“Wal, because there ain't any use fer you to git in bad, too.”

“The gang will ride over here any day. If they're friendly, I'll light a

fire on the hill there, say three nights from to-night. If you don't see

it thet night you hit the trail. I'll do what I can. Jim Fletcher sticks

to his pals. So long, Dodge.”

Then he rode away.

He left Duane in a quandary. This news was black. Things had been

working out so well. Here was a setback. At the moment Duane did not

know which way to turn, but certainly he had no idea of going back to

Bradford. Friction between the two great lieutenants of Cheseldine! Open

hostility between one of them and another of the chief's right-hand

men! Among outlaws that sort of thing was deadly serious. Generally such

matters were settled with guns. Duane gathered encouragement even from

disaster. Perhaps the disintegration of Cheseldine's great band had

already begun. But what did Knell know? Duane did not circle around

the idea with doubts and hopes; if Knell knew anything it was that this

stranger in Ord, this new partner of Fletcher's, was no less than Buck

Duane. Well, it was about time, thought Duane, that he made use of his

name if it were to help him at all. That name had been MacNelly's hope.

He had anchored all his scheme to Duane's fame. Duane was tempted to

ride off after Fletcher and stay with him. This, however, would hardly

be fair to an outlaw who had been fair to him. Duane concluded to await

developments and when the gang rode in to Ord, probably from their

various hiding-places, he would be there ready to be denounced by Knell.

Duane could not see any other culmination of this series of events than

a meeting between Knell and himself. If that terminated fatally for

Knell there was all probability of Duane's being in no worse situation

than he was now. If Poggin took up the quarrel! Here Duane accused

himself again--tried in vain to revolt from a judgment that he was only

reasoning out excuses to meet these outlaws.

Meanwhile, instead of waiting, why not hunt up Cheseldine in his

mountain retreat? The thought no sooner struck Duane than he was

hurrying for his horse.

He left Ord, ostensibly toward Bradford, but, once out of sight, he

turned off the road, circled through the brush, and several miles south

of town he struck a narrow grass-grown trail that Fletcher had told him

led to Cheseldine's camp. The horse tracks along this trail were not

less than a week old, and very likely much more. It wound between

low, brush-covered foothills, through arroyos and gullies lined with

mesquite, cottonwood, and scrub-oak.

In an hour Duane struck the slope of Mount Ord, and as he climbed he

got a view of the rolling, black-spotted country, partly desert, partly

fertile, with long, bright lines of dry stream-beds winding away to grow

dim in the distance. He got among broken rocks and cliffs, and here the

open, downward-rolling land disappeared, and he was hard put to it to

find the trail. He lost it repeatedly and made slow progress. Finally

he climbed into a region of all rock benches, rough here, smooth there,

with only an occasional scratch of iron horseshoe to guide him. Many

times he had to go ahead and then work to right or left till he found

his way again. It was slow work; it took all day; and night found him

half-way up the mountain. He halted at a little side-canyon with grass

and water, and here he made camp. The night was clear and cool at that

height, with a dark-blue sky and a streak of stars blinking across. With

this day of action behind him he felt better satisfied than he had been

for some time. Here, on this venture, he was answering to a call that

had so often directed his movements, perhaps his life, and it was one

that logic or intelligence could take little stock of. And on this

night, lonely like the ones he used to spend in the Nueces gorge, and

memorable of them because of a likeness to that old hiding-place, he

felt the pressing return of old haunting things--the past so long ago,

wild flights, dead faces--and the places of these were taken by one

quiveringly alive, white, tragic, with its dark, intent, speaking

eyes--Ray Longstreth's.

That last memory he yielded to until he slept.

In the morning, satisfied that he had left still fewer tracks than

he had followed up this trail, he led his horse up to the head of the

canyon, there a narrow crack in low cliffs, and with branches of cedar

fenced him in. Then he went back and took up the trail on foot.

Without the horse he made better time and climbed through deep clefts,

wide canyons, over ridges, up shelving slopes, along precipices--a long,

hard climb--till he reached what he concluded was a divide. Going down

was easier, though the farther he followed this dim and winding trail

the wider the broken battlements of rock. Above him he saw the black

fringe of pinon and pine, and above that the bold peak, bare, yellow,

like a desert butte. Once, through a wide gateway between great

escarpments, he saw the lower country beyond the range, and beyond this,

vast and clear as it lay in his sight, was the great river that made the

Big Bend. He went down and down, wondering how a horse could follow that

broken trail, believing there must be another better one somewhere into

Cheseldine's hiding-place.

He rounded a jutting corner, where view had been shut off, and presently

came out upon the rim of a high wall. Beneath, like a green gulf seen

through blue haze, lay an amphitheater walled in on the two sides he

could see. It lay perhaps a thousand feet below him; and, plain as all

the other features of that wild environment, there shone out a big red

stone or adobe cabin, white water shining away between great borders,

and horses and cattle dotting the levels. It was a peaceful, beautiful

scene. Duane could not help grinding his teeth at the thought of

rustlers living there in quiet and ease.

Duane worked half-way down to the level, and, well hidden in a niche,

he settled himself to watch both trail and valley. He made note of the

position of the sun and saw that if anything developed or if he decided

to descend any farther there was small likelihood of his getting back to

his camp before dark. To try that after nightfall he imagined would be

vain effort.

Then he bent his keen eyes downward. The cabin appeared to be a crude

structure. Though large in size, it had, of course, been built by

outlaws.

There was no garden, no cultivated field, no corral. Excepting for the

rude pile of stones and logs plastered together with mud, the valley was

as wild, probably, as on the day of discovery. Duane seemed to have been

watching for a long time before he saw any sign of man, and this one

apparently went to the stream for water and returned to the cabin.

The sun went down behind the wall, and shadows were born in the darker

places of the valley. Duane began to want to get closer to that cabin.

What had he taken this arduous climb for? He held back, however, trying

to evolve further plans.

While he was pondering the shadows quickly gathered and darkened. If he

was to go back to camp he must set out at once. Still he lingered. And

suddenly his wide-roving eye caught sight of two horsemen riding up the

valley. The must have entered at a point below, round the huge abutment

of rock, beyond Duane's range of sight. Their horses were tired and

stopped at the stream for a long drink.

Duane left his perch, took to the steep trail, and descended as fast

as he could without making noise. It did not take him long to reach the

valley floor. It was almost level, with deep grass, and here and there

clumps of bushes. Twilight was already thick down there. Duane marked

the location of the trail, and then began to slip like a shadow through

the grass and from bush to bush. He saw a bright light before he

made out the dark outline of the cabin. Then he heard voices, a merry

whistle, a coarse song, and the clink of iron cooking-utensils. He

smelled fragrant wood-smoke. He saw moving dark figures cross the light.

Evidently there was a wide door, or else the fire was out in the open.

Duane swerved to the left, out of direct line with the light, and thus

was able to see better. Then he advanced noiselessly but swiftly toward

the back of the house. There were trees close to the wall. He would make

no noise, and he could scarcely be seen--if only there was no watch-dog!

But all his outlaw days he had taken risks with only his useless life

at stake; now, with that changed, he advanced stealthy and bold as an

Indian. He reached the cover of the trees, knew he was hidden in their

shadows, for at few paces' distance he had been able to see only their

tops. From there he slipped up to the house and felt along the wall with

his hands.

He came to a little window where light shone through. He peeped in. He

saw a room shrouded in shadows, a lamp turned low, a table, chairs. He

saw an open door, with bright flare beyond, but could not see the

fire. Voices came indistinctly. Without hesitation Duane stole farther

along--all the way to the end of the cabin. Peeping round, he saw only

the flare of light on bare ground. Retracing his cautious steps, he

paused at the crack again, saw that no man was in the room, and then

he went on round that end of the cabin. Fortune favored him. There

were bushes, an old shed, a wood-pile, all the cover he needed at that

corner. He did not even need to crawl.

Before he peered between the rough corner of wall and the bush growing

close to it Duane paused a moment. This excitement was different from

that he had always felt when pursued. It had no bitterness, no pain, no

dread. There was as much danger here, perhaps more, yet it was not the

same. Then he looked.

He saw a bright fire, a red-faced man bending over it, whistling, while

he handled a steaming pot. Over him was a roofed shed built against

the wall, with two open sides and two supporting posts. Duane's second

glance, not so blinded by the sudden bright light, made out other men,

three in the shadow, two in the flare, but with backs to him.

“It's a smoother trail by long odds, but ain't so short as this one

right over the mountain,” one outlaw was saying.

“What's eatin' you, Panhandle?” ejaculated another. “Blossom an' me rode

from Faraway Springs, where Poggin is with some of the gang.”

“Excuse me, Phil. Shore I didn't see you come in, an' Boldt never said

nothin'.”

“It took you a long time to get here, but I guess that's just as well,”

spoke up a smooth, suave voice with a ring in it.

Longstreth's voice--Cheseldine's voice!

Here they were--Cheseldine, Phil Knell, Blossom Kane, Panhandle Smith,

Boldt--how well Duane remembered the names!--all here, the big men of

Cheseldine's gang, except the biggest--Poggin. Duane had holed them, and

his sensations of the moment deadened sight and sound of what was before

him. He sank down, controlled himself, silenced a mounting exultation,

then from a less-strained position he peered forth again.

