Next morning Duane found that a moody and despondent spell had fastened on him. Wishing to be alone, he went out and walked a trail leading round the river bluff. He thought and thought. After a while he made out that the trouble with him probably was that he could not resign himself to his fate. He abhorred the possibility chance seemed to hold in store for him. He could not believe there was no hope. But what to do appeared beyond his power to tell.
Duane had intelligence and keenness enough to see his peril—the danger threatening his character as a man, just as much as that which threatened his life. He cared vastly more, he discovered, for what he considered honor and integrity than he did for life. He saw that it was bad for him to be alone. But, it appeared, lonely months and perhaps years inevitably must be his. Another thing puzzled him. In the bright light of day he could not recall the state of mind that was his at twilight or dusk or in the dark night. By day these visitations became to him what they really were—phantoms of his conscience. He could dismiss the thought of them then. He could scarcely remember or believe that this strange feat of fancy or imagination had troubled him, pained him, made him sleepless and sick.
That morning Duane spent an unhappy hour wrestling decision out of the unstable condition of his mind. But at length he determined to create interest in all that he came across and so forget himself as much as possible. He had an opportunity now to see just what the outlaw's life really was. He meant to force himself to be curious, sympathetic, clear-sighted. And he would stay there in the valley until its possibilities had been exhausted or until circumstances sent him out upon his uncertain way.
When he returned to the shack Euchre was cooking dinner.
“Say, Buck, I've news for you,” he said; and his tone conveyed either pride in his possession of such news or pride in Duane. “Feller named Bradley rode in this mornin'. He's heard some about you. Told about the ace of spades they put over the bullet holes in thet cowpuncher Bain you plugged. Then there was a rancher shot at a water-hole twenty miles south of Wellston. Reckon you didn't do it?”
“No, I certainly did not,” replied Duane.
“Wal, you get the blame. It ain't nothin' for a feller to be saddled with gun-plays he never made. An', Buck, if you ever get famous, as seems likely, you'll be blamed for many a crime. The border'll make an outlaw an' murderer out of you. Wal, thet's enough of thet. I've more news. You're goin' to be popular.”
“Popular? What do you mean?”
“I met Bland's wife this mornin'. She seen you the other day when you rode in. She shore wants to meet you, an' so do some of the other women in camp. They always want to meet the new fellers who've just come in. It's lonesome for women here, an' they like to hear news from the towns.”
“Well, Euchre, I don't want to be impolite, but I'd rather not meet any women,” rejoined Duane.
“I was afraid you wouldn't. Don't blame you much. Women are hell. I was hopin', though, you might talk a little to thet poor lonesome kid.”
“What kid?” inquired Duane, in surprise.
“Didn't I tell you about Jennie—the girl Bland's holdin' here—the one Jackrabbit Benson had a hand in stealin'?”
“You mentioned a girl. That's all. Tell me now,” replied Duane, abruptly.
“Wal, I got it this way. Mebbe it's straight, an' mebbe it ain't. Some years ago Benson made a trip over the river to buy mescal an' other drinks. He'll sneak over there once in a while. An' as I get it he run across a gang of greasers with some gringo prisoners. I don't know, but I reckon there was some barterin', perhaps murderin'. Anyway, Benson fetched the girl back. She was more dead than alive. But it turned out she was only starved an' scared half to death. She hadn't been harmed. I reckon she was then about fourteen years old. Benson's idee, he said, was to use her in his den sellin' drinks an' the like. But I never went much on Jackrabbit's word. Bland seen the kid right off and took her—bought her from Benson. You can gamble Bland didn't do thet from notions of chivalry. I ain't gainsayin, however, but thet Jennie was better off with Kate Bland. She's been hard on Jennie, but she's kept Bland an' the other men from treatin' the kid shameful. Late Jennie has growed into an all-fired pretty girl, an' Kate is powerful jealous of her. I can see hell brewin' over there in Bland's cabin. Thet's why I wish you'd come over with me. Bland's hardly ever home. His wife's invited you. Shore, if she gets sweet on you, as she has on—Wal, thet 'd complicate matters. But you'd get to see Jennie, an' mebbe you could help her. Mind, I ain't hintin' nothin'. I'm just wantin' to put her in your way. You're a man an' can think fer yourself. I had a baby girl once, an' if she'd lived she be as big as Jennie now, an', by Gawd, I wouldn't want her here in Bland's camp.”
“I'll go, Euchre. Take me over,” replied Duane. He felt Euchre's eyes upon him. The old outlaw, however, had no more to say.
