He rode perhaps twenty miles, not sparing his horse nor caring whether or not he left a plain trail.
“Let them hunt me!” he muttered.
When the heat of the day began to be oppressive, and hunger and thirst made themselves manifest, Duane began to look about him for a place to halt for the noon-hours. The trail led into a road which was hard packed and smooth from the tracks of cattle. He doubted not that he had come across one of the roads used by border raiders. He headed into it, and had scarcely traveled a mile when, turning a curve, he came point-blank upon a single horseman riding toward him. Both riders wheeled their mounts sharply and were ready to run and shoot back. Not more than a hundred paces separated them. They stood then for a moment watching each other.
“Mawnin', stranger,” called the man, dropping his hand from his hip.
“Howdy,” replied Duane, shortly.
They rode toward each other, closing half the gap, then they halted again.
“I seen you ain't no ranger,” called the rider, “an' shore I ain't none.”
He laughed loudly, as if he had made a joke.
“How'd you know I wasn't a ranger?” asked Duane, curiously. Somehow he had instantly divined that his horseman was no officer, or even a rancher trailing stolen stock.
“Wal,” said the fellow, starting his horse forward at a walk, “a ranger'd never git ready to run the other way from one man.”