The outlaws were waiting for supper. Their conversation might have been

that of cowboys in camp, ranchers at a roundup. Duane listened with

eager ears, waiting for the business talk that he felt would come. All

the time he watched with the eyes of a wolf upon its quarry. Blossom

Kane was the lean-limbed messenger who had so angered Fletcher. Boldt

was a giant in stature, dark, bearded, silent. Panhandle Smith was the

red-faced cook, merry, profane, a short, bow-legged man resembling many

rustlers Duane had known, particularly Luke Stevens. And Knell, who sat

there, tall, slim, like a boy in build, like a boy in years, with

his pale, smooth, expressionless face and his cold, gray eyes. And

Longstreth, who leaned against the wall, handsome, with his dark face

and beard like an aristocrat, resembled many a rich Louisiana planter

Duane had met. The sixth man sat so much in the shadow that he could not

be plainly discerned, and, though addressed, his name was not mentioned.

Panhandle Smith carried pots and pans into the cabin, and cheerfully

called out: “If you gents air hungry fer grub, don't look fer me to feed

you with a spoon.”

The outlaws piled inside, made a great bustle and clatter as they sat to

their meal. Like hungry men, they talked little.

Duane waited there awhile, then guardedly got up and crept round to

the other side of the cabin. After he became used to the dark again

he ventured to steal along the wall to the window and peeped in. The

outlaws were in the first room and could not be seen.

Duane waited. The moments dragged endlessly. His heart pounded.

Longstreth entered, turned up the light, and, taking a box of cigars

from the table, he carried it out.

“Here, you fellows, go outside and smoke,” he said. “Knell, come on in

now. Let's get it over.”

He returned, sat down, and lighted a cigar for himself. He put his

booted feet on the table.

Duane saw that the room was comfortably, even luxuriously furnished.

There must have been a good trail, he thought, else how could all that

stuff have been packed in there. Most assuredly it could not have come

over the trail he had traveled. Presently he heard the men go outside,

and their voices became indistinct. Then Knell came in and seated

himself without any of his chief's ease. He seemed preoccupied and, as

always, cold.

“What's wrong, Knell? Why didn't you get here sooner?” queried

Longstreth.

“Poggin, damn him! We're on the outs again.”

“What for?”

“Aw, he needn't have got sore. He's breakin' a new hoss over at Faraway,

an you know him where a hoss 's concerned. That kept him, I reckon, more

than anythin'.”

“What else? Get it out of your system so we can go on to the new job.”

“Well, it begins back a ways. I don't know how long ago--weeks--a

stranger rode into Ord an' got down easy-like as if he owned the place.

He seemed familiar to me. But I wasn't sure. We looked him over, an' I

left, tryin' to place him in my mind.”

“What'd he look like?”

“Rangy, powerful man, white hair over his temples, still, hard face,

eyes like knives. The way he packed his guns, the way he walked an'

stood an' swung his right hand showed me what he was. You can't fool me

on the gun-sharp. An' he had a grand horse, a big black.”

“I've met your man,” said Longstreth.

“No!” exclaimed Knell. It was wonderful to hear surprise expressed by

this man that did not in the least show it in his strange physiognomy.

Knell laughed a short, grim, hollow laugh. “Boss, this here big gent

drifts into Ord again an' makes up to Jim Fletcher. Jim, you know, is

easy led. He likes men. An' when a posse come along trailin' a blind

lead, huntin' the wrong way for the man who held up No. 6, why, Jim--he

up an' takes this stranger to be the fly road-agent an' cottons to him.

Got money out of him sure. An' that's what stumps me more. What's this

man's game? I happen to know, boss, that he couldn't have held up No.

6.”

“How do you know?” demanded Longstreth.

“Because I did the job myself.”

A dark and stormy passion clouded the chief's face.

“Damn you, Knell! You're incorrigible. You're unreliable. Another break

like that queers you with me. Did you tell Poggin?”

“Yes. That's one reason we fell out. He raved. I thought he was goin' to

kill me.”

“Why did you tackle such a risky job without help or plan?”

“It offered, that's all. An' it was easy. But it was a mistake. I got

the country an' the railroad hollerin' for nothin'. I just couldn't help

it. You know what idleness means to one of us. You know also that this

very life breeds fatality. It's wrong--that's why. I was born of good

parents, an' I know what's right. We're wrong, an' we can't beat the

end, that's all. An' for my part I don't care a damn when that comes.”

“Fine wise talk from you, Knell,” said Longstreth, scornfully. “Go on

with your story.”

“As I said, Jim cottons to the pretender, an' they get chummy. They're

together all the time. You can gamble Jim told all he knew an' then

some. A little liquor loosens his tongue. Several of the boys rode over

from Ord, an' one of them went to Poggin an' says Jim Fletcher has a new

man for the gang. Poggin, you know, is always ready for any new man.

He says if one doesn't turn out good he can be shut off easy. He rather

liked the way this new part of Jim's was boosted. Jim an' Poggin always

hit it up together. So until I got on the deal Jim's pard was already in

the gang, without Poggin or you ever seein' him. Then I got to figurin'

hard. Just where had I ever seen that chap? As it turned out, I never

had seen him, which accounts for my bein' doubtful. I'd never forget

any man I'd seen. I dug up a lot of old papers from my kit an' went over

them. Letters, pictures, clippin's, an' all that. I guess I had a pretty

good notion what I was lookin' for an' who I wanted to make sure of. At

last I found it. An' I knew my man. But I didn't spring it on Poggin.

Oh no! I want to have some fun with him when the time comes. He'll be

wilder than a trapped wolf. I sent Blossom over to Ord to get word from

Jim, an' when he verified all this talk I sent Blossom again with a

message calculated to make Jim hump. Poggin got sore, said he'd wait for

Jim, an' I could come over here to see you about the new job. He'd meet

me in Ord.”

Knell had spoken hurriedly and low, now and then with passion. His pale

eyes glinted like fire in ice, and now his voice fell to a whisper.

“Who do you think Fletcher's new man is?”

“Who?” demanded Longstreth.

“BUCK DUANE!”

Down came Longstreth's boots with a crash, then his body grew rigid.

“That Nueces outlaw? That two-shot ace-of-spades gun-thrower who killed

Bland, Alloway--?”

“An' Hardin.” Knell whispered this last name with more feeling than the

apparent circumstance demanded.

“Yes; and Hardin, the best one of the Rim Rock fellows--Buck Duane!”

Longstreth was so ghastly white now that his black mustache seemed

outlined against chalk. He eyed his grim lieutenant. They understood

each other without more words. It was enough that Buck Duane was there

in the Big Bend. Longstreth rose presently and reached for a flask, from

which he drank, then offered it to Knell. He waved it aside.

“Knell,” began the chief, slowly, as he wiped his lips, “I gathered you

have some grudge against this Buck Duane.”

“Yes.”

“Well, don't be a fool now and do what Poggin or almost any of you men

would--don't meet this Buck Duane. I've reason to believe he's a Texas

Ranger now.”

“The hell you say!” exclaimed Knell.

“Yes. Go to Ord and give Jim Fletcher a hunch. He'll get Poggin, and

they'll fix even Buck Duane.”

“All right. I'll do my best. But if I run into Duane--”

“Don't run into him!” Longstreth's voice fairly rang with the force of

its passion and command. He wiped his face, drank again from the flask,

sat down, resumed his smoking, and, drawing a paper from his vest pocket

he began to study it.

“Well, I'm glad that's settled,” he said, evidently referring to the

Duane matter. “Now for the new job. This is October the eighteenth. On

or before the twenty-fifth there will be a shipment of gold reach the

Rancher's Bank of Val Verde. After you return to Ord give Poggin these

orders. Keep the gang quiet. You, Poggin, Kane, Fletcher, Panhandle

Smith, and Boldt to be in on the secret and the job. Nobody else. You'll

leave Ord on the twenty-third, ride across country by the trail till you

get within sight of Mercer. It's a hundred miles from Bradford to Val

Verde--about the same from Ord. Time your travel to get you near Val

Verde on the morning of the twenty-sixth. You won't have to more than

trot your horses. At two o'clock in the afternoon, sharp, ride into town

and up to the Rancher's Bank. Val Verde's a pretty big town. Never been

any holdups there. Town feels safe. Make it a clean, fast, daylight job.

That's all. Have you got the details?”

Knell did not even ask for the dates again.

“Suppose Poggin or me might be detained?” he asked.

Longstreth bent a dark glance upon his lieutenant.

“You never can tell what'll come off,” continued Knell. “I'll do my

best.”

“The minute you see Poggin tell him. A job on hand steadies him. And I

say again--look to it that nothing happens. Either you or Poggin carry

the job through. But I want both of you in it. Break for the hills, and

when you get up in the rocks where you can hide your tracks head for

Mount Ord. When all's quiet again I'll join you here. That's all. Call

in the boys.”

Like a swift shadow and as noiseless Duane stole across the level toward

the dark wall of rock. Every nerve was a strung wire. For a little while

his mind was cluttered and clogged with whirling thoughts, from which,

like a flashing scroll, unrolled the long, baffling order of action. The

game was now in his hands. He must cross Mount Ord at night. The feat

was improbable, but it might be done. He must ride into Bradford, forty

miles from the foothills before eight o'clock next morning. He must

telegraph MacNelly to be in Val Verde on the twenty-fifth. He must ride

back to Ord, to intercept Knell, face him be denounced, kill him, and

while the iron was hot strike hard to win Poggin's half-won interest as

he had wholly won Fletcher's. Failing that last, he must let the outlaws

alone to bide their time in Ord, to be free to ride on to their new job

in Val Verde. In the mean time he must plan to arrest Longstreth. It

was a magnificent outline, incredible, alluring, unfathomable in

its nameless certainty. He felt like fate. He seemed to be the iron

consequences falling upon these doomed outlaws.

