et in and the place seemed all the more
isolated and lonely for that Duane had a sense of relief.

It dawned upon him all at once that he was nervous, watchful, sleepless.
The fact caused him surprise, and he began to think back, to take note
of his late actions and their motives. The change one day had wrought
amazed him. He who had always been free, easy, happy, especially when
out alone in the open, had become in a few short hours bound, serious,
preoccupied. The silence that had once been sweet now meant nothing
to him except a medium whereby he might the better hear the sounds
of pursuit. The loneliness, the night, the wild, that had always been
beautiful to him, now only conveyed a sense of safety for the present.
He watched, he listened, he thought. He felt tired, yet had no
inclination to rest. He intended to be off by dawn, heading toward the
southwest. Had he a destination? It was vague as his knowledge of that
great waste of mesquite and rock bordering the Rio Grande. Somewhere out
there was a refuge. For he was a fugitive from justice, an outlaw.

This being an outlaw then meant eternal vigilance. No home, no rest, no
sleep, no content, no life worth the living! He must be a lone wolf
or he must herd among men obnoxious to him. If he worked for an honest
living he still must hide his identity and take risks of detection. If
he did not work on some distant outlying ranch, how was he to live? The
idea of stealing was repugnant to him. The future seemed gray and somber
enough. And he was twenty-three years old.

Why had this hard life been imposed upon him?

The bitter question seemed to start a strange iciness that stole
along his veins. What was wrong with him? He stirred the few sticks of
mesquite into a last flickering blaze. He was cold, and for some reason
he wanted some light. The black circle of darkness weighed down upon
him, closed in around him. Suddenly he sat bolt upright and then froze
in that position. He had heard a step. It was behind him--no--on the
side. Some one was there. He forced his hand down to his gun, and the
touch of cold steel was another icy shock. Then he waited. But all
was silent--silent as only a wilderness arroyo can be, with its low
murmuring of wind in the mesquite. Had he heard a step? He began to
breathe again.

But what was the matter with the light of his camp-fire? It had taken
on a strange green luster and seemed to be waving off into the outer
shadows. Duane hear