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 be walking with both arms raised, hands high. He
slowed his stride.
“Does Burt Jones live here?” he asked, in a low, hurried voice.
“I reckon. I'm Burt. What can I do for you?” replied Jones.
The stranger peered around, stealthily came closer, still with his hands
up.
“It is known that Buck Duane is here. Captain MacNelly's camping on the
river just out of town. He sends word to Duane to come out there after
dark.”
The stranger wheeled and departed as swiftly and strangely as he had
come.
“Bust me! Duane, whatever do you make of that?” exclaimed Jones.
“A new one on me,” replied Duane, thoughtfully.
“First fool thing I ever heard of MacNelly doing. Can't make head nor
tails of it. I'd have said offhand that MacNelly wouldn't double-cross
anybody. He struck me as a square man, sand all through. But, hell! he
must mean treachery. I can't see anything else in that deal.”
“Maybe the Captain wants to give me a fair chance to surrender without
bloodshed,” observed Duane. “Pretty decent of him, if he meant that.”
“He INVITES YOU out to his camp AFTER DARK. Something strange about
this, Duane. But MacNelly's a new man out here. He does some queer
things. Perhaps he's getting a swelled head. Well, whatever his
intentions, his presence around Mercer is enough for us. Duane, you
hit the road and put some miles between you the amiable Captain before
daylight. To-morrow I'll go out there and ask him what in the devil he
meant.”
“That messenger he sent--he was a ranger,” said Duane.
“Sure he was, and a nervy one! It must have taken sand to come bracing
you that way. Duane, the fellow didn't pack a gun. I'll swear to that.
Pretty odd, this trick. But you can't trust it. Hit the road, Duane.”
A little later a black horse with muffled hoofs, bearing a tall, dark
rider who peered keenly into every shadow, trotted down a pasture lane
back of Jones's house, turned into the road, and then, breaking into
swifter gait, rapidly left Mercer behind.
Fifteen or twenty miles out Duane drew rein in a forest of mesquite,
dismounted, and searched about for a glade with a little grass. Here he
staked his horse on a long lariat; and, using his saddle for a pillow,
his saddle-blanket for covering, he went to sleep.
Next morning he was off again, working south. During the next few days
he paid brief visits to several villages that lay in his path. And in
each some one particular friend had a piece of news to impart that made
Duane profoundly thoughtful. A ranger had made a quiet, unobtrusive call
upon these friends and left this message, “Tell Buck Duane to ride into
Captain MacNelly's camp some time after night.”
Duane concluded, and his friends all agreed with him, that the new
ranger's main purpose in the Nueces country was to capture or kill Buck
Duane, and that this message was simply an original and striking ruse,
the daring of which might appeal to certain outlaws.
But it did not appeal to Duane. His curiosity was aroused; it did not,
however, tempt him to any foolhardy act. He turned southwest and rode a
hundred miles until he again reached the sparsely settled country. Here
he heard no more of rangers. It was a barren region he had never but
once ridden through, and that ride had cost him dear. He had been
compelled to shoot his way out. Outlaws were not in accord with the
few ranchers and their cowboys who ranged there. He learned that both
outlaws and Mexican raiders had long been at bitter enmity with these
ranchers. Being unfamiliar with roads and trails, Duane had pushed on
into the heart of this district, when all the time he really believed he
was traveling around it. A rifle-shot from a ranch-house, a deliberate
attempt to kill him because he was an unknown rider in those parts,
discovered to Duane his mistake; and a hard ride to get away persuaded
him to return to his old methods of hiding by day and traveling by
night.
He got into rough country, rode for three days without covering much
ground, but believed that he was getting on safer territory. Twice he
came to a wide bottom-land green with willow and cottonwood and thick as
chaparral, somewhere through the middle of which ran a river he decided
must be the lower Nueces.
