to say
good-by as another indication of her regret that he must go back to the
brakes. Yet somehow it made him observe her more closely. She wore a
plain, white dress made from material Mrs. Andrews had given her. Sleep
and good food had improved her. If she had been pretty out there in the
outlaw den now she was more than that. But she had the same paleness,
the same strained look, the same dark eyes full of haunting shadows.
After Duane's realization of the change in her he watched her more, with
a growing certainty that he would be sorry not to see her again.

"It's likely we won't ever see each other again," he said. "That's
strange to think of. We've been through some hard days, and I seem to
have known you a long time."

Jennie appeared shy, almost sad, so Duane changed the subject to
something less personal.

Andrews returned one evening from a several days' trip to Huntsville.

"Duane, everybody's talkie' about how you cleaned up the Bland outfit,"
he said, important and full of news. "It's some exaggerated, accordin'
to what you told me; but you've shore made friends on this side of the
Nueces. I reckon there ain't a town where you wouldn't find people to
welcome you. Huntsville, you know, is some divided in its ideas. Half
the people are crooked. Likely enough, all them who was so loud in
praise of you are the crookedest. For instance, I met King Fisher, the
boss outlaw of these parts. Well, King thinks he's a decent citizen.
He was tellin' me what a grand job yours was for the border an' honest
cattlemen. Now that Bland and Alloway are done for, King Fisher will
find rustlin' easier. There's talk of Hardin movie' his camp over to
Bland's. But I don't know how true it is. I reckon there ain't much
to it. In the past when a big outlaw chief went under, his band almost
always broke up an' scattered. There's no one left who could run thet
outfit."

"Did you hear of any outlaws hunting me?" asked Duane.

"Nobody from Bland's outfit is huntin' you, thet's shore," replied
Andrews. "Fisher said there never was a hoss straddled to go on your
trail. Nobody had any use for Bland. Anyhow, his men would be afraid to
trail you. An' you could go right in to Huntsville, where you'd be some
popular. Reckon you'd be safe, too, except when some of them fool saloon
loafers or bad cowpunchers would try to shoot you for the glory in it.
Them kind of men will bob up everywhere you go, Duane."

"I'll be able to ride and tak