In the afternoon Euchre set off with Duane, and soon they reached Bland's cabin. Duane remembered it as the one where he had seen the pretty woman watching him ride by. He could not recall what she looked like. The cabin was the same as the other adobe structures in the valley, but it was larger and pleasantly located rather high up in a grove of cottonwoods. In the windows and upon the porch were evidences of a woman's hand. Through the open door Duane caught a glimpse of bright Mexican blankets and rugs.
Euchre knocked upon the side of the door.
“Is that you, Euchre?” asked a girl's voice, low, hesitatingly. The tone of it, rather deep and with a note of fear, struck Duane. He wondered what she would be like.
“Yes, it's me, Jennie. Where's Mrs. Bland?” answered Euchre.
“She went over to Deger's. There's somebody sick,” replied the girl.
Euchre turned and whispered something about luck. The snap of the outlaw's eyes was added significance to Duane.
“Jennie, come out or let us come in. Here's the young man I was tellin' you about,” Euchre said.
“Oh, I can't! I look so—so—”
“Never mind how you look,” interrupted the outlaw, in a whisper. “It ain't no time to care fer thet. Here's young Duane. Jennie, he's no rustler, no thief. He's different. Come out, Jennie, an' mebbe he'll—”
Euchre did not complete his sentence. He had spoken low, with his glance shifting from side to side.
But what he said was sufficient to bring the girl quickly. She appeared in the doorway with downcast eyes and a stain of red in her white cheek. She had a pretty, sad face and bright hair.
“Don't be bashful, Jennie,” said Euchre. “You an' Duane have a chance to talk a little. Now I'll go fetch Mrs. Bland, but I won't be hurryin'.”
With that Euchre went away through the cottonwoods.
“I'm glad to meet you, Miss—Miss Jennie,” said Duane. “Euchre didn't mention your last name. He asked me to come over to—”
Duane's attempt at pleasantry halted short when Jennie lifted her lashes to look at him. Some kind of a shock went through Duane. Her gray eyes were beautiful, but it had not been beauty that cut short his speech. He seemed to see a tragic struggle between hope and doubt that shone in her piercing gaze. She kept looking, and Duane could not break the silence. It was no ordinary moment.
“What did you come here for?” she asked, at last.
“To see you,” replied Duane, glad to speak.
“Why?”
“Well—Euchre thought—he wanted me to talk to you, cheer you up a bit,” replied Duane, somewhat lamely. The earnest eyes embarrassed him.
“Euchre's good. He's the only person in this awful place who's been good to me. But he's afraid of Bland. He said you were different. Who are you?”
Duane told her.
“You're not a robber or rustler or murderer or some bad man come here to hide?”
“No, I'm not,” replied Duane, trying to smile.
“Then why are you here?”
“I'm on the dodge. You know what that means. I got in a shooting-scrape at home and had to run off. When it blows over I hope to go back.”
“But you can't be honest here?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Oh, I know what these outlaws are. Yes, you're different.” She kept the strained gaze upon him, but hope was kindling, and the hard lines of her youthful face were softening.
Something sweet and warm stirred deep in Duane as he realized the unfortunate girl was experiencing a birth of trust in him.
“O God! Maybe you're the man to save me—to take me away before it's too late.”
Duane's spirit leaped.
“Maybe I am,” he replied, instantly.
She seemed to check a blind impulse to run into his arms. Her cheek flamed, her lips quivered, her bosom swelled under her ragged dress. Then the glow began to fade; doubt once more assailed her.
“It can't be. You're only—after me, too, like Bland—like all of them.”
Duane's long arms went out and his hands clasped her shoulders. He shook her.
“Look at me—straight in the eye. There are decent men. Haven't you a father—a brother?”
“They're dead—killed by raiders. We lived in Dimmit County. I was carried away,” Jennie replied, hurriedly. She put up an appealing hand to him. “Forgive me. I believe—I know you're good. It was only—I live so much in fear—I'm half crazy—I've almost forgotten what good men are like, Mister Duane, you'll help me?”
“Yes, Jennie, I will. Tell me how. What must I do? Have you any plan?”
“Oh no. But take me away.”
“I'll try,” said Duane, simply. “That won't be easy, though. I must have time to think. You must help me. There are many things to consider. Horses, food, trails, and then the best time to make the attempt. Are you watched—kept prisoner?”
