ne smiled a little--a smile that felt strange on his face. He had
never been much of a talker. And speech here seemed more than ordinarily
difficult.

MacNelly must have felt that.

He looked long and earnestly at Duane, and his quick, nervous manner
changed to grave thoughtfulness.

"I've lots to say, but where to begin," he mused. "Duane, you've had
a hard life since you went on the dodge. I never met you before, don't
know what you looked like as a boy. But I can see what--well, even
ranger life isn't all roses."

He rolled his cigar between his lips and puffed clouds of smoke.

"Ever hear from home since you left Wellston?" he asked, abruptly.

"No."

"Never a word?"

"Not one," replied Duane, sadly.

"That's tough. I'm glad to be able to tell you that up to just lately
your mother, sister, uncle--all your folks, I believe--were well. I've
kept posted. But haven't heard lately."

Duane averted his face a moment, hesitated till the swelling left his
throat, and then said, "It's worth what I went through to-day to hear
that."

"I can imagine how you feel about it. When I was in the war--but let's
get down to the business of this meeting."

He pulled his chair close to Duane's.

"You've had word more than once in the last two years that I wanted to
see you?"

"Three times, I remember," replied Duane.

"Why didn't you hunt me up?"

"I supposed you imagined me one of those gun-fighters who couldn't take
a dare and expected me to ride up to your camp and be arrested."

"That was natural, I suppose," went on MacNelly. "You didn't know me,
otherwise you would have come. I've been a long time getting to you.
But the nature of my job, as far as you're concerned, made me cautious.
Duane, you're aware of the hard name you bear all over the Southwest?"

"Once in a while I'm jarred into realizing," replied Duane.

"It's the hardest, barring Murrell and Cheseldine, on the Texas border.
But there's this difference. Murrell in his day was known to deserve his
infamous name. Cheseldine in his day also. But I've found hundreds
of men in southwest Texas who're your friends, who swear you never
committed a crime. The farther south I get the clearer this becomes.
What I want to know is the truth. Have you ever done anything criminal?
Tell me the truth, Duane. It won't make any difference in my plan.
And when I say crime I mean what I would call crime, or any reasonable
Texan."

"That way my hands are clean," re