agitation struck him as stronger in her this day. He attributed it,
however, to the long strain, the suspense nearing an end. Yet sometimes
when her eyes were on him she did not seem to be thinking of her
freedom, of her future.

"This time to-morrow you'll be in Shelbyville," he said.

"Where will you be?" she asked, quickly.

"Me? Oh, I'll be making tracks for some lonesome place," he replied.

The girl shuddered.

"I've been brought up in Texas. I remember what a hard lot the men of my
family had. But poor as they were, they had a roof over their heads,
a hearth with a fire, a warm bed--somebody to love them. And you,
Duane--oh, my God! What must your life be? You must ride and hide and
watch eternally. No decent food, no pillow, no friendly word, no clean
clothes, no woman's hand! Horses, guns, trails, rocks, holes--these must
be the important things in your life. You must go on riding, hiding,
killing until you meet--"

She ended with a sob and dropped her head on her knees. Duane was
amazed, deeply touched.

"My girl, thank you for that thought of me," he said, with a tremor in
his voice. "You don't know how much that means to me."

She raised her face, and it was tear-stained, eloquent, beautiful.

"I've heard tell--the best of men go to the bad out there. You won't.
Promise me you won't. I never--knew any man--like you. I--I--we may
never see each other again--after to-day. I'll never forget you. I'll
pray for you, and I'll never give up trying to--to do something. Don't
despair. It's never too late. It was my hope that kept me alive--out
there at Bland's--before you came. I was only a poor weak girl. But if
I could hope--so can you. Stay away from men. Be a lone wolf. Fight for
your life. Stick out your exile--and maybe--some day--"

Then she lost her voice. Duane clasped her hand and with feeling as deep
as hers promised to remember her words. In her despair for him she had
spoken wisdom--pointed out the only course.

Duane's vigilance, momentarily broken by emotion, had no sooner
reasserted itself than he discovered the bay horse, the one Jennie rode,
had broken his halter and gone off. The soft wet earth had deadened the
sound of his hoofs. His tracks were plain in the mud. There were clumps
of mesquite in sight, among which the horse might have strayed. It
turned out, however, that he had not done so.

Duane did not want to leave Jennie alone in the cabin so near the road.
So he put her up on