Under the wall the shadows were black, only the tips of trees and crags

showing, yet he went straight to the trail. It was merely a grayness

between borders of black. He climbed and never stopped. It did not

seem steep. His feet might have had eyes. He surmounted the wall, and,

looking down into the ebony gulf pierced by one point of light, he

lifted a menacing arm and shook it. Then he strode on and did not falter

till he reached the huge shelving cliffs. Here he lost the trail; there

was none; but he remembered the shapes, the points, the notches of rock

above. Before he reached the ruins of splintered ramparts and jumbles of

broken walls the moon topped the eastern slope of the mountain, and the

mystifying blackness he had dreaded changed to magic silver light.

It seemed as light as day, only soft, mellow, and the air held a

transparent sheen. He ran up the bare ridges and down the smooth slopes,

and, like a goat, jumped from rock to rock. In this light he knew his

way and lost no time looking for a trail. He crossed the divide and then

had all downhill before him. Swiftly he descended, almost always sure of

his memory of the landmarks. He did not remember having studied them in

the ascent, yet here they were, even in changed light, familiar to his

sight. What he had once seen was pictured on his mind. And, true as

a deer striking for home, he reached the canyon where he had left his

horse.

Bullet was quickly and easily found. Duane threw on the saddle and pack,

cinched them tight, and resumed his descent. The worst was now to come.

Bare downward steps in rock, sliding, weathered slopes, narrow black

gullies, a thousand openings in a maze of broken stone--these Duane had

to descend in fast time, leading a giant of a horse. Bullet cracked the

loose fragments, sent them rolling, slid on the scaly slopes, plunged

down the steps, followed like a faithful dog at Duane's heels.

Hours passed as moments. Duane was equal to his great opportunity. But

he could not quell that self in him which reached back over the lapse

of lonely, searing years and found the boy in him. He who had been worse

than dead was now grasping at the skirts of life--which meant victory,

honor, happiness. Duane knew he was not just right in part of his mind.

Small wonder that he was not insane, he thought! He tramped on downward,

his marvelous faculty for covering rough ground and holding to the true

course never before even in flight so keen and acute. Yet all the time

a spirit was keeping step with him. Thought of Ray Longstreth as he had

left her made him weak. But now, with the game clear to its end, with

the trap to spring, with success strangely haunting him, Duane could not

dispel memory of her. He saw her white face, with its sweet sad lips and

the dark eyes so tender and tragic. And time and distance and risk and

toil were nothing.

The moon sloped to the west. Shadows of trees and crags now crossed to

the other side of him. The stars dimmed. Then he was out of the rocks,

with the dim trail pale at his feet. Mounting Bullet, he made short work

of the long slope and the foothills and the rolling land leading down

to Ord. The little outlaw camp, with its shacks and cabins and row of

houses, lay silent and dark under the paling moon. Duane passed by on

the lower trail, headed into the road, and put Bullet to a gallop. He

watched the dying moon, the waning stars, and the east. He had time

to spare, so he saved the horse. Knell would be leaving the rendezvous

about the time Duane turned back toward Ord. Between noon and sunset

they would meet.

The night wore on. The moon sank behind low mountains in the west.

The stars brightened for a while, then faded. Gray gloom enveloped the

world, thickened, lay like smoke over the road. Then shade by shade it

lightened, until through the transparent obscurity shone a dim light.

Duane reached Bradford before dawn. He dismounted some distance from the

tracks, tied his horse, and then crossed over to the station. He heard

the clicking of the telegraph instrument, and it thrilled him. An

operator sat inside reading. When Duane tapped on the window he looked

up with startled glance, then went swiftly to unlock the door.

“Hello. Give me paper and pencil. Quick,” whispered Duane.

With trembling hands the operator complied. Duane wrote out the message

he had carefully composed.

“Send this--repeat it to make sure--then keep mum. I'll see you again.

Good-by.”

The operator stared, but did not speak a word.

Duane left as stealthily and swiftly as he had come. He walked his horse

a couple miles back on the road and then rested him till break of day.

The east began to redden, Duane turned grimly in the direction of Ord.

When Duane swung into the wide, grassy square on the outskirts of Ord

he saw a bunch of saddled horses hitched in front of the tavern. He knew

what that meant. Luck still favored him. If it would only hold! But he

could ask no more. The rest was a matter of how greatly he could make

his power felt. An open conflict against odds lay in the balance. That

would be fatal to him, and to avoid it he had to trust to his name and a

presence he must make terrible. He knew outlaws. He knew what qualities

held them. He knew what to exaggerate.

There was not an outlaw in sight. The dusty horses had covered distance

that morning. As Duane dismounted he heard loud, angry voices inside the

tavern. He removed coat and vest, hung them over the pommel. He packed

two guns, one belted high on the left hip, the other swinging low on the

right side. He neither looked nor listened, but boldly pushed the door

and stepped inside.

The big room was full of men, and every face pivoted toward him. Knell's

pale face flashed into Duane's swift sight; then Boldt's, then Blossom

Kane's, then Panhandle Smith's, then Fletcher's, then others that were

familiar, and last that of Poggin. Though Duane had never seen Poggin or

heard him described, he knew him. For he saw a face that was a record of

great and evil deeds.

There was absolute silence. The outlaws were lined back of a long table

upon which were papers, stacks of silver coin, a bundle of bills, and a

huge gold-mounted gun.

“Are you gents lookin' for me?” asked Duane. He gave his voice all the

ringing force and power of which he was capable. And he stepped back,

free of anything, with the outlaws all before him.

Knell stood quivering, but his face might have been a mask. The other

outlaws looked from him to Duane. Jim Fletcher flung up his hands.

“My Gawd, Dodge, what'd you bust in here fer?” he said, plaintively, and

slowly stepped forward. His action was that of a man true to himself. He

meant he had been sponsor for Duane and now he would stand by him.

“Back, Fletcher!” called Duane, and his voice made the outlaw jump.

“Hold on, Dodge, an' you-all, everybody,” said Fletcher. “Let me talk,

seein' I'm in wrong here.”

His persuasions did not ease the strain.

“Go ahead. Talk,” said Poggin.

Fletcher turned to Duane. “Pard, I'm takin' it on myself thet you meet

enemies here when I swore you'd meet friends. It's my fault. I'll stand

by you if you let me.”

“No, Jim,” replied Duane.

“But what'd you come fer without the signal?” burst out Fletcher, in

distress. He saw nothing but catastrophe in this meeting.

“Jim, I ain't pressin' my company none. But when I'm wanted bad--”

Fletcher stopped him with a raised hand. Then he turned to Poggin with a

rude dignity.

“Poggy, he's my pard, an' he's riled. I never told him a word thet'd

make him sore. I only said Knell hadn't no more use fer him than fer

me. Now, what you say goes in this gang. I never failed you in my life.

Here's my pard. I vouch fer him. Will you stand fer me? There's goin' to

be hell if you don't. An' us with a big job on hand!”

While Fletcher toiled over his slow, earnest persuasion Duane had his

gaze riveted upon Poggin. There was something leonine about Poggin. He

was tawny. He blazed. He seemed beautiful as fire was beautiful. But

looked at closer, with glance seeing the physical man, instead of that

thing which shone from him, he was of perfect build, with muscles that

swelled and rippled, bulging his clothes, with the magnificent head and

face of the cruel, fierce, tawny-eyed jaguar.

Looking at this strange Poggin, instinctively divining his abnormal

and hideous power, Duane had for the first time in his life the inward

quaking fear of a man. It was like a cold-tongued bell ringing within

him and numbing his heart. The old instinctive firing of blood followed,

but did not drive away that fear. He knew. He felt something here deeper

than thought could go. And he hated Poggin.

That individual had been considering Fletcher's appeal.

“Jim, I ante up,” he said, “an' if Phil doesn't raise us out with a big

hand--why, he'll get called, an' your pard can set in the game.”

Every eye shifted to Knell. He was dead white. He laughed, and any one

hearing that laugh would have realized his intense anger equally with an

assurance which made him master of the situation.

“Poggin, you're a gambler, you are--the ace-high, straight-flush hand of

the Big Bend,” he said, with stinging scorn. “I'll bet you my roll to a

greaser peso that I can deal you a hand you'll be afraid to play.”

“Phil, you're talkin' wild,” growled Poggin, with both advice and menace

in his tone.

“If there's anythin' you hate it's a man who pretends to be somebody

else when he's not. Thet so?”

Poggin nodded in slow-gathering wrath.

“Well, Jim's new pard--this man Dodge--he's not who he seems. Oh-ho!

He's a hell of a lot different. But _I_ know him. An' when I spring

his name on you, Poggin, you'll freeze to your gizzard. Do you get

me? You'll freeze, an' your hand'll be stiff when it ought to be

lightnin'--All because you'll realize you've been standin' there five

minutes--five minutes ALIVE before him!”

If not hate, then assuredly great passion toward Poggin manifested

itself in Knell's scornful, fiery address, in the shaking hand he thrust

before Poggin's face. In the ensuing silent pause Knell's panting could

be plainly heard. The other men were pale, watchful, cautiously edging

either way to the wall, leaving the principals and Duane in the center

of the room.

“Spring his name, then, you--” said Poggin, violently, with a curse.

Strangely Knell did not even look at the man he was about to denounce.

He leaned toward Poggin, his hands, his body, his long head all somewhat

expressive of what his face disguised.

“BUCK DUANE!” he yelled, suddenly.

