CHAPTER II
A thought kept repeating itself to Duane, and it was that he might havespared himself concern through his imagining how awful it would be tokill a man. He had no such feeling now. He had rid the community of adrunken, bragging, quarrelsome cowboy.
When he came to the gate of his home and saw his uncle there with amettlesome horse, saddled, with canteen, rope, and bags all in place,a subtle shock pervaded his spirit. It had slipped his mind--theconsequence of his act. But sight of the horse and the look of his unclerecalled the fact that he must now become a fugitive. An unreasonableanger took hold of him.
"The d--d fool!" he exclaimed, hotly. "Meeting Bain wasn't much, UncleJim. He dusted my boots, that's all. And for that I've got to go on thedodge."
"Son, you killed him--then?" asked the uncle, huskily.
"Yes. I stood over him--watched him die. I did as I would have been doneby."
"I knew it. Long ago I saw it comin'. But now we can't stop to cry overspilt blood. You've got to leave town an' this part of the country."
"Mother!" exclaimed Duane.
"She's away from home. You can't wait. I'll break it to her--what shealways feared."
Suddenly Duane sat down and covered his face with his hands.
"My God! Uncle, what have I done?" His broad shoulders shook.
"Listen, son, an' remember what I say," replied the elder man,earnestly. "Don't ever forget. You're not to blame. I'm glad to seeyou take it this way, because maybe you'll never grow hard an' callous.You're not to blame. This is Texas. You're your father's son. These arewild times. The law as the rangers are laying it down now can't changelife all in a minute. Even your mother, who's a good, true woman, hashad her share in making you what you are this moment. For she was one ofthe pioneers--the fightin' pioneers of this state. Those years of wildtimes, before you was born, developed in her instinct to fight, to saveher life, her children, an' that instinct has cropped out in you. Itwill be many years before it dies out of the boys born in Texas."
"I'm a murderer," said Duane, shuddering.
"No, son, you're not. An' you never will be. But you've got to be anoutlaw till time makes it safe for you to come home."
"An outlaw?"
"I said it. If we had money an' influence we'd risk a trial. But we'veneither. An' I reckon the scaffold or jail is no place for BuckleyDuane. Strike for the wild country, an' wherever you go an' whateveryou do-be a man. Live honestly, if that's possible. If it isn't, be ashonest as you can. If you have to herd with outlaws try not to becomebad. There are outlaws who 're not all bad--many who have been driven tothe river by such a deal as this you had. When you get among these menavoid brawls. Don't drink; don't gamble. I needn't tell you what to doif it comes to gun-play, as likely it will. You can't come home. Whenthis thing is lived down, if that time ever comes, I'll get word intothe unsettled country. It'll reach you some day. That's all. Remember,be a man. Goodby."
Duane, with blurred sight and contracting throat, gripped his uncle'shand and bade him a wordless farewell. Then he leaped astride the blackand rode out of town.
As swiftly as was consistent with a care for his steed, Duane put adistance of fifteen or eighteen miles behind him. With that he slowedup, and the matter of riding did not require all his faculties. Hepassed several ranches and was seen by men. This did not suit him, andhe took an old trail across country. It was a flat region with a poorgrowth of mesquite and prickly-pear cactus. Occasionally he caughta glimpse of low hills in the distance. He had hunted often in thatsection, and knew where to find grass and water. When he reachedthis higher ground he did not, however, halt at the first favorablecamping-spot, but went on and on. Once he came out upon the brow of ahill and saw a considerable stretch of country beneath him. It had thegray sameness characterizing all that he had traversed. He seemed towant to see wide spaces--to get a glimpse of the great wilderness lyingsomewhere beyond to the southwest. It was sunset when he decided to campat a likely spot he came across. He led the horse to water, and thenbegan searching through the shallow valley for a suitable place to camp.He passed by old camp-sites that he well remembered. These, however, didnot strike his fancy this time, and the significance of the change inhim did not occur at the moment. At last he found a secluded spot, undercover of thick mesquites and oaks, at a goodly distance from the oldtrail. He took saddle and pack off the horse. He looked among hiseffects for a hobble, and, finding that his uncle had failed to put onein, he suddenly remembered that he seldom used a hobble, and never onthis horse. He cut a few feet off the end of his lasso and used that.The horse, unused to such hampering of his free movements, had to bedriven out upon the grass.
Duane made a small fire, prepared and ate his supper. This done, endingthe work of that day, he sat down and filled his pipe. Twilight hadwaned into dusk. A few wan stars had just begun to show and brighten.Above the low continuous hum of insects sounded the evening carol ofrobins. Presently the birds ceased their singing, and then the quietwas more noticeable. When night set in and the place seemed all the moreisolated and lonely for that Duane had a sense of relief.
