by Zane Grey
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 medium whereby 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 eternal vigilance. No home, no rest, no sleep, no content, no life worth the living! 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 wilderness arroyo 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 wonderfully distinct, 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 monotonous horizon. 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 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 sharply breathed 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 th
e 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 grim kept urging him to halt and return the fire of these men. After running a couple of hundred yards he raised himself from over the pommel, where he had bent to avoid the stinging branches, and tried to guide his horse. In the dark shadows under mesquites and cottonwoods he was hard put to it to find open passage; however, he succeeded so well and made such little noise that gradually he drew away from his pursuers. The sound of their horses crashing through the thickets died away. Duane reined in and listened. He had distanced them. Probably they would go into camp till daylight, then follow his tracks. He started on again, walking his horse, and peered sharply at the ground, so that he might take advantage of the first trail he crossed. It seemed a long while until he came upon one. He followed it until a late hour, when, striking the willow brakes again and hence the neighborhood of the river, he picketed his horse and lay down to rest. But he did not sleep. His mind bitterly revolved the fate that had come upon him. He made efforts to think of other things, but in vain.
Every moment he expected the chill, the sense of loneliness that yet was ominous of a strange visitation, the peculiarly imagined lights and shades of the night — these things that presaged the coming of Cal Bain. Doggedly Duane fought against the insidious phantom. He kept telling himself that it was just imagination, that it would wear off in time. Still in his heart he did not believe what he hoped. But he would not give up; he would not accept the ghost of his victim as a reality.
Gray dawn found him in the saddle again headed for the river. Half an hour of riding brought him to the dense chaparral and willow thickets. These he threaded to come at length to the ford. It was a gravel bottom, and therefore an easy crossing. Once upon the opposite shore he reined in his horse and looked darkly back. This action marked his acknowledgment of his situation: he had voluntarily sought the refuge of the outlaws; he was beyond the pale. A bitter and passionate curse passed his lips as he spurred his horse into the brakes on that alien shore.
He rode perhaps twenty miles, not sparing his horse nor caring whether or not he left a plain trail.
“Let them hunt me!” he muttered.
When the heat of the day began to be oppressive, and hunger and thirst made themselves manifest, Duane began to look about him for a place to halt for the noon-hours. The trail led into a road which was hard packed and smooth from the tracks of cattle. He doubted not that he had come across one of the roads used by border raiders. He headed into it, and had scarcely traveled a mile when, turning a curve, he came point-blank upon a single horseman riding toward him. Both riders wheeled their mounts sharply and were ready to run and shoot back. Not more than a hundred paces separated them. They stood then for a moment watching each other.
“Mawnin’, stranger,” called the man, dropping his hand from his hip.
“Howdy,” replied Duane, shortly.
They rode toward each other, closing half the gap, then they halted again.
“I seen you ain’t no ranger,” called the rider, “an’ shore I ain’t none.”
He laughed loudly, as if he had made a joke.
“How’d you know I wasn’t a ranger?” asked Duane, curiously. Somehow he had instantly divined that his horseman was no officer, or even a rancher trailing stolen stock.
“Wal,” said the fellow, starting his horse forward at a walk, “a ranger’d never git ready to run the other way from one man.”
He laughed again. He was small and wiry, slouchy of attire, and armed to the teeth, and he bestrode a fine bay horse. He had quick, dancing brown eyes, at once frank and bold, and a coarse, bronzed face. Evidently he was a good-natured ruffian.
Duane acknowledged the truth of the assertion, and turned over in his mind how shrewdly the fellow had guessed him to be a hunted man.
“My name’s Luke Stevens, an’ I hail from the river. Who’re you?” said this stranger.
Duane was silent.
“I reckon you’re Buck Duane,” went on Stevens. “I heerd you was a damn bad man with a gun.”
This time Duane laughed, not at the doubtful compliment, but at the idea that the first outlaw he met should know him. Here was proof of how swiftly facts about gun-play traveled on the Texas border.