The name did not make any great difference in Poggin. But Knell's

passionate, swift utterance carried the suggestion that the name ought

to bring Poggin to quick action. It was possible, too, that Knell's

manner, the import of his denunciation the meaning back of all his

passion held Poggin bound more than the surprise. For the outlaw

certainly was surprised, perhaps staggered at the idea that he, Poggin,

had been about to stand sponsor with Fletcher for a famous outlaw hated

and feared by all outlaws.

Knell waited a long moment, and then his face broke its cold immobility

in an extraordinary expression of devilish glee. He had hounded the

great Poggin into something that gave him vicious, monstrous joy.

“BUCK DUANE! Yes,” he broke out, hotly. “The Nueces gunman! That

two-shot, ace-of-spades lone wolf! You an' I--we've heard a thousand

times of him--talked about him often. An' here he IN FRONT of you!

Poggin, you were backin' Fletcher's new pard, Buck Duane. An' he'd

fooled you both but for me. But _I_ know him. An' I know why he drifted

in here. To flash a gun on Cheseldine--on you--on me! Bah! Don't tell me

he wanted to join the gang. You know a gunman, for you're one yourself.

Don't you always want to kill another man? An' don't you always want to

meet a real man, not a four-flush? It's the madness of the gunman, an' I

know it. Well, Duane faced you--called you! An' when I sprung his name,

what ought you have done? What would the boss--anybody--have expected of

Poggin? Did you throw your gun, swift, like you have so often? Naw; you

froze. An' why? Because here's a man with the kind of nerve you'd love

to have. Because he's great--meetin' us here alone. Because you know

he's a wonder with a gun an' you love life. Because you an' I an' every

damned man here had to take his front, each to himself. If we all drew

we'd kill him. Sure! But who's goin' to lead? Who was goin' to be first?

Who was goin' to make him draw? Not you, Poggin! You leave that for a

lesser man--me--who've lived to see you a coward. It comes once to every

gunman. You've met your match in Buck Duane. An', by God, I'm glad!

Here's once I show you up!”

The hoarse, taunting voice failed. Knell stepped back from the comrade

he hated. He was wet, shaking, haggard, but magnificent.

“Buck Duane, do you remember Hardin?” he asked, in scarcely audible

voice.

“Yes,” replied Duane, and a flash of insight made clear Knell's

attitude.

“You met him--forced him to draw--killed him?”

“Yes.”

“Hardin was the best pard I ever had.”

His teeth clicked together tight, and his lips set in a thin line.

The room grew still. Even breathing ceased. The time for words

had passed. In that long moment of suspense Knell's body gradually

stiffened, and at last the quivering ceased. He crouched. His eyes had a

soul-piercing fire.

Duane watched them. He waited. He caught the thought--the breaking of

Knell's muscle-bound rigidity. Then he drew.

Through the smoke of his gun he saw two red spurts of flame. Knell's

bullets thudded into the ceiling. He fell with a scream like a wild

thing in agony.

Duane did not see Knell die. He watched Poggin. And Poggin, like a

stricken and astounded man, looked down upon his prostrate comrade.

Fletcher ran at Duane with hands aloft.

“Hit the trail, you liar, or you'll hev to kill me!” he yelled.

With hands still up, he shouldered and bodied Duane out of the room.

Duane leaped on his horse, spurred, and plunged away.

CHAPTER XXIII

Duane returned to Fairdale and camped in the mesquite till the

twenty-third of the month. The few days seemed endless. All he could

think of was that the hour in which he must disgrace Ray Longstreth was

slowly but inexorably coming. In that waiting time he learned what

love was and also duty. When the day at last dawned he rode like one

possessed down the rough slope, hurdling the stones and crashing through

the brush, with a sound in his ears that was not all the rush of the

wind. Something dragged at him.

Apparently one side of his mind was unalterably fixed, while the other

was a hurrying conglomeration of flashes of thought, reception of

sensations. He could not get calmness. By and by, almost involuntarily,

he hurried faster on. Action seemed to make his state less oppressive;

it eased the weight. But the farther he went on the harder it was to

continue. Had he turned his back upon love, happiness, perhaps on life

itself?

There seemed no use to go on farther until he was absolutely sure of

himself. Duane received a clear warning thought that such work as seemed

haunting and driving him could never be carried out in the mood under

which he labored. He hung on to that thought. Several times he slowed

up, then stopped, only to go on again. At length, as he mounted a low

ridge, Fairdale lay bright and green before him not far away, and the

sight was a conclusive check. There were mesquites on the ridge, and

Duane sought the shade beneath them. It was the noon-hour, with hot,

glary sun and no wind. Here Duane had to have out his fight. Duane was

utterly unlike himself; he could not bring the old self back; he was

not the same man he once had been. But he could understand why. It was

because of Ray Longstreth. Temptation assailed him. To have her his

wife! It was impossible. The thought was insidiously alluring. Duane

pictured a home. He saw himself riding through the cotton and rice and

cane, home to a stately old mansion, where long-eared hounds bayed him

welcome, and a woman looked for him and met him with happy and beautiful

smile. There might--there would be children. And something new, strange,

confounding with its emotion, came to life deep in Duane's heart. There

would be children! Ray their mother! The kind of life a lonely outcast

always yearned for and never had! He saw it all, felt it all.

But beyond and above all other claims came Captain MacNelly's. It was

then there was something cold and death-like in Duane's soul. For he

knew, whatever happened, of one thing he was sure--he would have to kill

either Longstreth or Lawson. Longstreth might be trapped into arrest;

but Lawson had no sense, no control, no fear. He would snarl like a

panther and go for his gun, and he would have to be killed. This, of all

consummations, was the one to be calculated upon.

Duane came out of it all bitter and callous and sore--in the most

fitting of moods to undertake a difficult and deadly enterprise. He had

fallen upon his old strange, futile dreams, now rendered poignant by

reason of love. He drove away those dreams. In their places came the

images of the olive-skinned Longstreth with his sharp eyes, and the

dark, evil-faced Lawson, and then returned tenfold more thrilling and

sinister the old strange passion to meet Poggin.

It was about one o'clock when Duane rode into Fairdale. The streets for

the most part were deserted. He went directly to find Morton and Zimmer.

He found them at length, restless, somber, anxious, but unaware of the

part he had played at Ord. They said Longstreth was home, too. It was

possible that Longstreth had arrived home in ignorance.

Duane told them to be on hand in town with their men in case he might

need them, and then with teeth locked he set off for Longstreth's ranch.

Duane stole through the bushes and trees, and when nearing the porch

he heard loud, angry, familiar voices. Longstreth and Lawson were

quarreling again. How Duane's lucky star guided him! He had no plan of

action, but his brain was equal to a hundred lightning-swift evolutions.

He meant to take any risk rather than kill Longstreth. Both of the men

were out on the porch. Duane wormed his way to the edge of the shrubbery

and crouched low to watch for his opportunity.

Longstreth looked haggard and thin. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and he

had come out with a gun in his hand. This he laid on a table near the

wall. He wore no belt.

Lawson was red, bloated, thick-lipped, all fiery and sweaty from drink,

though sober on the moment, and he had the expression of a desperate

man in his last stand. It was his last stand, though he was ignorant of

that.

“What's your news? You needn't be afraid of my feelings,” said Lawson.

“Ray confessed to an interest in this ranger,” replied Longstreth.

Duane thought Lawson would choke. He was thick-necked anyway, and the

rush of blood made him tear at the soft collar of his shirt. Duane

awaited his chance, patient, cold, all his feelings shut in a vise.

“But why should your daughter meet this ranger?” demanded Lawson,

harshly.

“She's in love with him, and he's in love with her.”

Duane reveled in Lawson's condition. The statement might have had the

force of a juggernaut. Was Longstreth sincere? What was his game?

Lawson, finding his voice, cursed Ray, cursed the ranger, then

Longstreth.

“You damned selfish fool!” cried Longstreth, in deep bitter scorn. “All

you think of is yourself--your loss of the girl. Think once of ME--my

home--my life!”

Then the connection subtly put out by Longstreth apparently dawned upon

the other. Somehow through this girl her father and cousin were to be

betrayed. Duane got that impression, though he could not tell how true

it was. Certainly Lawson's jealousy was his paramount emotion.

“To hell with you!” burst out Lawson, incoherently. He was frenzied.

“I'll have her, or nobody else will!”

“You never will,” returned Longstreth, stridently. “So help me God I'd

rather see her the ranger's wife than yours!”

While Lawson absorbed that shock Longstreth leaned toward him, all of

hate and menace in his mien.

“Lawson, you made me what I am,” continued Longstreth. “I backed

you--shielded you. YOU'RE Cheseldine--if the truth is told! Now it's

ended. I quit you. I'm done!”

Their gray passion-corded faces were still as stones.

“GENTLEMEN!” Duane called in far-reaching voice as he stepped out.

“YOU'RE BOTH DONE!”

They wheeled to confront Duane.

“Don't move! Not a muscle! Not a finger!” he warned.

Longstreth read what Lawson had not the mind to read. His face turned

from gray to ashen.

“What d'ye mean?” yelled Lawson, fiercely, shrilly. It was not in him to

obey a command, to see impending death.

All quivering and strung, yet with perfect control, Duane raised his

left hand to turn back a lapel of his open vest. The silver star flashed

brightly.

Lawson howled like a dog. With barbarous and insane fury, with sheer

impotent folly, he swept a clawing hand for his gun. Duane's shot broke

his action.