“No. I could have run off lots of times. But I was afraid. I'd only have fallen into worse hands. Euchre has told me that. Mrs. Bland beats me, half starves me, but she has kept me from her husband and these other dogs. She's been as good as that, and I'm grateful. She hasn't done it for love of me, though. She always hated me. And lately she's growing jealous. There was' a man came here by the name of Spence—so he called himself. He tried to be kind to me. But she wouldn't let him. She was in love with him. She's a bad woman. Bland finally shot Spence, and that ended that. She's been jealous ever since. I hear her fighting with Bland about me. She swears she'll kill me before he gets me. And Bland laughs in her face. Then I've heard Chess Alloway try to persuade Bland to give me to him. But Bland doesn't laugh then. Just lately before Bland went away things almost came to a head. I couldn't sleep. I wished Mrs. Bland would kill me. I'll certainly kill myself if they ruin me. Duane, you must be quick if you'd save me.”
“I realize that,” replied he, thoughtfully. “I think my difficulty will be to fool Mrs. Bland. If she suspected me she'd have the whole gang of outlaws on me at once.”
“She would that. You've got to be careful—and quick.”
“What kind of woman is she?” inquired Duane.
“She's—she's brazen. I've heard her with her lovers. They get drunk sometimes when Bland's away. She's got a terrible temper. She's vain. She likes flattery. Oh, you could fool her easy enough if you'd lower yourself to—to—”
“To make love to her?” interrupted Duane.
Jennie bravely turned shamed eyes to meet his.
“My girl, I'd do worse than that to get you away from here,” he said, bluntly.
“But—Duane,” she faltered, and again she put out the appealing hand. “Bland will kill you.”
Duane made no reply to this. He was trying to still a rising strange tumult in his breast. The old emotion—the rush of an instinct to kill! He turned cold all over.
“Chess Alloway will kill you if Bland doesn't,” went on Jennie, with her tragic eyes on Duane's.
“Maybe he will,” replied Duane. It was difficult for him to force a smile. But he achieved one.
“Oh, better take me off at once,” she said. “Save me without risking so much—without making love to Mrs. Bland!”
“Surely, if I can. There! I see Euchre coming with a woman.”
“That's her. Oh, she mustn't see me with you.”
“Wait—a moment,” whispered Duane, as Jennie slipped indoors. “We've settled it. Don't forget. I'll find some way to get word to you, perhaps through Euchre. Meanwhile keep up your courage. Remember I'll save you somehow. We'll try strategy first. Whatever you see or hear me do, don't think less of me—”
Jennie checked him with a gesture and a wonderful gray flash of eyes.
“I'll bless you with every drop of blood in my heart,” she whispered, passionately.
It was only as she turned away into the room that Duane saw she was lame and that she wore Mexican sandals over bare feet.
He sat down upon a bench on the porch and directed his attention to the approaching couple. The trees of the grove were thick enough for him to make reasonably sure that Mrs. Bland had not seen him talking to Jennie. When the outlaw's wife drew near Duane saw that she was a tall, strong, full-bodied woman, rather good-looking with a fullblown, bold attractiveness. Duane was more concerned with her expression than with her good looks; and as she appeared unsuspicious he felt relieved. The situation then took on a singular zest.
Euchre came up on the porch and awkwardly introduced Duane to Mrs. Bland. She was young, probably not over twenty-five, and not quite so prepossessing at close range. Her eyes were large, rather prominent, and brown in color. Her mouth, too, was large, with the lips full, and she had white teeth.
Duane took her proffered hand and remarked frankly that he was glad to meet her.
Mrs. Bland appeared pleased; and her laugh, which followed, was loud and rather musical.
“Mr. Duane—Buck Duane, Euchre said, didn't he?” she asked.
“Buckley,” corrected Duane. “The nickname's not of my choosing.”
“I'm certainly glad to meet you, Buckley Duane,” she said, as she took the seat Duane offered her. “Sorry to have been out. Kid Fuller's lying over at Deger's. You know he was shot last night. He's got fever to-day. When Bland's away I have to nurse all these shot-up boys, and it sure takes my time. Have you been waiting here alone? Didn't see that slattern girl of mine?”
She gave him a sharp glance. The woman had an extraordinary play of feature, Duane thought, and unless she was smiling was not pretty at all.
“I've been alone,” replied Duane. “Haven't seen anybody but a sick-looking girl with a bucket. And she ran when she saw me.”
“That was Jen,” said Mrs. Bland. “She's the kid we keep here, and she sure hardly pays her keep. Did Euchre tell you about her?”
“Now that I think of it, he did say something or other.”
“What did he tell you about me?” bluntly asked Mrs. Bland.
“Wal, Kate,” replied Euchre, speaking for himself, “you needn't worry none, for I told Buck nothin' but compliments.”
Evidently the outlaw's wife liked Euchre, for her keen glance rested with amusement upon him.
“As for Jen, I'll tell you her story some day,” went on the woman. “It's a common enough story along this river. Euchre here is a tender-hearted old fool, and Jen has taken him in.”
