kout," went on the uncle. "You're
twenty-three now, an' a powerful sight of a fine fellow, barrin' your
temper. You've a chance in life. But if you go gun-fightin', if you kill
a man, you're ruined. Then you'll kill another. It'll be the same old
story. An' the rangers would make you an outlaw. The rangers mean law
an' order for Texas. This even-break business doesn't work with them. If
you resist arrest they'll kill you. If you submit to arrest, then you go
to jail, an' mebbe you hang."

"I'd never hang," muttered Duane, darkly.

"I reckon you wouldn't," replied the old man. "You'd be like your
father. He was ever ready to draw--too ready. In times like these, with
the Texas rangers enforcin' the law, your Dad would have been driven to
the river. An', son, I'm afraid you're a chip off the old block. Can't
you hold in--keep your temper--run away from trouble? Because it'll only
result in you gettin' the worst of it in the end. Your father was killed
in a street-fight. An' it was told of him that he shot twice after a
bullet had passed through his heart. Think of the terrible nature of a
man to be able to do that. If you have any such blood in you, never give
it a chance."

"What you say is all very well, uncle," returned Duane, "but the only
way out for me is to run, and I won't do it. Cal Bain and his outfit
have already made me look like a coward. He says I'm afraid to come out
and face him. A man simply can't stand that in this country. Besides,
Cal would shoot me in the back some day if I didn't face him."

"Well, then, what're you goin' to do?" inquired the elder man.

"I haven't decided--yet."

"No, but you're comin' to it mighty fast. That damned spell is workin'
in you. You're different to-day. I remember how you used to be moody an'
lose your temper an' talk wild. Never was much afraid of you then. But
now you're gettin' cool an' quiet, an' you think deep, an' I don't like
the light in your eye. It reminds me of your father."

"I wonder what Dad would say to me to-day if he were alive and here,"
said Duane.

"What do you think? What could you expect of a man who never wore a
glove on his right hand for twenty years?"

"Well, he'd hardly have said much. Dad never talked. But he would have
done a lot. And I guess I'll go down-town and let Cal Bain find me."

Then followed a long silence, during which Duane sat with downcast eyes,
and the uncle appeared lost in sad thought of the future. Presently he
t