“MacNelly. I've heard of him. Describe him to me.”
“Slight-built chap, but wiry and tough. Clean face, black mustache and hair. Sharp black eyes. He's got a look of authority. MacNelly's a fine man, Duane. Belongs to a good Southern family. I'd hate to have him look you up.”
Duane did not speak.
“MacNelly's got nerve, and his rangers are all experienced men. If they find out you're here they'll come after you. MacNelly's no gun-fighter, but he wouldn't hesitate to do his duty, even if he faced sure death. Which he would in this case. Duane, you mustn't meet Captain MacNelly. Your record is clean, if it is terrible. You never met a ranger or any officer except a rotten sheriff now and then, like Rod Brown.”
Still Duane kept silence. He was not thinking of danger, but of the fact of how fleeting must be his stay among friends.
“I've already fixed up a pack of grub,” went on Jones. “I'll slip out to saddle your horse. You watch here.”
He had scarcely uttered the last word when soft, swift footsteps sounded on the hard path. A man turned in at the gate. The light was dim, yet clean enough to disclose an unusually tall figure. When it appeared nearer he was seen to be walking with both arms raised, hands high. He slowed his stride.
“Does Burt Jones live here?” he asked, in a low, hurried voice.
“I reckon. I'm Burt. What can I do for you?” replied Jones.
The stranger peered around, stealthily came closer, still with his hands up.