The Lone Star Ranger | Page 8

on
this 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 be
driven out upon the grass.
Duane made a small fire, prepared and ate his supper. This done,
ending the work of that day, he sat down and filled his pipe. Twilight
had waned into dusk. A few wan stars had just begun to show and
brighten. Above the low continuous hum of insects sounded the
evening carol of robins. Presently the birds ceased their singing, and
then the quiet was more noticeable. When night set in and the place

seemed all the more isolated 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 note
of his late actions and their motives. The change one day had wrought
amazed him. He who had always been free, easy, happy, especially
when out alone in the open, had become in a few short hours bound,
serious, preoccupied. The silence that had once been sweet now meant
nothing to him except a medium whereby he might the better hear the
sounds of pursuit. The loneliness, the night, the wild, that had always
been beautiful to him, now only conveyed a sense of safety for the
present. He watched, he listened, he thought. He felt tired, yet had no
inclination to rest. He intended to be off by dawn, heading toward the
southwest. Had he a destination? It was vague as his knowledge of that
great waste of mesquite and rock bordering the Rio Grande.
Somewhere out there was a refuge. For he was a fugitive from justice,
an outlaw.
This being an outlaw then meant eternal vigilance. No home, no rest,
no sleep, no content, no life worth the livingl He must be a lone wolf or
he must herd among men obnoxious to him. If he worked for an honest
living he still must hide his identity and take risks of detection. If he
did not work on some distant outlying ranch, how was he to live? The
idea of stealing was repugnant to him. The future seemed gray and
somber enough. 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 stole along his
veins. What was wrong with him? He stirred the few sticks of mesquite
into a last flickering blaze. He was cold, and for some reason he wanted
some light. The black circle of darkness weighed down upon him,
closed in around him. Suddenly he sat bolt upright and then froze in
that position. He had heard a step. It was behind him--no--on the side.
Some one was there. He forced his hand down to his gun, and the touch
of cold steel was another icy shock. Then he waited. But all was
silent--silent as only a wilderness arroyo can be, with its low

murmuring of wind in the mesquite. Had he heard a step? He began to
breathe again.
But what was the matter with the light of his camp-fire? It had taken on
a strange green luster and seemed to be waving off into the outer
shadows. Duane heard no step, saw no movement; nevertheless, there
was another present at that camp-fire vigil. Duane saw him. He lay
there in the middle of the green brightness, prostrate, motionless, dying.
Cal Bain! His features were wonderfully distinct, clearer than any
cameo, more sharply outlined than those of any picture. It was a hard
face softening at the threshold of eternity. The red tan of sun, the coarse
signs of drunkenness, the ferocity and hate so characteristic of Bain
were no longer there. This face represented a different Bain, showed all
that 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
agony of thought. They revealed what might have been possible for this
man if he lived--that he saw his mistake too late. Then they rolled, set
blankly, and closed in death.
That haunting visitation left Duane sitting there in a cold sweat, a
remorse gnawing at his vitals, realizing the curse that was on him. He
divined that never would he be able to keep off that phantom. He
remembered how his father had been eternally pursued by the furies of
accusing guilt, how he had never been able to forget in work or in sleep
those men he had killed.
The hour was late when Duane's mind let him sleep, and then dreams
troubled him. In the morning he bestirred