ered
forward, rapidly closing up the gap. Red, sweaty, disheveled, and
hatless, his face distorted and expressive of the most malignant intent,
he was a wild and sinister figure. He had already killed a man, and this
showed in his demeanor. His hands were extended before him, the right
hand a little lower than the left. At every step he bellowed his rancor
in speech mostly curses. Gradually he slowed his walk, then halted. A
good twenty-five paces separated the men.

"Won't nothin' make you draw, you--!" he shouted, fiercely.

"I'm waitin' on you, Cal," replied Duane.

Bain's right hand stiffened--moved. Duane threw his gun as a boy throws
a ball underhand--a draw his father had taught him. He pulled twice,
his shots almost as one. Bain's big Colt boomed while it was pointed
downward and he was falling. His bullet scattered dust and gravel at
Duane's feet. He fell loosely, without contortion.

In a flash all was reality for Duane. He went forward and held his gun
ready for the slightest movement on the part of Bain. But Bain lay upon
his back, and all that moved were his breast and his eyes. How strangely
the red had left his face--and also the distortion! The devil that had
showed in Bain was gone. He was sober and conscious. He tried to
speak, but failed. His eyes expressed something pitifully human. They
changed--rolled--set blankly.

Duane drew a deep breath and sheathed his gun. He felt calm and cool,
glad the fray was over. One violent expression burst from him. "The
fool!"

When he looked up there were men around him.

"Plumb center," said one.

Another, a cowboy who evidently had just left the gaming-table, leaned
down and pulled open Bain's shirt. He had the ace of spades in his hand.
He laid it on Bain's breast, and the black figure on the card covered
the two bullet-holes just over Bain's heart.

Duane wheeled and hurried away. He heard another man say:

"Reckon Cal got what he deserved. Buck Duane's first gunplay. Like
father like son!"

CHAPTER II

A thought kept repeating itself to Duane, and it was that he might have
spared himself concern through his imagining how awful it would be to
kill a man. He had no such feeling now. He had rid the community of a
drunken, bragging, quarrelsome cowboy.

When he came to the gate of his home and saw his uncle there with a
mettlesome horse, saddled, with canteen, rope, and bags all in place,
a subtle shock pervaded his spirit. It had slipped his m