Slowly, more persuasively, with show of earnest agitation, Captain MacNelly reiterated his startling query.
“My God!” burst from Duane. “What's this? MacNelly, you CAN'T be in earnest!”
“Never more so in my life. I've a deep game. I'm playing it square. What do you say?”
He rose to his feet. Duane, as if impelled, rose with him. Ranger and outlaw then locked eyes that searched each other's souls. In MacNelly's Duane read truth, strong, fiery purpose, hope, even gladness, and a fugitive mounting assurance of victory.
Twice Duane endeavored to speak, failed of all save a hoarse, incoherent sound, until, forcing back a flood of speech, he found a voice.
“Any service? Every service! MacNelly, I give my word,” said Duane.
A light played over MacNelly's face, warming out all the grim darkness. He held out his hand. Duane met it with his in a clasp that men unconsciously give in moments of stress.
When they unclasped and Duane stepped back to drop into a chair MacNelly fumbled for another cigar—he had bitten the other into shreds—and, lighting it as before, he turned to his visitor, now calm and cool. He had the look of a man who had justly won something at considerable cost. His next move was to take a long leather case from his pocket and extract from it several folded papers.
“Here's your pardon from the Governor,” he said, quietly. “You'll see, when you look it over, that it's conditional. When you sign this paper I have here the condition will be met.”
He smoothed out the paper, handed Duane a pen, ran his forefinger along a dotted line.