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the fragrance of her, the tender clasp of her arms, the swell of her breastā€”all these seemed to inclose him.

Duane could not put her from him. He yielded to her lips and arms, watching her, involuntarily returning her caresses, sure now of her intent, fascinated by the sweetness of her, bewildered, almost lost. This was what it was to be loved by a woman. His years of outlawry had blotted out any boyish love he might have known. This was what he had to give upā€”all this wonder of her sweet person, this strange fire he feared yet loved, this mate his deep and tortured soul recognized. Never until that moment had he divined the meaning of a woman to a man. That meaning was physical inasmuch that he learned what beauty was, what marvel in the touch of quickening flesh; and it was spiritual in that he saw there might have been for him, under happier circumstances, a life of noble deeds lived for such a woman.

ā€œDonā€™t go! Donā€™t go!ā€ she cried, as he started violently.

ā€œI must. Dear, good-by! Remember I loved yourā€

He pulled her hands loose from his, stepped back.

ā€œRay, dearestā€”I believeā€”Iā€™ll come back!ā€ he whispered.

These last words were falsehood.

He reached the door, gave her one last piercing glance, to fix for ever in memory that white face with its dark, staring, tragic eyes.

ā€œDUANE!ā€

He fled with that moan like thunder, death, hell in his ears.

To forget her, to get back his nerve, he forced into mind the image of Poggin-Poggin, the tawny-haired, the yellow-eyed, like a jaguar, with his rippling muscles. He brought back his sense of the outlawā€™s wonderful presence, his own unaccountable fear and hate. Yes, Poggin had sent the cold sickness of fear to his marrow. Why, since he hated life so? Poggin was his supreme test. And this abnormal and stupendous instinct, now deep as the very foundation of his life, demanded its wild and fatal issue. There was a horrible thrill in his sudden remembrance that Poggin likewise had been taunted in fear of him.

So the dark tide overwhelmed Duane, and when he left the room he was fierce, implacable, steeled to any outcome, quick like a panther, somber as death, in the thrall of his strange passion.

There was no excitement in the street. He crossed to the bank corner. A clock inside pointed the hour of two. He went through the door into the vestibule, looked around, passed up the steps into the bank. The clerks were at their desks, apparently busy. But they showed nervousness. The cashier paled at sight of Duane. There were menā€”the rangersā€”crouching down behind the low partition. All the windows had been removed from the iron grating before the desks. The safe was closed. There was no money in sight. A customer came in, spoke to the cashier, and was told to come to-morrow.

Duane returned to the door. He could see far down the street, out into the country. There he waited, and minutes were eternities. He saw no person near him; he heard no sound. He was insulated in his unnatural strain.

At a few minutes before half past two a dark, compact body of horsemen appeared far down, turning into the road. They came at a sharp trotā€”a group that would have attracted attention anywhere at any time. They came a little faster as they entered town; then faster still; now they were four blocks away, now three, now two. Duane backed down the middle of the vestibule, up the steps, and halted in the center of the wide doorway.

There seemed to be a rushing in his ears through which pierced sharp, ringing clip-clop of iron hoofs. He could see only the corner of the street. But suddenly into that shot lean-limbed dusty bay horses. There was a clattering of nervous hoofs pulled to a halt.

Duane saw the tawny Poggin speak to his companions. He dismounted quickly. They followed suit. They had the manner of ranchers about to conduct some business. No guns showed. Poggin started leisurely for the bank door, quickening step a little. The others, close together, came behind him. Blossom Kane had a bag in his left hand. Jim Fletcher was left at the curb, and he had already gathered up the bridles.

Poggin entered the vestibule first, with Kane on one side, Boldt on the other, a little in his rear.

As he strode in he saw Duane.

ā€œHELLā€™S FIRE!ā€ he cried.

Something inside Duane burst, piercing all of him with cold. Was it that fear?

ā€œBUCK DUANE!ā€ echoed Kane.

One instant Poggin looked up and Duane looked down.

Like a striking jaguar Poggin moved. Almost as quickly Duane threw his arm.

The guns boomed almost together.

Duane felt a blow just before he pulled trigger. His thoughts came fast, like the strange dots before his eyes. His rising gun had loosened in his hand. Poggin had drawn quicker! A tearing agony encompassed his breast. He pulledā€”pulledā€”at random. Thunder of booming shots all about him! Red flashes, jets of smoke, shrill yells! He was sinking. The end; yes, the end! With fading sight he saw Kane go down, then Boldt. But supreme torture, bitterer than death, Poggin stood, mane like a lionā€™s, back to the wall, bloody-faced, grand, with his guns spouting red!

All faded, darkened. The thunder deadened. Duane fell, seemed floating. There it driftedā€”Ray Longstrethā€™s sweet face, white, with dark, tragic eyes, fading from his sight ā€¦ fading ā€¦ fading ā€¦

CHAPTER XXV

Light shone before Duaneā€™s eyesā€”thick, strange light that came and went. For a long time dull and booming sounds rushed by, filling all. It was a dream in which there was nothing; a drifting under a burden; darkness, light, sound, movement; and vague, obscure sense of timeā€”time that was very long. There was fireā€”creeping, consuming fire. A dark cloud of flame enveloped him, rolled him away.

He saw then, dimly, a room that was strange, strange people moving about over him, with faint voices, far away, things in a dream. He saw again, clearly, and consciousness returned, still unreal, still strange, full of those vague and far-away things. Then he was not dead. He lay stiff, like a stone, with a weight ponderous as a mountain upon him and all his bound body racked in slow, dull-beating agony.

