquites on the ridge, andDuane 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 wasutterly unlike himself; he could not bring the old self back; he wasnot the same man he once had been. But he could understand why. It wasbecause of Ray Longstreth. Temptation assailed him. To have her hiswife! It was impossible. The thought was insidiously alluring. Duanepictured a home. He saw himself riding through the cotton and rice andcane, home to a stately old mansion, where long-eared hounds bayed himwelcome, and a woman looked for him and met him with happy and beautifulsmile. There might--there would be children. And something new, strange, confounding with its emotion, came to life deep in Duane's heart. Therewould be children! Ray their mother! The kind of life a lonely outcastalways yearned for and never had! He saw it all, felt it all. 

But beyond and above all other claims came Captain MacNelly's. It wasthen there was something cold and death-like in Duane's soul. For heknew, whatever happened, of one thing he was sure--he would have to killeither Longstreth or Lawson. Longstreth might be trapped into arrest;but Lawson had no sense, no control, no fear. He would snarl like apanther and go for his gun, and he would have to be killed. This, of allconsummations, was the one to be calculated upon. 

Duane came out of it all bitter and callous and sore--in the mostfitting of moods to undertake a difficult and deadly enterprise. He hadfallen upon his old strange, futile dreams, now rendered poignant byreason of love. He drove away those dreams. In their places came theimages of the olive-skinned Longstreth with his sharp eyes, and thedark, evil-faced Lawson, and then returned tenfold more thrilling andsinister the old strange passion to meet Poggin. 

It was about one o'clock when Duane rode into Fairdale. The streets forthe most part were deserted. He went directly to find Morton and Zimmer. He found them at length, restless, somber, anxious, but unaware of thepart he had played at Ord. They said Longstreth was home, too. It waspossible that Longstreth had arrived home in ignorance. 

Duane told them to be on hand in town with their men in case he mightneed them, and then with teeth locked he set off for Longstreth's ranch. 

Duane stole through the bushes and trees, and when nearing the porchhe heard loud, angry, familiar voices. Longstreth and Lawson werequarreling again. How Duane's lucky star guided him! He had no plan ofaction, but his brain was equal to a hundred lightning-swift evolutions. He meant to take any risk rather than kill Longstreth. Both of the menwere out on the porch. Duane wormed his way to the edge of the shrubberyand crouched low to watch for his opportunity. 

Longstreth looked haggard and thin. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and hehad come out with a gun in his hand. This he laid on a table near thewall. He wore no belt. 

Lawson was red, bloated, thick-lipped, all fiery and sweaty from drink, though sober on the moment, and he had the expression of a desperateman in his last stand. It was his last stand, though he was ignorant ofthat. 

"What's your news? You needn't be afraid of my feelings, " said Lawson. 

"Ray confessed to an interest in this ranger, " replied Longstreth. 

Duane thought Lawson would choke. He was thick-necked anyway, and therush of blood made him tear at the soft collar of his shirt. Duaneawaited his chance, patient, cold, all his feelings shut in a vise. 

"But why should your daughter meet this ranger?" demanded Lawson, harshly. 

"She's in love with him, and he's in love with her. "

Duane reveled in Lawson's condition. The statement might have had theforce of a juggernaut. Was Longstreth sincere? What was his game?

Lawson, finding his voice, cursed Ray, cursed the ranger, thenLongstreth. 

"You damned selfish fool!" cried Longstreth, in deep bitter scorn. "Allyou think of is yourself--your loss of the girl. Think once of ME--myhome--my life!"

Then the connection subtly put out by Longstreth apparently dawned uponthe other. Somehow through this girl her father and cousin were to bebetrayed. Duane got that impression, though he could not tell how trueit was. Certainly Lawson's jealousy was his paramount emotion. 

"To hell with you!" burst out Lawson, incoherently. He was frenzied. "I'll have her, or nobody else will!"

"You never will, " returned Longstreth, stridently. "So help me God I'drather see her the ranger's wife than yours!"

While Lawson absorbed that shock Longstreth leaned toward him, all ofhate and menace in his mien. 

"Lawson, you made me what I am, " continued Longstreth. "I backedyou--shielded you. YOU'RE Cheseldine--if the truth is told! Now it'sended. I quit you. I'm done!"

Their gray passion-corded faces were still as stones. 

"GENTLEMEN!" Duane called in far-reaching voice as he stepped out. "YOU'RE BOTH DONE!"

They wheeled to confront Duane. 

"Don't move! Not a muscle! Not a finger!" he warned. 

Longstreth read what Lawson had not the mind to read. His face turnedfrom gray to ashen. 

"What d'ye mean?" yelled Lawson, fiercely, shrilly. It was not in him toobey a command, to see impending death. 

All quivering and strung, yet with perfect control, Duane raised hisleft hand to turn back a lapel of his open vest. The silver star flashedbrightly. 

Lawson howled like a dog. With barbarous and insane fury, with sheerimpotent folly, he swept a clawing hand for his gun. Duane's shot brokehis action. 

