“Never mind how you look,” interrupted the outlaw, in a whisper. “It ain't no time to care fer thet. Here's young Duane. Jennie, he's no rustler, no thief. He's different. Come out, Jennie, an' mebbe he'll--” Euchre did not complete his sentence. He had spoken low, with his glance shifting from side to side. But what he said was sufficient to bring the girl quickly. She appeared in the doorway with downcast eyes and a stain of red in her white cheek. She had a pretty, sad face and bright hair. “Don't be bashful, Jennie,” said Euchre. “You an' Duane have a chance to talk a little. Now I'll go fetch Mrs. Bland, but I won't be hurryin'.” With that Euchre went away through the cottonwoods. “I'm glad to meet you, Miss--Miss Jennie,” said Duane. “Euchre didn't mention your last name. He asked me to come over to--” Duane's attempt at pleasantry halted short when Jennie lifted her lashes to look at him. Some kind of a shock went through Duane. Her gray eyes were beautiful, but it had not been beauty that cut short his speech. He seemed to see a tragic struggle between hope and doubt that shone in her piercing gaze. She kept looking, and Duane could not break the silence. It was no ordinary moment. “What did you come here for?” she asked, at last. “To see you,” replied Duane, glad to speak. “Why?” “Well--Euchre thought--he wanted me to talk to you, cheer you up a bit,” replied Duane, somewhat lamely. The earnest eyes embarrassed him. “Euchre's good. He's the only person in this awful place who's been good to me. But he's afraid of Bland. He said you were different. Who are you?” Duane told her. “You're not a robber or rustler or murderer or some bad man come here to hide?” “No, I'm not,” replied Duane, trying to smile. “Then why are you here?” “I'm on the dodge. You know what that means. I got in a shooting-scrape at home and had to run off. When it blows over I hope to go back.” “But you can't be honest here?” “Yes, I can.” “Oh, I know what these outlaws are. Yes, you're different.” She kept the strained gaze upon him, but hope was kindling, and the hard lines of her youthful face were softening. Something sweet and warm stirred deep in Duane as he realized the unfortunate girl was experiencing a birth of trust in him. “O God! Maybe you're the man to save me--to take me away before it's too late.” Duane's spirit leaped. “Maybe I am,” he replied, instantly. She seemed to check a blind impulse to run into his arms. Her cheek flamed, her lips quivered, her bosom swelled under her ragged dress. Then the glow began to fade; doubt once more assailed her. “It can't be. You're only--after me, too, like Bland--like all of them.” Duane's long arms went out and his hands clasped her shoulders. He shook her. “Look at me--straight in the eye. There are decent men. Haven't you a father--a brother?”