It dawned upon him all at once that he was nervous, watchful, sleepless.The fact caused him surprise, and he began to think back, to take noteof his late actions and their motives. The change one day had wroughtamazed him. He who had always been free, easy, happy, especially whenout alone in the open, had become in a few short hours bound, serious,preoccupied. The silence that had once been sweet now meant nothingto him except a medium whereby he might the better hear the soundsof pursuit. The loneliness, the night, the wild, that had always beenbeautiful to him, now only conveyed a sense of safety for the present.He watched, he listened, he thought. He felt tired, yet had noinclination to rest. He intended to be off by dawn, heading toward thesouthwest. Had he a destination? It was vague as his knowledge of thatgreat waste of mesquite and rock bordering the Rio Grande. Somewhere outthere was a refuge. For he was a fugitive from justice, an outlaw.
This being an outlaw then meant eternal vigilance. No home, no rest, nosleep, no content, no life worth the living! He must be a lone wolfor he must herd among men obnoxious to him. If he worked for an honestliving he still must hide his identity and take risks of detection. Ifhe did not work on some distant outlying ranch, how was he to live? Theidea of stealing was repugnant to him. The future seemed gray and somberenough. And he was twenty-three years old.
Why had this hard life been imposed upon him?
The bitter question seemed to start a strange iciness that stolealong his veins. What was wrong with him? He stirred the few sticks ofmesquite into a last flickering blaze. He was cold, and for some reasonhe wanted some light. The black circle of darkness weighed down uponhim, closed in around him. Suddenly he sat bolt upright and then frozein that position. He had heard a step. It was behind him--no--on theside. Some one was there. He forced his hand down to his gun, and thetouch of cold steel was another icy shock. Then he waited. But allwas silent--silent as only a wilderness arroyo can be, with its lowmurmuring of wind in the mesquite. Had he heard a step? He began tobreathe again.
But what was the matter with the light of his camp-fire? It had takenon a strange green luster and seemed to be waving off into the outershadows. Duane heard no step, saw no movement; nevertheless, there wasanother present at that camp-fire vigil. Duane saw him. He lay there inthe middle of the green brightness, prostrate, motionless, dying. CalBain! His features were wonderfully distinct, clearer than any cameo,more sharply outlined than those of any picture. It was a hard facesoftening at the threshold of eternity. The red tan of sun, the coarsesigns of drunkenness, the ferocity and hate so characteristic of Bainwere no longer there. This face represented a different Bain, showed allthat was human in him fading, fading as swiftly as it blanched white.The lips wanted to speak, but had not the power. The eyes held an agonyof thought. They revealed what might have been possible for this manif he lived--that he saw his mistake too late. Then they rolled, setblankly, and closed in death.
That haunting visitation left Duane sitting there in a cold sweat, aremorse gnawing at his vitals, realizing the curse that was on him.He divined that never would he be able to keep off that phantom. Heremembered how his father had been eternally pursued by the furies ofaccusing guilt, how he had never been able to forget in work or in sleepthose men he had killed.
The hour was late when Duane's mind let him sleep, and then dreamstroubled him. In the morning he bestirred himself so early that in thegray gloom he had difficulty in finding his horse. Day had just brokenwhen he struck the old trail again.
He rode hard all morning and halted in a shady spot to rest and grazehis horse. In the afternoon he took to the trail at an easy trot. Thecountry grew wilder. Bald, rugged mountains broke the level of themonotonous horizon. About three in the afternoon he came to a littleriver which marked the boundary line of his hunting territory.
The decision he made to travel up-stream for a while was owing to twofacts: the river was high with quicksand bars on each side, and he feltreluctant to cross into that region where his presence alone meant thathe was a marked man. The bottom-lands through which the river wound tothe southwest were more inviting than the barrens he had traversed. Therest or that day he rode leisurely up-stream. At sunset he penetratedthe brakes of willow and cottonwood to spend the night. It seemed tohim that in this lonely cover he would feel easy and content. But hedid not. Every feeling, every imagining he had experienced the previousnight returned somewhat more vividly and accentuated by newer ones ofthe same intensity and color.
In this kind of travel and camping he spent three more days, duringwhich he crossed a number of trails, and one road where cattle--stolencattle, probably--had recently passed. Thus time exhausted his supplyof food, except salt, pepper, coffee, and sugar, of which he had aquantity. There were deer in the brakes; but, as he could not get closeenough to kill them with a revolver, he had to satisfy himself with arabbit. He knew he might as well content himself with the hard fare thatassuredly would be his lot.