Before Lawson ever tottered, before he loosed the gun, Longstreth leapedbehind him, clasped him with left arm, quick as lightning jerked thegun from both clutching fingers and sheath. Longstreth protected himselfwith 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 likewind, light of sound yet shocking in impact, struck him, staggered him. The hot rend of lead followed the blow. Duane's heart seemed to explode, yet his mind kept extraordinarily clear and rapid. 

Duane heard Longstreth work the action of Lawson's gun. He heard thehammer click, fall upon empty shells. Longstreth had used up all theloads in Lawson's gun. He cursed as a man cursed at defeat. Duanewaited, cool and sure now. Longstreth tried to lift the dead man, toedge him closer toward the table where his own gun lay. But, consideringthe peril of exposing himself, he found the task beyond him. He bentpeering 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 wasnever any mistaking the strange and terrible light of eyes likethose. More than once Duane had a chance to aim at them, at the top ofLongstreth's head, at a strip of his side. 

Longstreth flung Lawson's body off. But even as it dropped, beforeLongstreth could leap, as he surely intended, for the gun, Duane coveredhim, called piercingly to him:

"Don't jump for the gun! Don't! I'll kill you! Sure as God I'll killyou!"

Longstreth stood perhaps ten feet from the table where his gun lay Duanesaw him calculating chances. He was game. He had the courage that forcedDuane to respect him. Duane just saw him measure the distance to thatgun. He was magnificent. He meant to do it. Duane would have to killhim. 

"Longstreth, listen, " cried Duane, swiftly. "The game's up. You're done. But think of your daughter! I'll spare your life--I'll try to get youfreedom on one condition. For her sake! I've got you nailed--all theproofs. 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 canpersuade MacNelly to let you go free back to your old country. It's forRay's sake! Her life, perhaps her happiness, can be saved! Hurry, man!Your answer!"

"Suppose I refuse?" he queried, with a dark and terrible earnestness. 

"Then I'll kill you in your tracks! You can't move a hand! Your word ordeath! Hurry, Longstreth! Be a man! For her sake! Quick! Another secondnow--I'll kill you!"

"All right, Buck Duane, I give my word, " he said, and deliberatelywalked to the chair and fell into it. 

Longstreth looked strangely at the bloody blot on Duane's shoulder. 

"There come the girls!" he suddenly exclaimed. "Can you help me dragLawson inside? They mustn't see him. "

Duane was facing down the porch toward the court and corrals. MissLongstreth and Ruth had come in sight, were swiftly approaching, evidently alarmed. The two men succeeded in drawing Lawson into thehouse before the girls saw him. 

"Duane, you're not hard hit?" said Longstreth. 

"Reckon not, " replied Duane. 

"I'm sorry. If only you could have told me sooner! Lawson, damn him!Always I've split over him!"

"But the last time, Longstreth. "

"Yes, and I came near driving you to kill me, too. Duane, you talkedme out of it. For Ray's sake! She'll be in here in a minute. This'll beharder than facing a gun. "

"Hard now. But I hope it'll turn out all right. "

"Duane, will you do me a favor?" he asked, and he seemed shamefaced. 

"Sure. "

"Let Ray and Ruth think Lawson shot you. He's dead. It can't matter. Duane, the old side of my life is coming back. It's been coming. It'llbe here just about when she enters this room. And, by God, I'd changeplaces with Lawson if I could!"

"Glad you--said that, Longstreth, " replied Duane. "And sure--Lawsonplugged me. It's our secret. "

Just then Ray and Ruth entered the room. Duane heard two low cries, sodifferent in tone, and he saw two white faces. Ray came to his side, Shelifted a shaking hand to point at the blood upon his breast. White andmute, she gazed from that to her father. 

"Papa!" cried Ray, wringing her hands. 

"Don't give way, " he replied, huskily. "Both you girls will need yournerve. Duane isn't badly hurt. But Floyd is--is dead. Listen. Let metell it quick. There's been a fight. It--it was Lawson--it was Lawson'sgun that shot Duane. Duane let me off. In fact, Ray, he saved me. I'mto divide my property--return so far as possible what I've stolen--leaveTexas at once with Duane, under arrest. He says maybe he can getMacNelly, the ranger captain, to let me go. For your sake!"

She stood there, realizing her deliverance, with the dark and tragicglory of her eyes passing from her father to Duane. 

"You must rise above this, " said Duane to her. "I expected this to ruinyou. But your father is alive. He will live it down. I'm sure I canpromise you he'll be free. Perhaps back there in Louisiana the dishonorwill never be known. This country is far from your old home. And even inSan Antonio and Austin a man's evil repute means little. Then the linebetween a rustler and a rancher is hard to draw in these wild borderdays. Rustling is stealing cattle, and I once heard a well-known ranchersay that all rich cattlemen had done a little stealing Your fatherdrifted out here, and, like a good many others, he succeeded. It'sperhaps just as well not to split hairs, to judge him by the law andmorality of a civilized country. Some way or other he drifted in withbad men. Maybe a deal that was honest somehow tied his hands. Thismatter of land, water, a few stray head of stock had to be decided outof 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 dealingthat took on crooked form. To protect himself he bound men to him. Andso the gang developed. Many powerful gangs have developed that wayout here. He could not control them. He became involved with them. Andeventually their dealings became deliberately and boldly dishonest. Thatmeant the inevitable spilling of blood sooner or later, and so he grewinto the leader because he was the strongest. Whatever he is to bejudged for, I think he could have been infinitely worse. "

CHAPTER XXIV

On the morning of the twenty-sixth Duane rode into Bradford in time tocatch the early train. His wounds did not seriously incapacitate him. Longstreth was with him. And Miss Longstreth and Ruth Herbert would notbe left behind. They were all leaving Fairdale for ever. Longstreth hadturned over the whole of his property to Morton, who was to divide itas he and his comrades believed just. Duane had left Fairdale with hisparty by night, passed through Sanderson in the early hours of dawn, andreached Bradford as he had planned. 

