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The Lone Star Ranger-Part2_Zane Gray(1872-1939)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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"No, son, you're not. An' you never will be. But you've got to

be an outlaw till time makes it safe for you to come home."



"An outlaw?"

"I said it. If we had money an' influence we'd risk a trial.



But we've neither. An' I reckon the scaffold or jail is no

place for Buckley Duane. Strike for the wild country, an'



wherever you go an' whatever you do-be a man. Live honestly, if

that's possible. If it isn't, be as honest as you can. If you



have to herd with outlaws try not to become bad. There are

outlaws who 're not all bad--many who have been driven to the



river by such a deal as this you had. When you get among these

men avoid brawls. Don't drink; don't gamble. I needn't tell you



what to do if it comes to gun-play, as likely it will. You

can't come home. When this thing is lived down, if that time



ever comes, I'll get word into the unsettled country. It'll

reach you some day. That's all. Remember, be a man. Goodby."



Duane, with blurred sight and contracting throat, gripped his

uncle's hand and bade him a wordless farewell. Then he leaped



astride the black and rode out of town.

As swiftly as was consistent with a care for his steed, Duane



put a distance of fifteen or eighteen miles behind him. With

that he slowed up, and the matter of riding did not require all



his faculties. He passed several ranches and was seen by men.

This did not suit him, and he took an old trail across country.



It was a flat region with a poor growth of mesquite and

prickly-pear cactus. Occasionally he caught a glimpse of low



hills in the distance. He had hunted often in that section, and

knew where to find grass and water. When he reached this higher



ground he did not, however, halt at the first favorable

camping-spot, but went on and on. Once he came out upon the



brow of a hill and saw a considerable stretch of country

beneath him. It had the gray sameness characterizing all that



he had traversed. He seemed to want to see wide spaces--to get

a glimpse of the great wilderness lying somewhere beyond to the



southwest. It was sunset when he decided to camp at a likely

spot he came across. He led the horse to water, and then began



searching through the shallowvalley for a suitable place to

camp. He passed by old camp-sites that he well remembered.



These, however, did not strike his fancy this time, and the

significance of the change in him did not occur at the moment.



At last he found a secluded spot, under cover of thick

mesquites and oaks, at a goodly distance from the old trail. He



took saddle and pack off the horse. He looked among his effects

for a hobble, and, finding that his uncle had failed to put one



in, he suddenly remembered that he seldom used a hobble, and

never on this horse. He cut a few feet off the end of his lasso



and used that. The horse, unused to such hampering of his free

movements, had to be driven out upon the grass.



Duane made a small fire, prepared and ate his supper. This

done, ending the work of that day, he sat down and filled his



pipe. Twilight had waned into dusk. A few wan stars had just

begun to show and brighten. Above the low continuous hum of



insects sounded the evening carol of robins. Presently the

birds ceased their singing, and then the quiet was more



noticeable. When night set in and the place seemed all the more

isolated and lonely for that Duane had a sense of relief.



It dawned upon him all at once that he was nervous, watchful,

sleepless. The fact caused him surprise, and he began to think



back, to take note of his late actions and their motives. The

change one day had wrought amazed him. He who had always been



free, easy, happy, especially when out alone in the open, had

become in a few short hours bound, serious, preoccupied. The



silence that had once been sweet now meant nothing to him

except a mediumwhereby he might the better hear the sounds of



pursuit. The loneliness, the night, the wild, that had always

been beautiful to him, now only conveyed a sense of safety for



the present. He watched, he listened, he thought. He felt

tired, yet had no inclination to rest. He intended to be off by



dawn, heading toward the southwest. Had he a destination? It

was vague as his knowledge of that great waste of mesquite and



rock bordering the Rio Grande. Somewhere out there was a

refuge. For he was a fugitive from justice, an outlaw.



This being an outlaw then meant eternalvigilance. No home, no




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