Duane waited, hoping the outlaw would make good his word.

Probably not a quarter of an hour had elapsed when Duane heard the clear reports of a Winchester rifle, the clatter of rapid hoof-beats, and yells unmistakably the kind to mean danger for a man like Stevens.

Duane mounted and rode to the edge of the mesquites.
He saw a cloud of dust down the road and a bay horse running fast.
Stevens apparently had not been wounded by any of the shots, for he had a steady seat in his saddle and his riding, even at that moment, struck Duane as admirable.

He carried a large pack over the pommel, and he kept looking back.

The shots had ceased, but the yells increased.