Duane played his part. Here was his a tiger after prey he seized it. First he coolly eyed the outlaw and then disclaimed any knowledge whatever of the train-robbery other than Fletcher had heard himself. Then at Fletcher's persistence and admiration and increasing show of friendliness he laughed occasionally and allowed himself to swell with pride, though still denying. Next he feigned a lack of consistent will-power and seemed to be wavering under Fletcher's persuasion and grew silent, then surly. Fletcher, evidently sure of ultimate victory, desisted for the time being; however, in his solicitous regard and close companionship for the rest of that day he betrayed the bent of his mind. Later, when Duane started up announcing his intention to get his horse and make for camp out in the brush, Fletcher seemed grievously offended. “Why don't you stay with me? I've got a comfortable 'dobe over here. Didn't I stick by you when Guthrie an' his bunch come up? Supposin' I hedn't showed down a cold hand to him? You'd be swingin' somewheres now. I tell you, Dodge, it ain't square.” “I'll square it. I pay my debts,” replied Duane. “But I can't put up here all night. If I belonged to the gang it 'd be different.” “What gang?” asked Fletcher, bluntly. “Why, Cheseldine's.” Fletcher's beard nodded as his jaw dropped. Duane laughed. “I run into him the other day. Knowed him on sight. Sure, he's the king-pin rustler. When he seen me an' asked me what reason I had for bein' on earth or some such like--why, I up an' told him.” Fletcher appeared staggered. “Who in all-fired hell air you talkin' about?” “Didn't I tell you once? Cheseldine. He calls himself Longstreth over there.” All of Fletcher's face not covered by hair turned a dirty white. “Cheseldine--Longstreth!” he whispered, hoarsely. “Gord Almighty! You braced the--” Then a remarkable transformation came over the outlaw. He gulped; he straightened his face; he controlled his agitation. But he could not send the healthy brown back to his face. Duane, watching this rude man, marveled at the change in him, the sudden checking movement, the proof of a wonderful fear and loyalty. It all meant Cheseldine, a master of men! “WHO AIR YOU?” queried Fletcher, in a queer, strained voice. “You gave me a handle, didn't you? Dodge. Thet's as good as any. Shore it hits me hard. Jim, I've been pretty lonely for years, an' I'm gettin' in need of pals. Think it over, will you? See you manana.” The outlaw watched Duane go off after his horse, watched him as he returned to the tavern, watched him ride out into the darkness--all without a word.