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.