“Wal, seein' as you've got me figgered correct,” replied Euchre, dryly, “I'll go in an' talk to Jennie if I may.”
“Certainly. Go ahead. Jen calls you her best friend,” said Mrs. Bland, amiably. “You're always fetching some Mexican stuff, and that's why, I guess.”
When Euchre had shuffled into the house Mrs. Bland turned to Duane with curiosity and interest in her gaze.
“Bland told me about you.”
“What did he say?” queried Duane, in pretended alarm.
“Oh, you needn't think he's done you dirt Bland's not that kind of a man. He said: 'Kate, there's a young fellow in camp—rode in here on the dodge. He's no criminal, and he refused to join my band. Wish he would. Slickest hand with a gun I've seen for many a day! I'd like to see him and Chess meet out there in the road.' Then Bland went on to tell how you and Bosomer came together.”
“What did you say?” inquired Duane, as she paused.
“Me? Why, I asked him what you looked like,” she replied, gayly.
“Well?” went on Duane.
“Magnificent chap, Bland said. Bigger than any man in the valley. Just a great blue-eyed sunburned boy!”
“Humph!” exclaimed Duane. “I'm sorry he led you to expect somebody worth seeing.”
“But I'm not disappointed,” she returned, archly. “Duane, are you going to stay long here in camp?”
“Yes, till I run out of money and have to move. Why?”
Mrs. Bland's face underwent one of the singular changes. The smiles and flushes and glances, all that had been coquettish about her, had lent her a certain attractiveness, almost beauty and youth. But with some powerful emotion she changed and instantly became a woman of discontent, Duane imagined, of deep, violent nature.
“I'll tell you, Duane,” she said, earnestly, “I'm sure glad if you mean to bide here awhile. I'm a miserable woman, Duane. I'm an outlaw's wife, and I hate him and the life I have to lead. I come of a good family in Brownsville. I never knew Bland was an outlaw till long after he married me. We were separated at times, and I imagined he was away on business. But the truth came out. Bland shot my own cousin, who told me. My family cast me off, and I had to flee with Bland. I was only eighteen then. I've lived here since. I never see a decent woman or man. I never hear anything about my old home or folks or friends. I'm buried here—buried alive with a lot of thieves and murderers. Can you blame me for being glad to see a young fellow—a gentleman—like the boys I used to go with? I tell you it makes me feel full—I want to cry. I'm sick for somebody to talk to. I have no children, thank God! If I had I'd not stay here. I'm sick of this hole. I'm lonely—”
There appeared to be no doubt about the truth of all this. Genuine emotion checked, then halted the hurried speech. She broke down and cried. It seemed strange to Duane that an outlaw's wife—and a woman who fitted her consort and the wild nature of their surroundings—should have weakness enough to weep. Duane believed and pitied her.
“I'm sorry for you,” he said.
“Don't be SORRY for me,” she said. “That only makes me see the—the difference between you and me. And don't pay any attention to what these outlaws say about me. They're ignorant. They couldn't understand me. You'll hear that Bland killed men who ran after me. But that's a lie. Bland, like all the other outlaws along this river, is always looking for somebody to kill. He SWEARS not, but I don't believe him. He explains that gunplay gravitates to men who are the real thing—that it is provoked by the four-flushes, the bad men. I don't know. All I know is that somebody is being killed every other day. He hated Spence before Spence ever saw me.”
“Would Bland object if I called on you occasionally?” inquired Duane.
“No, he wouldn't. He likes me to have friends. Ask him yourself when he comes back. The trouble has been that two or three of his men fell in love with me, and when half drunk got to fighting. You're not going to do that.”
“I'm not going to get half drunk, that's certain,” replied Duane.
He was surprised to see her eyes dilate, then glow with fire. Before she could reply Euchre returned to the porch, and that put an end to the conversation.
Duane was content to let the matter rest there, and had little more to say. Euchre and Mrs. Bland talked and joked, while Duane listened. He tried to form some estimate of her character. Manifestly she had suffered a wrong, if not worse, at Bland's hands. She was bitter, morbid, overemotional. If she was a liar, which seemed likely enough, she was a frank one, and believed herself. She had no cunning. The thing which struck Duane so forcibly was that she thirsted for respect. In that, better than in her weakness of vanity, he thought he had discovered a trait through which he could manage her.
Once, while he was revolving these thoughts, he happened to glance into the house, and deep in the shadow of a corner he caught a pale gleam of Jennie's face with great, staring eyes on him. She had been watching him, listening to what he said. He saw from her expression that she had realized what had been so hard for her to believe. Watching his chance, he flashed a look at her; and then it seemed to him the change in her face was wonderful.