One evening, as he stole out from a covert where he had camped, he saw
the lights of a village. He tried to pass it on the left, but was unable
to because the brakes of this bottom-land extended in almost to the
outskirts of the village, and he had to retrace his steps and go round
to the right. Wire fences and horses in pasture made this a task, so it
was well after midnight before he accomplished it. He made ten miles or
more then by daylight, and after that proceeded cautiously along a road
which appeared to be well worn from travel. He passed several thickets
where he would have halted to hide during the day but for the fact that
he had to find water.
He was a long while in coming to it, and then there was no thicket or
clump of mesquite near the waterhole that would afford him covert. So he
kept on.
The country before him was ridgy and began to show cottonwoods here and
there in the hollows and yucca and mesquite on the higher ground. As he
mounted a ridge he noted that the road made a sharp turn, and he could
not see what was beyond it. He slowed up and was making the turn, which
was down-hill between high banks of yellow clay, when his mettlesome
horse heard something to frighten him or shied at something and bolted.
The few bounds he took before Duane's iron arm checked him were enough
to reach the curve. One flashing glance showed Duane the open once more,
a little valley below with a wide, shallow, rocky stream, a clump of
cottonwoods beyond, a somber group of men facing him, and two dark,
limp, strangely grotesque figures hanging from branches.
The sight was common enough in southwest Texas, but Duane had never
before found himself so unpleasantly close.
A hoarse voice pealed out: “By hell! there's another one!”
“Stranger, ride down an' account fer yourself!” yelled another.
“Hands up!”
“Thet's right, Jack; don't take no chances. Plug him!”
These remarks were so swiftly uttered as almost to be continuous. Duane
was wheeling his horse when a rifle cracked. The bullet struck his left
forearm and he thought broke it, for he dropped the rein. The frightened
horse leaped. Another bullet whistled past Duane. Then the bend in the
road saved him probably from certain death. Like the wind his fleet
steed wend down the long hill.
Duane was in no hurry to look back. He knew what to expect. His chief
concern of the moment was for his injured arm. He found that the bones
were still intact; but the wound, having been made by a soft bullet, was
an exceedingly bad one. Blood poured from it. Giving the horse his head,
Duane wound his scarf tightly round the holes, and with teeth and hand
tied it tightly. That done, he looked back over his shoulder.
Riders were making the dust fly on the hillside road. There were more
coming round the cut where the road curved. The leader was perhaps a
quarter of a mile back, and the others strung out behind him. Duane
needed only one glance to tell him that they were fast and hard-riding
cowboys in a land where all riders were good. They would not have owned
any but strong, swift horses. Moreover, it was a district where ranchers
had suffered beyond all endurance the greed and brutality of outlaws.
Duane had simply been so unfortunate as to run right into a lynching
party at a time of all times when any stranger would be in danger and
any outlaw put to his limit to escape with his life.
Duane did not look back again till he had crossed the ridgy piece
of ground and had gotten to the level road. He had gained upon his
pursuers. When he ascertained this he tried to save his horse, to check
a little that killing gait. This horse was a magnificent animal, big,
strong, fast; but his endurance had never been put to a grueling test.
And that worried Duane. His life had made it impossible to keep one
horse very long at a time, and this one was an unknown quantity.
Duane had only one plan--the only plan possible in this case--and that
was to make the river-bottoms, where he might elude his pursuers in the
willow brakes. Fifteen miles or so would bring him to the river, and
this was not a hopeless distance for any good horse if not too closely
pressed. Duane concluded presently that the cowboys behind were losing a
little in the chase because they were not extending their horses. It was
decidedly unusual for such riders to save their mounts. Duane pondered
over this, looking backward several times to see if their horses were
stretched out. They were not, and the fact was disturbing. Only one
reason presented itself to Duane's conjecturing, and it was that with
him headed straight on that road his pursuers were satisfied not to
force the running. He began to hope and look for a trail or a road
turning off to right or left. There was none. A rough, mesquite-dotted
and yucca-spired country extended away on either side. Duane believed
that he would be compelled to take to this hard going. One thing was
certain--he had to go round the village. The river, however, was on the
outskirts of the village; and once in the willows, he would be safe.