Before Lawson ever tottered, before he loosed the gun, Longstreth leaped

behind him, clasped him with left arm, quick as lightning jerked the

gun from both clutching fingers and sheath. Longstreth protected himself

with the body of the dead man. Duane saw red flashes, puffs of smoke;

he heard quick reports. Something stung his left arm. Then a blow like

wind, light of sound yet shocking in impact, struck him, staggered him.

The hot rend of lead followed the blow. Duane's heart seemed to explode,

yet his mind kept extraordinarily clear and rapid.

Duane heard Longstreth work the action of Lawson's gun. He heard the

hammer click, fall upon empty shells. Longstreth had used up all the

loads in Lawson's gun. He cursed as a man cursed at defeat. Duane

waited, cool and sure now. Longstreth tried to lift the dead man, to

edge him closer toward the table where his own gun lay. But, considering

the peril of exposing himself, he found the task beyond him. He bent

peering at Duane under Lawson's arm, which flopped out from his side.

Longstreth's eyes were the eyes of a man who meant to kill. There was

never any mistaking the strange and terrible light of eyes like

those. More than once Duane had a chance to aim at them, at the top of

Longstreth's head, at a strip of his side.

Longstreth flung Lawson's body off. But even as it dropped, before

Longstreth could leap, as he surely intended, for the gun, Duane covered

him, called piercingly to him:

“Don't jump for the gun! Don't! I'll kill you! Sure as God I'll kill

you!”

Longstreth stood perhaps ten feet from the table where his gun lay Duane

saw him calculating chances. He was game. He had the courage that forced

Duane to respect him. Duane just saw him measure the distance to that

gun. He was magnificent. He meant to do it. Duane would have to kill

him.

“Longstreth, listen,” cried Duane, swiftly. “The game's up. You're done.

But think of your daughter! I'll spare your life--I'll try to get you

freedom on one condition. For her sake! I've got you nailed--all the

proofs. There lies Lawson. You're alone. I've Morton and men to my aid.

Give up. Surrender. Consent to demands, and I'll spare you. Maybe I can

persuade MacNelly to let you go free back to your old country. It's for

Ray's sake! Her life, perhaps her happiness, can be saved! Hurry, man!

Your answer!”

“Suppose I refuse?” he queried, with a dark and terrible earnestness.

“Then I'll kill you in your tracks! You can't move a hand! Your word or

death! Hurry, Longstreth! Be a man! For her sake! Quick! Another second

now--I'll kill you!”

“All right, Buck Duane, I give my word,” he said, and deliberately

walked to the chair and fell into it.

Longstreth looked strangely at the bloody blot on Duane's shoulder.

“There come the girls!” he suddenly exclaimed. “Can you help me drag

Lawson inside? They mustn't see him.”

Duane was facing down the porch toward the court and corrals. Miss

Longstreth and Ruth had come in sight, were swiftly approaching,

evidently alarmed. The two men succeeded in drawing Lawson into the

house before the girls saw him.

“Duane, you're not hard hit?” said Longstreth.

“Reckon not,” replied Duane.

“I'm sorry. If only you could have told me sooner! Lawson, damn him!

Always I've split over him!”

“But the last time, Longstreth.”

“Yes, and I came near driving you to kill me, too. Duane, you talked

me out of it. For Ray's sake! She'll be in here in a minute. This'll be

harder than facing a gun.”

“Hard now. But I hope it'll turn out all right.”

“Duane, will you do me a favor?” he asked, and he seemed shamefaced.

“Sure.”

“Let Ray and Ruth think Lawson shot you. He's dead. It can't matter.

Duane, the old side of my life is coming back. It's been coming. It'll

be here just about when she enters this room. And, by God, I'd change

places with Lawson if I could!”

“Glad you--said that, Longstreth,” replied Duane. “And sure--Lawson

plugged me. It's our secret.”

Just then Ray and Ruth entered the room. Duane heard two low cries, so

different in tone, and he saw two white faces. Ray came to his side, She

lifted a shaking hand to point at the blood upon his breast. White and

mute, she gazed from that to her father.

“Papa!” cried Ray, wringing her hands.

“Don't give way,” he replied, huskily. “Both you girls will need your

nerve. Duane isn't badly hurt. But Floyd is--is dead. Listen. Let me

tell it quick. There's been a fight. It--it was Lawson--it was Lawson's

gun that shot Duane. Duane let me off. In fact, Ray, he saved me. I'm

to divide my property--return so far as possible what I've stolen--leave

Texas at once with Duane, under arrest. He says maybe he can get

MacNelly, the ranger captain, to let me go. For your sake!”

She stood there, realizing her deliverance, with the dark and tragic

glory of her eyes passing from her father to Duane.

“You must rise above this,” said Duane to her. “I expected this to ruin

you. But your father is alive. He will live it down. I'm sure I can

promise you he'll be free. Perhaps back there in Louisiana the dishonor

will never be known. This country is far from your old home. And even in

San Antonio and Austin a man's evil repute means little. Then the line

between a rustler and a rancher is hard to draw in these wild border

days. Rustling is stealing cattle, and I once heard a well-known rancher

say that all rich cattlemen had done a little stealing Your father

drifted out here, and, like a good many others, he succeeded. It's

perhaps just as well not to split hairs, to judge him by the law and

morality of a civilized country. Some way or other he drifted in with

bad men. Maybe a deal that was honest somehow tied his hands. This

matter of land, water, a few stray head of stock had to be decided out

of court. I'm sure in his case he never realized where he was drifting.

Then one thing led to another, until he was face to face with dealing

that took on crooked form. To protect himself he bound men to him. And

so the gang developed. Many powerful gangs have developed that way

out here. He could not control them. He became involved with them. And

eventually their dealings became deliberately and boldly dishonest. That

meant the inevitable spilling of blood sooner or later, and so he grew

into the leader because he was the strongest. Whatever he is to be

judged for, I think he could have been infinitely worse.”

CHAPTER XXIV

On the morning of the twenty-sixth Duane rode into Bradford in time to

catch the early train. His wounds did not seriously incapacitate him.

Longstreth was with him. And Miss Longstreth and Ruth Herbert would not

be left behind. They were all leaving Fairdale for ever. Longstreth had

turned over the whole of his property to Morton, who was to divide it

as he and his comrades believed just. Duane had left Fairdale with his

party by night, passed through Sanderson in the early hours of dawn, and

reached Bradford as he had planned.

That fateful morning found Duane outwardly calm, but inwardly he was

in a tumult. He wanted to rush to Val Verde. Would Captain MacNelly be

there with his rangers, as Duane had planned for them to be? Memory of

that tawny Poggin returned with strange passion. Duane had borne hours

and weeks and months of waiting, had endured the long hours of the

outlaw, but now he had no patience. The whistle of the train made him

leap.

It was a fast train, yet the ride seemed slow.

Duane, disliking to face Longstreth and the passengers in the car,

changed his seat to one behind his prisoner. They had seldom spoken.

Longstreth sat with bowed head, deep in thought. The girls sat in a

seat near by and were pale but composed. Occasionally the train halted

briefly at a station. The latter half of that ride Duane had observed

a wagon-road running parallel with the railroad, sometimes right

alongside, at others near or far away. When the train was about twenty

miles from Val Verde Duane espied a dark group of horsemen trotting

eastward. His blood beat like a hammer at his temples. The gang!

He thought he recognized the tawny Poggin and felt a strange inward

contraction. He thought he recognized the clean-cut Blossom Kane, the

black-bearded giant Boldt, the red-faced Panhandle Smith, and Fletcher.

There was another man strange to him. Was that Knell? No! it could not

have been Knell.

Duane leaned over the seat and touched Longstreth on the shoulder.

“Look!” he whispered. Cheseldine was stiff. He had already seen.

The train flashed by; the outlaw gang receded out of range of sight.

“Did you notice Knell wasn't with them?” whispered Duane.

Duane did not speak to Longstreth again till the train stopped at Val

Verde.

They got off the car, and the girls followed as naturally as ordinary

travelers. The station was a good deal larger than that at Bradford, and

there was considerable action and bustle incident to the arrival of the

train.

Duane's sweeping gaze searched faces, rested upon a man who seemed

familiar. This fellow's look, too, was that of one who knew Duane, but

was waiting for a sign, a cue. Then Duane recognized him--MacNelly,

clean-shaven. Without mustache he appeared different, younger.

When MacNelly saw that Duane intended to greet him, to meet him, he

hurried forward. A keen light flashed from his eyes. He was glad, eager,

yet suppressing himself, and the glances he sent back and forth from

Duane to Longstreth were questioning, doubtful. Certainly Longstreth did

not look the part of an outlaw.

“Duane! Lord, I'm glad to see you,” was the Captain's greeting. Then at

closer look into Duane's face his warmth fled--something he saw there

checked his enthusiasm, or at least its utterance.

“MacNelly, shake hand with Cheseldine,” said Duane, low-voiced.

The ranger captain stood dumb, motionless. But he saw Longstreth's

instant action, and awkwardly he reached for the outstretched hand.

“Any of your men down here?” queried Duane, sharply.

“No. They're up-town.”

“Come. MacNelly, you walk with him. We've ladies in the party. I'll come

behind with them.”

They set off up-town. Longstreth walked as if he were with friends on

the way to dinner. The girls were mute. MacNelly walked like a man in a

trance. There was not a word spoken in four blocks.

Presently Duane espied a stone building on a corner of the broad street.

There was a big sign, “Rancher's Bank.”

“There's the hotel,” said MacNelly. “Some of my men are there. We've

scattered around.”

