ght. Wire fences and horses in pasture made this a task, so it
was well after midnight before he accomplished it. He made ten miles or
more then by daylight, and after that proceeded cautiously along a road
which appeared to be well worn from travel. He passed several thickets
where he would have halted to hide during the day but for the fact that
he had to find water.

He was a long while in coming to it, and then there was no thicket or
clump of mesquite near the waterhole that would afford him covert. So he
kept on.

The country before him was ridgy and began to show cottonwoods here and
there in the hollows and yucca and mesquite on the higher ground. As he
mounted a ridge he noted that the road made a sharp turn, and he could
not see what was beyond it. He slowed up and was making the turn, which
was down-hill between high banks of yellow clay, when his mettlesome
horse heard something to frighten him or shied at something and bolted.

The few bounds he took before Duane's iron arm checked him were enough
to reach the curve. One flashing glance showed Duane the open once more,
a little valley below with a wide, shallow, rocky stream, a clump of
cottonwoods beyond, a somber group of men facing him, and two dark,
limp, strangely grotesque figures hanging from branches.

The sight was common enough in southwest Texas, but Duane had never
before found himself so unpleasantly close.

A hoarse voice pealed out: "By hell! there's another one!"

"Stranger, ride down an' account fer yourself!" yelled another.

"Hands up!"

"Thet's right, Jack; don't take no chances. Plug him!"

These remarks were so swiftly uttered as almost to be continuous. Duane
was wheeling his horse when a rifle cracked. The bullet struck his left
forearm and he thought broke it, for he dropped the rein. The frightened
horse leaped. Another bullet whistled past Duane. Then the bend in the
road saved him probably from certain death. Like the wind his fleet
steed wend down the long hill.

Duane was in no hurry to look back. He knew what to expect. His chief
concern of the moment was for his injured arm. He found that the bones
were still intact; but the wound, having been made by a soft bullet, was
an exceedingly bad one. Blood poured from it. Giving the horse his head,
Duane wound his scarf tightly round the holes, and with teeth and hand
tied it tightly. That done, he looked back over his shoulder.

Riders were making the dust fly on the hi