Later, after he had left Mrs. Bland with a meaning “Adios—manana,” and was walking along beside the old outlaw, he found himself thinking of the girl instead of the woman, and of how he had seen her face blaze with hope and gratitude.
That night Duane was not troubled by ghosts haunting his waking and sleeping hours. He awoke feeling bright and eager, and grateful to Euchre for having put something worth while into his mind. During breakfast, however, he was unusually thoughtful, working over the idea of how much or how little he would confide in the outlaw. He was aware of Euchre's scrutiny.
“Wal,” began the old man, at last, “how'd you make out with the kid?”
“Kid?” inquired Duane, tentatively.
“Jennie, I mean. What'd you An' she talk about?”
“We had a little chat. You know you wanted me to cheer her up.”
Euchre sat with coffee-cup poised and narrow eyes studying Duane.
“Reckon you cheered her, all right. What I'm afeared of is mebbe you done the job too well.”
“How so?”
“Wal, when I went in to Jen last night I thought she was half crazy. She was burstin' with excitement, an' the look in her eyes hurt me. She wouldn't tell me a darn word you said. But she hung onto my hands, an' showed every way without speakin' how she wanted to thank me fer bringin' you over. Buck, it was plain to me thet you'd either gone the limit or else you'd been kinder prodigal of cheer an' hope. I'd hate to think you'd led Jennie to hope more'n ever would come true.”
Euchre paused, and, as there seemed no reply forthcoming, he went on:
“Buck, I've seen some outlaws whose word was good. Mine is. You can trust me. I trusted you, didn't I, takin' you over there an' puttin' you wise to my tryin' to help thet poor kid?”
Thus enjoined by Euchre, Duane began to tell the conversations with Jennie and Mrs. Bland word for word. Long before he had reached an end Euchre set down the coffee-cup and began to stare, and at the conclusion of the story his face lost some of its red color and beads of sweat stood out thickly on his brow.
“Wal, if thet doesn't floor me!” he ejaculated, blinking at Duane. “Young man, I figgered you was some swift, an' sure to make your mark on this river; but I reckon I missed your real caliber. So thet's what it means to be a man! I guess I'd forgot. Wal, I'm old, an' even if my heart was in the right place I never was built fer big stunts. Do you know what it'll take to do all you promised Jen?”
“I haven't any idea,” replied Duane, gravely.
“You'll have to pull the wool over Kate Bland's eyes, ant even if she falls in love with you, which's shore likely, thet won't be easy. An' she'd kill you in a minnit, Buck, if she ever got wise. You ain't mistaken her none, are you?”
“Not me, Euchre. She's a woman. I'd fear her more than any man.”
“Wal, you'll have to kill Bland an' Chess Alloway an' Rugg, an' mebbe some others, before you can ride off into the hills with thet girl.”
“Why? Can't we plan to be nice to Mrs. Bland and then at an opportune time sneak off without any gun-play?”
“Don't see how on earth,” returned Euchre, earnestly. “When Bland's away he leaves all kinds of spies an' scouts watchin' the valley trails. They've all got rifles. You couldn't git by them. But when the boss is home there's a difference. Only, of course, him an' Chess keep their eyes peeled. They both stay to home pretty much, except when they're playin' monte or poker over at Benson's. So I say the best bet is to pick out a good time in the afternoon, drift over careless-like with a couple of hosses, choke Mrs. Bland or knock her on the head, take Jennie with you, an' make a rush to git out of the valley. If you had luck you might pull thet stunt without throwin' a gun. But I reckon the best figgerin' would include dodgin' some lead an' leavin' at least Bland or Alloway dead behind you. I'm figgerin', of course, thet when they come home an' find out you're visitin' Kate frequent they'll jest naturally look fer results. Chess don't like you, fer no reason except you're swift on the draw—mebbe swifter 'n him. Thet's the hell of this gun-play business. No one can ever tell who's the swifter of two gunmen till they meet. Thet fact holds a fascination mebbe you'll learn some day. Bland would treat you civil onless there was reason not to, an' then I don't believe he'd invite himself to a meetin' with you. He'd set Chess or Rugg to put you out of the way. Still Bland's no coward, an' if you came across him at a bad moment you'd have to be quicker 'n you was with Bosomer.”
“All right. I'll meet what comes,” said Duane, quickly. “The great point is to have horses ready and pick the right moment, then rush the trick through.”
“Thet's the ONLY chance fer success. An' you can't do it alone.”
“I'll have to. I wouldn't ask you to help me. Leave you behind!”
