He saw then, dimly, a room that was strange, strange people moving about over him, with faint voices, far away, things in a dream. He saw again, clearly, and consciousness returned, still unreal, still strange, full of those vague and far-away things. Then he was not dead. He lay stiff, like a stone, with a weight ponderous as a mountain upon him and all his bound body racked in slow, dull-beating agony. A woman's face hovered over him, white and tragic-eyed, like one of his old haunting phantoms, yet sweet and eloquent. Then a man's face bent over him, looked deep into his eyes, and seemed to whisper from a distance: “Duane--Duane! Ah, he knew me!” After that there was another long interval of darkness. When the light came again, clearer this time, the same earnest-faced man bent over him. It was MacNelly. And with recognition the past flooded back. Duane tried to speak. His lips were weak, and he could scarcely move them. “Poggin!” he whispered. His first real conscious thought was for Poggin. Ruling passion--eternal instinct! “Poggin is dead, Duane; shot to pieces,” replied MacNelly, solemnly. “What a fight he made! He killed two of my men, wounded others. God! he was a tiger. He used up three guns before we downed him.” “Who-got--away?” “Fletcher, the man with the horses. We downed all the others. Duane, the job's done--it's done! Why, man, you're--” “What of--of--HER?” “Miss Longstreth has been almost constantly at your bedside. She helped the doctor. She watched your wounds. And, Duane, the other night, when you sank low--so low--I think it was her spirit that held yours back. Oh, she's a wonderful girl. Duane, she never gave up, never lost her nerve for a moment. Well, we're going to take you home, and she'll go with us. Colonel Longstreth left for Louisiana right after the fight. I advised it. There was great excitement. It was best for him to leave.” “Have I--a--chance--to recover?” “Chance? Why, man,” exclaimed the Captain, “you'll get well! You'll pack a sight of lead all your life. But you can stand that. Duane, the whole Southwest knows your story. You need never again be ashamed of the name Buck Duane. The brand outlaw is washed out. Texas believes you've been a secret ranger all the time. You're a hero. And now think of home, your mother, of this noble girl--of your future.” The rangers took Duane home to Wellston. A railroad had been built since Duane had gone into exile. Wellston had grown. A noisy crowd surrounded the station, but it stilled as Duane was carried from the train. A sea of faces pressed close. Some were faces he remembered--schoolmates, friends, old neighbors. There was an upflinging of many hands. Duane was being welcomed home to the town from which he had fled. A deadness within him broke. This welcome hurt him somehow, quickened him; and through his cold being, his weary mind, passed a change. His sight dimmed.