Duane
could not understand. Longstreth had not appeared to see danger for his
daughter, even though she had been roughly handled, and had advanced in
front of a cocked gun. Duane probed deep into this singular fact, and he
brought to bear on the thing all his knowledge and experience of
violent Texas life. And he found that the instant Colonel Longstreth
had appeared on the scene there was no further danger threatening his
daughter. Why? That likewise Duane could not answer. Then his rage,
Duane concluded, had been solely at the idea of HIS daughter being
assaulted by a robber. This deduction was indeed a thought-disturber,
but Duane put it aside to crystallize and for more careful
consideration.

Next morning Duane found that the little town was called Sanderson. It
was larger than he had at first supposed. He walked up the main street
and back again. Just as he arrived some horsemen rode up to the inn and
dismounted. And at this juncture the Longstreth party came out. Duane
heard Colonel Longstreth utter an exclamation. Then he saw him shake
hands with a tall man. Longstreth looked surprised and angry, and he
spoke with force; but Duane could not hear what it was he said. The
fellow laughed, yet somehow he struck Duane as sullen, until suddenly
he espied Miss Longstreth. Then his face changed, and he removed his
sombrero. Duane went closer.

"Floyd, did you come with the teams?" asked Longstreth, sharply.

"Not me. I rode a horse, good and hard," was the reply.

"Humph! I'll have a word to say to you later." Then Longstreth turned to
his daughter. "Ray, here's the cousin I've told you about. You used to
play with him ten years ago--Floyd Lawson. Floyd, my daughter--and my
niece, Ruth Herbert."

Duane always scrutinized every one he met, and now with a dangerous game
to play, with a consciousness of Longstreth's unusual and significant
personality, he bent a keen and searching glance upon this Floyd Lawson.

He was under thirty, yet gray at his temples--dark, smooth-shaven, with
lines left by wildness, dissipation, shadows under dark eyes, a mouth
strong and bitter, and a square chin--a reckless, careless, handsome,
sinister face strangely losing the hardness when he smiled. The grace
of a gentleman clung round him, seemed like an echo in his mellow voice.
Duane doubted not that he, like many a young man, had drifted out to
the frontier, where rough and wild life had wrought sternly but had not
quite effaced the