“Wal, I'll take my chances,” replied Euchre, gruffly. “I'm goin' to help Jennie, you can gamble your last peso on thet. There's only four men in this camp who would shoot me—Bland, an' his right-hand pards, an' thet rabbit-faced Benson. If you happened to put out Bland and Chess, I'd stand a good show with the other two. Anyway, I'm old an' tired—what's the difference if I do git plugged? I can risk as much as you, Buck, even if I am afraid of gun-play. You said correct, 'Hosses ready, the right minnit, then rush the trick.' Thet much 's settled. Now let's figger all the little details.”
They talked and planned, though in truth it was Euchre who planned, Duane who listened and agreed. While awaiting the return of Bland and his lieutenants it would be well for Duane to grow friendly with the other outlaws, to sit in a few games of monte, or show a willingness to spend a little money. The two schemers were to call upon Mrs. Bland every day—Euchre to carry messages of cheer and warning to Jennie, Duane to blind the elder woman at any cost. These preliminaries decided upon, they proceeded to put them into action.
No hard task was it to win the friendship of the most of those good-natured outlaws. They were used to men of a better order than theirs coming to the hidden camps and sooner or later sinking to their lower level. Besides, with them everything was easy come, easy go. That was why life itself went on so carelessly and usually ended so cheaply. There were men among them, however, that made Duane feel that terrible inexplicable wrath rise in his breast. He could not bear to be near them. He could not trust himself. He felt that any instant a word, a deed, something might call too deeply to that instinct he could no longer control. Jackrabbit Benson was one of these men. Because of him and other outlaws of his ilk Duane could scarcely ever forget the reality of things. This was a hidden valley, a robbers' den, a rendezvous for murderers, a wild place stained red by deeds of wild men. And because of that there was always a charged atmosphere. The merriest, idlest, most careless moment might in the flash of an eye end in ruthless and tragic action. In an assemblage of desperate characters it could not be otherwise. The terrible thing that Duane sensed was this. The valley was beautiful, sunny, fragrant, a place to dream in; the mountaintops were always blue or gold rimmed, the yellow river slid slowly and majestically by, the birds sang in the cottonwoods, the horses grazed and pranced, children played and women longed for love, freedom, happiness; the outlaws rode in and out, free with money and speech; they lived comfortably in their adobe homes, smoked, gambled, talked, laughed, whiled away the idle hours—and all the time life there was wrong, and the simplest moment might be precipitated by that evil into the most awful of contrasts. Duane felt rather than saw a dark, brooding shadow over the valley.
Then, without any solicitation or encouragement from Duane, the Bland woman fell passionately in love with him. His conscience was never troubled about the beginning of that affair. She launched herself. It took no great perspicuity on his part to see that. And the thing which evidently held her in check was the newness, the strangeness, and for the moment the all-satisfying fact of his respect for her. Duane exerted himself to please, to amuse, to interest, to fascinate her, and always with deference. That was his strong point, and it had made his part easy so far. He believed he could carry the whole scheme through without involving himself any deeper.
He was playing at a game of love—playing with life and deaths Sometimes he trembled, not that he feared Bland or Alloway or any other man, but at the deeps of life he had come to see into. He was carried out of his old mood. Not once since this daring motive had stirred him had he been haunted by the phantom of Bain beside his bed. Rather had he been haunted by Jennie's sad face, her wistful smile, her eyes. He never was able to speak a word to her. What little communication he had with her was through Euchre, who carried short messages. But he caught glimpses of her every time he went to the Bland house. She contrived somehow to pass door or window, to give him a look when chance afforded. And Duane discovered with surprise that these moments were more thrilling to him than any with Mrs. Bland. Often Duane knew Jennie was sitting just inside the window, and then he felt inspired in his talk, and it was all made for her. So at least she came to know him while as yet she was almost a stranger. Jennie had been instructed by Euchre to listen, to understand that this was Duane's only chance to help keep her mind from constant worry, to gather the import of every word which had a double meaning.
Euchre said that the girl had begun to wither under the strain, to burn up with intense hope which had flamed within her. But all the difference Duane could see was a paler face and darker, more wonderful eyes. The eyes seemed to be entreating him to hurry, that time was flying, that soon it might be too late. Then there was another meaning in them, a light, a strange fire wholly inexplicable to Duane. It was only a flash gone in an instant. But he remembered it because he had never seen it in any other woman's eyes. And all through those waiting days he knew that Jennie's face, and especially the warm, fleeting glance she gave him, was responsible for a subtle and gradual change in him. This change he fancied, was only that through remembrance of her he got rid of his pale, sickening ghosts.