Somewhere up this river there was a village called Huntsville. Itwas distant about a hundred miles from Wellston, and had a reputationthroughout southwestern Texas. He had never been there. The fact wasthis reputation was such that honest travelers gave the town a wideberth. Duane had considerable money for him in his possession, and heconcluded to visit Huntsville, if he could find it, and buy a stock ofprovisions.
The following day, toward evening, he happened upon a road whichhe believed might lead to the village. There were a good many freshhorse-tracks in the sand, and these made him thoughtful. Nevertheless,he followed the road, proceeding cautiously. He had not gone very farwhen the sound of rapid hoof-beats caught his ears. They came from hisrear. In the darkening twilight he could not see any great distance backalong the road. Voices, however, warned him that these riders, whoeverthey were, had approached closer than he liked. To go farther down theroad was not to be thought of, so he turned a little way in among themesquites and halted, hoping to escape being seen or heard. As he wasnow a fugitive, it seemed every man was his enemy and pursuer.
The horsemen were fast approaching. Presently they were abreast ofDuane's position, so near that he could hear the creak of saddles, theclink of spurs.
"Shore he crossed the river below," said one man.
"I reckon you're right, Bill. He's slipped us," replied another.
Rangers or a posse of ranchers in pursuit of a fugitive! The knowledgegave Duane a strange thrill. Certainly they could not have been huntinghim. But the feeling their proximity gave him was identical to whatit would have been had he been this particular hunted man. He heldhis breath; he clenched his teeth; he pressed a quieting hand upon hishorse. Suddenly he became aware that these horsemen had halted. Theywere whispering. He could just make out a dark group closely massed.What had made them halt so suspiciously?
"You're wrong, Bill," said a man, in a low but distinct voice.
"The idee of hearin' a hoss heave. You're wuss'n a ranger. And you'rehell-bent on killin' that rustler. Now I say let's go home and eat."
"Wal, I'll just take a look at the sand," replied the man called Bill.
Duane heard the clink of spurs on steel stirrup and the thud of boots onthe ground. There followed a short silence which was broken by a sharplybreathed exclamation.
Duane waited for no more. They had found his trail. He spurred his horsestraight into the brush. At the second crashing bound there came yellsfrom the road, and then shots. Duane heard the hiss of a bullet closeby his ear, and as it struck a branch it made a peculiar singing sound.These shots and the proximity of that lead missile roused in Duane aquick, hot resentment which mounted into a passion almost ungovernable.He must escape, yet it seemed that he did not care whether he did ornot. Something grim kept urging him to halt and return the fire of thesemen. After running a couple of hundred yards he raised himself from overthe pommel, where he had bent to avoid the stinging branches, and triedto guide his horse. In the dark shadows under mesquites and cottonwoodshe was hard put to it to find open passage; however, he succeeded sowell and made such little noise that gradually he drew away from hispursuers. The sound of their horses crashing through the thickets diedaway. Duane reined in and listened. He had distanced them. Probably theywould go into camp till daylight, then follow his tracks. He started onagain, walking his horse, and peered sharply at the ground, so that hemight take advantage of the first trail he crossed. It seemed a longwhile until he came upon one. He followed it until a late hour, when,striking the willow brakes again and hence the neighborhood of theriver, he picketed his horse and lay down to rest. But he did not sleep.His mind bitterly revolved the fate that had come upon him. He madeefforts to think of other things, but in vain.
Every moment he expected the chill, the sense of loneliness that yetwas ominous of a strange visitation, the peculiarly imagined lights andshades of the night--these things that presaged the coming of Cal Bain.Doggedly Duane fought against the insidious phantom. He kept tellinghimself that it was just imagination, that it would wear off in time.Still in his heart he did not believe what he hoped. But he would notgive up; he would not accept the ghost of his victim as a reality.
Gray dawn found him in the saddle again headed for the river. Half anhour of riding brought him to the dense chaparral and willow thickets.These he threaded to come at length to the ford. It was a gravel bottom,and therefore an easy crossing. Once upon the opposite shore hereined in his horse and looked darkly back. This action marked hisacknowledgment of his situation: he had voluntarily sought the refugeof the outlaws; he was beyond the pale. A bitter and passionate cursepassed his lips as he spurred his horse into the brakes on that alienshore.
He rode perhaps twenty miles, not sparing his horse nor caring whetheror not he left a plain trail.
"Let them hunt me!" he muttered.