That fateful morning found Duane outwardly calm, but inwardly he wasin a tumult. He wanted to rush to Val Verde. Would Captain MacNelly bethere with his rangers, as Duane had planned for them to be? Memory ofthat tawny Poggin returned with strange passion. Duane had borne hoursand weeks and months of waiting, had endured the long hours of theoutlaw, but now he had no patience. The whistle of the train made himleap. 

It was a fast train, yet the ride seemed slow. 

Duane, disliking to face Longstreth and the passengers in the car, changed his seat to one behind his prisoner. They had seldom spoken. Longstreth sat with bowed head, deep in thought. The girls sat in aseat near by and were pale but composed. Occasionally the train haltedbriefly at a station. The latter half of that ride Duane had observeda wagon-road running parallel with the railroad, sometimes rightalongside, at others near or far away. When the train was about twentymiles from Val Verde Duane espied a dark group of horsemen trottingeastward. His blood beat like a hammer at his temples. The gang!He thought he recognized the tawny Poggin and felt a strange inwardcontraction. He thought he recognized the clean-cut Blossom Kane, theblack-bearded giant Boldt, the red-faced Panhandle Smith, and Fletcher. There was another man strange to him. Was that Knell? No! it could nothave been Knell. 

Duane leaned over the seat and touched Longstreth on the shoulder. 

"Look!" he whispered. Cheseldine was stiff. He had already seen. 

The train flashed by; the outlaw gang receded out of range of sight. 

"Did you notice Knell wasn't with them?" whispered Duane. 

Duane did not speak to Longstreth again till the train stopped at ValVerde. 

They got off the car, and the girls followed as naturally as ordinarytravelers. The station was a good deal larger than that at Bradford, andthere was considerable action and bustle incident to the arrival of thetrain. 

Duane's sweeping gaze searched faces, rested upon a man who seemedfamiliar. This fellow's look, too, was that of one who knew Duane, butwas waiting for a sign, a cue. Then Duane recognized him--MacNelly, clean-shaven. Without mustache he appeared different, younger. 

When MacNelly saw that Duane intended to greet him, to meet him, hehurried forward. A keen light flashed from his eyes. He was glad, eager, yet suppressing himself, and the glances he sent back and forth fromDuane to Longstreth were questioning, doubtful. Certainly Longstreth didnot look the part of an outlaw. 

"Duane! Lord, I'm glad to see you, " was the Captain's greeting. Then atcloser look into Duane's face his warmth fled--something he saw therechecked his enthusiasm, or at least its utterance. 

"MacNelly, shake hand with Cheseldine, " said Duane, low-voiced. 

The ranger captain stood dumb, motionless. But he saw Longstreth'sinstant action, and awkwardly he reached for the outstretched hand. 

"Any of your men down here?" queried Duane, sharply. 

"No. They're up-town. "

"Come. MacNelly, you walk with him. We've ladies in the party. I'll comebehind with them. "

They set off up-town. Longstreth walked as if he were with friends onthe way to dinner. The girls were mute. MacNelly walked like a man in atrance. There was not a word spoken in four blocks. 

Presently Duane espied a stone building on a corner of the broad street. There was a big sign, "Rancher's Bank. "

"There's the hotel, " said MacNelly. "Some of my men are there. We'vescattered around. "

They crossed the street, went through office and lobby, and then Duaneasked MacNelly to take them to a private room. Without a word theCaptain complied. When they were all inside Duane closed the door, and, drawing a deep breath as if of relief, he faced them calmly. 

"Miss Longstreth, you and Miss Ruth try to make yourselves comfortablenow, " he said. "And don't be distressed. " Then he turned to his captain. "MacNelly, this girl is the daughter of the man I've brought to you, andthis one is his niece. "

Then Duane briefly related Longstreth's story, and, though he did notspare the rustler chief, he was generous. 

"When I went after Longstreth, " concluded Duane, "it was either to killhim or offer him freedom on conditions. So I chose the latter for hisdaughter's sake. He has already disposed of all his property. I believehe'll live up to the conditions. He's to leave Texas never to return. The name Cheseldine has been a mystery, and now it'll fade. "

A few moments later Duane followed MacNelly to a large room, like ahall, and here were men reading and smoking. Duane knew them--rangers!

MacNelly beckoned to his men. 

"Boys, here he is. "

"How many men have you?" asked Duane. 

"Fifteen. "

MacNelly almost embraced Duane, would probably have done so but for thedark grimness that seemed to be coming over the man. Instead he glowed, he sputtered, he tried to talk, to wave his hands. He was besidehimself. And his rangers crowded closer, eager, like hounds ready torun. They all talked at once, and the word most significant and frequentin their speech was "outlaws. "

MacNelly clapped his fist in his hand. 

