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.
“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 shallow valley 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 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 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 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.