maybe some of you'll gamble?"
He produced a dirty pack of cards and waved them at the

motionless crowd.
"Bill, you're too good at cards," replied a lanky outlaw.

"Now, Jasper, you say thet powerful sweet, an' you look sweet,
er I might take it to heart," replied Black, with a sudden

change of tone.
Here it was again--that upflashing passion. What Jasper saw fit

to reply would mollify the outlaw or it would not. There was an
even balance.

"No offense, Bill," said Jasper, placidly, without moving.
Bill grunted and forgot Jasper. But he seemed restless and

dissatisfied. Duane knew him to be an inveterate gambler. And
as Benson's place was out of running-order, Black was like a

fish on dry land.
"Wal, if you-all are afraid of the cairds, what will you bet

on?" he asked, in disgust.
"Bill, I'll play you a game of mumbly peg fer two bits."

replied one.
Black eagerly accepted. Betting to him was a serious matter.

The game obsessed him, not the stakes. He entered into the
mumbly peg contest with a thoughtful mien and a corded brow. He

won. Other comrades tried their luck with him and lost.
Finally, when Bill had exhausted their supply of two-bit pieces

or their desire for that particular game, he offered to bet on
anything.

"See thet turtle-dove there?" he said, pointing. "I'll bet
he'll scare at one stone or he won't. Five pesos he'll fly or

he won't fly when some one chucks a stone. Who'll take me up?"
That appeared to be more than the gambling spirit of several

outlaws could withstand.
"Take thet. Easy money," said one.

"Who's goin' to chuck the stone?" asked another.
"Anybody," replied Bill.

"Wal, I'll bet you I can scare him with one stone," said the
first outlaw.

"We're in on thet, Jim to fire the darnick," chimed in the
others.

The money was put up, the stone thrown. The turtle-dove took
flight, to the great joy of all the outlaws except Bill.

"I'll bet you-all he'll come back to thet tree inside of five
minnits," he offered, imperturbably.

Hereupon the outlaws did not show any laziness in their
alacrity to cover Bill's money as it lay on the grass. Somebody

had a watch, and they all sat down, dividing attention between
the timepiece and the tree. The minutes dragged by to the

accompaniment of various jocular remarks anent a fool and his
money. When four and three-quarter minutes had passed a

turtle-dove alighted in the cottonwood. Then ensued an
impressive silence while Bill calmly pocketed the fifty

dollars.
"But it hadn't the same dove!" exclaimed one outlaw, excitedly.

"This 'n'is smaller, dustier, not so purple."
Bill eyed the speaker loftily.

"Wal, you'll have to ketch the other one to prove thet. Sabe,
pard? Now I'll bet any gent heah the fifty I won thet I can

scare thet dove with one stone."
No one offered to take his wager.

"Wal, then, I'll bet any of you even money thet you CAN'T scare
him with one stone."

Not proof against this chance, the outlaws made up a purse, in
no wise disconcerted by Bill's contemptuous allusions to their

banding together. The stone was thrown. The dove did not fly.
Thereafter, in regard to that bird, Bill was unable to coax or

scorn his comrades into any kind of wager.
He tried them with a multiplicity of offers, and in vain. Then

he appeared at a loss for some unusual and seductive wager.
Presently a little ragged Mexican boy came along the river

trail, a particularly starved and poor-looking little fellow.
Bill called to him and gave him a handful of silver coins.

Speechless, dazed, he went his way hugging the money.
"I'll bet he drops some before he gits to the road," declared

Bill. "I'll bet he runs. Hurry, you four-flush gamblers."
Bill failed to interest any of his companions, and forthwith

became sullen and silent. Strangely his good humor departed in
spite of the fact that he had won considerable.

Duane, watching the disgruntled outlaw, marveled at him and
wondered what was in his mind. These men were more variable

than children, as unstable as water, as dangerous as dynamite.
"Bill, I'll bet you ten you can't spill whatever's in the

bucket thet peon's packin'," said the outlaw called Jim.
Black's head came up with the action of a hawk about to swoop.

Duane glanced from Black to the road, where he saw a crippled
peon carrying a tin bucket toward the river. This peon was a

half-witted Indian who lived in a shack and did odd jobs for
the Mexicans. Duane had met him often.

"Jim, I'll take you up," replied Black.
Something, perhaps a harshness in his voice, caused Duane to

whirl. He caught a leaping gleam in the outlaw's eye.
"Aw, Bill, thet's too fur a shot," said Jasper, as Black rested

an elbow on his knee and sighted over the long, heavy Colt. The
distance to the peon was about fifty paces, too far for even

the most expert shot to hit a moving object so small as a
bucket.

Duane, marvelously keen in the alignment of sights, was
positive that Black held too high. Another look at the hard

face, now tense and dark with blood, confirmed Duane's
suspicion that the outlaw was not aiming at the bucket at all.

Duane leaped and struck the leveled gun out of his hand.
Another outlaw picked it up.

Black fell back astounded. Deprived of his weapon, he did not
seem the same man, or else he was cowed by Duane's significant

and formidable front. Sullenly he turned away without even
asking for his gun.

CHAPTER VIII
What a contrast, Duane thought, the evening of that day

presented to the state of his soul!
The sunset lingered in golden glory over the distant Mexican

mountains; twilight came slowly; a faint breeze blew from the
river cool and sweet; the late cooing of a dove and the tinkle

of a cowbell were the only sounds; a serene and tranquil peace
lay over the valley.

Inside Duane's body there was strife. This third facing of a
desperate man had thrown him off his balance. It had not been

fatal, but it threatened so much. The better side of his nature
seemed to urge him to die rather than to go on fighting or

opposing ignorant, unfortunate, savage men. But the perversity
of him was so great that it dwarfed reason, conscience. He

could not resist it. He felt something dying in him. He
suffered. Hope seemed far away. Despair had seized upon him and

was driving him into a reckless mood when he thought of Jennie.
He had forgotten her. He had forgotten that he had promised to

save her. He had forgotten that he meant to snuff out as many
lives as might stand between her and freedom. The very