CHAPTER VI
Next morning Duane found that a moody and despondent spell had fastenedon him. Wishing to be alone, he went out and walked a trail leadinground the river bluff. He thought and thought. After a while he made outthat the trouble with him probably was that he could not resign himselfto his fate. He abhorred the possibility chance seemed to hold in storefor him. He could not believe there was no hope. But what to do appearedbeyond his power to tell.
Duane had intelligence and keenness enough to see his peril--thedanger threatening his character as a man, just as much as that whichthreatened his life. He cared vastly more, he discovered, for what heconsidered honor and integrity than he did for life. He saw that it wasbad for him to be alone. But, it appeared, lonely months and perhapsyears inevitably must be his. Another thing puzzled him. In the brightlight of day he could not recall the state of mind that was his attwilight or dusk or in the dark night. By day these visitations becameto him what they really were--phantoms of his conscience. He coulddismiss the thought of them then. He could scarcely remember or believethat this strange feat of fancy or imagination had troubled him, painedhim, made him sleepless and sick.
That morning Duane spent an unhappy hour wrestling decision out of theunstable condition of his mind. But at length he determined to createinterest in all that he came across and so forget himself as much aspossible. He had an opportunity now to see just what the outlaw'slife really was. He meant to force himself to be curious, sympathetic,clear-sighted. And he would stay there in the valley until itspossibilities had been exhausted or until circumstances sent him outupon 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 eitherpride in his possession of such news or pride in Duane. "Feller namedBradley rode in this mornin'. He's heard some about you. Told about theace of spades they put over the bullet holes in thet cowpuncher Bainyou plugged. Then there was a rancher shot at a water-hole twenty milessouth 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 saddledwith gun-plays he never made. An', Buck, if you ever get famous, asseems likely, you'll be blamed for many a crime. The border'll make anoutlaw an' murderer out of you. Wal, thet's enough of thet. I've morenews. 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 yourode in. She shore wants to meet you, an' so do some of the other womenin camp. They always want to meet the new fellers who've just comein. It's lonesome for women here, an' they like to hear news from thetowns."
"Well, Euchre, I don't want to be impolite, but I'd rather not meet anywomen," rejoined Duane.
"I was afraid you wouldn't. Don't blame you much. Women are hell. I washopin', 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 oneJackrabbit 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. Someyears ago Benson made a trip over the river to buy mescal an' otherdrinks. He'll sneak over there once in a while. An' as I get it he runacross a gang of greasers with some gringo prisoners. I don't know, butI reckon there was some barterin', perhaps murderin'. Anyway, Bensonfetched the girl back. She was more dead than alive. But it turned outshe 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 neverwent much on Jackrabbit's word. Bland seen the kid right off and tookher--bought her from Benson. You can gamble Bland didn't do thet fromnotions of chivalry. I ain't gainsayin, however, but thet Jennie wasbetter off with Kate Bland. She's been hard on Jennie, but she's keptBland an' the other men from treatin' the kid shameful. Late Jennie hasgrowed into an all-fired pretty girl, an' Kate is powerful jealous ofher. I can see hell brewin' over there in Bland's cabin. Thet's whyI wish you'd come over with me. Bland's hardly ever home. His wife'sinvited 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 couldhelp her. Mind, I ain't hintin' nothin'. I'm just wantin' to put herin your way. You're a man an' can think fer yourself. I had a baby girlonce, an' if she'd lived she be as big as Jennie now, an', by Gawd, Iwouldn't want her here in Bland's camp."
"I'll go, Euchre. Take me over," replied Duane. He felt Euchre's eyesupon him. The old outlaw, however, had no more to say.
In the afternoon Euchre set off with Duane, and soon they reachedBland's cabin. Duane remembered it as the one where he had seen thepretty woman watching him ride by. He could not recall what she lookedlike. The cabin was the same as the other adobe structures in thevalley, but it was larger and pleasantly located rather high up in agrove of cottonwoods. In the windows and upon the porch were evidencesof a woman's hand. Through the open door Duane caught a glimpse ofbright Mexican blankets and rugs.
Euchre knocked upon the side of the door.
"Is that you, Euchre?" asked a girl's voice, low, hesitatingly. The toneof it, rather deep and with a note of fear, struck Duane. He wonderedwhat 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 theoutlaw'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. "Itain't no time to care fer thet. Here's young Duane. Jennie, he's norustler, no thief. He's different. Come out, Jennie, an' mebbe he'll--"
Euchre did not complete his sentence. He had spoken low, with his glanceshifting from side to side.
But what he said was sufficient to bring the girl quickly. She appearedin 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 totalk 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'tmention your last name. He asked me to come over to--"
Duane's attempt at pleasantry halted short when Jennie lifted her lashesto look at him. Some kind of a shock went through Duane. Her gray eyeswere beautiful, but it had not been beauty that cut short his speech. Heseemed to see a tragic struggle between hope and doubt that shone in herpiercing 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 goodto me. But he's afraid of Bland. He said you were different. Who areyou?"
Duane told her.
"You're not a robber or rustler or murderer or some bad man come here tohide?"
"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-scrapeat 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 thestrained gaze upon him, but hope was kindling, and
the hard lines of heryouthful face were softening.
Something sweet and warm stirred deep in Duane as he realized theunfortunate 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 toolate."
Duane's spirit leaped.
"Maybe I am," he replied, instantly.
She seemed to check a blind impulse to run into his arms. Her cheekflamed, 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 shookher.
"Look at me--straight in the eye. There are decent men. Haven't you afather--a brother?"
