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 excitem
ent, 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 stri
fe 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.. . fadin
g...
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.
&
nbsp; "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.
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