hre, close to Duane's ear. With that he dashed
for the door. Duane leaped after him. They ran into a jostling mob.
Heavy gun-shots and hoarse yells hurried the crowd Duane was with
pell-mell out into the darkness. There they all halted, and several
peeped in at the door.

"Who was the Kid callin'?" asked one outlaw.

"Bud Marsh," replied another.

"I reckon them fust shots was Bud's. Adios Kid. It was comin' to him,"
went on yet another.

"How many shots?"

"Three or four, I counted."

"Three heavy an' one light. Thet light one was the Kid's.38. Listen!
There's the Kid hollerin' now. He ain't cashed, anyway."

At this juncture most of the outlaws began to file back into the room.
Duane thought he had seen and heard enough in Benson's den for one night
and he started slowly down the walk. Presently Euchre caught up with
him.

"Nobody hurt much, which's shore some strange," he said. "The Kid--young
Fuller thet I was tellin' you about--he was drinkin' an' losin'. Lost
his nut, too, callin' Bud Marsh thet way. Bud's as straight at cards as
any of 'em. Somebody grabbed Bud, who shot into the roof. An' Fuller's
arm was knocked up. He only hit a greaser."

CHAPTER VI

Next morning Duane found that a moody and despondent spell had fastened
on him. Wishing to be alone, he went out and walked a trail leading
round the river bluff. He thought and thought. After a while he made out
that the trouble with him probably was that he could not resign himself
to his fate. He abhorred the possibility chance seemed to hold in store
for him. He could not believe there was no hope. But what to do appeared
beyond his power to tell.

Duane had intelligence and keenness enough to see his peril--the
danger threatening his character as a man, just as much as that which
threatened his life. He cared vastly more, he discovered, for what he
considered honor and integrity than he did for life. He saw that it was
bad for him to be alone. But, it appeared, lonely months and perhaps
years inevitably must be his. Another thing puzzled him. In the bright
light of day he could not recall the state of mind that was his at
twilight or dusk or in the dark night. By day these visitations became
to him what they really were--phantoms of his conscience. He could
dismiss the thought of them then. He could scarcely remember or believe
that this strange feat of fancy or imagination had troubled him, pained
him, made him sleepless and sick.

That