It was his fame that made them cowards.

Duane's keenness told him that at the very darkest and most perilous moment there was still a chance for him.

And the blood in him, the temper of his father, the years of his outlawry, the pride of his unsought and hated career, the nameless, inexplicable something in him made him accept that slim chance.
Waiting then became a physical and mental agony.

He lay under the burning sun, parched by thirst, laboring to breathe, sweating and bleeding.

His uncared-for wound was like a red-hot prong in his flesh.