CHAPTER 1

So it was in him, then—an inherited fighting instinct, a drivingintensity to kill. He was the last of the Duanes, that oldfighting stock of Texas. But not the memory of his dead father,nor the pleading of his soft-voiced mother, nor the warningof this uncle who stood before him now, had brought toBuck Duane so much realization of the dark passionatestrain in his blood. It was the recurrence, a hundredfold increasedin power, of a strange emotion that for the last threeyears had arisen in him.

"Yes, Cal Bain's in town, full of bad whisky an' huntin'for you," repeated the elder man, gravely.

"It's the second time," muttered Duane, as if to himself.

"Son, you can't avoid a meetin'. Leave town till Calsobers up. He ain't got it in for you when he's not drinkin'."

"But what's he want me for?" demanded Duane. "To insultme again? I won't stand that twice."

"He's got a fever that's rampant in Texas these days, myboy. He wants gun-play. If he meets you he'll try to kill you."

Here it stirred in Duane again, that bursting gush of blood,like a wind of flame shaking all his inner being, and subsidingto leave him strangely chilled.

"Kill me! What for?" he asked.

"Lord knows there ain't any reason. But what's that to dowith most of the shootin' these days? Didn't five cowboysover to Everall's kill one another dead all because they got tojerkin' at a quirt among themselves? An' Cal has no reasonto love you. His girl was sweet on you."

"I quit when I found out she was his girl."

"I reckon she ain't quit. But never mind her or reasons.

Cal's here, just drunk enough to be ugly. He's achin' to killsomebody. He's one of them four-flush gun-fighters. He'dlike to be thought bad. There's a lot of wild cowboys who 'reambitious for a reputation. They talk about how quick theyare on the draw. They ape Bland, an' King Fisher, an' Hardin,an' all the big outlaws. They make threats about joinin' thegangs along the Rio Grande. They laugh at the sheriffs an'brag about how they'd fix the rangers. Cal's sure not muchfor you to bother with, if you only keep out of his way."

"You mean for me to run?" asked Duane, in scorn.

"I reckon I wouldn't put it that way. Just avoid him. Buck,I'm not afraid Cal would get you if you met down there intown. You've your father's eye an' his slick hand with a gun.What I'm most afraid of is that you'll kill Bain."

Duane was silent, letting his uncle's earnest words sinkin, trying to realize their significance.

"If Texas ever recovers from that fool war an' kills offthese outlaws, why, a young man will have a lookout," wenton the uncle. "You're twenty-three now, an' a powerful sightof a fine fellow, barrin' your temper. You've a chance in life.But if you go gun-fightin', if you kill a man, you're ruined.Then you'll kill another. It'll be the same old story. An' therangers would make you an outlaw. The rangers mean lawan' order for Texas. This even-break business doesn't workwith them. If you resist arrest they'll kill you. If you submitto arrest, then you go to jail, an' mebbe you hang."

"I'd never hang," muttered Duane, darkly.

"I reckon you wouldn't," replied the old man. "You'd belike your father. He was ever ready to draw—too ready. Intimes like these, with the Texas rangers enforcin' the law,your dad would have been driven to the river. An', son, I'mafraid you're a chip off the old block. Can't you hold in—keepyour temper—run away from trouble? Because it'llonly result in you gettin' the worst of it in the end. Your fatherwas killed in a street-fight. An' it was told of him that heshot twice after a bullet had passed through his heart. Thinkof the terrible nature of a man to be able to do that. If youhave any such blood in you, never give it a chance."

"What you say is all very well, uncle," returned Duane,"but the only way out for me is to run, and I won't do it. CalBain and his outfit have already made me look like a coward.He says I'm afraid to come out and face him. A man simplycan't stand that in this country. Besides, Cal would shoot mein the back someday if I didn't face him."

"Well, then, what 're you goin' to do?" inquired the elderman.

"I haven't decided—yet."

"No, but you're comin' to it mighty fast. That damnedspell is workin' in you. You're different today. I rememberhow you used to be moody an' lose your temper an' talkwild. Never was much afraid of you then. But now you'regettin' cool an' quiet, an' you think deep, an' I don't like thelight in your eye. It reminds me of your father."

"I wonder what Dad would say to me today' if he werealive and here," said Duane.

"What do you think? What could you expect of a manwho never wore a glove on his right hand for twenty years?"

"Well, he'd hardly have said much. Dad never talked. Buthe would have done a lot. And I guess I'll go downtown andlet Cal Bain find me."

Then followed a long silence, during which Duane satwith downcast eyes, and the uncle appeared lost in sadthought of the future. Presently he turned to Duane with anexpression that denoted resignation, and yet a spirit whichshowed wherein they were of the same blood.

"You've got a fast horse—the fastest I know of in thiscountry. After you meet Bain hurry back home. I'll have asaddle-bag packed for you and the horse ready."

With that he turned on his heel and went into the house,leaving Duane to revolve in his mind his singular speech.Buck wondered presently if he shared his uncle's opinion ofthe result of a meeting between himself and Bain. His thoughtswere vague. But on the instant of final decision, when he hadsettled with himself that he would meet Bain, such a stormof passion assailed him that he felt as if he was being shakenwith ague. Yet it was all internal, inside his breast, for hishand was like a rock and, for all he could see, not a muscleabout him quivered. He had no fear of Bain or of any otherman; but a vague fear of himself, of this strange force inhim, made him ponder and shake his head. It was as if hehad not all to say in this matter. There appeared to have beenin him a reluctance to let himself go, and some voice, somespirit from a distance, something he was not accountable for,had compelled him. That hour of Duane's life was like yearsof actual living, and in it he became a thoughtful man.

He went into the house and buckled on his belt and gun.The gun was a Colt .45, six-shot, and heavy, with an ivoryhandle. He had packed it, on and off, for five years. Beforethat it had been used by his father. There were a number ofnotches filed in the bulge of the ivory handle. This gun wasthe one his father had fired twice after being shot throughthe heart, and his hand had stiffened so tightly upon it in thedeath-grip that his fingers had to be pried open. It had neverbeen drawn upon any man since it had come into Duane'spossession. But the cold, bright polish of the weapon showedhow it had been used. Duane could draw it with inconceivablerapidity, and at twenty feet he could split a card pointingedgewise toward him.

Duane wished to avoid meeting his mother. Fortunately,as he thought, she was away from home. He went out anddown the path toward the gate. The air was full of the fragranceof blossoms and the melody of birds. Outside in theroad a neighbor woman stood talking to a countryman in awagon; they spoke to him; and he heard, but did not reply.Then he began to stride down the road toward the...