e looked
at it in consternation. How had he come to draw it? With difficulty
he traced his thoughts backward, but could not find any that was
accountable for his act. He discovered, however, that he had a
remarkable tendency to drop his hand to his gun. That might have come
from the habit long practice in drawing had given him. Likewise, it
might have come from a subtle sense, scarcely thought of at all, of the
late, close, and inevitable relation between that weapon and himself. He
was amazed to find that, bitter as he had grown at fate, the desire to
live burned strong in him. If he had been as unfortunately situated, but
with the difference that no man wanted to put him in jail or take his
life, he felt that this burning passion to be free, to save himself,
might not have been so powerful. Life certainly held no bright prospects
for him. Already he had begun to despair of ever getting back to his
home. But to give up like a white-hearted coward, to let himself be
handcuffed and jailed, to run from a drunken, bragging cowboy, or be
shot in cold blood by some border brute who merely wanted to add another
notch to his gun--these things were impossible for Duane because there
was in him the temper to fight. In that hour he yielded only to fate and
the spirit inborn in him. Hereafter this gun must be a living part
of him. Right then and there he returned to a practice he had long
discontinued--the draw. It was now a stern, bitter, deadly business with
him. He did not need to fire the gun, for accuracy was a gift and had
become assured. Swiftness on the draw, however, could be improved, and
he set himself to acquire the limit of speed possible to any man. He
stood still in his tracks; he paced the room; he sat down, lay down,
put himself in awkward positions; and from every position he practiced
throwing his gun--practiced it till he was hot and tired and his arm
ached and his hand burned. That practice he determined to keep up every
day. It was one thing, at least, that would help pass the weary hours.

Later he went outdoors to the cooler shade of the cottonwoods. From
this point he could see a good deal of the valley. Under different
circumstances Duane felt that he would have enjoyed such a beautiful
spot. Euchre's shack sat against the first rise of the slope of the
wall, and Duane, by climbing a few rods, got a view of the whole valley.
Assuredly it was an outlaw settle meet. He saw a good many Mexicans,
who, of cour