“Wal, Buck,” said Stevens, in a friendly manner, “I ain’t presumin’ on your time or company. I see you’re headin’ fer the river. But will you stop long enough to stake a feller to a bite of grub?”
“I’m out of grub, and pretty hungry myself,” admitted Duane.
“Been pushin’ your hoss, I see. Wal, I reckon you’d better stock up before you hit thet stretch of country.”
He made a wide sweep of his right arm, indicating the southwest, and there was that in his action which seemed significant of a vast and barren region.
“Stock up?” queried Duane, thoughtfully.
“Shore. A feller has jest got to eat. I can rustle along without whisky, but not without grub. Thet’s what makes it so embarrassin’ travelin’ these parts dodgin’ your shadow. Now, I’m on my way to Mercer. It’s a little two-bit town up the river a ways. I’m goin’ to pack out some grub.”
Stevens’s tone was inviting. Evidently he would welcome Duane’s companionship, but he did not openly say so. Duane kept silence, however, and then Stevens went on.
“Stranger, in this here country two’s a crowd. It’s safer. I never was much on this lone-wolf dodgin’, though I’ve done it of necessity. It takes a damn good man to travel alone any length of time. Why, I’ve been thet sick I was jest achin’ fer some ranger to come along an’ plug me. Give me a pardner any day. Now, mebbe you’re not thet kind of a feller, an’ I’m shore not presumin’ to ask. But I just declares myself sufficient.”
“You mean you’d like me to go with you?” asked Duane.
Stevens grinned. “Wal, I should smile. I’d be particular proud to be braced with a man of your reputation.”
“See here, my good fellow, that’s all nonsense,” declared Duane, in some haste.
“Shore I think modesty becomin’ to a youngster,” replied Stevens. “I hate a brag. An’ I’ve no use fer these four-flush cowboys thet ‘re always lookin’ fer trouble an’ talkin’ gun-play. Buck, I don’t know much about you. But every man who’s lived along the Texas border remembers a lot about your Dad. It was expected of you, I reckon, an’ much of your rep was established before you thronged your gun. I jest heerd thet you was lightnin’ on the draw, an’ when you cut loose with a gun, why the figger on the ace of spades would cover your cluster of bullet-holes. Thet’s the word thet’s gone down the border. It’s the kind of reputation most sure to fly far an’ swift ahead of a man in this country. An’ the safest, too; I’ll gamble on thet. It’s the land of the draw. I see now you’re only a boy, though you’re shore a strappin’ husky one. Now, Buck, I’m not a spring chicken, an’ I’ve been long on the dodge. Mebbe a little of my society won’t hurt you none. You’ll need to learn the country.”
There was something sincere and likable about this outlaw.
“I dare say you’re right,” replied Duane, quietly. “And I’ll go to Mercer with you.”
Next moment he was riding down the road with Stevens. Duane had never been much of a talker, and now he found speech difficult. But his companion did not seem to mind that. He was a jocose, voluble fellow, probably glad now to hear the sound of his own voice. Duane listened, and sometimes he thought with a pang of the distinction of name and heritage of blood his father had left to him.
CHAPTER III
LATE THAT DAY, a couple of hours before sunset, Duane and Stevens, having rested their horses in the shade of some mesquites near the town of Mercer, saddled up and prepared to move.
“Buck, as we’re lookin’ fer grub, an’ not
trouble, I reckon you’d better hang up out here,” Stevens was saying, as he mounted. “You see, towns an’ sheriffs an’ rangers are always lookin’ fer new fellers gone bad. They sort of forget most of the old boys, except those as are plumb bad. Now, nobody in Mercer will take notice of me. Reckon there’s been a thousand men run into the river country to become outlaws since yours truly. You jest wait here an’ be ready to ride hard. Mebbe my besettin’ sin will go operatin’ in spite of my good intentions. In which case there’ll be—”
His pause was significant. He grinned, and his brown eyes danced with a kind of wild humor.
“Stevens, have you got any money?” asked Duane.
“Money!” exclaimed Luke, blankly. “Say, I haven’t owned a two-bit piece since — wal, fer some time.”