A womanā€™s face hovered over him, white and tragic-eyed, like one of his old haunting phantoms, yet sweet and eloquent. Then a manā€™s face bent over him, looked deep into his eyes, and seemed to whisper from a distance: ā€œDuaneā€”Duane! Ah, he knew me!ā€

After that there was another long interval of darkness. When the light came again, clearer this time, the same earnest-faced man bent over him. It was MacNelly. And with recognition the past flooded back.

Duane tried to speak. His lips were weak, and he could scarcely move them.

ā€œPoggin!ā€ he whispered. His first real conscious thought was for Poggin. Ruling passionā€”eternal instinct!

ā€œPoggin is dead, Duane; shot to pieces,ā€ replied MacNelly, solemnly. ā€œWhat a fight he made! He killed two of my men, wounded others. God! he was a tiger. He used up three guns before we downed him.ā€

ā€œWho-gotā€”away?ā€

ā€œFletcher, the man with the horses. We downed all the others. Duane, the jobā€™s doneā€”itā€™s done! Why, man, youā€™reā€”ā€

ā€œWhat ofā€”ofā€”HER?ā€

ā€œMiss Longstreth has been almost constantly at your bedside. She helped the doctor. She watched your wounds. And, Duane, the other night, when you sank lowā€”so lowā€”I think it was her spirit that held yours back. Oh, sheā€™s a wonderful girl. Duane, she never gave up, never lost her nerve for a moment. Well, weā€™re going to take you home, and sheā€™ll go with us. Colonel Longstreth left for Louisiana right after the fight. I advised it. There was great excitement. It was best for him to leave.ā€

ā€œHave Iā€”aā€”chanceā€”to recover?ā€

ā€œChance? Why, man,ā€ exclaimed the Captain, ā€œyouā€™ll get well! Youā€™ll pack a sight of lead all your life. But you can stand that. Duane, the whole Southwest knows your story. You need never again be ashamed of the name Buck Duane. The brand outlaw is washed out. Texas believes youā€™ve been a secret ranger all the time. Youā€™re a hero. And now think of home, your mother, of this noble girlā€”of your future.ā€

The rangers took Duane home to Wellston.

A railroad had been built since Duane had gone into exile. Wellston had grown. A noisy crowd surrounded the station, but it stilled as Duane was carried from the train.

A sea of faces pressed close. Some were faces he rememberedā€”schoolmates, friends, old neighbors. There was an upflinging of many hands. Duane was being welcomed home to the town from which he had fled. A deadness within him broke. This welcome hurt him somehow, quickened him; and through his cold being, his weary mind, passed a change. His sight dimmed.

Then there was a white house, his old home. How strange, yet how real! His heart beat fast. Had so many, many years passed? Familiar yet strange it was, and all seemed magnified.

They carried him in, these ranger comrades, and laid him down, and lifted his head upon pillows. The house was still, though full of people. Duaneā€™s gaze sought the open door.

Some one enteredā€”a tall girl in white, with dark, wet eyes and a light upon her face. She was leading an old lady, gray-haired, austere-faced, somber and sad. His mother! She was feeble, but she walked erect. She was pale, shaking, yet maintained her dignity.

The some one in white uttered a low cry and knelt by Duaneā€™s bed. His mother flung wide her arms with a strange gesture.

ā€œThis man! Theyā€™ve not brought back my boy. This manā€™s his father! Where is my son? My sonā€”oh, my son!ā€

When Duane grew stronger it was a pleasure to lie by the west window and watch Uncle Jim whittle his stick and listen to his talk. The old man was broken now. He told many interesting things about people Duane had knownā€”people who had grown up and married, failed, succeeded, gone away, and died. But it was hard to keep Uncle Jim off the subject of guns, outlaws, fights. He could not seem to divine how mention of these things hurt Duane. Uncle Jim was childish now, and he had a great pride in his nephew. He wanted to hear of all of Duaneā€™s exile. And if there was one thing more than another that pleased him it was to talk about the bullets which Duane carried in his body.

ā€œFive bullets, ainā€™t it?ā€ he asked, for the hundredth time.

ā€œFive in that last scrap! By gum! And you had six before?ā€

ā€œYes, uncle,ā€ replied Duane.

ā€œFive and six. That makes eleven. By gum! A manā€™s a man, to carry all that lead. But, Buck, you could carry more. Thereā€™s that nigger Edwards, right here in Wellston. Heā€™s got a ton of bullets in him. Doesnā€™t seem to mind them none. And thereā€™s Cole Miller. Iā€™ve seen him. Been a bad man in his day. They say he packs twenty-three bullets. But heā€™s bigger than youā€”got more fleshā€¦. Funny, wasnā€™t it, Buck, about the doctor only beinā€™ able to cut one bullet out of youā€”that one in your breastbone? It was a forty-one caliber, an unusual cartridge. I saw it, and I wanted it, but Miss Longstreth wouldnā€™t part with it. Buck, there was a bullet left in one of Pogginā€™s guns, and that bullet was the same kind as the one cut out of you. By gum! Boy, itā€™d have killed you if itā€™d stayed there.ā€

ā€œIt would indeed, uncle,ā€ replied Duane, and the old, haunting, somber mood returned.

But Duane was not often at the mercy of childish old hero-worshiping Uncle Jim. Miss Longstreth was the only person who seemed to divine Duaneā€™s gloomy mood, and when she was

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