CHAPTER VIII.
What a contrast, Duane thought, the evening of that day presented to the state of his soul! The sunset lingered in golden glory over the distant Mexican mountains; twilight came slowly; a faint breeze blew from the river cool and sweet; the late cooing of a dove and the tinkle of a cowbell were the only sounds; a serene and tranquil peace lay over the valley.
Inside Duane's body there was strife.

This third facing of a desperate man had thrown him off his balance.

It had not been fatal, but it threatened so much.

The better side of his nature seemed to urge him to die rather than to go on fighting or opposing ignorant, unfortunate, savage men.

But the perversity of him was so great that it dwarfed reason, conscience.