The Benson signal., 1916-10-14

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
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, PROSTATE, mo-
tionless, dying. Cal Balm!
That haunting visitation left Duane
sitting there in cold sweat, remorse
curse that was on him. He OWNED
that never would he be able to keep off
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 Duanes
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 a shady spot to rest and Craze 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 a number of trails, and one
where cattle-stolen cattle, probably
had recently passed. He followed the
road until a 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 lOneli-
ness that yet was OminOus of strange
visitation, the peculiarly imagined
lights and shades of the night-these
things that presaged the coming of Cal
Balm. 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
again, headed for the river. Half an
hour Of riding brought him to the
dense chaparral and willow thickets.
These he threaded to come at length
to the ford. Once upon the opposite
shore, he reined 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
the pale.
The trail led into a road which was
hard packed and smooth from the
he had come across one Of the roads
used by border raiders. He headed
| into it, and had scarcely travelled a
mile when, turning a curve, he came
pOint-blank upon a single hOrSeman
riding toward him. Both riders wheeled
to run and shoot back. Not more than
a hundred PAGES separated them. They
stood then for a moment watching
each other.
'Mawnin', stranger" called the man,
dropping his gun to his hip.
"Howdy," replied Duane shortly.
They rode toward each other, clos
ing half the gap, then they halted
again.
II seen you amt no ranger" called
the rider, "an' shore I amt none."
He laughed loudly, as if he had
made joke.
"How'd you know I wasn't a
ranger?" asked Duane curiously. Some
how he had instantly OWNED that this
horseman was no officer, or even a
rancher trailing stolen stock.
"Wal," said the fellow, starting his
horse forward at a walk, ga ranger'd
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 a fine
bay horse. He had quick, dancing
brown eyes, at once frank and bold,
and a coarse, bronzed face. Evidently
he was good-natured ruffian.
Duane acknowledged the truth of
the assertion, and turned over in his
mind how shrewdly the fellow had
guessed him to be a hunted man.
"My names Luke Stevens, an I hail
from the river. Who're you?" said
this stranger.
Duane was silent.
II reckon you're Buck Duane" went