They crossed the street, went through office and lobby, and then Duane

asked MacNelly to take them to a private room. Without a word the

Captain complied. When they were all inside Duane closed the door, and,

drawing a deep breath as if of relief, he faced them calmly.

“Miss Longstreth, you and Miss Ruth try to make yourselves comfortable

now,” he said. “And don't be distressed.” Then he turned to his captain.

“MacNelly, this girl is the daughter of the man I've brought to you, and

this one is his niece.”

Then Duane briefly related Longstreth's story, and, though he did not

spare the rustler chief, he was generous.

“When I went after Longstreth,” concluded Duane, “it was either to kill

him or offer him freedom on conditions. So I chose the latter for his

daughter's sake. He has already disposed of all his property. I believe

he'll live up to the conditions. He's to leave Texas never to return.

The name Cheseldine has been a mystery, and now it'll fade.”

A few moments later Duane followed MacNelly to a large room, like a

hall, and here were men reading and smoking. Duane knew them--rangers!

MacNelly beckoned to his men.

“Boys, here he is.”

“How many men have you?” asked Duane.

“Fifteen.”

MacNelly almost embraced Duane, would probably have done so but for the

dark grimness that seemed to be coming over the man. Instead he glowed,

he sputtered, he tried to talk, to wave his hands. He was beside

himself. And his rangers crowded closer, eager, like hounds ready to

run. They all talked at once, and the word most significant and frequent

in their speech was “outlaws.”

MacNelly clapped his fist in his hand.

“This'll make the adjutant sick with joy. Maybe we won't have it on the

Governor! We'll show them about the ranger service. Duane! how'd you

ever do it?”

“Now, Captain, not the half nor the quarter of this job's done. The

gang's coming down the road. I saw them from the train. They'll ride

into town on the dot--two-thirty.”

“How many?” asked MacNelly.

“Poggin, Blossom Kane, Panhandle Smith, Boldt, Jim Fletcher, and another

man I don't know. These are the picked men of Cheseldine's gang. I'll

bet they'll be the fastest, hardest bunch you rangers ever faced.”

“Poggin--that's the hard nut to crack! I've heard their records since

I've been in Val Verde. Where's Knell? They say he's a boy, but hell and

blazes!”

“Knell's dead.”

“Ah!” exclaimed MacNelly, softly. Then he grew businesslike, cool, and

of harder aspect. “Duane, it's your game to-day. I'm only a ranger under

orders. We're all under your orders. We've absolute faith in you. Make

your plan quick, so I can go around and post the boys who're not here.”

“You understand there's no sense in trying to arrest Poggin, Kane, and

that lot?” queried Duane.

“No, I don't understand that,” replied MacNelly, bluntly.

“It can't be done. The drop can't be got on such men. If you meet them

they shoot, and mighty quick and straight. Poggin! That outlaw has no

equal with a gun--unless--He's got to be killed quick. They'll all have

to be killed. They're all bad, desperate, know no fear, are lightning in

action.”

“Very well, Duane; then it's a fight. That'll be easier, perhaps. The

boys are spoiling for a fight. Out with your plan, now.”

“Put one man at each end of this street, just at the edge of town. Let

him hide there with a rifle to block the escape of any outlaw that we

might fail to get. I had a good look at the bank building. It's

well situated for our purpose. Put four men up in that room over the

bank--four men, two at each open window. Let them hide till the game

begins. They want to be there so in case these foxy outlaws get wise

before they're down on the ground or inside the bank. The rest of your

men put inside behind the counters, where they'll hide. Now go over to

the bank, spring the thing on the bank officials, and don't let them

shut up the bank. You want their aid. Let them make sure of their gold.

But the clerks and cashier ought to be at their desks or window when

Poggin rides up. He'll glance in before he gets down. They make no

mistakes, these fellows. We must be slicker than they are, or lose. When

you get the bank people wise, send your men over one by one. No hurry,

no excitement, no unusual thing to attract notice in the bank.”

“All right. That's great. Tell me, where do you intend to wait?”

Duane heard MacNelly's question, and it struck him peculiarly. He had

seemed to be planning and speaking mechanically. As he was confronted

by the fact it nonplussed him somewhat, and he became thoughtful, with

lowered head.

“Where'll you wait, Duane?” insisted MacNelly, with keen eyes

speculating.

“I'll wait in front, just inside the door,” replied Duane, with an

effort.

“Why?” demanded the Captain.

“Well,” began Duane, slowly, “Poggin will get down first and start in.

But the others won't be far behind. They'll not get swift till inside.

The thing is--they MUSTN'T get clear inside, because the instant they

do they'll pull guns. That means death to somebody. If we can we want to

stop them just at the door.”

“But will you hide?” asked MacNelly.

“Hide!” The idea had not occurred to Duane.

“There's a wide-open doorway, a sort of round hall, a vestibule, with

steps leading up to the bank. There's a door in the vestibule, too. It

leads somewhere. We can put men in there. You can be there.”

Duane was silent.

“See here, Duane,” began MacNelly, nervously. “You shan't take any undue

risk here. You'll hide with the rest of us?”

“No!” The word was wrenched from Duane.

MacNelly stared, and then a strange, comprehending light seemed to flit

over his face.

“Duane, I can give you no orders to-day,” he said, distinctly. “I'm only

offering advice. Need you take any more risks? You've done a grand

job for the service--already. You've paid me a thousand times for

that pardon. You've redeemed yourself.--The Governor, the

adjutant-general--the whole state will rise up and honor you. The game's

almost up. We'll kill these outlaws, or enough of them to break for

ever their power. I say, as a ranger, need you take more risk than your

captain?”

Still Duane remained silent. He was locked between two forces. And one,

a tide that was bursting at its bounds, seemed about to overwhelm him.

Finally that side of him, the retreating self, the weaker, found a

voice.

“Captain, you want this job to be sure?” he asked.

“Certainly.”

“I've told you the way. I alone know the kind of men to be met. Just

WHAT I'll do or WHERE I'll be I can't say yet. In meetings like this the

moment decides. But I'll be there!”

MacNelly spread wide his hands, looked helplessly at his curious and

sympathetic rangers, and shook his head.

“Now you've done your work--laid the trap--is this strange move of yours

going to be fair to Miss Longstreth?” asked MacNelly, in significant low

voice.

Like a great tree chopped at the roots Duane vibrated to that. He looked

up as if he had seen a ghost.

Mercilessly the ranger captain went on: “You can win her, Duane! Oh, you

can't fool me. I was wise in a minute. Fight with us from cover--then go

back to her. You will have served the Texas Rangers as no other man has.

I'll accept your resignation. You'll be free, honored, happy. That girl

loves you! I saw it in her eyes. She's--”

But Duane cut him short with a fierce gesture. He lunged up to his feet,

and the rangers fell back. Dark, silent, grim as he had been, still

there was a transformation singularly more sinister, stranger.

“Enough. I'm done,” he said, somberly. “I've planned. Do we agree--or

shall I meet Poggin and his gang alone?”

MacNelly cursed and again threw up his hands, this time in baffled

chagrin. There was deep regret in his dark eyes as they rested upon

Duane.

Duane was left alone.

Never had his mind been so quick, so clear, so wonderful in its

understanding of what had heretofore been intricate and elusive impulses

of his strange nature. His determination was to meet Poggin; meet him

before any one else had a chance--Poggin first--and then the others!

He was as unalterable in that decision as if on the instant of its

acceptance he had become stone.

Why? Then came realization. He was not a ranger now. He cared nothing

for the state. He had no thought of freeing the community of a dangerous

outlaw, of ridding the country of an obstacle to its progress and

prosperity. He wanted to kill Poggin. It was significant now that

he forgot the other outlaws. He was the gunman, the gun-thrower, the

gun-fighter, passionate and terrible. His father's blood, that dark and

fierce strain, his mother's spirit, that strong and unquenchable spirit

of the surviving pioneer--these had been in him; and the killings, one

after another, the wild and haunted years, had made him, absolutely in

spite of his will, the gunman. He realized it now, bitterly, hopelessly.

The thing he had intelligence enough to hate he had become. At last he

shuddered under the driving, ruthless inhuman blood-lust of the gunman.

Long ago he had seemed to seal in a tomb that horror of his kind--the

need, in order to forget the haunting, sleepless presence of his last

victim, to go out and kill another. But it was still there in his mind,

and now it stalked out, worse, more powerful, magnified by its rest,

augmented by the violent passions peculiar and inevitable to that

strange, wild product of the Texas frontier--the gun-fighter. And those

passions were so violent, so raw, so base, so much lower than what ought

to have existed in a thinking man. Actual pride of his record! Actual

vanity in his speed with a gun. Actual jealousy of any rival!

Duane could not believe it. But there he was, without a choice. What

he had feared for years had become a monstrous reality. Respect for

himself, blindness, a certain honor that he had clung to while in

outlawry--all, like scales, seemed to fall away from him. He stood

stripped bare, his soul naked--the soul of Cain. Always since the first

brand had been forced and burned upon him he had been ruined. But now

with conscience flayed to the quick, yet utterly powerless over this

tiger instinct, he was lost. He said it. He admitted it. And at the

utter abasement the soul he despised suddenly leaped and quivered with

the thought of Ray Longstreth.

Then came agony. As he could not govern all the chances of this fatal

meeting--as all his swift and deadly genius must be occupied with

Poggin, perhaps in vain--as hard-shooting men whom he could not watch

would be close behind, this almost certainly must be the end of Buck

Duane. That did not matter. But he loved the girl. He wanted her. All

her sweetness, her fire, and pleading returned to torture him.

