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 lit
tle 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 st
orm. 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 tha
t 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.