"This'll make the adjutant sick with joy. Maybe we won't have it on theGovernor! We'll show them about the ranger service. Duane! how'd youever do it?"

"Now, Captain, not the half nor the quarter of this job's done. Thegang's coming down the road. I saw them from the train. They'll rideinto town on the dot--two-thirty. "

"How many?" asked MacNelly. 

"Poggin, Blossom Kane, Panhandle Smith, Boldt, Jim Fletcher, and anotherman I don't know. These are the picked men of Cheseldine's gang. I'llbet they'll be the fastest, hardest bunch you rangers ever faced. "

"Poggin--that's the hard nut to crack! I've heard their records sinceI've been in Val Verde. Where's Knell? They say he's a boy, but hell andblazes!"

"Knell's dead. "

"Ah!" exclaimed MacNelly, softly. Then he grew businesslike, cool, andof harder aspect. "Duane, it's your game to-day. I'm only a ranger underorders. We're all under your orders. We've absolute faith in you. Makeyour plan quick, so I can go around and post the boys who're not here. "

"You understand there's no sense in trying to arrest Poggin, Kane, andthat lot?" queried Duane. 

"No, I don't understand that, " replied MacNelly, bluntly. 

"It can't be done. The drop can't be got on such men. If you meet themthey shoot, and mighty quick and straight. Poggin! That outlaw has noequal with a gun--unless--He's got to be killed quick. They'll all haveto be killed. They're all bad, desperate, know no fear, are lightning inaction. "

"Very well, Duane; then it's a fight. That'll be easier, perhaps. Theboys are spoiling for a fight. Out with your plan, now. "

"Put one man at each end of this street, just at the edge of town. Lethim hide there with a rifle to block the escape of any outlaw that wemight fail to get. I had a good look at the bank building. It'swell situated for our purpose. Put four men up in that room over thebank--four men, two at each open window. Let them hide till the gamebegins. They want to be there so in case these foxy outlaws get wisebefore they're down on the ground or inside the bank. The rest of yourmen put inside behind the counters, where they'll hide. Now go over tothe bank, spring the thing on the bank officials, and don't let themshut 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 whenPoggin rides up. He'll glance in before he gets down. They make nomistakes, these fellows. We must be slicker than they are, or lose. Whenyou get the bank people wise, send your men over one by one. No hurry, no excitement, no unusual thing to attract notice in the bank. "

"All right. That's great. Tell me, where do you intend to wait?"

Duane heard MacNelly's question, and it struck him peculiarly. He hadseemed to be planning and speaking mechanically. As he was confrontedby the fact it nonplussed him somewhat, and he became thoughtful, withlowered head. 

"Where'll you wait, Duane?" insisted MacNelly, with keen eyesspeculating. 

"I'll wait in front, just inside the door, " replied Duane, with aneffort. 

"Why?" demanded the Captain. 

"Well, " began Duane, slowly, "Poggin will get down first and start in. But the others won't be far behind. They'll not get swift till inside. The thing is--they MUSTN'T get clear inside, because the instant theydo they'll pull guns. That means death to somebody. If we can we want tostop them just at the door. "

"But will you hide?" asked MacNelly. 

"Hide!" The idea had not occurred to Duane. 

"There's a wide-open doorway, a sort of round hall, a vestibule, withsteps leading up to the bank. There's a door in the vestibule, too. Itleads somewhere. We can put men in there. You can be there. "

Duane was silent. 

"See here, Duane, " began MacNelly, nervously. "You shan't take any unduerisk here. You'll hide with the rest of us?"

"No!" The word was wrenched from Duane. 

MacNelly stared, and then a strange, comprehending light seemed to flitover his face. 

"Duane, I can give you no orders to-day, " he said, distinctly. "I'm onlyoffering advice. Need you take any more risks? You've done a grandjob for the service--already. You've paid me a thousand times forthat pardon. You've redeemed yourself. --The Governor, theadjutant-general--the whole state will rise up and honor you. The game'salmost up. We'll kill these outlaws, or enough of them to break forever their power. I say, as a ranger, need you take more risk than yourcaptain?"

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 avoice. 

"Captain, you want this job to be sure?" he asked. 

"Certainly. "

"I've told you the way. I alone know the kind of men to be met. JustWHAT I'll do or WHERE I'll be I can't say yet. In meetings like this themoment decides. But I'll be there!"

MacNelly spread wide his hands, looked helplessly at his curious andsympathetic rangers, and shook his head. 

"Now you've done your work--laid the trap--is this strange move of yoursgoing to be fair to Miss Longstreth?" asked MacNelly, in significant lowvoice. 

Like a great tree chopped at the roots Duane vibrated to that. He lookedup as if he had seen a ghost. 

Mercilessly the ranger captain went on: "You can win her, Duane! Oh, youcan't fool me. I was wise in a minute. Fight with us from cover--then goback 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 girlloves you! I saw it in her eyes. She's--"

But Duane cut him short with a fierce gesture. He lunged up to his feet, and the rangers fell back. Dark, silent, grim as he had been, stillthere was a transformation singularly more sinister, stranger. 

