So it was in him, then-an inherited fighting instinct, a driving intensity to kill.
If he meets you he\'ll try to kill you.".
He wants gun-play. "To insult me again? I won\'t stand that twice."He\'s got a fever that\'s rampant in Texas these days, my boy.
He ain\'t got it in for you when he\'s not drinkin\'."But what\'s he want me for?" demanded Duane.
Leave town till Cal sobers up.
It was the recurrence, a hundred-fold increased in power, of a strange emotion that for the last three 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\'.
But not the memory of his dead father, nor the pleading of his soft-voiced mother, nor the warning of this uncle who stood before him now, had brought to Buck Duane so much realization of the dark passionate strain in his blood.
He was the last of the Duanes, that old fighting stock of Texas.
So it was in him, then-an inherited fighting instinct, a driving intensity to kill
