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 remembrance sheered off his morbid
introspection. She made a difference. How strange for him to realize
that! He felt grateful to her. He had been forced into outlawry; she had
been stolen from her people and carried into captivity. They had met in
the river fastness, he to instil hope into her despairing life, she to
be the means, perhaps, of keeping him from sinking to the level of her
captors. He became conscious of a strong and beating desire to see her,
talk with her.

These thoughts had run through his mind while on his way to Mrs. Bland's
house. He had let Euchre go on ahead because he wanted more time
to compose himself. Darkness had about set in when he reached his
destination.