passion assailed him that he felt as if he was being shaken
with ague. Yet it was all internal, inside his breast, for his
hand was like a rock and, for all he could see, not a muscle
about him quivered. He had no fear of Bain or of any other man;
but a vague fear of himself, of this strange force in him, made
him ponder and shake his head. It was as if he had not all to
say in this matter. There appeared to have been in him a
reluctance to let himself go, and some voice, some spirit from
a distance, something he was not accountable for, had compelled
him. That hour of Duane's life was like years of actual living,
and in it he became a thoughtful man.

He went into the house and buckled on his belt and gun. The gun
was a Colt .45, six-shot, and heavy, with an ivory handle. He
had packed it, on and off, for five years. Before that it had
been used by his father. There were a number of notches filed
in the bulge of the ivory handle. This gun was the one his
father had fired twice after being shot through the heart, and
his hand had stiffened so tightly upon it in the death-grip
that his fingers had to be pried open. It had never been drawn
upon any man since it had come into Duane's possession. But the
cold, bright polish of the weapon showed how it had been used.
Duane could draw it with inconceivable rapidity, and at twenty
feet he could split a card pointing edgewise toward him.

Duane wished to avoid meeting his mother. Fortunately, as he
thought, she was away from home. He went out and down the path
toward the gate. The air was full of the fragrance of blossoms
and the melody of birds. Outside in the road a neighbor woman
stood talking to a countryman in a wagon; they spoke to him;