"Enough. I'm done, " he said, somberly. "I've planned. Do we agree--orshall I meet Poggin and his gang alone?"

MacNelly cursed and again threw up his hands, this time in baffledchagrin. There was deep regret in his dark eyes as they rested uponDuane. 

Duane was left alone. 

Never had his mind been so quick, so clear, so wonderful in itsunderstanding of what had heretofore been intricate and elusive impulsesof his strange nature. His determination was to meet Poggin; meet himbefore any one else had a chance--Poggin first--and then the others!He was as unalterable in that decision as if on the instant of itsacceptance he had become stone. 

Why? Then came realization. He was not a ranger now. He cared nothingfor the state. He had no thought of freeing the community of a dangerousoutlaw, of ridding the country of an obstacle to its progress andprosperity. He wanted to kill Poggin. It was significant now thathe forgot the other outlaws. He was the gunman, the gun-thrower, thegun-fighter, passionate and terrible. His father's blood, that dark andfierce strain, his mother's spirit, that strong and unquenchable spiritof the surviving pioneer--these had been in him; and the killings, oneafter another, the wild and haunted years, had made him, absolutely inspite of his will, the gunman. He realized it now, bitterly, hopelessly. The thing he had intelligence enough to hate he had become. At last heshuddered 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--theneed, in order to forget the haunting, sleepless presence of his lastvictim, 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 thatstrange, wild product of the Texas frontier--the gun-fighter. And thosepassions were so violent, so raw, so base, so much lower than what oughtto have existed in a thinking man. Actual pride of his record! Actualvanity in his speed with a gun. Actual jealousy of any rival!

Duane could not believe it. But there he was, without a choice. Whathe had feared for years had become a monstrous reality. Respect forhimself, blindness, a certain honor that he had clung to while inoutlawry--all, like scales, seemed to fall away from him. He stoodstripped bare, his soul naked--the soul of Cain. Always since the firstbrand had been forced and burned upon him he had been ruined. But nowwith conscience flayed to the quick, yet utterly powerless over thistiger instinct, he was lost. He said it. He admitted it. And at theutter abasement the soul he despised suddenly leaped and quivered withthe thought of Ray Longstreth. 

Then came agony. As he could not govern all the chances of this fatalmeeting--as all his swift and deadly genius must be occupied withPoggin, perhaps in vain--as hard-shooting men whom he could not watchwould be close behind, this almost certainly must be the end of BuckDuane. That did not matter. But he loved the girl. He wanted her. Allher sweetness, her fire, and pleading returned to torture him. 

At that moment the door opened, and Ray Longstreth entered. 

"Duane, " she said, softly. "Captain MacNelly sent me to you. "

"But you shouldn't have come, " replied Duane. 

"As soon as he told me I would have come whether he wished it or not. You left me--all of us--stunned. I had no time to thank you. Oh, Ido-with all my soul. It was noble of you. Father is overcome. He didn'texpect so much. And he'll be true. But, Duane, I was told to hurry, andhere I'm selfishly using time. "

"Go, then--and leave me. You mustn't unnerve me now, when there's adesperate game to finish. "

"Need it be desperate?" she whispered, coming close to him. 

"Yes; it can't be else. "

MacNelly had sent her to weaken him; of that Duane was sure. And he feltthat she had wanted to come. Her eyes were dark, strained, beautiful, and they shed a light upon Duane he had never seen before. 

"You're going to take some mad risk, " she said. "Let me persuade you notto. You said--you cared for me--and I--oh, Duane--don't you--know--?"

The low voice, deep, sweet as an old chord, faltered and broke andfailed. 

Duane sustained a sudden shock and an instant of paralyzed confusion ofthought. 

She moved, she swept out her hands, and the wonder of her eyes dimmed ina flood of tears. 

"My God! You can't care for me?" he cried, hoarsely. 

Then she met him, hands outstretched. 

"But I do-I do!"

Swift as light Duane caught her and held her to his breast. He stoodholding her tight, with the feel of her warm, throbbing breast and theclasp 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 allthe demons that possessed him. And he held her as if she had been hissoul, his strength on earth, his hope of Heaven, against his lips. 

The strife of doubt all passed. He found his sight again. And thererushed over him a tide of emotion unutterably sweet and full, stronglike an intoxicating wine, deep as his nature, something glorious andterrible as the blaze of the sun to one long in darkness. He had becomean outcast, a wanderer, a gunman, a victim of circumstances; he had lostand suffered worse than death in that loss; he had gone down theendless bloody trail, a killer of men, a fugitive whose mind slowlyand inevitably closed to all except the instinct to survive and a blackdespair; and now, with this woman in his arms, her swelling breastagainst his, in this moment almost of resurrection, he bent under thestorm of passion and joy possible only to him who had endured so much. 

"Do you care--a little?" he whispered, unsteadily. 

He bent over her, looking deep into the dark wet eyes. 

She uttered a low laugh that was half sob, and her arms slipped up tohis neck. 

"A littler Oh, Duane--Duane--a great deal!"

