He could not trust himself.

He felt that any instant a word, a deed, something might call too deeply to that instinct he could no longer control.

Jackrabbit Benson was one of these men.

Because of him and other outlaws of his ilk Duane could scarcely ever forget the reality of things.

This was a hidden valley, a robbers' den, a rendezvous for murderers, a wild place stained red by deeds of wild men.
And because of that there was always a charged atmosphere.