One day a careless Mexican threw a lighted cigarette up into the brush matting that served as a ceiling for Benson's den, and there was a fire which left little more than the adobe walls standing. The result was that while repairs were being made there was no gambling and drinking. Time hung very heavily on the hands of some two-score outlaws. Days passed by without a brawl, and Bland's valley saw more successive hours of peace than ever before. Duane, however, found the hours anything but empty. He spent more time at Mrs. Bland's; he walked miles on all the trails leading out of the valley; he had a care for the condition of his two horses.
Upon his return from the latest of these tramps Euchre suggested that they go down to the river to the boat-landing.
“Ferry couldn't run ashore this mornin',” said Euchre. “River gettin' low an' sand-bars makin' it hard fer hosses. There's a greaser freight-wagon stuck in the mud. I reckon we might hear news from the freighters. Bland's supposed to be in Mexico.”
Nearly all the outlaws in camp were assembled on the riverbank, lolling in the shade of the cottonwoods. The heat was oppressive. Not an outlaw offered to help the freighters, who were trying to dig a heavily freighted wagon out of the quicksand. Few outlaws would work for themselves, let alone for the despised Mexicans.
Duane and Euchre joined the lazy group and sat down with them. Euchre lighted a black pipe, and, drawing his hat over his eyes, lay back in comfort after the manner of the majority of the outlaws. But Duane was alert, observing, thoughtful. He never missed anything. It was his belief that any moment an idle word might be of benefit to him. Moreover, these rough men were always interesting.
“Bland's been chased across the river,” said one.
“New, he's deliverin' cattle to thet Cuban ship,” replied another.
“Big deal on, hey?”
“Some big. Rugg says the boss hed an order fer fifteen thousand.”
“Say, that order'll take a year to fill.”
“New. Hardin is in cahoots with Bland. Between 'em they'll fill orders bigger 'n thet.”
“Wondered what Hardin was rustlin' in here fer.”
Duane could not possibly attend to all the conversation among the outlaws. He endeavored to get the drift of talk nearest to him.
“Kid Fuller's goin' to cash,” said a sandy-whiskered little outlaw.
“So Jim was tellin' me. Blood-poison, ain't it? Thet hole wasn't bad. But he took the fever,” rejoined a comrade.
“Deger says the Kid might pull through if he hed nursin'.”
“Wal, Kate Bland ain't nursin' any shot-up boys these days. She hasn't got time.”
A laugh followed this sally; then came a penetrating silence. Some of the outlaws glanced good-naturedly at Duane. They bore him no ill will. Manifestly they were aware of Mrs. Bland's infatuation.
“Pete, 'pears to me you've said thet before.”
“Shore. Wal, it's happened before.”
This remark drew louder laughter and more significant glances at Duane. He did not choose to ignore them any longer.
“Boys, poke all the fun you like at me, but don't mention any lady's name again. My hand is nervous and itchy these days.”
He smiled as he spoke, and his speech was drawled; but the good humor in no wise weakened it. Then his latter remark was significant to a class of men who from inclination and necessity practiced at gun-drawing until they wore callous and sore places on their thumbs and inculcated in the very deeps of their nervous organization a habit that made even the simplest and most innocent motion of the hand end at or near the hip. There was something remarkable about a gun-fighter's hand. It never seemed to be gloved, never to be injured, never out of sight or in an awkward position.
There were grizzled outlaws in that group, some of whom had many notches on their gun-handles, and they, with their comrades, accorded Duane silence that carried conviction of the regard in which he was held.
Duane could not recall any other instance where he had let fall a familiar speech to these men, and certainly he had never before hinted of his possibilities. He saw instantly that he could not have done better.
“Orful hot, ain't it?” remarked Bill Black, presently. Bill could not keep quiet for long. He was a typical Texas desperado, had never been anything else. He was stoop-shouldered and bow-legged from much riding; a wiry little man, all muscle, with a square head, a hard face partly black from scrubby beard and red from sun, and a bright, roving, cruel eye. His shirt was open at the neck, showing a grizzled breast.
“Is there any guy in this heah outfit sport enough to go swimmin'?” he asked.
“My Gawd, Bill, you ain't agoin' to wash!” exclaimed a comrade.
This raised a laugh in which Black joined. But no one seemed eager to join him in a bath.
“Laziest outfit I ever rustled with,” went on Bill, discontentedly. “Nuthin' to do! Say, if nobody wants to swim maybe some of you'll gamble?”
He produced a dirty pack of cards and waved them at the motionless crowd.
“Bill, you're too good at cards,” replied a lanky outlaw.
“Now, Jasper, you say thet powerful sweet, an' you look sweet, er I might take it to heart,” replied Black, with a sudden change of tone.