Dust-clouds far ahead caused his alarm to grow. He watched with his eyes
strained; he hoped to see a wagon, a few stray cattle. But no, he soon
descried several horsemen. Shots and yells behind him attested to the
fact that his pursuers likewise had seen these new-comers on the scene.
More than a mile separated these two parties, yet that distance did not
keep them from soon understanding each other. Duane waited only to see
this new factor show signs of sudden quick action, and then, with a
muttered curse, he spurred his horse off the road into the brush.
He chose the right side, because the river lay nearer that way. There
were patches of open sandy ground between clumps of cactus and mesquite,
and he found that despite a zigzag course he made better time. It was
impossible for him to locate his pursuers. They would come together, he
decided, and take to his tracks.
What, then, was his surprise and dismay to run out of a thicket right
into a low ridge of rough, broken rock, impossible to get a horse over.
He wheeled to the left along its base. The sandy ground gave place to
a harder soil, where his horse did not labor so. Here the growths of
mesquite and cactus became scanter, affording better travel but poor
cover. He kept sharp eyes ahead, and, as he had expected, soon saw
moving dust-clouds and the dark figures of horses. They were half a mile
away, and swinging obliquely across the flat, which fact proved that
they had entertained a fair idea of the country and the fugitive's
difficulty.
Without an instant's hesitation Duane put his horse to his best efforts,
straight ahead. He had to pass those men. When this was seemingly made
impossible by a deep wash from which he had to turn, Duane began to feel
cold and sick. Was this the end? Always there had to be an end to an
outlaw's career. He wanted then to ride straight at these pursuers. But
reason outweighed instinct. He was fleeing for his life; nevertheless,
the strongest instinct at the time was his desire to fight.
He knew when these three horsemen saw him, and a moment afterward he
lost sight of them as he got into the mesquite again. He meant now
to try to reach the road, and pushed his mount severely, though still
saving him for a final burst. Rocks, thickets, bunches of cactus,
washes--all operated against his following a straight line. Almost he
lost his bearings, and finally would have ridden toward his enemies
had not good fortune favored him in the matter of an open burned-over
stretch of ground.
Here he saw both groups of pursuers, one on each side and almost within
gun-shot. Their sharp yells, as much as his cruel spurs, drove his horse
into that pace which now meant life or death for him. And never had
Duane bestrode a gamer, swifter, stancher beast. He seemed about to
accomplish the impossible. In the dragging sand he was far superior to
any horse in pursuit, and on this sandy open stretch he gained enough
to spare a little in the brush beyond. Heated now and thoroughly
terrorized, he kept the pace through thickets that almost tore Duane
from his saddle. Something weighty and grim eased off Duane. He was
going to get out in front! The horse had speed, fire, stamina.
Duane dashed out into another open place dotted by few trees, and here,
right in his path, within pistol-range, stood horsemen waiting. They
yelled, they spurred toward him, but did not fire at him. He turned his
horse--faced to the right. Only one thing kept him from standing his
ground to fight it out. He remembered those dangling limp figures
hanging from the cottonwoods. These ranchers would rather hang an outlaw
than do anything. They might draw all his fire and then capture him. His
horror of hanging was so great as to be all out of proportion compared
to his gun-fighter's instinct of self-preservation.
A race began then, a dusty, crashing drive through gray mesquite. Duane
could scarcely see, he was so blinded by stinging branches across his
eyes. The hollow wind roared in his ears. He lost his sense of the
nearness of his pursuers. But they must have been close. Did they
shoot at him? He imagined he heard shots. But that might have been
the cracking of dead snags. His left arm hung limp, almost useless; he
handled the rein with his right; and most of the time he hung low over
the pommel. The gray walls flashing by him, the whip of twigs, the rush
of wind, the heavy, rapid pound of hoofs, the violent motion of his
horse--these vied in sensation with the smart of sweat in his eyes, the
rack of his wound, the cold, sick cramp in his stomach. With these also
was dull, raging fury. He had to run when he wanted to fight. It took
all his mind to force back that bitter hate of himself, of his pursuers,
of this race for his useless life.
