And thrift spoke for honesty. There were fields of alfalfa, fruit-trees, corrals, windmill pumps, irrigation-ditches, all surrounding a neat little adobe house. Some children were playing in the yard. The way they ran at sight of Duane hinted of both the loneliness and the fear of their isolated lives.
Duane saw a woman come to the door, then a man. The latter looked keenly, then stepped outside. He was a sandy-haired, freckled Texan.
"Howdy, stranger," he called, as Duane halted. "Get down, you an' your woman. Say, now, air you sick or shot or what? Let me--"Duane, reeling in his saddle, bent searching eyes upon the rancher. He thought he saw good will, kindness, honesty. He risked all on that one sharp glance. Then he almost plunged from the saddle.
The rancher caught him, helped him to a bench.
"Martha, come out here!" he called. "This man's sick. No; he's shot, or I don't know blood-stains."Jennie had slipped off her horse and to Duane's side. Duane appeared about to faint.
"Air you his wife?" asked the rancher.
"No. I'm only a girl he saved from outlaws. Oh, he's so paler Duane, Duane!""Buck Duane!" exclaimed the rancher, excitedly. "The man who killed Bland an' Alloway? Say, I owe him a good turn, an' I'll pay it, young woman."The rancher's wife came out, and with a manner at once kind and practical essayed to make Duane drink from a flask. He was not so far gone that he could not recognize its contents, which he refused, and weakly asked for water. When that was given him he found his voice.
"Yes, I'm Duane. I've only overdone myself--just all in. The wounds I got at Bland's are healing. Will you take this girl in--hide her awhile till the excitement's over among the outlaws?""I shore will," replied the Texan.
"Thanks. I'll remember you--I'll square it."
"What 're you goin' to do?"
"I'll rest a bit--then go back to the brakes.""Young man, you ain't in any shape to travel. See here--any rustlers on your trail?""I think we gave Bland's gang the slip."
"Good. I'll tell you what. I'll take you in along with the girl, an' hide both of you till you get well. It'll be safe. My nearest neighbor is five miles off. We don't have much company.""You risk a great deal. Both outlaws and rangers are hunting me," said Duane.
"Never seen a ranger yet in these parts. An' have always got along with outlaws, mebbe exceptin' Bland. I tell you I owe you a good turn.""My horses might betray you," added Duane.
"I'll hide them in a place where there's water an' grass.
Nobody goes to it. Come now, let me help you indoors."Duane's last fading sensations of that hard day were the strange feel of a bed, a relief at the removal of his heavy boots, and of Jennie's soft, cool hands on his hot face.
He lay ill for three weeks before he began to mend, and it was another week then before he could walk out a little in the dusk of the evenings. After that his strength returned rapidly. And it was only at the end of this long siege that he recovered his spirits. During most of his illness he had been silent, moody.
"Jennie, I'll be riding off soon," he said, one evening. "Ican't impose on this good man Andrews much longer. I'll never forget his kindness. His wife, too--she's been so good to us.
Yes, Jennie, you and I will have to say good-by very soon.""Don't hurry away," she replied.
Lately Jennie had appeared strange to him. She had changed from the girl he used to see at Mrs. Bland's house. He took her reluctance to say good-by as another indication of her regret that he must go back to the brakes. Yet somehow it made him observe her more closely. She wore a plain, white dress made from material Mrs. Andrews had given her. Sleep and good food had improved her. If she had been pretty out there in the outlaw den now she was more than that. But she had the same paleness, the same strained look, the same dark eyes full of haunting shadows. After Duane's realization of the change in her he watched her more, with a growing certainty that he would be sorry not to see her again.
"It's likely we won't ever see each other again," he said.
"That's strange to think of. We've been through some hard days, and I seem to have known you a long time."Jennie appeared shy, almost sad, so Duane changed the subject to something less personal.
Andrews returned one evening from a several days' trip to Huntsville.
"Duane, everybody's talkie' about how you cleaned up the Bland outfit," he said, important and full of news. "It's some exaggerated, accordin' to what you told me; but you've shore made friends on this side of the Nueces. I reckon there ain't a town where you wouldn't find people to welcome you. Huntsville, you know, is some divided in its ideas. Half the people are crooked. Likely enough, all them who was so loud in praise of you are the crookedest. For instance, I met King Fisher, the boss outlaw of these parts. Well, King thinks he's a decent citizen. He was tellin' me what a grand job yours was for the border an' honest cattlemen. Now that Bland and Alloway are done for, King Fisher will find rustlin' easier. There's talk of Hardin movie' his camp over to Bland's. But I don't know how true it is. I reckon there ain't much to it. In the past when a big outlaw chief went under, his band almost always broke up an' scattered. There's no one left who could run thet outfit.""Did you hear of any outlaws hunting me?" asked Duane.
"Nobody from Bland's outfit is huntin' you, thet's shore,"replied Andrews. "Fisher said there never was a hoss straddled to go on your trail. Nobody had any use for Bland. Anyhow, his men would be afraid to trail you. An' you could go right in to Huntsville, where you'd be some popular. Reckon you'd be safe, too, except when some of them fool saloon loafers or bad cowpunchers would try to shoot you for the glory in it. Them kind of men will bob up everywhere you go, Duane.""I'll be able to ride and take care of myself in a day or two,"went on Duane. "Then I'll go--I'd like to talk to you about Jennie.""She's welcome to a home here with us."