At that moment the door opened, and Ray Longstreth entered.

“Duane,” she said, softly. “Captain MacNelly sent me to you.”

“But you shouldn't have come,” replied Duane.

“As soon as he told me I would have come whether he wished it or not.

You left me--all of us--stunned. I had no time to thank you. Oh, I

do-with all my soul. It was noble of you. Father is overcome. He didn't

expect so much. And he'll be true. But, Duane, I was told to hurry, and

here I'm selfishly using time.”

“Go, then--and leave me. You mustn't unnerve me now, when there's a

desperate game to finish.”

“Need it be desperate?” she whispered, coming close to him.

“Yes; it can't be else.”

MacNelly had sent her to weaken him; of that Duane was sure. And he felt

that she had wanted to come. Her eyes were dark, strained, beautiful,

and they shed a light upon Duane he had never seen before.

“You're going to take some mad risk,” she said. “Let me persuade you not

to. You said--you cared for me--and I--oh, Duane--don't you--know--?”

The low voice, deep, sweet as an old chord, faltered and broke and

failed.

Duane sustained a sudden shock and an instant of paralyzed confusion of

thought.

She moved, she swept out her hands, and the wonder of her eyes dimmed in

a flood of tears.

“My God! You can't care for me?” he cried, hoarsely.

Then she met him, hands outstretched.

“But I do-I do!”

Swift as light Duane caught her and held her to his breast. He stood

holding her tight, with the feel of her warm, throbbing breast and the

clasp of her arms as flesh and blood realities to fight a terrible fear.

He felt her, and for the moment the might of it was stronger than all

the demons that possessed him. And he held her as if she had been his

soul, his strength on earth, his hope of Heaven, against his lips.

The strife of doubt all passed. He found his sight again. And there

rushed over him a tide of emotion unutterably sweet and full, strong

like an intoxicating wine, deep as his nature, something glorious and

terrible as the blaze of the sun to one long in darkness. He had become

an outcast, a wanderer, a gunman, a victim of circumstances; he had lost

and suffered worse than death in that loss; he had gone down the

endless bloody trail, a killer of men, a fugitive whose mind slowly

and inevitably closed to all except the instinct to survive and a black

despair; and now, with this woman in his arms, her swelling breast

against his, in this moment almost of resurrection, he bent under the

storm of passion and joy possible only to him who had endured so much.

“Do you care--a little?” he whispered, unsteadily.

He bent over her, looking deep into the dark wet eyes.

She uttered a low laugh that was half sob, and her arms slipped up to

his neck.

“A littler Oh, Duane--Duane--a great deal!”

Their lips met in their first kiss. The sweetness, the fire of her mouth

seemed so new, so strange, so irresistible to Duane. His sore and hungry

heart throbbed with thick and heavy beats. He felt the outcast's need

of love. And he gave up to the enthralling moment. She met him half-way,

returned kiss for kiss, clasp for clasp, her face scarlet, her eyes

closed, till, her passion and strength spent, she fell back upon his

shoulder.

Duane suddenly thought she was going to faint. He divined then that she

had understood him, would have denied him nothing, not even her life, in

that moment. But she was overcome, and he suffered a pang of regret at

his unrestraint.

Presently she recovered, and she drew only the closer, and leaned upon

him with her face upturned. He felt her hands on his, and they were

soft, clinging, strong, like steel under velvet. He felt the rise and

fall, the warmth of her breast. A tremor ran over him. He tried to draw

back, and if he succeeded a little her form swayed with him, pressing

closer. She held her face up, and he was compelled to look. It was

wonderful now: white, yet glowing, with the red lips parted, and dark

eyes alluring. But that was not all. There was passion, unquenchable

spirit, woman's resolve deep and mighty.

“I love you, Duane!” she said. “For my sake don't go out to meet this

outlaw face to face. It's something wild in you. Conquer it if you love

me.”

Duane became suddenly weak, and when he did take her into his arms again

he scarcely had strength to lift her to a seat beside him. She seemed

more than a dead weight. Her calmness had fled. She was throbbing,

palpitating, quivering, with hot wet cheeks and arms that clung to him

like vines. She lifted her mouth to his, whispering, “Kiss me!” She

meant to change him, hold him.

Duane bent down, and her arms went round his neck and drew him close.

With his lips on hers he seemed to float away. That kiss closed his

eyes, and he could not lift his head. He sat motionless holding her,

blind and helpless, wrapped in a sweet dark glory. She kissed him--one

long endless kiss--or else a thousand times. Her lips, her wet cheeks,

her hair, the softness, the fragrance of her, the tender clasp of her

arms, the swell of her breast--all these seemed to inclose him.

Duane could not put her from him. He yielded to her lips and arms,

watching her, involuntarily returning her caresses, sure now of her

intent, fascinated by the sweetness of her, bewildered, almost lost.

This was what it was to be loved by a woman. His years of outlawry had

blotted out any boyish love he might have known. This was what he had

to give up--all this wonder of her sweet person, this strange fire he

feared yet loved, this mate his deep and tortured soul recognized. Never

until that moment had he divined the meaning of a woman to a man. That

meaning was physical inasmuch that he learned what beauty was, what

marvel in the touch of quickening flesh; and it was spiritual in that he

saw there might have been for him, under happier circumstances, a life

of noble deeds lived for such a woman.

“Don't go! Don't go!” she cried, as he started violently.

“I must. Dear, good-by! Remember I loved you.”

He pulled her hands loose from his, stepped back.

“Ray, dearest--I believe--I'll come back!” he whispered.

These last words were falsehood.

He reached the door, gave her one last piercing glance, to fix for ever

in memory that white face with its dark, staring, tragic eyes.

“DUANE!”

He fled with that moan like thunder, death, hell in his ears.

To forget her, to get back his nerve, he forced into mind the image of

Poggin-Poggin, the tawny-haired, the yellow-eyed, like a jaguar,

with his rippling muscles. He brought back his sense of the outlaw's

wonderful presence, his own unaccountable fear and hate. Yes, Poggin had

sent the cold sickness of fear to his marrow. Why, since he hated

life so? Poggin was his supreme test. And this abnormal and stupendous

instinct, now deep as the very foundation of his life, demanded its wild

and fatal issue. There was a horrible thrill in his sudden remembrance

that Poggin likewise had been taunted in fear of him.

So the dark tide overwhelmed Duane, and when he left the room he was

fierce, implacable, steeled to any outcome, quick like a panther, somber

as death, in the thrall of his strange passion.

There was no excitement in the street. He crossed to the bank corner. A

clock inside pointed the hour of two. He went through the door into the

vestibule, looked around, passed up the steps into the bank. The clerks

were at their desks, apparently busy. But they showed nervousness. The

cashier paled at sight of Duane. There were men--the rangers--crouching

down behind the low partition. All the windows had been removed from the

iron grating before the desks. The safe was closed. There was no money

in sight. A customer came in, spoke to the cashier, and was told to come

to-morrow.

Duane returned to the door. He could see far down the street, out into

the country. There he waited, and minutes were eternities. He saw no

person near him; he heard no sound. He was insulated in his unnatural

strain.

At a few minutes before half past two a dark, compact body of horsemen

appeared far down, turning into the road. They came at a sharp trot--a

group that would have attracted attention anywhere at any time. They

came a little faster as they entered town; then faster still; now they

were four blocks away, now three, now two. Duane backed down the middle

of the vestibule, up the steps, and halted in the center of the wide

doorway.

There seemed to be a rushing in his ears through which pierced sharp,

ringing clip-clop of iron hoofs. He could see only the corner of the

street. But suddenly into that shot lean-limbed dusty bay horses. There

was a clattering of nervous hoofs pulled to a halt.

Duane saw the tawny Poggin speak to his companions. He dismounted

quickly. They followed suit. They had the manner of ranchers about to

conduct some business. No guns showed. Poggin started leisurely for the

bank door, quickening step a little. The others, close together, came

behind him. Blossom Kane had a bag in his left hand. Jim Fletcher was

left at the curb, and he had already gathered up the bridles.

Poggin entered the vestibule first, with Kane on one side, Boldt on the

other, a little in his rear.

As he strode in he saw Duane.

“HELL'S FIRE!” he cried.

Something inside Duane burst, piercing all of him with cold. Was it that

fear?

“BUCK DUANE!” echoed Kane.

One instant Poggin looked up and Duane looked down.

Like a striking jaguar Poggin moved. Almost as quickly Duane threw his

arm.

The guns boomed almost together.

Duane felt a blow just before he pulled trigger. His thoughts came fast,

like the strange dots before his eyes. His rising gun had loosened in

his hand. Poggin had drawn quicker! A tearing agony encompassed his

breast. He pulled--pulled--at random. Thunder of booming shots all about

him! Red flashes, jets of smoke, shrill yells! He was sinking. The end;

yes, the end! With fading sight he saw Kane go down, then Boldt. But

supreme torture, bitterer than death, Poggin stood, mane like a lion's,

back to the wall, bloody-faced, grand, with his guns spouting red!

All faded, darkened. The thunder deadened. Duane fell, seemed floating.

There it drifted--Ray Longstreth's sweet face, white, with dark, tragic

eyes, fading from his sight... fading.. . fading...

CHAPTER XXV

Light shone before Duane's eyes--thick, strange light that came and

went. For a long time dull and booming sounds rushed by, filling all.

