The Washburn times. [volume] (Washburn, Wis.) 1896-1976, 1916-08-10

AS swiftly as was consistent with a
care for his steed, Duane put a dis
| lance of fifteen or eighteen miles
behind him. He passed several
ranches, and was seen by men. This
did not suit him, and he took an old
trail across country. 1t was a fiat
region with a poor growth of mesquite
and prickly-pear cactus. Occasionally
he caught glimpse of low hills in the
distance. He had hunted often in that
section, and knew where to find grass
and water. When he reached this
higher ground he did not, however,
halt at the first favorable camping
spot, but went on and on.
! At last he found secluded spot, I'M
der cover Of thick mosquitoes and oaks,
at goodly distance from the old trail.
He took saddle and pack off the horse,
made small fire, prepared and ate his
supper. This done, ending the work
of that day, he sat down and filled his
| pipe. When night set in and the
place seemed all the more isolated and
lonely for that Duane had a sense of
relief.
1t dawned upon him all at once that
he was nervous, watchful, Sleepless.
The fact caused him surprise, and he
began to think back, to take note Of
his late actions and their motives. The
change one day had wrought amazed
him. He who had always been free,
easy, happy, especially when out alone
in the open, had become in few short
hours bound, serious. preoccupied. He
felt tired, yet had no inclination to
rest. He intended to be off by dawn,
heading toward the southwest. Had
he a destination? It was vague as his
knowledge of that great waste of
mesquite and rock bordering the Rio
Grande., Somewhere out there was
refuge. For he was fugitive from
justice, an outlaw.
This being an outlaw then meant
eternal vigilance. No home, no rest,
no sleep, no content, no life worth the
living! He must be lone wolf or he
must herd among men obnoxious to
him. If he worked for an honest liv-
ing, he still must hide his identity and
take risks Of detection. If he did not
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? 1t 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 a cold sweat, remorse
gnawing at his vitals, realizing the
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 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 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 no
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