Their lips met in their first kiss. The sweetness, the fire of her mouthseemed so new, so strange, so irresistible to Duane. His sore and hungryheart throbbed with thick and heavy beats. He felt the outcast's needof 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 eyesclosed, till, her passion and strength spent, she fell back upon hisshoulder. 

Duane suddenly thought she was going to faint. He divined then that shehad understood him, would have denied him nothing, not even her life, inthat moment. But she was overcome, and he suffered a pang of regret athis unrestraint. 

Presently she recovered, and she drew only the closer, and leaned uponhim with her face upturned. He felt her hands on his, and they weresoft, clinging, strong, like steel under velvet. He felt the rise andfall, the warmth of her breast. A tremor ran over him. He tried to drawback, and if he succeeded a little her form swayed with him, pressingcloser. She held her face up, and he was compelled to look. It waswonderful now: white, yet glowing, with the red lips parted, and darkeyes alluring. But that was not all. There was passion, unquenchablespirit, woman's resolve deep and mighty. 

"I love you, Duane!" she said. "For my sake don't go out to meet thisoutlaw face to face. It's something wild in you. Conquer it if you loveme. "

Duane became suddenly weak, and when he did take her into his arms againhe scarcely had strength to lift her to a seat beside him. She seemedmore than a dead weight. Her calmness had fled. She was throbbing, palpitating, quivering, with hot wet cheeks and arms that clung to himlike vines. She lifted her mouth to his, whispering, "Kiss me!" Shemeant to change him, hold him. 

Duane bent down, and her arms went round his neck and drew him close. With his lips on hers he seemed to float away. That kiss closed hiseyes, and he could not lift his head. He sat motionless holding her, blind and helpless, wrapped in a sweet dark glory. She kissed him--onelong endless kiss--or else a thousand times. Her lips, her wet cheeks, her hair, the softness, the fragrance of her, the tender clasp of herarms, the swell of her breast--all these seemed to inclose him. 

Duane could not put her from him. He yielded to her lips and arms, watching her, involuntarily returning her caresses, sure now of herintent, fascinated by the sweetness of her, bewildered, almost lost. This was what it was to be loved by a woman. His years of outlawry hadblotted out any boyish love he might have known. This was what he hadto give up--all this wonder of her sweet person, this strange fire hefeared yet loved, this mate his deep and tortured soul recognized. Neveruntil that moment had he divined the meaning of a woman to a man. Thatmeaning was physical inasmuch that he learned what beauty was, whatmarvel in the touch of quickening flesh; and it was spiritual in that hesaw there might have been for him, under happier circumstances, a lifeof noble deeds lived for such a woman. 

"Don't go! Don't go!" she cried, as he started violently. 

"I must. Dear, good-by! Remember I loved you. "

He pulled her hands loose from his, stepped back. 

"Ray, dearest--I believe--I'll come back!" he whispered. 

These last words were falsehood. 

He reached the door, gave her one last piercing glance, to fix for everin memory that white face with its dark, staring, tragic eyes. 

"DUANE!"

He fled with that moan like thunder, death, hell in his ears. 

To forget her, to get back his nerve, he forced into mind the image ofPoggin-Poggin, the tawny-haired, the yellow-eyed, like a jaguar, with his rippling muscles. He brought back his sense of the outlaw'swonderful presence, his own unaccountable fear and hate. Yes, Poggin hadsent the cold sickness of fear to his marrow. Why, since he hatedlife so? Poggin was his supreme test. And this abnormal and stupendousinstinct, now deep as the very foundation of his life, demanded its wildand fatal issue. There was a horrible thrill in his sudden remembrancethat Poggin likewise had been taunted in fear of him. 

So the dark tide overwhelmed Duane, and when he left the room he wasfierce, implacable, steeled to any outcome, quick like a panther, somberas death, in the thrall of his strange passion. 

There was no excitement in the street. He crossed to the bank corner. Aclock inside pointed the hour of two. He went through the door into thevestibule, looked around, passed up the steps into the bank. The clerkswere at their desks, apparently busy. But they showed nervousness. Thecashier paled at sight of Duane. There were men--the rangers--crouchingdown behind the low partition. All the windows had been removed from theiron grating before the desks. The safe was closed. There was no moneyin sight. A customer came in, spoke to the cashier, and was told to cometo-morrow. 

Duane returned to the door. He could see far down the street, out intothe country. There he waited, and minutes were eternities. He saw noperson near him; he heard no sound. He was insulated in his unnaturalstrain. 

At a few minutes before half past two a dark, compact body of horsemenappeared far down, turning into the road. They came at a sharp trot--agroup that would have attracted attention anywhere at any time. Theycame a little faster as they entered town; then faster still; now theywere four blocks away, now three, now two. Duane backed down the middleof the vestibule, up the steps, and halted in the center of the widedoorway. 

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 thestreet. But suddenly into that shot lean-limbed dusty bay horses. Therewas a clattering of nervous hoofs pulled to a halt. 

Duane saw the tawny Poggin speak to his companions. He dismountedquickly. They followed suit. They had the manner of ranchers about toconduct some business. No guns showed. Poggin started leisurely for thebank door, quickening step a little. The others, close together, camebehind him. Blossom Kane had a bag in his left hand. Jim Fletcher wasleft at the curb, and he had already gathered up the bridles. 

