that this burning passion to be free, to save himself, might not have been so powerful. Life certainly held no bright prospects for him. Already he had begun to despair of ever getting back to his home. But to give up like a white-hearted coward, to let himself be handcuffed and jailed, to run from a drunken, bragging cowboy, or be shot in cold blood by some border brute who merely wanted to add another notch to his gunâthese things were impossible for Duane because there was in him the temper to fight. In that hour he yielded only to fate and the spirit inborn in him. Hereafter this gun must be a living part of him. Right then and there he returned to a practice he had long discontinuedâthe draw. It was now a stern, bitter, deadly business with him. He did not need to fire the gun, for accuracy was a gift and had become assured. Swiftness on the draw, however, could be improved, and he set himself to acquire the limit of speed possible to any man. He stood still in his tracks; he paced the room; he sat down, lay down, put himself in awkward positions; and from every position he practiced throwing his gunâpracticed it till he was hot and tired and his arm ached and his hand burned. That practice he determined to keep up every day. It was one thing, at least, that would help pass the weary hours.
Later he went outdoors to the cooler shade of the cottonwoods. From this point he could see a good deal of the valley. Under different circumstances Duane felt that he would have enjoyed such a beautiful spot. Euchreâs shack sat against the first rise of the slope of the wall, and Duane, by climbing a few rods, got a view of the whole valley. Assuredly it was an outlaw settlement. He saw a good many Mexicans, who, of course, were hand and glove with Bland. Also he saw enormous flat-boats, crude of structure, moored along the banks of the river. The Rio Grande rolled away between high bluffs. A cable, sagging deep in the middle, was stretched over the wide yellow stream, and an old scow, evidently used as a ferry, lay anchored on the far shore.
The valley was an ideal retreat for an outlaw band operating on a big scale. Pursuit scarcely need be feared over the broken trails of the Rim Rock. And the open end of the valley could be defended against almost any number of men coming down the river. Access to Mexico was easy and quick. What puzzled Duane was how Bland got cattle down to the river, and he wondered if the rustler really did get rid of his stolen stock by use of boats.
Duane must have idled considerable time up on the hill, for when he returned to the shack Euchre was busily engaged around the camp-fire.
âWal, glad to see you ainât so pale about the gills as you was,â he said, by way of greeting. âPitch in anâ weâll soon have grub ready. Thereâs shore one consolinâ fact round this here camp.â
âWhatâs that?â asked Duane.
âPlenty of good juicy beef to eat. Anâ it doesnât cost a short bit.â
âBut it costs hard rides and trouble, bad conscience, and life, too, doesnât it?â
âI ainât shore about the bad conscience. Mine never bothered me none. Anâ as for life, why, thetâs cheap in Texas.â
âWho is Bland?â asked Duane, quickly changing the subject. âWhat do you know about him?â
âWe donât know who he is or where he hails from,â replied Euchre. âThetâs always been somethinâ to interest the gang. He must have been a young man when he struck Texas. Now heâs middle-aged. I remember how years ago he was softspoken anâ not rough in talk or act like he is now. Bland ainât likely his right name. He knows a lot. He can doctor you, anâ heâs shore a knowinâ feller with tools. Heâs the kind thet rules men. Outlaws are always ridinâ in here to join his gang, anâ if it hadnât been fer the gamblinâ