Here it was again—that upflashing passion. What Jasper saw fit to reply would mollify the outlaw or it would not. There was an even balance.
“No offense, Bill,” said Jasper, placidly, without moving.
Bill grunted and forgot Jasper. But he seemed restless and dissatisfied. Duane knew him to be an inveterate gambler. And as Benson's place was out of running-order, Black was like a fish on dry land.
“Wal, if you-all are afraid of the cairds, what will you bet on?” he asked, in disgust.
“Bill, I'll play you a game of mumbly peg fer two bits.” replied one.
Black eagerly accepted. Betting to him was a serious matter. The game obsessed him, not the stakes. He entered into the mumbly peg contest with a thoughtful mien and a corded brow. He won. Other comrades tried their luck with him and lost. Finally, when Bill had exhausted their supply of two-bit pieces or their desire for that particular game, he offered to bet on anything.
“See thet turtle-dove there?” he said, pointing. “I'll bet he'll scare at one stone or he won't. Five pesos he'll fly or he won't fly when some one chucks a stone. Who'll take me up?”
That appeared to be more than the gambling spirit of several outlaws could withstand.
“Take thet. Easy money,” said one.
“Who's goin' to chuck the stone?” asked another.
“Anybody,” replied Bill.
“Wal, I'll bet you I can scare him with one stone,” said the first outlaw.
“We're in on thet, Jim to fire the darnick,” chimed in the others.
The money was put up, the stone thrown. The turtle-dove took flight, to the great joy of all the outlaws except Bill.
“I'll bet you-all he'll come back to thet tree inside of five minnits,” he offered, imperturbably.
Hereupon the outlaws did not show any laziness in their alacrity to cover Bill's money as it lay on the grass. Somebody had a watch, and they all sat down, dividing attention between the timepiece and the tree. The minutes dragged by to the accompaniment of various jocular remarks anent a fool and his money. When four and three-quarter minutes had passed a turtle-dove alighted in the cottonwood. Then ensued an impressive silence while Bill calmly pocketed the fifty dollars.
“But it hadn't the same dove!” exclaimed one outlaw, excitedly. “This 'n'is smaller, dustier, not so purple.”
Bill eyed the speaker loftily.
“Wal, you'll have to ketch the other one to prove thet. Sabe, pard? Now I'll bet any gent heah the fifty I won thet I can scare thet dove with one stone.”
No one offered to take his wager.
“Wal, then, I'll bet any of you even money thet you CAN'T scare him with one stone.”
Not proof against this chance, the outlaws made up a purse, in no wise disconcerted by Bill's contemptuous allusions to their banding together. The stone was thrown. The dove did not fly. Thereafter, in regard to that bird, Bill was unable to coax or scorn his comrades into any kind of wager.
He tried them with a multiplicity of offers, and in vain. Then he appeared at a loss for some unusual and seductive wager. Presently a little ragged Mexican boy came along the river trail, a particularly starved and poor-looking little fellow. Bill called to him and gave him a handful of silver coins. Speechless, dazed, he went his way hugging the money.
“I'll bet he drops some before he gits to the road,” declared Bill. “I'll bet he runs. Hurry, you four-flush gamblers.”
Bill failed to interest any of his companions, and forthwith became sullen and silent. Strangely his good humor departed in spite of the fact that he had won considerable.
Duane, watching the disgruntled outlaw, marveled at him and wondered what was in his mind. These men were more variable than children, as unstable as water, as dangerous as dynamite.
“Bill, I'll bet you ten you can't spill whatever's in the bucket thet peon's packin',” said the outlaw called Jim.
Black's head came up with the action of a hawk about to swoop.
Duane glanced from Black to the road, where he saw a crippled peon carrying a tin bucket toward the river. This peon was a half-witted Indian who lived in a shack and did odd jobs for the Mexicans. Duane had met him often.
“Jim, I'll take you up,” replied Black.
Something, perhaps a harshness in his voice, caused Duane to whirl. He caught a leaping gleam in the outlaw's eye.
“Aw, Bill, thet's too fur a shot,” said Jasper, as Black rested an elbow on his knee and sighted over the long, heavy Colt. The distance to the peon was about fifty paces, too far for even the most expert shot to hit a moving object so small as a bucket.
Duane, marvelously keen in the alignment of sights, was positive that Black held too high. Another look at the hard face, now tense and dark with blood, confirmed Duane's suspicion that the outlaw was not aiming at the bucket at all. Duane leaped and struck the leveled gun out of his hand. Another outlaw picked it up.
Black fell back astounded. Deprived of his weapon, he did not seem the same man, or else he was cowed by Duane's significant and formidable front. Sullenly he turned away without even asking for his gun.