a gent in town looking for me bad."
"Reckon there is, Buck," replied White. "He came in heah aboot

an hour ago. Shore he was some riled an' a-roarin' for gore.
Told me confidential a certain party had given you a white silk

scarf, an' he was hell-bent on wearin' it home spotted red."
"Anybody with him?" queried Duane.

"Burt an' Sam Outcalt an' a little cowpuncher I never seen
before. They-all was coaxin' trim to leave town. But he's

looked on the flowin' glass, Buck, an' he's heah for keeps."
"Why doesn't Sheriff Oaks lock him up if he's that bad?"

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

town's shore wide open."
Duane stalked outdoors and faced down the street. He walked the

whole length of the long block, meeting many people--farmers,
ranchers, clerks, merchants, Mexicans, cowboys, and women. It

was a singular fact that when he turned to retrace his steps
the street was almost empty. He had not returned a hundred

yards on his way when the street was wholly deserted. A few
heads protruded from doors and around corners. That main street

of Wellston saw some such situation every few days. If it was
an instinct for Texans to fight, it was also instinctive for

them to sense with remarkable quickness the signs of a coming
gun-play. Rumor could not fly so swiftly. In less than ten

minutes everybody who had been on the street or in the shops
knew that Buck Duane had come forth to meet his enemy.

Duane walked on. When he came to within fifty paces of a saloon
he swerved out into the middle of the street, stood there for a

moment, then went ahead and back to the sidewalk. He passed on
in this way the length of the block. Sol White was standing in

the door of his saloon.
"Buck, I'm a-tippin' you off," he said, quick and low-voiced.

"Cal Bain's over at Everall's. If he's a-huntin' you bad, as he
brags, he'll show there."

Duane crossed the street and started down. Notwithstanding
White's statement Duane was wary and slow at every door.

Nothing happened, and he traversed almost the whole length of
the block without seeing a person. Everall's place was on the

corner.
Duane knew himself to be cold, steady. He was conscious of a

strange fury that made him want to leap ahead. He seemed to
long for this encounter more than anything he had ever wanted.

But, vivid as were his sensations, he felt as if in a dream.
Before he reached Everall's he heard loud voices, one of which

was raised high. Then the short door swung outward as if
impelled by a vigorous hand. A bow-legged cowboy wearing wooley

chaps burst out upon the sidewalk. At sight of Duane he seemed
to bound into the air, and he uttered a savage roar.

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

If Bain was drunk he did not show it in his movement. He
swaggered forward, rapidly closing up the gap. Red, sweaty,

disheveled, and hatless, his face distorted and expressive of
the most malignantintent, he was a wild and sinister figure.

He had already killed a man, and this showed in his demeanor.
His hands were extended before him, the right hand a little

lower than the left. At every step he bellowed his rancor in
speech mostly curses. Gradually he slowed his walk, then

halted. A good twenty-five paces separated the men.
"Won't nothin' make you draw, you--!" he shouted, fiercely.

"I'm waitin' on you, Cal," replied Duane.
Bain's right hand stiffened--moved. Duane threw his gun as a

boy throws a ball underhand--a draw his father had taught him.
He pulled twice, his shots almost as one. Bain's big Colt

boomed while it was pointeddownward and he was falling. His
bullet scattered dust and gravel at Duane's feet. He fell

loosely, without contortion.
In a flash all was reality for Duane. He went forward and held

his gun ready for the slightest movement on the part of Bain.
But Bain lay upon his back, and all that moved were his breast

and his eyes. How strangely the red had left his face--and also
the distortion! The devil that had showed in Bain was gone. He

was sober and conscious. He tried to speak, but failed. His
eyes expressed something pitifully human. They

changed--rolled--set blankly.
Duane drew a deep breath and sheathed his gun. He felt calm and

cool, glad the fray was over. One violent expression burst from
him. "The fool!"

When he looked up there were men around him.
"Plumb center," said one.

Another, a cowboy who evidently had just left the gaming-table,
leaned down and pulled open Bain's shirt. He had the ace of

spades in his hand. He laid it on Bain's breast, and the black
figure on the card covered the two bullet-holes just over

Bain's heart.
Duane wheeled and hurried away. He heard another man say:

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

CHAPTER II
A thought kept repeating itself to Duane, and it was that he

might have spared himself concern through his imagining how
awful it would be to kill a man. He had no such feeling now. He

had rid the community of a drunken, bragging, quarrelsome
cowboy.

When he came to the gate of his home and saw his uncle there
with a mettlesome horse, saddled, with canteen, rope, and bags

all in place, a subtle shock pervaded his spirit. It had
slipped his mind--the consequence of his act. But sight of the

horse and the look of his uncle recalled the fact that he must
now become a fugitive. An unreasonable anger took hold of him.

"The d--d fool!" he exclaimed, hotly. "Meeting Bain wasn't
much, Uncle Jim. He dusted my boots, that's all. And for that

I've got to go on the dodge."
"Son, you killed him--then?" asked the uncle, huskily.

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

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

the country."
"Mother!" exclaimed Duane.

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

Suddenly Duane sat down and covered his face with his hands.
"My God! Uncle, what have I done?" His broad shoulders shook.

"Listen, son, an' remember what I say," replied the elder man,
earnestly. "Don't ever forget. You're not to blame. I'm glad to

see you take it this way, because maybe you'll never grow hard
an' callous. You're not to blame. This is Texas. You're your

father's son. These are wild times. The law as the rangers are
laying it down now can't change life all in a minute. Even your

mother, who's a good, true woman, has had her share in making
you what you are this moment. For she was one of the

pioneers--the fightin' pioneers of this state. Those years of
wild times, before you was born, developed in her instinct to

fight, to save her life, her children, an' that instinct has
cropped out in you. It will be many years before it dies out of

the boys born in Texas."
"I'm a murderer," said Duane, shuddering.