“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'T be 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. When they unclasped and Duane stepped back to drop into a chair MacNelly fumbled for another cigar--he had bitten the other into shreds--and, lighting it as before, he turned to his visitor, now calm and cool. He had the look of a man who had justly won something at considerable cost. His next move was to take a long leather case from his pocket and extract from it several folded papers. “Here's your pardon from the Governor,” he said, quietly. “You'll see, when you look it over, that it's conditional. When you sign this paper I have here the condition will be met.” He smoothed out the paper, handed Duane a pen, ran his forefinger along a dotted line. Duane's hand was shaky. Years had passed since he had held a pen. It was with difficulty that he achieved his signature. Buckley Duane--how strange the name looked! “Right here ends the career of Buck Duane, outlaw and gunfighter,” said MacNelly; and, seating himself, he took the pen from Duane's fingers and wrote several lines in several places upon the paper. Then with a smile he handed it to Duane. “That makes you a member of Company A, Texas Rangers.” “So that's it!” burst out Duane, a light breaking in upon his bewilderment. “You want me for ranger service?”