Poggin entered the vestibule first, with Kane on one side, Boldt on theother, a little in his rear. 

As he strode in he saw Duane. 

"HELL'S FIRE!" he cried. 

Something inside Duane burst, piercing all of him with cold. Was it thatfear?

"BUCK DUANE!" echoed Kane. 

One instant Poggin looked up and Duane looked down. 

Like a striking jaguar Poggin moved. Almost as quickly Duane threw hisarm. 

The guns boomed almost together. 

Duane felt a blow just before he pulled trigger. His thoughts came fast, like the strange dots before his eyes. His rising gun had loosened inhis hand. Poggin had drawn quicker! A tearing agony encompassed hisbreast. He pulled--pulled--at random. Thunder of booming shots all abouthim! 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. Butsupreme torture, bitterer than death, Poggin stood, mane like a lion's, back to the wall, bloody-faced, grand, with his guns spouting red!

All faded, darkened. The thunder deadened. Duane fell, seemed floating. There it drifted--Ray Longstreth's sweet face, white, with dark, tragiceyes, fading from his sight. .. Fading. . . Fading. .. 

CHAPTER XXV

Light shone before Duane's eyes--thick, strange light that came andwent. 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--timethat was very long. There was fire--creeping, consuming fire. A darkcloud of flame enveloped him, rolled him away. 

He saw then, dimly, a room that was strange, strange people moving aboutover him, with faint voices, far away, things in a dream. He saw again, clearly, and consciousness returned, still unreal, still strange, fullof 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 hisbound body racked in slow, dull-beating agony. 

A woman's face hovered over him, white and tragic-eyed, like one of hisold haunting phantoms, yet sweet and eloquent. Then a man's face bentover him, looked deep into his eyes, and seemed to whisper from adistance: "Duane--Duane! Ah, he knew me!"

After that there was another long interval of darkness. When the lightcame again, clearer this time, the same earnest-faced man bent over him. It was MacNelly. And with recognition the past flooded back. 

Duane tried to speak. His lips were weak, and he could scarcely movethem. 

"Poggin!" he whispered. His first real conscious thought was for Poggin. Ruling passion--eternal instinct!

"Poggin is dead, Duane; shot to pieces, " replied MacNelly, solemnly. "What a fight he made! He killed two of my men, wounded others. God! hewas a tiger. He used up three guns before we downed him. "

"Who-got--away?"

"Fletcher, the man with the horses. We downed all the others. Duane, thejob's done--it's done! Why, man, you're--"

"What of--of--HER?"

"Miss Longstreth has been almost constantly at your bedside. She helpedthe doctor. She watched your wounds. And, Duane, the other night, whenyou sank low--so low--I think it was her spirit that held yours back. Oh, she's a wonderful girl. Duane, she never gave up, never lost hernerve for a moment. Well, we're going to take you home, and she'll gowith us. Colonel Longstreth left for Louisiana right after the fight. Iadvised it. There was great excitement. It was best for him to leave. "

"Have I--a--chance--to recover?"

"Chance? Why, man, " exclaimed the Captain, "you'll get well! You'll packa sight of lead all your life. But you can stand that. Duane, the wholeSouthwest knows your story. You need never again be ashamed of the nameBuck Duane. The brand outlaw is washed out. Texas believes you've beena secret ranger all the time. You're a hero. And now think of home, yourmother, of this noble girl--of your future. "

The rangers took Duane home to Wellston. 

A railroad had been built since Duane had gone into exile. Wellston hadgrown. A noisy crowd surrounded the station, but it stilled as Duane wascarried from the train. 

A sea of faces pressed close. Some were faces heremembered--schoolmates, friends, old neighbors. There was an upflingingof many hands. Duane was being welcomed home to the town from which hehad fled. A deadness within him broke. This welcome hurt him somehow, quickened him; and through his cold being, his weary mind, passed achange. His sight dimmed. 

Then there was a white house, his old home. How strange, yet how real!His heart beat fast. Had so many, many years passed? Familiar yetstrange it was, and all seemed magnified. 

They carried him in, these ranger comrades, and laid him down, andlifted his head upon pillows. The house was still, though full ofpeople. Duane's gaze sought the open door. 

Some one entered--a tall girl in white, with dark, wet eyes and a lightupon her face. She was leading an old lady, gray-haired, austere-faced, somber and sad. His mother! She was feeble, but she walked erect. Shewas pale, shaking, yet maintained her dignity. 

The some one in white uttered a low cry and knelt by Duane's bed. Hismother flung wide her arms with a strange gesture. 

"This man! They've not brought back my boy. This man's his father! Whereis my son? My son--oh, my son!"

When Duane grew stronger it was a pleasure to lie by the west window andwatch Uncle Jim whittle his stick and listen to his talk. The old manwas broken now. He told many interesting things about people Duane hadknown--people who had grown up and married, failed, succeeded, goneaway, and died. But it was hard to keep Uncle Jim off the subject ofguns, outlaws, fights. He could not seem to divine how mention of thesethings hurt Duane. Uncle Jim was childish now, and he had a great pridein his nephew. He wanted to hear of all of Duane's exile. And if therewas one thing more than another that pleased him it was to talk aboutthe bullets which Duane carried in his body. 

