People were running now from the street, the stores, the houses. Old men, cowboys, clerks, boys, ranchers came on the trot. The crowd grew. The increasing clamor began to attract women as well as men. A group of girls ran up, then hung back in fright and pity.
The presence of cowboys made a difference. They split up the crowd, got to Duane, and lay hold of him with rough, businesslike hands. One of them lifted his fists and roared at the frenzied mob to fall back, to stop the racket. He beat them back into a circle; but it was some little time before the hubbub quieted down so a voice could be heard.
"Shut up, will you-all?" he was yelling. "Give us a chance to hear somethin'. Easy now–soho. There ain't nobody goin' to be hurt. Thet's right; everybody quiet now. Let's see what's come off."
This cowboy, evidently one of authority, or at least one of strong personality, turned to the gaunt man, who still waved Duane's gun.
"Abe, put the gun down," he said. "It might go off. Here, give it to me. Now, what's wrong? Who's this roped gent, an' what's he done?"
The gaunt fellow, who appeared now about to collapse, lifted a shaking hand and pointed.
"Thet thar feller–he's Buck Duane!" he panted.
An angry murmur ran through the surrounding crowd.
"The rope! The rope! Throw it over a branch! String him up!" cried an excited villager.
"Buck Duane! Buck Duane!"
"Hang him!"
The cowboy silenced these cries.
"Abe, how do you know this fellow is Buck Duane?" he asked, sharply.
"Why–he said so," replied the man called Abe.
"What!" came the exclamation, incredulously.
"It's a tarnal fact," panted Abe, waving his hands importantly. He was an old man and appeared to be carried away with the significance of his deed. "He like to rid' his hoss right over us-all. Then he jumped off, says he was Buck Duane, an' he wanted to see Jeff Aiken bad."
This speech caused a second commotion as noisy though not so enduring as the first. When the cowboy, assisted by a couple of his mates, had restored order again some one had slipped the noose-end of Duane's rope over his head.
"Up with him!" screeched a wild-eyed youth.
The mob surged closer was shoved back by the cowboys.
"Abe, if you ain't drunk or crazy tell thet over," ordered Abe's interlocutor.
With some show of resentment and more of dignity Abe reiterated his former statement.
"If he's Buck Duane how'n hell did you get hold of his gun?" bluntly queried the cowboy.
"Why–he set down thar–an' he kind of hid his face on his hand. An' I grabbed his gun an' got the drop on him."
What the cowboy thought of this was expressed in a laugh. His mates likewise grinned broadly. Then the leader turned to Duane.
"Stranger, I reckon you'd better speak up for yourself," he said.
That stilled the crowd as no command had done.
"I'm Buck Duane, all right." said Duane, quietly. "It was this way–"
The big cowboy seemed to vibrate with a shock. All the ruddy warmth left his face; his jaw began to bulge; the corded veins in his neck stood out in knots. In an instant he had a hard, stern, strange look. He shot out a powerful hand that fastened in the front of Duane's blouse.
"Somethin' queer here. But if you're Duane you're sure in bad. Any fool ought to know that. You mean it, then?"
"Yes."
"Rode in to shoot up the town, eh? Same old stunt of you gunfighters? Meant to kill the man who offered a reward? Wanted to see Jeff Aiken bad, huh?"
"No," replied Duane. "Your citizen here misrepresented things. He seems a little off his head."
"Reckon he is. Somebody is, that's sure. You claim Buck Duane, then, an' all his doings?"
"I'm Duane; yes. But I won't stand for the blame of things I never did. That's why I'm here. I saw that placard out there offering the reward. Until now I never was within half a day's ride of this town. I'm blamed for what I never did. I rode in here, told who I was, asked somebody to send for Jeff Aiken."
"An' then you set down an' let this old guy throw your own gun on you?" queried the cowboy in amazement.
"I guess that's it," replied Duane.
"Well, it's powerful strange, if you're really Buck Duane."
A man elbowed his way into the circle.
"It's Duane. I recognize him. I seen him in more'n one place," he said. "Sibert, you can rely on what I tell you. I don't know if he's locoed or what. But I do know he's the genuine Buck Duane. Any one who'd ever seen him onct would never forget him."
"What do you want to see Aiken for?" asked the cowboy Sibert.
"I want to face him, and tell him I never harmed his wife."
"Why?"
"Because I'm innocent, that's all."
"Suppose we send for Aiken an' he hears you an' doesn't believe you; what then?"
"If he won't believe me–why, then my case's so bad–I'd be better off dead."
A momentary silence was broken by Sibert.
"If this isn't a queer deal! Boys, reckon we'd better send for Jeff."
"Somebody went fer him. He'll be comin' soon," replied a man.
Duane stood a head taller than that circle of curious faces. He gazed out above and beyond them. It was in this way that he chanced to see a number of women on the outskirts of the crowd. Some were old, with hard faces, like the men. Some were young and comely, and most of these seemed agitated by excitement or distress. They cast fearful, pitying glances upon Duane as he stood there with that noose round his neck. Women were more human than men, Duane thought. He met eyes that dilated, seemed fascinated at his gaze, but were not averted. It was the old women who were voluble, loud in expression of their feelings.
Near the trunk of the cottonwood stood a slender woman in white. Duane's wandering glance rested upon her. Her eyes were riveted upon him. A soft-hearted woman, probably, who did not want to see him hanged!
"Thar comes Jeff Aiken now," called a man, loudly.
The crowd shifted and trampled in eagerness.
Duane saw two men coming fast, one of whom, in the lead, was of stalwart build. He had a gun in his hand, and his manner was that of fierce energy.
The cowboy Sibert thrust open the jostling circle of men.
"Hold on, Jeff," he called, and he blocked the man with the gun. He spoke so low Duane could not hear what he said, and his form hid Aiken's face. At that juncture the crowd spread out, closed in, and Aiken and Sibert were caught in the circle. There was a pushing forward, a pressing of many bodies, hoarse cries and flinging hands–again the insane tumult was about to break out–the demand for an outlaw's blood, the call for a wild justice executed a thousand times before on Texas's bloody soil.
Sibert bellowed at the dark encroaching mass. The cowboys with him beat and cuffed in vain.
"Jeff, will you listen?" broke in Sibert, hurriedly, his hand on the other man's arm.
Aiken nodded coolly. Duane, who had seen many men in perfect control of themselves under circumstances like these, recognized the spirit that dominated Aiken. He was white, cold, passionless. There were lines of bitter grief deep round his lips. If Duane ever felt the meaning of death he felt it then.
"Sure this 's your game, Aiken," said Sibert. "But hear me a minute. Reckon there's no doubt about this man bein' Buck Duane. He seen the placard out at the cross-roads. He rides in to Shirley. He says he's Buck Duane an' he's lookin' for Jeff Aiken. That's all clear enough. You know how these gunfighters go lookin' for trouble. But here's what stumps me. Duane sits down there on the bench and lets old Abe Strickland grab his gun ant get the drop on him. More'n that, he gives me some strange talk about how, if he couldn't make you believe he's innocent, he'd better be dead. You see for yourself Duane ain't drunk or crazy or locoed. He doesn't strike me as a man who rode in here huntin' blood. So I reckon you'd better hold on till you hear what he has to say."