He led the horse out of the crowd. Aiken joined him, and between them they escorted Duane across the plaza. The crowd appeared irresistibly drawn to follow.
Aiken paused with his big hand on Duane's knee. In it, unconsciously probably, he still held the gun.
“Duane, a word with you,” he said. “I believe you're not so black as you've been painted. I wish there was time to say more. Tell me this, anyway. Do you know the Ranger Captain MacNelly?”
“I do not,” replied Duane, in surprise.
“I met him only a week ago over in Fairfield,” went on Aiken, hurriedly. “He declared you never killed my wife. I didn't believe him—argued with him. We almost had hard words over it. Now—I'm sorry. The last thing he said was: 'If you ever see Duane don't kill him. Send him into my camp after dark!' He meant something strange. What—I can't say. But he was right, and I was wrong. If Lucy had batted an eye I'd have killed you. Still, I wouldn't advise you to hunt up MacNelly's camp. He's clever. Maybe he believes there's no treachery in his new ideas of ranger tactics. I tell you for all it's worth. Good-by. May God help you further as he did this day!”
Duane said good-by and touched the horse with his spurs.
“So long, Buck!” called Sibert, with that frank smile breaking warm over his brown face; and he held his sombrero high.
CHAPTER XIV
When Duane reached the crossing of the roads the name Fairfield on the sign-post seemed to be the thing that tipped the oscillating balance of decision in favor of that direction.