The Lone Star Ranger

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The Lone Star Ranger by Zane Grey
This etext was prepared by Ken Smidge of Mt. Clemens, MI.

THE LONE STAR RANGER

To
CAPTAIN JOHN HUGHES
and his Texas Rangers

It may seem strange to you that out of all the stories I heard
on the Rio Grande I should choose as first that of Buck
Duane--outlaw and gunman.

But, indeed, Ranger Coffee's story of the last of the Duanes
has haunted me, and I have given full rein to imagination and
have retold it in my own way. It deals with the old law--the
old border days--therefore it is better first. Soon, perchance,
I shall have the pleasure of writing of the border of to-day,
which in Joe Sitter's laconic speech, "Shore is 'most as bad
an' wild as ever!"

In the North and East there is a popular idea that the frontier
of the West is a thing long past, and remembered now only in
stories. As I think of this I remember Ranger Sitter when he
made that remark, while he grimly stroked an unhealed bullet
wound. And I remember the giant Vaughn, that typical son of
stalwart Texas, sitting there quietly with bandaged head, his
thoughtful eye boding ill to the outlaw who had ambushed him.
Only a few months have passed since then--when I had my
memorable sojourn with you--and yet, in that short time,
Russell and Moore have crossed the Divide, like Rangers.

Gentlemen,--I have the honor to dedicate this book to you, and
the hope that it shall fall to my lot to tell the world the
truth about a strange, unique, and misunderstood body of
men--the Texas Rangers--who made the great Lone Star State
habitable, who never know peaceful rest and sleep, who are
passing, who surely will not be forgotten and will some day
come into their own.

ZANE GREY

BOOK 1 THE OUTLAW

CHAPTER I

So it was in him, then--an inherited fighting instinct, a
driving intensity to kill. He was the last of the Duanes, that
old fighting stock of Texas. 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. 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'. Leave town till Cal sobers up.
He ain't got it in for you when he's not drinkin'."

"But what's he want me for?" demanded Duane. "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 wants gun-play. If he meets you he'll try to kill you."

Here it stirred in Duane again, that bursting gush of blood,
like a wind of flame shaking all his inner being, and subsiding
to leave him strangely chilled.

"Kill me! What for?" he asked.

"Lord knows there ain't any reason. But what's that to do with
most of the shootin' these days? Didn't five cowboys over to
Everall's kill one another dead all because they got to jerkin'
at a quirt among themselves? An' Cal has no reason to love you.
His girl was sweet on you."

"I quit when I found out she was his girl."

"I reckon she ain't quit. But never mind her or reasons. Cal's
here, just drunk enough to be ugly. He's achin' to kill
somebody. He's one of them four-flush gun-fighters. He'd like
to be thought bad. There's a lot of wild cowboys who're
ambitious for a reputation. They talk about how quick they are
on the draw. T hey ape Bland an' King Fisher an' Hardin an' all
the big outlaws. They make threats about joinin' the gangs
along the Rio Grande. They laugh at the sheriffs an' brag about
how they'd fix the rangers. Cal's sure not much for you to
bother with, if you only keep out of his way."

"You mean for me to run?" asked Duane, in scorn.

"I reckon I wouldn't put it that way. Just avoid him. Buck, I'm
not afraid Cal would get you if you met down there in town.
You've your father's eye an' his slick hand with a gun. What
I'm most afraid of is that you'll kill Bain."

Duane was silent, letting his uncle's earnest words sink in,
trying to realize their significance.

"If Texas ever recovers from that fool war an' kills off these
outlaws, why, a young man will have a lookout," went on the
uncle. "You're twenty-three now, an' a powerful sight of a fine
fellow, barrin' your temper. You've a chance in life. But if
you go gun-fightin', if you kill a man, you're ruined. Then
you'll kill another. It'll be the same old story. An' the
rangers would make you an outlaw. The rangers mean law an'
order for Texas. This even-break business doesn't work with
them. If you resist arrest they'll kill you. If you submit to
arrest, then you go to jail, an' mebbe you hang."

"I'd never hang," muttered Duane, darkly.

"I reckon you wouldn't," replied the old man. "You'd be like
your father. He was ever ready to draw--too ready. In times
like these, with the Texas rangers enforcin' the law, your Dad
would have been driven to the river. An', son, I'm afraid
you're a chip off the old block. Can't you hold in--keep your
temper--run away from trouble? Because it'll only result in you
gettin' the worst of it in the end. Your father was killed in a
street-fight. An' it was told of him that he shot twice after a
bullet had passed through his heart. Think of the terrible
nature of a man to be able to do that. If you have any such
blood in you, never give it a chance."

"What you say is all very well, uncle," returned Duane, "but
the only way out for me is to run, and I won't do it. Cal Bain
and his outfit have already made me look like a coward. He says
I'm afraid to come out and face him. A man simply can't stand
that in this country. Besides, Cal would shoot me in the back
some day if I didn't face him."