When the heat of the day began to be oppressive, and hunger and thirstmade themselves manifest, Duane began to look about him for a place tohalt for the noon-hours. The trail led into a road which was hard packedand smooth from the tracks of cattle. He doubted not that he had comeacross one of the roads used by border raiders. He headed into it, andhad scarcely traveled a mile when, turning a curve, he came point-blankupon a single horseman riding toward him. Both riders wheeled theirmounts sharply and were ready to run and shoot back. Not more than ahundred paces separated them. They stood then for a moment watching eachother.
"Mawnin', stranger," called the man, dropping his hand from his hip.
"Howdy," replied Duane, shortly.
They rode toward each other, closing half the gap, then they haltedagain.
"I seen you ain't no ranger," called the rider, "an' shore I ain'tnone."
He laughed loudly, as if he had made a joke.
"How'd you know I wasn't a ranger?" asked Duane, curiously. Somehowhe had instantly divined that his horseman was no officer, or even arancher trailing stolen stock.
"Wal," said the fellow, starting hi
s horse forward at a walk, "aranger'd never git ready to run the other way from one man."
He laughed again. He was small and wiry, slouchy of attire, and armed tothe teeth, and he bestrode a fine bay horse. He had quick, dancing browneyes, at once frank and bold, and a coarse, bronzed face. Evidently hewas a good-natured ruffian.
Duane acknowledged the truth of the assertion, and turned over in hismind how shrewdly the fellow had guessed him to be a hunted man.
"My name's Luke Stevens, an' I hail from the river. Who're you?" saidthis stranger.
Duane was silent.
"I reckon you're Buck Duane," went on Stevens. "I heerd you was a damnbad man with a gun."
This time Duane laughed, not at the doubtful compliment, but at theidea that the first outlaw he met should know him. Here was proof of howswiftly facts about gun-play traveled on the Texas border.
"Wal, Buck," said Stevens, in a friendly manner, "I ain't presumin' onyour time or company. I see you're headin' fer the river. But will youstop long enough to stake a feller to a bite of grub?"
"I'm out of grub, and pretty hungry myself," admitted Duane.
"Been pushin' your hoss, I see. Wal, I reckon you'd better stock upbefore you hit thet stretch of country."
He made a wide sweep of his right arm, indicating the southwest, andthere was that in his action which seemed significant of a vast andbarren region.
"Stock up?" queried Duane, thoughtfully.
"Shore. A feller has jest got to eat. I can rustle along without whisky,but not without grub. Thet's what makes it so embarrassin' travelin'these parts dodgin' your shadow. Now, I'm on my way to Mercer. It'sa little two-bit town up the river a ways. I'm goin' to pack out somegrub."
Stevens's tone was inviting. Evidently he would welcome Duane'scompanionship, but he did not openly say so. Duane kept silence,however, and then Stevens went on.
"Stranger, in this here country two's a crowd. It's safer. I never wasmuch on this lone-wolf dodgin', though I've done it of necessity. Ittakes a damn good man to travel alone any length of time. Why, I've beenthet sick I was jest achin' fer some ranger to come along an' plug me.Give me a pardner any day. Now, mebbe you're not thet kind of afeller, an' I'm shore not presumin' to ask. But I just declares myselfsufficient."
"You mean you'd like me to go with you?" asked Duane.
Stevens grinned. "Wal, I should smile. I'd be particular proud to bebraced with a man of your reputation."
"See here, my good fellow, that's all nonsense," declared Duane, in somehaste.
"Shore I think modesty becomin' to a youngster," replied Stevens. "Ihate a brag. An' I've no use fer these four-flush cowboys thet 'realways lookin' fer trouble an' talkin' gun-play. Buck, I don't know muchabout you. But every man who's lived along the Texas border remembers alot about your Dad. It was expected of you, I reckon, an' much of yourrep was established before you thronged your gun. I jest heerd thet youwas lightnin' on the draw, an' when you cut loose with a gun, why thefigger on the ace of spades would cover your cluster of bullet-holes.Thet's the word thet's gone down the border. It's the kind of reputationmost sure to fly far an' swift ahead of a man in this country. An' thesafest, too; I'll gamble on thet. It's the land of the draw. I see nowyou're only a boy, though you're shore a strappin' husky one. Now,Buck, I'm not a spring chicken, an' I've been long on the dodge. Mebbea little of my society won't hurt you none. You'll need to learn thecountry."
There was something sincere and likable about this outlaw.
"I dare say you're right," replied Duane, quietly. "And I'll go toMercer with you."
Next moment he was riding down the road with Stevens. Duane had neverbeen much of a talker, and now he found speech difficult. But hiscompanion did not seem to mind that. He was a jocose, voluble fellow,probably glad now to hear the sound of his own voice. Duane listened,and sometimes he thought with a pang of the distinction of name andheritage of blood his father had left to him.