"They're dead--killed by raiders. We lived in Dimmit County. I wascarried away," Jennie replied, hurriedly. She put up an appealing handto him. "Forgive me. I believe--I know you're good. It was only--I liveso much in fear--I'm half crazy--I've almost forgotten what good men arelike, 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 musthave 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. Areyou watched--kept prisoner?"
"No. I could have run off lots of times. But I was afraid. I'd only havefallen 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 otherdogs. She's been as good as that, and I'm grateful. She hasn't done itfor love of me, though. She always hated me. And lately she's growingjealous. There was' a man came here by the name of Spence--so he calledhimself. He tried to be kind to me. But she wouldn't let him. She wasin love with him. She's a bad woman. Bland finally shot Spence, andthat ended that. She's been jealous ever since. I hear her fighting withBland about me. She swears she'll kill me before he gets me. And Blandlaughs in her face. Then I've heard Chess Alloway try to persuade Blandto give me to him. But Bland doesn't laugh then. Just lately beforeBland went away things almost came to a head. I couldn't sleep. I wishedMrs. 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 willbe to fool Mrs. Bland. If she suspected me she'd have the whole gang ofoutlaws 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 drunksometimes 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 loweryourself 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 strangetumult 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 hertragic eyes on Duane's.
"Maybe he will," replied Duane. It was difficult for him to force asmile. But he achieved one.
"Oh, better take me off at once," she said. "Save me without risking somuch--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'vesettled it. Don't forget. I'll find some way to get word to you, perhapsthrough Euchre. Meanwhile keep up your courage. Remember I'll save yousomehow. We'll try strategy first. Whatever you see or hear me do, don'tthink 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 lameand that she wore Mexican sandals over bare feet.
He sat down upon a bench on the porch and directed his attention to theapproaching couple. The trees of the grove were thick enough for him tomake 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, boldattractiveness. Duane was more concerned with her expression than withher good looks; and as she appeared unsuspicious he felt relieved. Thesituation 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 soprepossessing at close range. Her eyes were large, rather prominent, andbrown in color. Her mouth, too, was large, with the lips full, and shehad white teeth.
Duane took her proffered hand and remarked frankly that he was glad tomeet her.
Mrs. Bland appeared pleased; and her laugh, which followed, was loud andrather 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 tookthe seat Duane offered her. "Sorry to have been out. Kid Fuller's lyingover 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 itsure takes my time. Have you been waiting here alone? Didn't see thatslattern girl of mine?"
She gave him a sharp glance. The woman had an extraordinary play offeature, Duane thought, and unless she was smiling was not pretty atall.
"I've been alone," replied Duane. "Haven't seen anybody but asick-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 shesure 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 worrynone, for I told Buck nothin' but compliments."
Evidently the outlaw's wife liked Euchre, for her keen glance restedwith amusement upon him.
"As for Jen, I'll tell you her story some day," went on the woman. "It'sa common enough story along this river. Euchre here is a tender-heartedold 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, Iguess."
When Euchre had shuffled into the house Mrs. Bland turned to Duane withcuriosity 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 aman. He said: 'Kate, there's a young fellow in camp--rode in here on thedodge. 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 himand Chess meet out there in the road.' Then Bland went on to tell howyou 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 agreat blue-eyed sunburned boy!"
"Humph!" exclaimed Duane. "I'm sorry he led you to expect somebody worthseeing."
"But I'm not disappointed," she return
ed, archly. "Duane, are you goingto 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 andflushes and glances, all that had been coquettish about her, had lenther a certain attractiveness, almost beauty and youth. But with somepowerful 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 meanto 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 inBrownsville. I never knew Bland was an outlaw till long after he marriedme. 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 familycast 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 hearanything about my old home or folks or friends. I'm buried here--buriedalive with a lot of thieves and murderers. Can you blame me for beingglad to see a young fellow--a gentleman--like the boys I used to gowith? I tell you it makes me feel full--I want to cry. I'm sick forsomebody to talk to. I have no children, thank God! If I had I'd notstay here. I'm sick of this hole. I'm lonely--"
There appeared to be no doubt about the truth of all this. Genuineemotion checked, then halted the hurried speech. She broke down andcried. It seemed strange to Duane that an outlaw's wife--and a womanwho fitted her consort and the wild nature of their surroundings--shouldhave 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--thedifference between you and me. And don't pay any attention to what theseoutlaws 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 lookingfor somebody to kill. He SWEARS not, but I don't believe him. Heexplains that gunplay gravitates to men who are the real thing--that itis provoked by the four-flushes, the bad men. I don't know. All I knowis that somebody is being killed every other day. He hated Spence beforeSpence 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 hecomes back. The trouble has been that two or three of his men fell inlove with me, and when half drunk got to fighting. You're not going todo 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. Beforeshe could reply Euchre returned to the porch, and that put an end to theconversation.
Duane was content to let the matter rest there, and had little more tosay. Euchre and Mrs. Bland talked and joked, while Duane listened.He tried to form some estimate of her character. Manifestly she hadsuffered 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 thingwhich struck Duane so forcibly was that she thirsted for respect.In that, better than in her weakness of vanity, he thought he haddiscovered a trait through which he could manage her.
Once, while he was revolving these thoughts, he happened to glance intothe house, and deep in the shadow of a corner he caught a pale gleamof Jennie's face with great, staring eyes on him. She had been watchinghim, listening to what he said. He saw from her expression that she hadrealized 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 herface was wonderful.
Later, after he had left Mrs. Bland with a meaning "Adios--manana," andwas walking along beside the old outlaw, he found himself thinking ofthe girl instead of the woman, and of how he had seen her face blazewith hope and gratitude.