straight into the jaws of death to confront wronged men or
hunting rangers, vigilantes, to laugh in their very faces. It was such
bitterness as this that drove these men.

Toward afternoon, from the top of a long hill, Duane saw the green
fields and trees and shining roofs of a town he considered must be
Shirley. And at the bottom of the hill he came upon an intersecting
road. There was a placard nailed on the crossroad sign-post. Duane drew
rein near it and leaned close to read the faded print. $1000 REWARD FOR
BUCK DUANE DEAD OR ALIVE. Peering closer to read the finer, more faded
print, Duane learned that he was wanted for the murder of Mrs. Jeff
Aiken at her ranch near Shirley. The month September was named, but the
date was illegible. The reward was offered by the woman's husband, whose
name appeared with that of a sheriff's at the bottom of the placard.

Duane read the thing twice. When he straightened he was sick with the
horror of his fate, wild with passion at those misguided fools who could
believe that he had harmed a woman. Then he remembered Kate Bland, and,
as always when she returned to him, he quaked inwardly. Years before
word had gone abroad that he had killed her, and so it was easy for
men wanting to fix a crime to name him. Perhaps it had been done often.
Probably he bore on his shoulders a burden of numberless crimes.

A dark, passionate fury possessed him. It shook him like a storm
shakes the oak. When it passed, leaving him cold, with clouded brow and
piercing eye, his mind was set. Spurring his horse, he rode straight
toward the village.

Shirley appeared to be a large, pretentious country town. A branch of
some railroad terminated there. The main street was wide, bordered by
trees and commodious houses, and many of the stores were of brick.
A large plaza shaded by giant cottonwood trees occupied a central
location.

Duane pulled his running horse and halted him, plunging and snorting,
before a group of idle men who lounged on benches in the shade of a
spreading cottonwood. How many times had Duane seen just that kind of
lazy shirt-sleeved Texas group! Not often, however, had he seen such
placid, lolling, good-natured men change their expression, their
attitude so swiftly. His advent apparently was momentous. They evidently
took him for an unusual visitor. So far as Duane could tell, not one of
them recognized him, had a hint of his identity.

He slid off his horse and threw the bridle.