"Five bullets, ain't it?" he asked, for the hundredth time. 

"Five in that last scrap! By gum! And you had six before?"

"Yes, uncle, " replied Duane. 

"Five and six. That makes eleven. By gum! A man's a man, to carry allthat 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 seemto mind them none. And there's Cole Miller. I've seen him. Been a badman in his day. They say he packs twenty-three bullets. But he's biggerthan you--got more flesh. .. . Funny, wasn't it, Buck, about thedoctor only bein' able to cut one bullet out of you--that one in yourbreastbone? 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, therewas a bullet left in one of Poggin's guns, and that bullet was the samekind as the one cut out of you. By gum! Boy, it'd have killed you ifit'd stayed there. "

"It would indeed, uncle, " replied Duane, and the old, haunting, sombermood returned. 

But Duane was not often at the mercy of childish old hero-worshipingUncle Jim. Miss Longstreth was the only person who seemed to divineDuane's gloomy mood, and when she was with him she warded off allsuggestion. 

One afternoon, while she was there at the west window, a message camefor him. They read it together. 

You have saved the ranger service to the Lone Star State

MACNELLEY. 

Ray knelt beside him at the window, and he believed she meant to speakthen of the thing they had shunned. Her face was still white, butsweeter now, warm with rich life beneath the marble; and her dark eyeswere still intent, still haunted by shadows, but no longer tragic. 

"I'm glad for MacNelly's sake as well as the state's, " said Duane. 

She made no reply to that and seemed to be thinking deeply. Duane shranka little. 

"The pain--Is it any worse to-day?" she asked, instantly. 

"No; it's the same. It will always be the same. I'm full of lead, youknow. But I don't mind a little pain. "

"Then--it's the old mood--the fear?" she whispered. "Tell me. "

"Yes. It haunts me. I'll be well soon--able to go out. Then that--thathell will come back!"

"No, no!" she said, with emotion. 

"Some drunken cowboy, some fool with a gun, will hunt me out in everytown, wherever I go, " he went on, miserably. "Buck Duane! To kill BuckDuane!"

"Hush! Don't speak so. Listen. You remember that day in Val Verde, when I came to you--plead with you not to meet Poggin? Oh, that was aterrible hour for me. But it showed me the truth. I saw the strugglebetween your passion to kill and your love for me. I could have savedyou then had I known what I know now. Now I understand that--that thingwhich haunts you. But you'll never have to draw again. You'll never haveto kill another man, thank God!"

Like a drowning man he would have grasped at straws, but he could notvoice his passionate query. 

She put tender arms round his neck. "Because you'll have me withyou always, " she replied. "Because always I shall be between you andthat--that terrible thing. "

It seemed with the spoken thought absolute assurance of her power cameto her. Duane realized instantly that he was in the arms of a strongerwoman that she who had plead with him that fatal day. 

"We'll--we'll be married and leave Texas, " she said, softly, with thered blood rising rich and dark in her cheeks. 

"Ray!"

"Yes we will, though you're laggard in asking me, sir. "

"But, dear--suppose, " he replied, huskily, "suppose there might be--bechildren--a boy. A boy with his father's blood!"

"I pray God there will be. I do not fear what you fear. But evenso--he'll be half my blood. "

Duane felt the storm rise and break in him. And his terror was that ofjoy quelling fear. The shining glory of love in this woman's eyes madehim weak as a child. How could she love him--how could she so bravelyface a future with him? Yet she held him in her arms, twining herhands round his neck, and pressing close to him. Her faith and love andbeauty--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 thinkof accepting her sacrifice. 

"But Ray--you dear, noble girl--I'm poor. I have nothing. And I'm acripple. "

"Oh, you'll be well some day, " she replied. "And listen. I have money. My mother left me well off. All she had was her father's--Do youunderstand? We'll take Uncle Jim and your mother. We'll go toLouisiana--to my old home. It's far from here. There's a plantation towork. There are horses and cattle--a great cypress forest to cut. Oh, you'll have much to do. You'll forget there. You'll learn to love myhome. It's a beautiful old place. There are groves where the gray mossblows all day and the nightingales sing all night. "

"My darling!" cried Duane, brokenly. "No, no, no!"

Yet he knew in his heart that he was yielding to her, that he could notresist her a moment longer. What was this madness of love?

"We'll be happy, " she whispered. "Oh, I know. Come!--come!-come!"

Her eyes were closing, heavy-lidded, and she lifted sweet, tremulous, waiting lips. 

With bursting heart Duane bent to them. Then he held her, close pressedto him, while with dim eyes he looked out over the line of low hillsin the west, down where the sun was setting gold and red, down over theNueces and the wild brakes of the Rio Grande which he was never to seeagain. 

It was in this solemn and exalted moment that Duane accepted happinessand faced a new life, trusting this brave and tender woman to bestronger than the dark and fateful passion that had shadowed his past. 

It would come back--that wind of flame, that madness to forget, thatdriving, relentless instinct for blood. It would come back with thosepale, drifting, haunting faces and the accusing fading eyes, but all hislife, always between them and him, rendering them powerless, would bethe faith and love and beauty of this noble woman.