"Well, then, what're you goin' to do?" inquired the elder man.

"I haven't decided--yet."

"No, but you're comin' to it mighty fast. That damned spell is
workin' in you. You're different to-day. I remember how you
used to be moody an' lose your temper an' talk wild. Never was
much afraid of you then. But now you're gettin' cool an' quiet,
an' you think deep, an' I don't like the light in your eye. It
reminds me of your father."

"I wonder what Dad would say to me to-day if he were alive and
here," said Duane.

"What do you think? What could you expect of a man who never
wore a glove on his right hand for twenty years?"

"Well, he'd hardly have said much. Dad never talked. But he
would have done a lot. And I guess I'll go down-town and let
Cal Bain find me."

Then followed a long silence, during which Duane sat with
downcast eyes, and the uncle appeared lost in sad thought of
the future. Presently he turned to Duane with an expression
that denoted resignation, and yet a spirit which showed wherein
they were of the same blood.

"You've got a fast horse--the fastest I know of in this
country. After you meet Bain hurry back home. I'll have a
saddle-bag packed for you and the horse ready."

With that he turned on his heel and went into the house,
leaving Duane to revolve in his mind his singular speech. Buck
wondered presently if he shared his uncle's opinion of the
result of a meeting between himself and Bain. His thoughts were
vague. But on the instant of final decision, when he had
settled with himself that he would meet Bain, such a storm of
passion assailed him that he felt as if he was being shaken
with ague. Yet it was all internal, inside his breast, for his
hand was like a rock and, for all he could see, not a muscle
about him quivered. He had no fear of Bain or of any other man;
but a vague fear of himself, of this strange force in him, made
him ponder and shake his head. It was as if he had not all to
say in this matter. There appeared to have been in him a
reluctance to let himself go, and some voice, some spirit from
a distance, something he was not accountable for, had compelled
him. That hour of Duane's life was like years of actual living,
and in it he became a thoughtful man.

He went into the house and buckled on his belt and gun. The gun
was a Colt .45, six-shot, and heavy, with an ivory handle. He
had packed it, on and off, for five years. Before that it had
been used by his father. There were a number of notches filed
in the bulge of the ivory handle. This gun was the one his
father had fired twice after being shot through the heart, and
his hand had stiffened so tightly upon it in the death-grip
that his fingers had to be pried open. It had never been drawn
upon any man since it had come into Duane's possession. But the
cold, bright polish of the weapon showed how it had been used.
Duane could draw it with inconceivable rapidity, and at twenty
feet he could split a card pointing edgewise toward him.

Duane wished to avoid meeting his mother. Fortunately, as he
thought, she was away from home. He went out and down the path
toward the gate. The air was full of the fragrance of blossoms
and the melody of birds. Outside in the road a neighbor woman
stood talking to a countryman in a wagon; they spoke to him;
and he heard, but did not reply. Then he began to stride down
the road toward the town.

Wellston was a small town, but important in that unsettled part
of the great state because it was the trading-center of several
hundred miles of territory. On the main street there were
perhaps fifty buildings, some brick, some frame, mostly adobe,
and one-third of the lot, and by far the most prosperous, were
saloons. From the road Duane turned into this street. It was a
wide thoroughfare lined by hitching-rails and saddled horses
and vehicles of various kinds. Duane's eye ranged down the
street, taking in all at a glance, particularly persons moving
leisurely up and down. Not a cowboy was in sight. Duane
slackened his stride, and by the time he reached Sol White's
place, which was the first saloon, he was walking slowly.
Several people spoke to him and turned to look back after they
had passed. He paused at the door of White's saloon, took a
sharp survey of the interior, then stepped inside.

The saloon was large and cool, full of men and noise and smoke.
The noise ceased upon his entrance, and the silence ensuing
presently broke to the clink of Mexican silver dollars at a
monte table. Sol White, who was behind the bar, straightened up
when he saw Duane; then, without speaking, he bent over to
rinse a glass. All eyes except those of the Mexican gamblers
were turned upon Duane; and these glances were keen,
speculative, questioning. These men knew Bain was looking for
trouble; they probably had heard his boasts. But what did Duane
intend to do? Several of the cowboys and ranchers present
exchanged glances. Duane had been weighed by unerring Texas
instinct, by men who all packed guns. The boy was the son of
his father. Whereupon they greeted him and returned to their
drinks and cards. Sol White stood with his big red hands out
upon the bar; he was a tall, raw-boned Texan with a long
mustache waxed to sharp points.

"Howdy, Buck," was his greeting to Duane. He spoke carelessly
and averted his dark gaze for an instant.

"Howdy, Sol," replied Duane, slowly. "Say, Sol, I hear there's
a gent in town looking for me bad."

