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
