"An outlaw?"

"I said it. If we had money an' influence we'd risk a trial.
But we've neither. An' I reckon the scaffold or jail is no
place for Buckley Duane. Strike for the wild country, an'
wherever you go an' whatever you do-be a man. Live honestly, if
that's possible. If it isn't, be as honest as you can. If you
have to herd with outlaws try not to become bad. There are
outlaws who 're not all bad--many who have been driven to the
river by such a deal as this you had. When you get among these
men avoid brawls. Don't drink; don't gamble. I needn't tell you
what to do if it comes to gun-play, as likely it will. You
can't come home. When this thing is lived down, if that time
ever comes, I'll get word into the unsettled country. It'll
reach you some day. That's all. Remember, be a man. Goodby."

Duane, with blurred sight and contracting throat, gripped his
uncle's hand and bade him a wordless farewell. Then he leaped
astride the black and rode out of town.

As swiftly as was consistent with a care for his steed, Duane
put a distance of fifteen or eighteen miles behind him. With
that he slowed up, and the matter of riding did not require all
his faculties. He passed several ranches and was seen by men.
This did not suit him, and he took an old trail across country.
It was a flat region with a poor growth of mesquite and
prickly-pear cactus. Occasionally he caught a glimpse of low
hills in the distance. He had hunted often in that section, and
knew where to find grass and water. When he reached this higher
ground he did not, however, halt at the first favorable