same as it had been; but the inner life had tremendously

changed. He could never become a happy man, he could never
shake utterly those haunting phantoms that had once been his

despair and madness; but he had assumed a task impossible for
any man save one like him, he had felt the meaning of it grow

strangely and wonderfully, and through that flourished up
consciousness of how passionately" target="_blank" title="ad.多情地；热烈地">passionately he now clung to this thing

which would blot out his former infamy. The iron fetters no
more threatened his hands; the iron door no more haunted his

dreams. He never forgot that he was free. Strangely, too, along
with this feeling of new manhood there gathered the force of

imperious desire to run these chief outlaws to their dooms. He
never called them outlaws--but rustlers, thieves, robbers,

murderers, criminals. He sensed the growth of a relentless
driving passion, and sometimes he feared that, more than the

newly acquired zeal and pride in this ranger service, it was
the old, terrible inherited killing instinct lifting its

hydra-head in new guise. But of that he could not be sure. He
dreaded the thought. He could only wait.

Another aspect of the change in Duane, neither passionate nor
driving, yet not improbably even more potent of new

significance to life, was the imperceptible return of an old
love of nature dead during his outlaw days.

For years a horse had been only a machine of locomotion, to
carry him from place to place, to beat and spur and goad

mercilessly in flight; now this giant black, with his splendid
head, was a companion, a friend, a brother, a loved thing,

guarded jealously, fed and trained and ridden with an intense
appreciation of his great speed and endurance. For years the

daytime, with its birth of sunrise on through long hours to the
ruddy close, had been used for sleep or rest in some rocky hole

or willow brake or deserted hut, had been hated because it
augmented danger of pursuit, because it drove the fugitive to

lonely, wretched hiding; now the dawn was a greeting, a promise
of another day to ride, to plan, to remember, and sun, wind,

cloud, rain, sky--all were joys to him, somehow speaking his
freedom. For years the night had been a black space, during

which he had to ride unseen along the endless trails, to peer
with cat-eyes through gloom for the moving shape that ever

pursued him; now the twilight and the dusk and the shadows of
grove and canon darkened into night with its train of stars,

and brought him calm reflection of the day's happenings, of the
morrow's possibilities, perhaps a sad, brief procession of the

old phantoms, then sleep. For years canons and valleys and
mountains had been looked at as retreats that might be dark and

wild enough to hide even an outlaw; now he saw these features
of the great desert with something of the eyes of the boy who

had once burned for adventure and life among them.
This night a wonderful afterglow lingered long in the west, and

against the golden-red of clear sky the bold, black head of
Mount Ord reared itself aloft, beautiful but aloof, sinister

yet calling. Small wonder that Duane gazed in fascination upon
the peak! Somewhere deep in its corrugated sides or lost in a

rugged canon was hidden the secret stronghold of the master
outlaw Cheseldine. All down along the ride from El Paso Duane

had heard of Cheseldine, of his band, his fearful deeds, his
cunning, his widely separated raids, of his flitting here and

there like a Jack-o'-lantern; but never a word of his den,
never a word of his appearance.

Next morning Duane did not return to Ord. He struck off to the
north, riding down a rough, slow-descending road that appeared

to have been used occasionally for cattle-driving. As he had
ridden in from the west, this northern direction led him into

totally unfamiliar country. While he passed on, however, he
exercised such keen observation that in the future he would

know whatever might be of service to him if he chanced that way
again.

The rough, wild, brush-covered slope down from the foothills
gradually leveled out into plain, a magnificent grazing

country, upon which till noon of that day Duane did not see a
herd of cattle or a ranch. About that time he made out smoke

from the railroad, and after a couple of hours' riding he
entered a town which inquiry discovered to be Bradford. It was

the largest town he had visited since Marfa, and he calculated
must have a thousand or fifteen hundred inhabitants, not

including Mexicans. He decided this would be a good place for
him to hold up for a while, being the nearest town to Ord, only

forty miles away. So he hitched his horse in front of a store
and leisurely set about studying Bradford.

It was after dark, however, that Duane verified his suspicions
concerning Bradford. The town was awake after dark, and there

was one long row of saloons, dance-halls, gambling-resorts in
full blast. Duane visited them all, and was surprised to see

wildness and license equal to that of the old river camp of
Bland's in its palmiest days. Here it was forced upon him that

the farther west one traveled along the river the sparser the
respectable settlements, the more numerous the hard characters,

and in consequence the greater the element of lawlessness.
Duane returned to his lodging-house with the conviction that

MacNelly's task of cleaning up the Big Bend country was a
stupendous one. Yet, he reflected, a company of intrepid and

quick-shooting rangers could have soon cleaned up this
Bradford.

The innkeeper had one other guest that night, a long
black-coated and wide-sombreroed Texan who reminded Duane of

his grandfather. This man had penetrating eyes, a courtly
manner, and an unmistakable leaning toward companionship and

mint-juleps. The gentleman introduced himself as Colonel Webb,
of Marfa, and took it as a matter of course that Duane made no

comment about himself.
"Sir, it's all one to me," he said, blandly, waving his hand.

"I have traveled. Texas is free, and this frontier is one where
it's healthier and just as friendly for a man to have no

curiosity about his companion. You might be Cheseldine, of the
Big Bend, or you might be Judge Little, of El Paso-it's all one

to me. I enjoy drinking with you anyway."
Duane thanked him, conscious of a reserve and dignity that he

could not have felt or pretended three months before. And then,
as always, he was a good listener. Colonel Webb told, among

other things, that he had come out to the Big Bend to look over
the affairs of a deceased brother who had been a rancher and a

sheriff of one of the towns, Fairdale by name.
"Found no affairs, no ranch, not even his grave," said Colonel

Webb. "And I tell you, sir, if hell's any tougher than this
Fairdale I don't want to expiate my sins there."

"Fairdale.... I imagine sheriffs have a hard row to hoe out
here," replied Duane, trying not to appear curious.

The Colonel swore lustily.
"My brother was the only honest sheriff Fairdale ever had. It

was wonderful how long he lasted. But he had nerve, he could
throw a gun, and he was on the square. Then he was wise enough

to confine his work to offenders of his own town and
neighborhood. He let the riding outlaws alone, else he wouldn't

have lasted at all.... What this frontier needs, sir, is about
six companies of Texas Rangers."

Duane was aware of the Colonel's close scrutiny.
"Do you know anything about the service?" he asked.

"I used to. Ten years ago when I lived in San Antonio. A fine
body of men, sir, and the salvation of Texas."

"Governor Stone doesn't entertain that opinion," said Duane.
Here Colonel Webb exploded. Manifestly the governor was not his

choice for a chief executive of the great state. He talked