Despite the occasional joke and sally of the more youthful members, and a general conversation of camp-fire nature, Duane was not deceived about the fact that his advent had been an unusual and striking one, which had caused an undercurrent of conjecture and even consternation among them. These rangers were too well trained to appear openly curious about their captain's guest. If they had not deliberately attempted to be oblivious of his presence Duane would have concluded they thought him an ordinary visitor, somehow of use to MacNelly. As it was, Duane felt a suspense that must have been due to a hint of his identity.
He was not long in presenting himself at the door of the house.
"Come in and have a chair," said MacNelly, motioning for the one other occupant of the room to rise. "Leave us, Russell, and close the door. I'll be through these reports right off."MacNelly sat at a table upon which was a lamp and various papers. Seen in the light he was a fine-looking, soldierly man of about forty years, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a bronzed face, shrewd, stern, strong, yet not wanting in kindliness. He scanned hastily over some papers, fussed with them, and finally put them in envelopes. Without looking up he pushed a cigar-case toward Duane, and upon Duane's refusal to smoke he took a cigar, rose to light it at the lamp-chimney, and then, settling back in his chair, he faced Duane, making a vain attempt to hide what must have been the fulfilment of a long-nourished curiosity.
"Duane, I've been hoping for this for two years," be began.
Duane smiled a little--a smile that felt strange on his face.
He had never been much of a talker. And speech here seemed more than ordinarily difficult.
MacNelly must have felt that.
He looked long and earnestly at Duane, and his quick, nervous manner changed to grave thoughtfulness.
"I've lots to say, but where to begin," he mused. "Duane, you've had a hard life since you went on the dodge. I never met you before, don't know what you looked like as a boy. But I can see what--well, even ranger life isn't all roses."He rolled his cigar between his lips and puffed clouds of smoke.
"Ever hear from home since you left Wellston?" he asked, abruptly.
"No."
"Never a word?"
"Not one," replied Duane, sadly.
"That's tough. I'm glad to be able to tell you that up to just lately your mother, sister, uncle--all your folks, Ibelieve--were well. I've kept posted. But haven't heard lately."Duane averted his face a moment, hesitated till the swelling left his throat, and then said, "It's worth what I went through to-day to hear that.""I can imagine how you feel about it. When I was in the war--but let's get down to the business of this meeting."He pulled his chair close to Duane's.
"You've had word more than once in the last two years that Iwanted to see you?"
"Three times, I remember," replied Duane.
"Why didn't you hunt me up?"
"I supposed you imagined me one of those gun-fighters who couldn't take a dare and expected me to ride up to your camp and be arrested.""That was natural, I suppose," went on MacNelly. "You didn't know me, otherwise you would have come. I've been a long time getting to you. But the nature of my job, as far as you're concerned, made me cautious. Duane, you're aware of the hard name you bear all over the Southwest?""Once in a while I'm jarred into realizing," replied Duane.
"It's the hardest, barring Murrell and Cheseldine, on the Texas border. But there's this difference. Murrell in his day was known to deserve his infamous name. Cheseldine in his day also.
But I've found hundreds of men in southwest Texas who're your friends, who swear you never committed a crime. The farther south I get the clearer this becomes. What I want to know is the truth. Have you ever done anything criminal? Tell me the truth, Duane. It won't make any difference in my plan. And when I say crime I mean what I would call crime, or any reasonable Texan.""That way my hands are clean," replied Duane.
"You never held up a man, robbed a store for grub, stole a horse when you needed him bad--never anything like that?""Somehow I always kept out of that, just when pressed the hardest.""Duane, I'm damn glad!" MacNelly exclaimed, gripping Duane's hand. "Glad for you mother's sakel But, all the same, in spite of this, you are a Texas outlaw accountable to the state.
You're perfectly aware that under existing circumstances, if you fell into the hands of the law, you'd probably hang, at least go to jail for a long term.""That's what kept me on the dodge all these years," replied Duane.
"Certainly." MacNelly removed his cigar. His eyes narrowed and glittered. The muscles along his brown cheeks set hard and tense. He leaned closer to Duane, laid sinewy, pressing fingers upon Duane's knee.
"Listen to this," he whispered, hoarsely. "If I place a pardon in your hand--make you a free, honest citizen once more, clear your name of infamy, make your mother, your sister proud of you--will you swear yourself to a service, ANY service I demand of you?"Duane sat stock still, stunned.
Slowly, more persuasively, with show of earnest agitation, Captain MacNelly reiterated his startling query.
"My God!" burst from Duane. "What's this? MacNelly, you CAN'Tbe in earnest!"
"Never more so in my life. I've a deep game. I'm playing it square. What do you say?"He rose to his feet. Duane, as if impelled, rose with him.
Ranger and outlaw then locked eyes that searched each other's souls. In MacNelly's Duane read truth, strong, fiery purpose, hope, even gladness, and a fugitive mounting assurance of victory.
Twice Duane endeavored to speak, failed of all save a hoarse, incoherent sound, until, forcing back a flood of speech, he found a voice.
"Any service? Every service! MacNelly, I give my word," said Duane.
A light played over MacNelly's face, warming out all the grim darkness. He held out his hand. Duane met it with his in a clasp that men unconsciously give in moments of stress.
