ts secret approaching every hour--what, then, but hell?

The hell in Duane's mind was not fear of man or fear of death. He would
have been glad to lay down the burden of life, providing death came
naturally. Many times he had prayed for it. But that overdeveloped,
superhuman spirit of defense in him precluded suicide or the inviting of
an enemy's bullet. Sometimes he had a vague, scarcely analyzed idea that
this spirit was what had made the Southwest habitable for the white man.

Every one of his victims, singly and collectively, returned to him for
ever, it seemed, in cold, passionless, accusing domination of these
haunted hours. They did not accuse him of dishonor or cowardice or
brutality or murder; they only accused him of Death. It was as if they
knew more than when they were alive, had learned that life was a divine
mysterious gift not to be taken. They thronged about him with their
voiceless clamoring, drifted around him with their fading eyes.

CHAPTER XI

After nearly six months in the Nueces gorge the loneliness and inaction
of his life drove Duane out upon the trails seeking anything rather than
to hide longer alone, a prey to the scourge of his thoughts. The moment
he rode into sight of men a remarkable transformation occurred in him. A
strange warmth stirred in him--a longing to see the faces of people,
to hear their voices--a pleasurable emotion sad and strange. But it was
only a precursor of his old bitter, sleepless, and eternal vigilance.
When he hid alone in the brakes he was safe from all except his deeper,
better self; when he escaped from this into the haunts of men his force
and will went to the preservation of his life.

Mercer was the first village he rode into. He had many friends there.
Mercer claimed to owe Duane a debt. On the outskirts of the village
there was a grave overgrown by brush so that the rude-lettered post
which marked it was scarcely visible to Duane as he rode by. He had
never read the inscription. But he thought now of Hardin, no other than
the erstwhile ally of Bland. For many years Hardin had harassed the
stockmen and ranchers in and around Mercer. On an evil day for him he
or his outlaws had beaten and robbed a man who once succored Duane
when sore in need. Duane met Hardin in the little plaza of the village,
called him every name known to border men, taunted him to draw, and
killed him in the act.

Duane went to the house of one Jones, a Texan who had known his fat