When consciousness returned he found himself lying in a little hut of mesquite branches. It was well built and evidently some years old. There were two doors or openings, one in front and the other at the back. Duane imagined it had been built by a fugitive--one who meant to keep an eye both ways and not to be surprised. Duane felt weak and had no desire to move. Where was he, anyway? A strange, intangible sense of time, distance, of something far behind weighed upon him. Sight of the two packs Euchre had made brought his thought to Jennie. What had become of her? There was evidence of her work in a smoldering fire and a little blackened coffee-pot. Probably she was outside looking after the horses or getting water. He thought he heard a step and listened, but he felt tired, and presently his eyes closed and he fell into a doze.
Awakening from this, he saw Jennie sitting beside him. In some way she seemed to have changed. When he spoke she gave a start and turned eagerly to him.
"Duane!" she cried.
"Hello. How're you, Jennie, and how am I?" he said, finding it a little difficult to talk.
"Oh, I'm all right," she replied. "And you've come to--your wound's healed; but you've been sick. Fever, I guess. I did all I could."Duane saw now that the difference in her was a whiteness and tightness of skin, a hollowness of eye, a look of strain.
"Fever? How long have we been here?" he asked.
She took some pebbles from the crown of his sombrero and counted them.
"Nine. Nine days," she answered.
"Nine days!" he exclaimed, incredulously. But another look at her assured him that she meant what she said. "I've been sick all the time? You nursed me?""Yes."
"Bland's men didn't come along here?"
"No."
"Where are the horses?"
"I keep them grazing down in a gorge back of here. There's good grass and water.""Have you slept any?"
"A little. Lately I couldn't keep awake."
"Good Lord! I should think not. You've had a time of it sitting here day and night nursing me, watching for the outlaws. Come, tell me all about it.""There's nothing much to tell."
"I want to know, anyway, just what you did--how you felt.""I can't remember very well," she replied, simply. "We must have ridden forty miles that day we got away. You bled all the time. Toward evening you lay on your horse's neck. When we came to this place you fell out of the saddle. I dragged you in here and stopped your bleeding. I thought you'd die that night. But in the morning I had a little hope. I had forgotten the horses.
But luckily they didn't stray far. I caught them and kept them down in the gorge. When your wounds closed and you began to breathe stronger I thought you'd get well quick. It was fever that put you back. You raved a lot, and that worried me, because I couldn't stop you. Anybody trailing us could have heard you a good ways. I don't know whether I was scared most then or when you were quiet, and it was so dark and lonely and still all around. Every day I put a stone in your hat.""Jennie, you saved my life," said Duane.
"I don't know. Maybe. I did all I knew how to do," she replied.
"You saved mine--more than my life."
Their eyes met in a long gaze, and then their hands in a close clasp.
"Jennie, we're going to get away," he said, with gladness.
"I'll be well in a few days. You don't know how strong I am.
We'll hide by day and travel by night. I can get you across the river.""And then?" she asked.
"We'll find some honest rancher."
"And then?" she persisted.
"Why," he began, slowly, "that's as far as my thoughts ever got. It was pretty hard, I tell you, to assure myself of so much. It means your safety. You'll tell your story. You'll be sent to some village or town and taken care of until a relative or friend is notified.""And you?" she inquired, in a strange voice.
Duane kept silence.
"What will you do?" she went on.
"Jennie, I'll go back to the brakes. I daren't show my face among respectable people. I'm an outlaw.""You're no criminal!" she declared, with deep passion.
"Jennie, on this border the little difference between an out law and a criminal doesn't count for much.""You won't go back among those terrible men? You, with your gentleness and sweetness--all that's good about you? Oh, Duane, don't--don't go!""I can't go back to the outlaws, at least not Bland's band. No, I'll go alone. I'll lone-wolf it, as they say on the border.
What else can I do, Jennie?"
"Oh, I don't know. Couldn't you hide? Couldn't you slip,out of Texas--go far away?""I could never get out of Texas without being arrested. I could hide, but a man must live. Never mind about me, Jennie."In three days Duane was able with great difficulty to mount his horse. During daylight, by short relays, he and Jennie rode back to the main trail, where they hid again till he had rested. Then in the dark they rode out of the canons and gullies of the Rim Rock, and early in the morning halted at the first water to camp.
From that point they traveled after nightfall and went into hiding during the day. Once across the Nueces River, Duane was assured of safety for her and great danger for himself. They had crossed into a country he did not know. Somewhere east of the river there were scattered ranches. But he was as liable to find the rancher in touch with the outlaws as he was likely to find him honest. Duane hoped his good fortune would not desert him in this last service to Jennie. Next to the worry of that was realization of his condition. He had gotten up too soon; he had ridden too far and hard, and now he felt that any moment he might fall from his saddle. At last, far ahead over a barren mesquite-dotted stretch of dusty ground, he espied a patch of green and a little flat, red ranch-house. He headed his horse for it and turned a face he tried to make cheerful for Jennie's sake. She seemed both happy and sorry.
When near at hand he saw that the rancher was a thrifty farmer.
