of Texas without being arrested. I could hide,
but a man must live. Never mind about me, Jennie."

In three days Duane was able with great difficulty to mount his horse.
During daylight, by short relays, he and Jennie rode back to the main
trail, where they hid again till he had rested. Then in the dark they
rode out of the canons and gullies of the Rim Rock, and early in the
morning halted at the first water to camp.

From that point they traveled after nightfall and went into hiding
during the day. Once across the Nueces River, Duane was assured of
safety for her and great danger for himself. They had crossed into
a country he did not know. Somewhere east of the river there were
scattered ranches. But he was as liable to find the rancher in touch
with the outlaws as he was likely to find him honest. Duane hoped his
good fortune would not desert him in this last service to Jennie. Next
to the worry of that was realization of his condition. He had gotten
up too soon; he had ridden too far and hard, and now he felt that any
moment he might fall from his saddle. At last, far ahead over a barren
mesquite-dotted stretch of dusty ground, he espied a patch of green and
a little flat, red ranch-house. He headed his horse for it and turned a
face he tried to make cheerful for Jennie's sake. She seemed both happy
and sorry.

When near at hand he saw that the rancher was a thrifty farmer. And
thrift spoke for honesty. There were fields of alfalfa, fruit-trees,
corrals, windmill pumps, irrigation-ditches, all surrounding a neat
little adobe house. Some children were playing in the yard. The way
they ran at sight of Duane hinted of both the loneliness and the fear
of their isolated lives. Duane saw a woman come to the door, then a man.
The latter looked keenly, then stepped outside. He was a sandy-haired,
freckled Texan.

"Howdy, stranger," he called, as Duane halted. "Get down, you an' your
woman. Say, now, air you sick or shot or what? Let me--"

Duane, reeling in his saddle, bent searching eyes upon the rancher. He
thought he saw good will, kindness, honesty. He risked all on that one
sharp glance. Then he almost plunged from the saddle.

The rancher caught him, helped him to a bench.

"Martha, come out here!" he called. "This man's sick. No; he's shot, or
I don't know blood-stains."

Jennie had slipped off her horse and to Duane's side. Duane appeared
about to faint.

"Air you his wife?" asked the rancher.

"No. I'