er came together."

"What did you say?" inquired Duane, as she paused.

"Me? Why, I asked him what you looked like," she replied, gayly.

"Well?" went on Duane.

"Magnificent chap, Bland said. Bigger than any man in the valley. Just a
great blue-eyed sunburned boy!"

"Humph!" exclaimed Duane. "I'm sorry he led you to expect somebody worth
seeing."

"But I'm not disappointed," she returned, archly. "Duane, are you going
to stay long here in camp?"

"Yes, till I run out of money and have to move. Why?"

Mrs. Bland's face underwent one of the singular changes. The smiles and
flushes and glances, all that had been coquettish about her, had lent
her a certain attractiveness, almost beauty and youth. But with some
powerful emotion she changed and instantly became a woman of discontent,
Duane imagined, of deep, violent nature.

"I'll tell you, Duane," she said, earnestly, "I'm sure glad if you mean
to bide here awhile. I'm a miserable woman, Duane. I'm an outlaw's wife,
and I hate him and the life I have to lead. I come of a good family in
Brownsville. I never knew Bland was an outlaw till long after he married
me. We were separated at times, and I imagined he was away on business.
But the truth came out. Bland shot my own cousin, who told me. My family
cast me off, and I had to flee with Bland. I was only eighteen then.
I've lived here since. I never see a decent woman or man. I never hear
anything about my old home or folks or friends. I'm buried here--buried
alive with a lot of thieves and murderers. Can you blame me for being
glad to see a young fellow--a gentleman--like the boys I used to go
with? I tell you it makes me feel full--I want to cry. I'm sick for
somebody to talk to. I have no children, thank God! If I had I'd not
stay here. I'm sick of this hole. I'm lonely--"

There appeared to be no doubt about the truth of all this. Genuine
emotion checked, then halted the hurried speech. She broke down and
cried. It seemed strange to Duane that an outlaw's wife--and a woman
who fitted her consort and the wild nature of their surroundings--should
have weakness enough to weep. Duane believed and pitied her.

"I'm sorry for you," he said.

"Don't be SORRY for me," she said. "That only makes me see the--the
difference between you and me. And don't pay any attention to what these
outlaws say about me. They're ignorant. They couldn't understand me.
You'll hear that Bland killed men who ran after me. But that's a l