From that point they traveled after nightfall and went into hiding during the day. Once across the Nueces River, Duane was assured of safety for her and great danger for himself. They had crossed into a country he did not know. Somewhere east of the river there were scattered ranches. But he was as liable to find the rancher in touch with the outlaws as he was likely to find him honest. Duane hoped his good fortune would not desert him in this last service to Jennie. Next to the worry of that was realization of his condition. He had gotten up too soon; he had ridden too far and hard, and now he felt that any moment he might fall from his saddle. At last, far ahead over a barren mesquite-dotted stretch of dusty ground, he espied a patch of green and a little flat, red ranch-house. He headed his horse for it and turned a face he tried to make cheerful for Jennie's sake. She seemed both happy and sorry. When near at hand he saw that the rancher was a thrifty farmer. And thrift spoke for honesty. There were fields of alfalfa, fruit-trees, corrals, windmill pumps, irrigation-ditches, all surrounding a neat little adobe house. Some children were playing in the yard. The way they ran at sight of Duane hinted of both the loneliness and the fear of their isolated lives. Duane saw a woman come to the door, then a man. The latter looked keenly, then stepped outside. He was a sandy-haired, freckled Texan. “Howdy, stranger,” he called, as Duane halted. “Get down, you an' your woman. Say, now, air you sick or shot or what? Let me--” Duane, reeling in his saddle, bent searching eyes upon the rancher. He thought he saw good will, kindness, honesty. He risked all on that one sharp glance. Then he almost plunged from the saddle. The rancher caught him, helped him to a bench. “Martha, come out here!” he called. “This man's sick. No; he's shot, or I don't know blood-stains.” Jennie had slipped off her horse and to Duane's side. Duane appeared about to faint. “Air you his wife?” asked the rancher. “No. I'm only a girl he saved from outlaws. Oh, he's so paler Duane, Duane!” “Buck Duane!” exclaimed the rancher, excitedly. “The man who killed Bland an' Alloway? Say, I owe him a good turn, an' I'll pay it, young woman.” The rancher's wife came out, and with a manner at once kind and practical essayed to make Duane drink from a flask. He was not so far gone that he could not recognize its contents, which he refused, and weakly asked for water. When that was given him he found his voice. “Yes, I'm Duane. I've only overdone myself--just all in. The wounds I got at Bland's are healing. Will you take this girl in--hide her awhile till the excitement's over among the outlaws?” “I shore will,” replied the Texan. “Thanks. I'll remember you--I'll square it.” “What 're you goin' to do?” “I'll rest a bit--then go back to the brakes.” “Young man, you ain't in any shape to travel. See here--any rustlers on your trail?” “I think we gave Bland's gang the slip.”