Suddenly he burst out of a line of mesquite into the road. A long
stretch of lonely road! How fiercely, with hot, strange joy, he wheeled
his horse upon it! Then he was sweeping along, sure now that he was out
in front. His horse still had strength and speed, but showed signs of
breaking. Presently Duane looked back. Pursuers--he could not count how
many--were loping along in his rear. He paid no more attention to them,
and with teeth set he faced ahead, grimmer now in his determination to
foil them.
He passed a few scattered ranch-houses where horses whistled from
corrals, and men curiously watched him fly past. He saw one rancher
running, and he felt intuitively that this fellow was going to join in
the chase. Duane's steed pounded on, not noticeably slower, but with a
lack of former smoothness, with a strained, convulsive, jerking stride
which showed he was almost done.
Sight of the village ahead surprised Duane. He had reached it sooner
than he expected. Then he made a discovery--he had entered the zone of
wire fences. As he dared not turn back now, he kept on, intending to
ride through the village. Looking backward, he saw that his pursuers
were half a mile distant, too far to alarm any villagers in time to
intercept him in his flight. As he rode by the first houses his horse
broke and began to labor. Duane did not believe he would last long
enough to go through the village.
Saddled horses in front of a store gave Duane an idea, not by any means
new, and one he had carried out successfully before. As he pulled in
his heaving mount and leaped off, a couple of ranchers came out of the
place, and one of them stepped to a clean-limbed, fiery bay. He was
about to get into his saddle when he saw Duane, and then he halted, a
foot in the stirrup.
Duane strode forward, grasped the bridle of this man's horse.
“Mine's done--but not killed,” he panted. “Trade with me.”
“Wal, stranger, I'm shore always ready to trade,” drawled the man. “But
ain't you a little swift?”
Duane glanced back up the road. His pursuers were entering the village.
“I'm Duane--Buck Duane,” he cried, menacingly. “Will you trade? Hurry!”
The rancher, turning white, dropped his foot from the stirrup and fell
back.
“I reckon I'll trade,” he said.
Bounding up, Duane dug spurs into the bay's flanks. The horse snorted
in fright, plunged into a run. He was fresh, swift, half wild. Duane
flashed by the remaining houses on the street out into the open. But the
road ended at that village or else led out from some other quarter, for
he had ridden straight into the fields and from them into rough desert.
When he reached the cover of mesquite once more he looked back to find
six horsemen within rifle-shot of him, and more coming behind them.
His new horse had not had time to get warm before Duane reached a high
sandy bluff below which lay the willow brakes. As far as he could see
extended an immense flat strip of red-tinged willow. How welcome it was
to his eye! He felt like a hunted wolf that, weary and lame, had reached
his hole in the rocks. Zigzagging down the soft slope, he put the bay to
the dense wall of leaf and branch. But the horse balked.
There was little time to lose. Dismounting, he dragged the stubborn
beast into the thicket. This was harder and slower work than Duane cared
to risk. If he had not been rushed he might have had better success. So
he had to abandon the horse--a circumstance that only such sore straits
could have driven him to. Then he went slipping swiftly through the
narrow aisles.
He had not gotten under cover any too soon. For he heard his pursuers
piling over the bluff, loud-voiced, confident, brutal. They crashed into
the willows.
“Hi, Sid! Heah's your hoss!” called one, evidently to the man Duane had
forced into a trade.
“Say, if you locoed gents'll hold up a little I'll tell you somethin',”
replied a voice from the bluff.
“Come on, Sid! We got him corralled,” said the first speaker.
“Wal, mebbe, an' if you hev it's liable to be damn hot. THET FELLER WAS
BUCK DUANE!”
Absolute silence followed that statement. Presently it was broken by a
rattling of loose gravel and then low voices.
“He can't git across the river, I tell you,” came to Duane's ears. “He's
corralled in the brake. I know thet hole.”
