The Ozark spectator., 1916-09-09

l tdht ilShS Ol ucltClltIt. II Niih hot work on some distant, outlying ranch, how was he to live? The idea of stealing was repugnant to him. The future seemed gray and somber enough. And he was twenty-three years old.
 But what was the matter with the light of his campfire? It had taken on a strange green luster and seemed to be waving off into the outer shadows. Duane heard no step, saw no move ment; nevertheless, there was another present at that campfire vigil. Duane saw him. He lay there in the middle of the green brightness, prostrate, mo- tionless. dying. Cal BaiH!
 That haunting visitation left Duane ! sitting there in cold sweat, a remorse gnawing at his vitals, realizing the curse that was on him. He divined that never would he be able to keep off l that phantom. He remembered how his father had been eternally pursued | by furies of accusing guilt, how he had never been able to forget in work or in sleep those men he had killed. The hour was late when Duane's mind let him sleep. and then dreams troubled him. In the morning he be- stirred himself so early that in the gray gloom he had difficulty in finding his horse. Day had just broken when he struck the old trail again. He rode hard all morning and halted | in shady spot to rest and graZe his horse. In the afternoon he took to the trail at an easy trot. The country grew wilder. Bald, rugged mountains broke the level of the monotonous ho- rizon. About three in the afternoon he came to a little river which marked the boundary line of his hunting terri tory and followed it upstream. | In this kind of travel and camping he spent three more days, during which he crossed d number of trails, and one where cattle-Stolen cattle, probably had recently passed. He followed the road until late hour, when, striking the willow brakes again and hence the neighborhood of the river, he picketed his horse and lay down to rest. But he did not sleep. His mind bitterly re- volved the fate that had come upon him. He made efforts to think of other things, but in vain. Every moment he expected the chill, the sense of loneH- ness that yet was ominouS of Il strange visitation, the peculiarly imagined ! lights and shades of the night-these things that presaged the coming of Cal Bain. Doggedly Duane fought against the insidious phantom. He kept tell ! ing himself that it was just imagina tion, that it would wear off in time. | Still in his heart he did not believe what he hoped. But he would not give up; he would not accept the ghost of | his victim as a reality.
 Gray dawn found him in the saddle 1 again, headed for the river. Half an hour of riding brought him to the dense chaparral and willow thiakets. These he threaded to come at length to the ford. Once upon the opposite shore, he refined in his horse and looked darkly back. This action marked his acknowledgment of his sit uation: he had voluntarily sought the refuge of the outlaws; he was beyond 1 the pale.
 The trail led into roaC which was | hard packed and smooth from the tracks of cattle. He doubted not that he had come across one of the roads used by border raiders. He headed into it, and had scarcely travelled mile when, turning a curve, he came | point-blank upon q single horseman riding toward him. Both riders wheeled their mounts sharply and were ready to run and shoot back. Not more than n hundred paces separated them. They stood then for moment watching each other.
 "Mawnin', stranger" called the man, dropping his gun to his hip. | "Howdy," replied Duane shorIly.
 They rode toward each other, clos ing half the gap, then they halted again.
 Il seen you ain't no ranger" called the rider, "an' shore I ain't none."
 He laughed loudly, as if he had made a joke.
 | How'd you know l wasn't ranger? asked Duane curiously. Some how he had instantly divined that this horseman was no officer, or even rancher trailing stolen stock.
 Wal" said the fellow, starting his horse forward at a walk, "a rangerd never git ready to run the other way from one man."
 He laughed again. He was small and wiry, slouchy of attire, and armed to the teeth, and he bestrode fine bay horse. He had quick, dancing brown eyes, at once frank and bold, and coarse, bronzed face. Evidently he was good-natured ruGian. Duane acknowledged the truth of the assertion, and turned over in his mind how shrewdly the fellow had guessed him to be hunted man.
 My names Luke Stevens. an hail from the river. Who're you?" said this stranger.
 Duane was silent.
 l 'I reckon you're Ruck Ducne" went