“Chess, did you get that? Well, by God! what do you think of my wife?” “She's lyin' or she's crazy,” replied Alloway, and his voice carried an unpleasant ring. Mrs. Bland promptly and indignantly told her husband's lieutenant to keep his mouth shut. “Ho, ho, ho!” rolled out Bland's laugh. Then he led the way to the porch, his spurs clinking, the weapons he was carrying rattling, and he flopped down on a bench. “How are you, boss?” asked Euchre. “Hello, old man. I'm well, but all in.” Alloway slowly walked on to the porch and leaned against the rail. He answered Euchre's greeting with a nod. Then he stood there a dark, silent figure. Mrs. Bland's full voice in eager questioning had a tendency to ease the situation. Bland replied briefly to her, reporting a remarkably successful trip. Duane thought it time to show himself. He had a feeling that Bland and Alloway would let him go for the moment. They were plainly non-plussed, and Alloway seemed sullen, brooding. “Jennie,” whispered Duane, “that was clever of Mrs. Bland. We'll keep up the deception. Any day now be ready!” She pressed close to him, and a barely audible “Hurry!” came breathing into his ear. “Good night, Jennie,” he said, aloud. “Hope you feel better to-morrow.” Then he stepped out into the moonlight and spoke. Bland returned the greeting, and, though he was not amiable, he did not show resentment. “Met Jasper as I rode in,” said Bland, presently. “He told me you made Bill Black mad, and there's liable to be a fight. What did you go off the handle about?” Duane explained the incident. “I'm sorry I happened to be there,” he went on. “It wasn't my business.” “Scurvy trick that 'd been,” muttered Bland. “You did right. All the same, Duane, I want you to stop quarreling with my men. If you were one of us--that'd be different. I can't keep my men from fighting. But I'm not called on to let an outsider hang around my camp and plug my rustlers.” “I guess I'll have to be hitting the trail for somewhere,” said Duane. “Why not join my band? You've got a bad start already, Duane, and if I know this border you'll never be a respectable citizen again. You're a born killer. I know every bad man on this frontier. More than one of them have told me that something exploded in their brain, and when sense came back there lay another dead man. It's not so with me. I've done a little shooting, too, but I never wanted to kill another man just to rid myself of the last one. My dead men don't sit on my chest at night. That's the gun-fighter's trouble. He's crazy. He has to kill a new man--he's driven to it to forget the last one.” “But I'm no gun-fighter,” protested Duane. “Circumstances made me--”