Then Duane, gliding silently and swiftly through the willows, heard no
more from his pursuers. He headed straight for the river. Threading a
passage through a willow brake was an old task for him. Many days and
nights had gone to the acquiring of a skill that might have been envied
by an Indian.
The Rio Grande and its tributaries for the most of their length in Texas
ran between wide, low, flat lands covered by a dense growth of willow.
Cottonwood, mesquite, prickly pear, and other growths mingled with the
willow, and altogether they made a matted, tangled copse, a thicket that
an inexperienced man would have considered impenetrable. From above,
these wild brakes looked green and red; from the inside they were gray
and yellow--a striped wall. Trails and glades were scarce. There were
a few deer-runways and sometimes little paths made by peccaries--the
jabali, or wild pigs, of Mexico. The ground was clay and unusually dry,
sometimes baked so hard that it left no imprint of a track. Where a
growth of cottonwood had held back the encroachment of the willows there
usually was thick grass and underbrush. The willows were short, slender
poles with stems so close together that they almost touched, and with
the leafy foliage forming a thick covering. The depths of this brake
Duane had penetrated was a silent, dreamy, strange place. In the middle
of the day the light was weird and dim. When a breeze fluttered the
foliage, then slender shafts and spears of sunshine pierced the green
mantle and danced like gold on the ground.
Duane had always felt the strangeness of this kind of place, and
likewise he had felt a protecting, harboring something which always
seemed to him to be the sympathy of the brake for a hunted creature. Any
unwounded creature, strong and resourceful, was safe when he had glided
under the low, rustling green roof of this wild covert. It was not hard
to conceal tracks; the springy soil gave forth no sound; and men could
hunt each other for weeks, pass within a few yards of each other and
never know it. The problem of sustaining life was difficult; but, then,
hunted men and animals survived on very little.
Duane wanted to cross the river if that was possible, and, keeping
in the brake, work his way upstream till he had reached country more
hospitable. Remembering what the man had said in regard to the river,
Duane had his doubts about crossing. But he would take any chance to put
the river between him and his hunters. He pushed on. His left arm had to
be favored, as he could scarcely move it. Using his right to spread the
willows, he slipped sideways between them and made fast time. There
were narrow aisles and washes and holes low down and paths brushed by
animals, all of which he took advantage of, running, walking, crawling,
stooping any way to get along. To keep in a straight line was not
easy--he did it by marking some bright sunlit stem or tree ahead, and
when he reached it looked straight on to mark another. His progress
necessarily grew slower, for as he advanced the brake became wilder,
denser, darker. Mosquitoes began to whine about his head. He kept on
without pause. Deepening shadows under the willows told him that the
afternoon was far advanced. He began to fear he had wandered in a wrong
direction. Finally a strip of light ahead relieved his anxiety, and
after a toilsome penetration of still denser brush he broke through to
the bank of the river.
He faced a wide, shallow, muddy stream with brakes on the opposite bank
extending like a green and yellow wall. Duane perceived at a glance the
futility of his trying to cross at this point. Everywhere the sluggish
water raved quicksand bars. In fact, the bed of the river was all
quicksand, and very likely there was not a foot of water anywhere. He
could not swim; he could not crawl; he could not push a log across. Any
solid thing touching that smooth yellow sand would be grasped and sucked
down. To prove this he seized a long pole and, reaching down from the
high bank, thrust it into the stream. Right there near shore there
apparently was no bottom to the treacherous quicksand. He abandoned any
hope of crossing the river. Probably for miles up and down it would be
just the same as here. Before leaving the bank he tied his hat upon the
pole and lifted enough water to quench his thirst. Then he worked his
way back to where thinner growth made advancement easier, and kept on
up-stream till the shadows were so deep he could not see. Feeling around
for a place big enough to stretch out on, he lay down. For the time
being he was as safe there as he would have been beyond in the Rim Rock.
He was tired, though not exhausted, and in spite of the throbbing pain
in his arm he dropped at once into sleep.