ut you can stand that. Duane, the whole
Southwest knows your story. You need never again be ashamed of the name
Buck Duane. The brand outlaw is washed out. Texas believes you've been
a secret ranger all the time. You're a hero. And now think of home, your
mother, of this noble girl--of your future."

The rangers took Duane home to Wellston.

A railroad had been built since Duane had gone into exile. Wellston had
grown. A noisy crowd surrounded the station, but it stilled as Duane was
carried from the train.

A sea of faces pressed close. Some were faces he
remembered--schoolmates, friends, old neighbors. There was an upflinging
of many hands. Duane was being welcomed home to the town from which he
had fled. A deadness within him broke. This welcome hurt him somehow,
quickened him; and through his cold being, his weary mind, passed a
change. His sight dimmed.

Then there was a white house, his old home. How strange, yet how real!
His heart beat fast. Had so many, many years passed? Familiar yet
strange it was, and all seemed magnified.

They carried him in, these ranger comrades, and laid him down, and
lifted his head upon pillows. The house was still, though full of
people. Duane's gaze sought the open door.

Some one entered--a tall girl in white, with dark, wet eyes and a light
upon her face. She was leading an old lady, gray-haired, austere-faced,
somber and sad. His mother! She was feeble, but she walked erect. She
was pale, shaking, yet maintained her dignity.

The some one in white uttered a low cry and knelt by Duane's bed. His
mother flung wide her arms with a strange gesture.

"This man! They've not brought back my boy. This man's his father! Where
is my son? My son--oh, my son!"

When Duane grew stronger it was a pleasure to lie by the west window and
watch Uncle Jim whittle his stick and listen to his talk. The old man
was broken now. He told many interesting things about people Duane had
known--people who had grown up and married, failed, succeeded, gone
away, and died. But it was hard to keep Uncle Jim off the subject of
guns, outlaws, fights. He could not seem to divine how mention of these
things hurt Duane. Uncle Jim was childish now, and he had a great pride
in his nephew. He wanted to hear of all of Duane's exile. And if there
was one thing more than another that pleased him it was to talk about
the bullets which Duane carried in his body.

"Five bullets, ain't it?" he asked, for the hundre