Never had his mind been so quick, so clear, so wonderful in its understanding of what had heretofore been intricate and elusive impulses of his strange nature. His determination was to meet Poggin; meet him before any one else had a chance--Poggin first--and then the others! He was as unalterable in that decision as if on the instant of its acceptance he had become stone.
Why? Then came realization. He was not a ranger now. He cared nothing for the state. He had no thought of freeing the community of a dangerous outlaw, of ridding the country of an obstacle to its progress and prosperity. He wanted to kill Poggin. It was significant now that he forgot the other outlaws. He was the gunman, the gun-thrower, the gun-fighter, passionate and terrible. His father's blood, that dark and fierce strain, his mother's spirit, that strong and unquenchable spirit of the surviving pioneer--these had been in him; and the killings, one after another, the wild and haunted years, had made him, absolutely in spite of his will, the gunman. He realized it now, bitterly, hopelessly. The thing he had intelligence enough to hate he had become. At last he shuddered under the driving, ruthless inhuman blood-lust of the gunman. Long ago he had seemed to seal in a tomb that horror of his kind--the need, in order to forget the haunting, sleepless presence of his last victim, to go out and kill another. But it was still there in his mind, and now it stalked out, worse, more powerful, magnified by its rest, augmented by the violent passions peculiar and inevitable to that strange, wild product of the Texas frontier--the gun-fighter. And those passions were so violent, so raw, so base, so much lower than what ought to have existed in a thinking man. Actual pride of his record!
Actual vanity in his speed with a gun. Actual jealousy of any rival!
Duane could not believe it. But there he was, without a choice.
What he had feared for years had become a monstrous reality.
Respect for himself, blindness, a certain honor that he had clung to while in outlawry--all, like scales, seemed to fall away from him. He stood stripped bare, his soul naked--the soul of Cain. Always since the first brand had been forced and burned upon him he had been ruined. But now with conscience flayed to the quick, yet utterly powerless over this tiger instinct, he was lost. He said it. He admitted it. And at the utter abasement the soul he despised suddenly leaped and quivered with the thought of Ray Longstreth.
Then came agony. As he could not govern all the chances of this fatal meeting--as all his swift and deadly genius must be occupied with Poggin, perhaps in vain--as hard-shooting men whom he could not watch would be close behind, this almost certainly must be the end of Buck Duane. That did not matter.
But he loved the girl. He wanted her. All her sweetness, her fire, and pleading returned to torture him.
At that moment the door opened, and Ray Longstreth entered.
"Duane," she said, softly. "Captain MacNelly sent me to you.""But you shouldn't have come," replied Duane.
"As soon as he told me I would have come whether he wished it or not. You left me--all of us--stunned. I had no time to thank you. Oh, I do-with all my soul. It was noble of you. Father is overcome. He didn't expect so much. And he'll be true. But, Duane, I was told to hurry, and here I'm selfishly using time.""Go, then--and leave me. You mustn't unnerve me now, when there's a desperate game to finish.""Need it be desperate?" she whispered, coming close to him.
"Yes; it can't be else."
MacNelly had sent her to weaken him; of that Duane was sure.
And he felt that she had wanted to come. Her eyes were dark, strained, beautiful, and they shed a light upon Duane he had never seen before.
"You're going to take some mad risk," she said. "Let me persuade you not to. You said--you cared for me--and I--oh, Duane--don't you--know--?"The low voice, deep, sweet as an old chord, faltered and broke and failed.
Duane sustained a sudden shock and an instant of paralyzed confusion of thought.
She moved, she swept out her hands, and the wonder of her eyes dimmed in a flood of tears.
"My God! You can't care for me?" he cried, hoarsely.
Then she met him, hands outstretched.
"But I do-I do!"
Swift as light Duane caught her and held her to his breast. He stood holding her tight, with the feel of her warm, throbbing breast and the clasp of her arms as flesh and blood realities to fight a terrible fear. He felt her, and for the moment the might of it was stronger than all the demons that possessed him. And he held her as if she had been his soul, his strength on earth, his hope of Heaven, against his lips.
The strife of doubt all passed. He found his sight again. And there rushed over him a tide of emotion unutterably sweet and full, strong like an intoxicating wine, deep as his nature, something glorious and terrible as the blaze of the sun to one long in darkness. He had become an outcast, a wanderer, a gunman, a victim of circumstances; he had lost and suffered worse than death in that loss; he had gone down the endless bloody trail, a killer of men, a fugitive whose mind slowly and inevitably closed to all except the instinct to survive and a black despair; and now, with this woman in his arms, her swelling breast against his, in this moment almost of resurrection, he bent under the storm of passion and joy possible only to him who had endured so much.
"Do you care--a little?" he whispered, unsteadily.
He bent over her, looking deep into the dark wet eyes.
She uttered a low laugh that was half sob, and her arms slipped up to his neck.
"A littler Oh, Duane--Duane--a great deal!"
Their lips met in their first kiss. The sweetness, the fire of her mouth seemed so new, so strange, so irresistible to Duane.
His sore and hungry heart throbbed with thick and heavy beats.
