"Why, man, where isn't his name known?" returned Colonel Webb.
"I've kept track of his record as I have all the others. Of

course, Duane, being a lone outlaw, is somewhat of a mystery
also, but not like Cheseldine. Out here there have drifted many

stories of Duane, horrible some of them. But despite them a
sort of romance clings to that Nueces outlaw. He's killed three

great outlaw leaders, I believe--Bland, Hardin, and the other I
forgot. Hardin was known in the Big Bend, had friends there.

Bland had a hard name at Del Rio."
"Then this man Duane enjoys rather an unusualrepute west of

the Pecos?" inquired Duane.
"He's considered more of an enemy to his kind than to honest

men. I understand Duane had many friends, that whole counties
swear by him--secretly, of course, for he's a hunted outlaw

with rewards on his head. His fame in this country appears to
hang on his matchless gun-play and his enmity toward outlaw

chiefs. I've heard many a rancher say: 'I wish to God that Buck
Duane would drift out here! I'd give a hundred pesos to see him

and Poggin meet.' It's a singular thing, stranger, how jealous
these great outlaws are of each other."

"Yes, indeed, all about them is singular," replied Duane. "Has
Cheseldine's gang been busy lately?"

"No. This section has been free of rustling for months, though
there's unexplained movements of stock. Probably all the stock

that's being shipped now was rustled long ago. Cheseldine works
over a wide section, too wide for news to travel inside of

weeks. Then sometimes he's not heard of at all for a spell.
These lulls are pretty surely indicative of a big storm sooner

or later. And Cheseldine's deals, as they grow fewer and
farther between, certainly get bigger, more daring. There are

some people who think Cheseldine had nothing to do with the
bank-robberies and train-holdups during the last few years in

this country. But that's poor reasoning. The jobs have been too
well done, too surely covered, to be the work of greasers or

ordinary outlaws."
"What's your view of the outlook? How's all this going to wind

up? Will the outlaw ever be driven out?" asked Duane.
"Never. There will always be outlaws along the Rio Grande. All

the armies in the world couldn't comb the wild brakes of that
fifteen hundred miles of river. But the sway of the outlaw,

such as is enjoyed by these great leaders, will sooner or later
be past. The criminal element flock to the Southwest. But not

so thick and fast as the pioneers. Besides, the outlaws kill
themselves, and the ranchers are slowly rising in wrath, if not

in action. That will come soon. If they only had a leader to
start the fight! But that will come. There's talk of

Vigilantes, the same hat were organized in California and are
now in force in Idaho. So far it's only talk. But the time will

come. And the days of Cheseldine and Poggin are numbered."
Duane went to bed that night exceedinglythoughtful. The long

trail was growing hot. This voluble colonel had given him new
ideas. It came to Duane in surprise that he was famous along

the upper Rio Grande. Assuredly he would not long be able to
conceal his identity. He had no doubt that he would soon meet

the chiefs of this clever and bold rustling gang. He could not
decide whether he would be safer unknown or known. In the

latter case his one chance lay in the fatality connected with
his name, in his power to look it and act it. Duane had never

dreamed of any sleuth-hound tendency in his nature, but now he
felt something like one. Above all others his mind fixed on

Poggin--Poggin the brute, the executor of Cheseldine's will,
but mostly upon Poggin the gunman. This in itself was a warning

to Duane. He felt terrible forces at work within him. There was
the stern and indomitableresolve to make MacNelly's boast good

to the governor of the state--to break up Cheseldine's gang.
Yet this was not in Duane's mind before a strange grim and

deadly instinct--which he had to drive away for fear he would
find in it a passion to kill Poggin, not for the state, nor for

his word to MacNelly, but for himself. Had his father's blood
and the hard years made Duane the kind of man who instinctively

wanted to meet Poggin? He was sworn to MacNelly's service, and
he fought himself to keep that, and that only, in his mind.

Duane ascertained that Fairdale was situated two days' ride
from Bradford toward the north. There was a stage which made

the journey twice a week.
Next morning Duane mounted his horse and headed for Fairdale.

He rode leisurely, as he wanted to learn all he could about the
country. There were few ranches. The farther he traveled the

better grazing he encountered, and, strange to note, the fewer
herds of cattle.

It was just sunset when he made out a cluster of adobe houses
that marked the half-way point between Bradford and Fairdale.

Here, Duane had learned, was stationed a comfortable inn for
wayfarers.

When he drew up before the inn the landlord and his family and
a number of loungers greeted him laconically.

"Beat the stage in, hey?" remarked one.
"There she comes now," said another. "Joel shore is drivin'

to-night."
Far down the road Duane saw a cloud of dust and horses and a

lumbering coach. When he had looked after the needs of his
horse he returned to the group before the inn. They awaited the

stage with that interest common to isolated people. Presently
it rolled up, a large mud-bespattered and dusty vehicle,

littered with baggage on top and tied on behind. A number of
passengers alighted, three of whom excited Duane's interest.

One was a tall, dark, striking-looking man, and the other two
were ladies, wearing long gray ulsters and veils. Duane heard

the proprietor of the inn address the man as Colonel
Longstreth, and as the party entered the inn Duane's quick ears

caught a few words which acquainted him with the fact that
Longstreth was the Mayor of Fairdale.

Duane passed inside himself to learn that supper would soon be
ready. At table he found himself opposite the three who had

attracted his attention.
"Ruth, I envy the lucky cowboys," Longstreth was saying.

Ruth was a curly-headed girl with gray or hazel eyes.
"I'm crazy to ride bronchos," she said.

Duane gathered she was on a visit to western Texas. The other
girl's deep voice, sweet like a bell, made Duane regard her

closer. She had beauty as he had never seen it in another
woman. She was slender, but the development of her figure gave

Duane the impression she was twenty years old or more. She had
the most exquisite hands Duane had ever seen. She did not

resemble the Colonel, who was evidently her father. She looked
tired, quiet, even melancholy. A finely chiseled oval face;

clear, olive-tinted skin, long eyes set wide apart and black as
coal, beautiful to look into; a slender, straight nose that had

something nervous and delicate about it which made Duane think
of a thoroughbred; and a mouth by no means small, but perfectly

curved; and hair like jet--all these features proclaimed her
beauty to Duane. Duane believed her a descendant of one of the

old French families of eastern Texas. He was sure of it when
she looked at him, drawn by his rather persistent gaze. There

were pride, fire, and passion in her eyes. Duane felt himself
blushing in confusion. His stare at her had been rude, perhaps,