BOOK I. THE OUTLAWCHAPTER ISo it was in him, then--an inherited fighting instinct, a drivingintensity to kill. He was the last of the Duanes, that old fightingstock of Texas. But not the memory of his dead father, nor the pleadingof his soft-voiced mother, nor the warning of this uncle who stoodbefore him now, had brought to Buck Duane so much realization ofthe dark passionate strain in his blood. It was the recurrence, ahundred-fold increased in power, of a strange emotion that for the lastthree years had arisen in him."Yes, Cal Bain's in town, full of bad whisky an' huntin' for you,"repeated the elder man, gravely."It's the second time," muttered Duane, as if to himself."Son, you can't avoid a meetin'. Leave town till Cal sobers up. He ain'tgot it in for you when he's not drinkin'.""But what's he want me for?" demanded Duane. "To insult me again? Iwon't stand that twice.""He's got a fever that's rampant in Texas these days, my boy. He wantsgun-play. If he meets you he'll try to kill you."Here it stirred in Duane again, that bursting gush of blood, like awind of flame shaking all his inner being, and subsiding to leave himstrangely chilled."Kill me! What for?" he asked.