rest, no sleep, no content, no life worth the livingl He must

be a lone wolf or he must herd among men obnoxious to him. If
he worked for an honest living he still must hide his identity

and take risks of detection. If he did not work on some distant
outlying ranch, how was he to live? The idea of stealing was

repugnant to him. The future seemed gray and somber enough. And
he was twenty-three years old.

Why had this hard life been imposed upon him?
The bitter question seemed to start a strange iciness that

stole along his veins. What was wrong with him? He stirred the
few sticks of mesquite into a last flickering blaze. He was

cold, and for some reason he wanted some light. The black
circle of darkness weighed down upon him, closed in around him.

Suddenly he sat bolt upright and then froze in that position.
He had heard a step. It was behind him--no--on the side. Some

one was there. He forced his hand down to his gun, and the
touch of cold steel was another icy shock. Then he waited. But

all was silent--silent as only a wildernessarroyo can be, with
its low murmuring of wind in the mesquite. Had he heard a step?

He began to breathe again.
But what was the matter with the light of his camp-fire? It had

taken on a strange green luster and seemed to be waving off
into the outer shadows. Duane heard no step, saw no movement;

nevertheless, there was another present at that camp-fire
vigil. Duane saw him. He lay there in the middle of the green

brightness, prostrate, motionless, dying. Cal Bain! His
features were wonderfullydistinct, clearer than any cameo,

more sharply outlined than those of any picture. It was a hard
face softening at the threshold of eternity. The red tan of

sun, the coarse signs of drunkenness, the ferocity and hate so
characteristic of Bain were no longer there. This face

represented a different Bain, showed all that was human in him
fading, fading as swiftly as it blanched white. The lips wanted

to speak, but had not the power. The eyes held an agony of
thought. They revealed what might have been possible for this

man if he lived--that he saw his mistake too late. Then they
rolled, set blankly, and closed in death.

That haunting visitation left Duane sitting there in a cold
sweat, a remorse gnawing at his vitals, realizing the curse

that was on him. He divined that never would he be able to keep
off that phantom. He remembered how his father had been

eternally pursued by the furies of accusing guilt, how he had
never been able to forget in work or in sleep those men he had

killed.
The hour was late when Duane's mind let him sleep, and then

dreams troubled him. In the morning he bestirred himself so
early that in the gray gloom he had difficulty in finding his

horse. Day had just broken when he struck the old trail again.
He rode hard all morning and halted in a shady spot to rest and

graze his horse. In the afternoon he took to the trail at an
easy trot. The country grew wilder. Bald, rugged mountains

broke the level of the monotonoushorizon. About three in the
afternoon he came to a little river which marked the boundary

line of his hunting territory.
The decision he made to travel up-stream for a while was owing

to two facts: the river was high with quicksand bars on each
side, and he felt reluctant to cross into that region where his

presence alone meant that he was a marked man. The bottom-lands
through which the river wound to the southwest were more

inviting than the barrens he had traversed. The rest or that
day he rode leisurely up-stream. At sunset he penetrated the

brakes of willow and cottonwood to spend the night. It seemed
to him that in this lonely cover he would feel easy and

content. But he did not. Every feeling, every imagining he had
experienced the previous night returned somewhat more vividly

and accentuated by newer ones of the same intensity and color.
In this kind of travel and camping he spent three more days,

during which he crossed a number of trails, and one road where
cattle--stolen cattle, probably--had recently passed. Thus time

exhausted his supply of food, except salt, pepper, coffee, and
sugar, of which he had a quantity. There were deer in the.

brakes; but, as he could not get close enough to kill them with
t a revolver, he had to satisfy himself with a rabbit. He knew

he might as well content himself with the hard fare that
assuredly would be his lot.

Somewhere up this river there was a village called Huntsville.
It was distant about a hundred miles from Wellston, and had a

reputation throughout southwestern Texas. He had never been
there. The fact was this reputation was such that honest

travelers gave the town a wide berth. Duane had considerable
money for him in his possession, and he concluded to visit

Huntsville, if he could find it, and buy a stock of provisions.
The following day, toward evening, he happened upon a road

which he believed might lead to the village. There were a good
many fresh horse-tracks in the sand, and these made him

thoughtful. Nevertheless, he followed the road, proceeding
cautiously. He had not gone very far when the sound of rapid

hoof-beats caught his ears. They came from his rear. In the
darkening twilight he could not see any great distance back

along the road. Voices, however, warned him that these riders,
whoever they were, had approached closer than he liked. To go

farther down the road was not to be thought of, so he turned a
little way in among the mesquites and halted, hoping to escape

being seen or heard. As he was now a fugitive, it seemed every
man was his enemy and pursuer.

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

saddles, the clink of spurs.
"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
knowledge gave Duane a strange thrill. Certainly they could not

have been hunting him. But the feeling their proximity gave him
was identical to what it would have been had he been this

particular hunted man. He held his breath; he clenched his
teeth; he pressed a quieting hand upon his horse. Suddenly he

became aware that these horsemen had halted. They were
whispering. He could just make out a dark group closely massed.

What had made them halt so suspiciously?
"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're hell-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 on the 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 horse straight into the brush. At the second crashing bound

there came yells from the road, and then shots. Duane heard the
hiss of a bullet close by his ear, and as it struck a branch it

made a peculiar singing sound. These shots and the proximity of
that lead missile roused in Duane a quick, hot resentment which

mounted into a passion almost ungovernable. He must escape, yet
it seemed that he did not care whether he did or not. Something