It was a dream in which there was nothing; a drifting under a burden;

darkness, light, sound, movement; and vague, obscure sense of time--time

that was very long. There was fire--creeping, consuming fire. A dark

cloud of flame enveloped him, rolled him away.

He saw then, dimly, a room that was strange, strange people moving about

over him, with faint voices, far away, things in a dream. He saw again,

clearly, and consciousness returned, still unreal, still strange, full

of those vague and far-away things. Then he was not dead. He lay stiff,

like a stone, with a weight ponderous as a mountain upon him and all his

bound body racked in slow, dull-beating agony.

A woman's face hovered over him, white and tragic-eyed, like one of his

old haunting phantoms, yet sweet and eloquent. Then a man's face bent

over him, looked deep into his eyes, and seemed to whisper from a

distance: “Duane--Duane! Ah, he knew me!”

After that there was another long interval of darkness. When the light

came again, clearer this time, the same earnest-faced man bent over him.

It was MacNelly. And with recognition the past flooded back.

Duane tried to speak. His lips were weak, and he could scarcely move

them.

“Poggin!” he whispered. His first real conscious thought was for Poggin.

Ruling passion--eternal instinct!

“Poggin is dead, Duane; shot to pieces,” replied MacNelly, solemnly.

“What a fight he made! He killed two of my men, wounded others. God! he

was a tiger. He used up three guns before we downed him.”

“Who-got--away?”

“Fletcher, the man with the horses. We downed all the others. Duane, the

job's done--it's done! Why, man, you're--”

“What of--of--HER?”

“Miss Longstreth has been almost constantly at your bedside. She helped

the doctor. She watched your wounds. And, Duane, the other night, when

you sank low--so low--I think it was her spirit that held yours back.

Oh, she's a wonderful girl. Duane, she never gave up, never lost her

nerve for a moment. Well, we're going to take you home, and she'll go

with us. Colonel Longstreth left for Louisiana right after the fight. I

advised it. There was great excitement. It was best for him to leave.”

“Have I--a--chance--to recover?”

“Chance? Why, man,” exclaimed the Captain, “you'll get well! You'll pack

a sight of lead all your life. But you can stand that. Duane, the whole

Southwest knows your story. You need never again be ashamed of the name

Buck Duane. The brand outlaw is washed out. Texas believes you've been

a secret ranger all the time. You're a hero. And now think of home, your

mother, of this noble girl--of your future.”

The rangers took Duane home to Wellston.

A railroad had been built since Duane had gone into exile. Wellston had

grown. A noisy crowd surrounded the station, but it stilled as Duane was

carried from the train.

A sea of faces pressed close. Some were faces he

remembered--schoolmates, friends, old neighbors. There was an upflinging

of many hands. Duane was being welcomed home to the town from which he

had fled. A deadness within him broke. This welcome hurt him somehow,

quickened him; and through his cold being, his weary mind, passed a

change. His sight dimmed.

Then there was a white house, his old home. How strange, yet how real!

His heart beat fast. Had so many, many years passed? Familiar yet

strange it was, and all seemed magnified.

They carried him in, these ranger comrades, and laid him down, and

lifted his head upon pillows. The house was still, though full of

people. Duane's gaze sought the open door.

Some one entered--a tall girl in white, with dark, wet eyes and a light

upon her face. She was leading an old lady, gray-haired, austere-faced,

somber and sad. His mother! She was feeble, but she walked erect. She

was pale, shaking, yet maintained her dignity.

The some one in white uttered a low cry and knelt by Duane's bed. His

mother flung wide her arms with a strange gesture.

“This man! They've not brought back my boy. This man's his father! Where

is my son? My son--oh, my son!”

When Duane grew stronger it was a pleasure to lie by the west window and

watch Uncle Jim whittle his stick and listen to his talk. The old man

was broken now. He told many interesting things about people Duane had

known--people who had grown up and married, failed, succeeded, gone

away, and died. But it was hard to keep Uncle Jim off the subject of

guns, outlaws, fights. He could not seem to divine how mention of these

things hurt Duane. Uncle Jim was childish now, and he had a great pride

in his nephew. He wanted to hear of all of Duane's exile. And if there

was one thing more than another that pleased him it was to talk about

the bullets which Duane carried in his body.

“Five bullets, ain't it?” he asked, for the hundredth time.

“Five in that last scrap! By gum! And you had six before?”

“Yes, uncle,” replied Duane.

“Five and six. That makes eleven. By gum! A man's a man, to carry all

that lead. But, Buck, you could carry more. There's that nigger Edwards,

right here in Wellston. He's got a ton of bullets in him. Doesn't seem

to mind them none. And there's Cole Miller. I've seen him. Been a bad

man in his day. They say he packs twenty-three bullets. But he's bigger

than you--got more flesh.... Funny, wasn't it, Buck, about the

doctor only bein' able to cut one bullet out of you--that one in your

breastbone? It was a forty-one caliber, an unusual cartridge. I saw it,

and I wanted it, but Miss Longstreth wouldn't part with it. Buck, there

was a bullet left in one of Poggin's guns, and that bullet was the same

kind as the one cut out of you. By gum! Boy, it'd have killed you if

it'd stayed there.”

“It would indeed, uncle,” replied Duane, and the old, haunting, somber

mood returned.

But Duane was not often at the mercy of childish old hero-worshiping

Uncle Jim. Miss Longstreth was the only person who seemed to divine

Duane's gloomy mood, and when she was with him she warded off all

suggestion.

One afternoon, while she was there at the west window, a message came

for him. They read it together.

You have saved the ranger service to the Lone Star State

MACNELLEY.

Ray knelt beside him at the window, and he believed she meant to speak

then of the thing they had shunned. Her face was still white, but

sweeter now, warm with rich life beneath the marble; and her dark eyes

were still intent, still haunted by shadows, but no longer tragic.

“I'm glad for MacNelly's sake as well as the state's,” said Duane.

She made no reply to that and seemed to be thinking deeply. Duane shrank

a little.

“The pain--Is it any worse to-day?” she asked, instantly.

“No; it's the same. It will always be the same. I'm full of lead, you

know. But I don't mind a little pain.”

“Then--it's the old mood--the fear?” she whispered. “Tell me.”

“Yes. It haunts me. I'll be well soon--able to go out. Then that--that

hell will come back!”

“No, no!” she said, with emotion.

“Some drunken cowboy, some fool with a gun, will hunt me out in every

town, wherever I go,” he went on, miserably. “Buck Duane! To kill Buck

Duane!”

“Hush! Don't speak so. Listen. You remember that day in Val Verde,

when I came to you--plead with you not to meet Poggin? Oh, that was a

terrible hour for me. But it showed me the truth. I saw the struggle

between your passion to kill and your love for me. I could have saved

you then had I known what I know now. Now I understand that--that thing

which haunts you. But you'll never have to draw again. You'll never have

to kill another man, thank God!”

Like a drowning man he would have grasped at straws, but he could not

voice his passionate query.

She put tender arms round his neck. “Because you'll have me with

you always,” she replied. “Because always I shall be between you and

that--that terrible thing.”

It seemed with the spoken thought absolute assurance of her power came

to her. Duane realized instantly that he was in the arms of a stronger

woman that she who had plead with him that fatal day.

“We'll--we'll be married and leave Texas,” she said, softly, with the

red blood rising rich and dark in her cheeks.

“Ray!”

“Yes we will, though you're laggard in asking me, sir.”

“But, dear--suppose,” he replied, huskily, “suppose there might be--be

children--a boy. A boy with his father's blood!”

“I pray God there will be. I do not fear what you fear. But even

so--he'll be half my blood.”

Duane felt the storm rise and break in him. And his terror was that of

joy quelling fear. The shining glory of love in this woman's eyes made

him weak as a child. How could she love him--how could she so bravely

face a future with him? Yet she held him in her arms, twining her

hands round his neck, and pressing close to him. Her faith and love and

beauty--these she meant to throw between him and all that terrible past.

They were her power, and she meant to use them all. He dared not think

of accepting her sacrifice.

“But Ray--you dear, noble girl--I'm poor. I have nothing. And I'm a

cripple.”

“Oh, you'll be well some day,” she replied. “And listen. I have money.

My mother left me well off. All she had was her father's--Do you

understand? We'll take Uncle Jim and your mother. We'll go to

Louisiana--to my old home. It's far from here. There's a plantation to

work. There are horses and cattle--a great cypress forest to cut. Oh,

you'll have much to do. You'll forget there. You'll learn to love my

home. It's a beautiful old place. There are groves where the gray moss

blows all day and the nightingales sing all night.”

“My darling!” cried Duane, brokenly. “No, no, no!”

Yet he knew in his heart that he was yielding to her, that he could not

resist her a moment longer. What was this madness of love?

“We'll be happy,” she whispered. “Oh, I know. Come!--come!-come!”

Her eyes were closing, heavy-lidded, and she lifted sweet, tremulous,

waiting lips.

With bursting heart Duane bent to them. Then he held her, close pressed

to him, while with dim eyes he looked out over the line of low hills

in the west, down where the sun was setting gold and red, down over the

Nueces and the wild brakes of the Rio Grande which he was never to see

again.

It was in this solemn and exalted moment that Duane accepted happiness

and faced a new life, trusting this brave and tender woman to be

stronger than the dark and fateful passion that had shadowed his past.

It would come back--that wind of flame, that madness to forget, that

driving, relentless instinct for blood. It would come back with those

pale, drifting, haunting faces and the accusing fading eyes, but all his

life, always between them and him, rendering them powerless, would be

the faith and love and beauty of this noble woman.