and known, and as he felt with them he seemed to see that as

their lives were bad, sooner or later to end dismally or
tragically, so they must pay some kind of earthly penalty--if

not of conscience, then of fear; if not of fear, then of that
most terrible of all things to restless, active men--pain, the

pang of flesh and bone.
Duane knew, for he had seen them pay. Best of all, moreover, he

knew the internal life of the gun-fighter of that select but by
no means small class of which he was representative. The world

that judged him and his kind judged him as a machine, a
killing-machine, with only mind enough to hunt, to meet, to

slay another man. It had taken three endless years for Duane to
understand his own father. Duane knew beyond all doubt that the

gun-fighters like Bland, like Alloway, like Sellers, men who
were evil and had no remorse, no spiritual accusing Nemesis,

had something far more torturing to mind, more haunting, more
murderous of rest and sleep and peace; and that something was

abnormal fear of death. Duane knew this, for he had shot these
men; he had seen the quick, dark shadow in eyes, the

presentiment that the will could not control, and then the
horrible certainty. These men must have been in agony at every

meeting with a possible or certain foe--more agony than the hot
rend of a bullet. They were haunted, too, haunted by this fear,

by every victimcalling from the grave that nothing was so
inevitable as death, which lurked behind every corner, hid in

every shadow, lay deep in the dark tube of every gun. These men
could not have a friend; they could not love or trust a woman.

They knew their one chance of holding on to life lay in their
own distrust, watchfulness, dexterity, and that hope, by the

very nature of their lives, could not be lasting. They had
doomed themselves. What, then, could possibly have dwelt in the

depths of their minds as they went to their beds on a starry
night like this, with mystery in silence and shadow, with time

passing surely, and the dark future 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 would have been glad to lay down the burden of life,

providing death came naturally. Many times he had prayed for
it. But that overdeveloped, superhuman spirit of defense in him

precluded suicide or the inviting of an enemy's bullet.
Sometimes he had a vague, scarcely analyzed idea that this

spirit was what had made the Southwest habitable for the white
man.

Every one of his victims, singly and collectively, returned to
him for ever, it seemed, in cold, passionless, accusing

domination of these haunted hours. They did not accuse him of
dishonor or cowardice or brutality or murder; they only accused

him of Death. It was as if they knew more than when they were
alive, had learned that life was a divinemysterious gift not

to be taken. They thronged about him with their voiceless
clamoring, drifted around him with their fading eyes.

CHAPTER XI
After nearly six months in the Nueces gorge the loneliness and

inaction of his life drove Duane out upon the trails seeking
anything rather than to hide longer alone, a prey to the

scourge of his thoughts. The moment he rode into sight of men a
remarkable transformation occurred in him. A strange warmth

stirred in him--a longing to see the faces of people, to hear
their voices--a pleasurable emotion sad and strange. But it was

only 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 force and 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 village there was a grave overgrown by brush so that the

rude-lettered post which marked it was scarcely visible to
Duane as he rode by. He had never read the inscription. But he

thought now of Hardin, no other than the erstwhile ally of
Bland. For many years Hardin had harassed the stockmen and

ranchers in and around Mercer. On an evil day for him he or his
outlaws had beaten and robbed a man who once succored Duane

when 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, and killed 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 voice of a friend, the prattle of children who were

not afraid of him or his gun, good wholesome food, and change
of clothes--these things for the time being made a changed man

of Duane. To be sure, he did not often speak. The price of his
head and the weight of his burden made him silent. But eagerly

he drank in all the news that was told him. In the years of his
absence from home he had never heard a word about his mother or

uncle. Those who were his real friends on the border would have
been the last to make inquiries, to write or receive letters

that might give a clue to Duane's whereabouts.
Duane remained all day with this hospitable Jones, and as

twilight fell was loath to go and yielded to a pressing
invitation to remain overnight. It was seldom indeed that Duane

slept under a roof. Early in the evening, while Duane sat on
the porch with two awed and hero-worshiping sons of the house,

Jones returned from a quick visit down to the post-office.
Summarily he sent the boys off. He labored under 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 saw you. I don't believe there's a man or boy that 'd

squeal on you. But the women might. They gossip, and these
rangers are handsome fellows--devils with the women."

"What company of rangers?" asked Duane, quickly.
"Company A, under Captain MacNelly, that new ranger. He made a

big name in 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 and hair. Sharp black eyes. He's got a look of

authority. MacNelly's a fine man, Duane. Belongs to a good
Southern family. I'd hate to have him look you up."

Duane did not speak.
"MacNelly's got nerve, and his rangers are all experienced men.

If they find 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 any officer except a rotten
sheriff now and then, like Rod Brown."

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

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

He had scarcely uttered the last word when soft, swift
footsteps sounded on the hard path. A man turned in at the

gate. The light was dim, yet clean enough to disclose an
unusually tall figure. When it appeared nearer he was seen to