He remembered those dangling limp figures hanging from the cottonwoods.

These ranchers would rather hang an outlaw than do anything.

They might draw all his fire and then capture him.

His horror of hanging was so great as to be all out of proportion compared to his gun-fighter's instinct of self-preservation.
A race began then, a dusty, crashing drive through gray mesquite.

Duane could scarcely see, he was so blinded by stinging branches across his eyes.