"Reckon there is, Buck," replied White. "He came in heah aboot
an hour ago. Shore he was some riled an' a-roarin' for gore.
Told me confidential a certain party had given you a white silk
scarf, an' he was hell-bent on wearin' it home spotted red."

"Anybody with him?" queried Duane.

"Burt an' Sam Outcalt an' a little cowpuncher I never seen
before. They-all was coaxin' trim to leave town. But he's
looked on the flowin' glass, Buck, an' he's heah for keeps."

"Why doesn't Sheriff Oaks lock him up if he's that bad?"

"Oaks went away with the rangers. There's been another raid at
Flesher's ranch. The King Fisher gang, likely. An' so the
town's shore wide open."

Duane stalked outdoors and faced down the street. He walked the
whole length of the long block, meeting many people--farmers,
ranchers, clerks, merchants, Mexicans, cowboys, and women. It
was a singular fact that when he turned to retrace his steps
the street was almost empty. He had not returned a hundred
yards on his way when the street was wholly deserted. A few
heads protruded from doors and around corners. That main street
of Wellston saw some such situation every few days. If it was
an instinct for Texans to fight, it was also instinctive for
them to sense with remarkable quickness the signs of a coming
gun-play. Rumor could not fly so swiftly. In less than ten
minutes everybody who had been on the street or in the shops
knew that Buck Duane had come forth to meet his enemy.

Duane walked on. When he came to within fifty paces of a saloon
he swerved out into the middle of the street, stood there for a
moment, then went ahead and back to the sidewalk. He passed on
in this way the length of the block. Sol White was standing in
the door of his saloon.

"Buck, I'm a-tippin' you off," he said, quick and low-voiced.
"Cal Bain's over at Everall's. If he's a-huntin' you bad, as he
brags, he'll show there."

Duane crossed the street and started down. Notwithstanding
White's statement Duane was wary and slow at every door.
Nothing happened, and he traversed almost the whole length of
the block without seeing a person. Everall's place was on the
corner.

Duane knew himself to be cold, steady. He was conscious of a
strange fury that made him want to leap ahead. He seemed to
long for this encounter more than anything he had ever wanted.
But, vivid as were his sensations, he felt as if in a dream.

Before he reached Everall's he heard loud voices, one of which
was raised high. Then the short door swung outward as if
impelled by a vigorous hand. A bow-legged cowboy wearing wooley
chaps burst out upon the sidewalk. At sight of Duane he seemed
to bound into the air, and he uttered a savage roar.

Duane stopped in his tracks at the outer edge of the sidewalk,
perhaps a dozen rods from Everall's door.

If Bain was drunk he did not show it in his movement. He
swaggered forward, rapidly closing up the gap. Red, sweaty,
disheveled, and hatless, his face distorted and expressive of
the most malignant intent, he was a wild and sinister figure.
He had already killed a man, and this showed in his demeanor.
His hands were extended before him, the right hand a little
lower than the left. At every step he bellowed his rancor in
speech mostly curses. Gradually he slowed his walk, then
halted. A good twenty-five paces separated the men.

"Won't nothin' make you draw, you--!" he shouted, fiercely.

"I'm waitin' on you, Cal," replied Duane.

Bain's right hand stiffened--moved. Duane threw his gun as a
boy throws a ball underhand--a draw his father had taught him.
He pulled twice, his shots almost as one. Bain's big Colt
boomed while it was pointed downward and he was falling. His
bullet scattered dust and gravel at Duane's feet. He fell
loosely, without contortion.

In a flash all was reality for Duane. He went forward and held
his gun ready for the slightest movement on the part of Bain.
But Bain lay upon his back, and all that moved were his breast
and his eyes. How strangely the red had left his face--and also
the distortion! The devil that had showed in Bain was gone. He
was sober and conscious. He tried to speak, but failed. His
eyes expressed something pitifully human. They
changed--rolled--set blankly.

Duane drew a deep breath and sheathed his gun. He felt calm and
cool, glad the fray was over. One violent expression burst from
him. "The fool!"

When he looked up there were men around him.

"Plumb center," said one.

Another, a cowboy who evidently had just left the gaming-table,
leaned down and pulled open Bain's shirt. He had the ace of
spades in his hand. He laid it on Bain's breast, and the black
figure on the card covered the two bullet-holes just over
Bain's heart.

Duane wheeled and hurried away. He heard another man say:

"Reckon Cal got what he deserved. Buck Duane's first gunplay.
Like father like son!"

CHAPTER II

A thought kept repeating itself to Duane, and it was that he
might have spared himself concern through his imagining how
awful it would be to kill a man. He had no such feeling now. He
had rid the community of a drunken, bragging, quarrelsome
cowboy.

When he came to the gate of his home and saw his uncle there
with a mettlesome horse, saddled, with canteen, rope, and bags
all in place, a subtle shock pervaded his spirit. It had
slipped his mind--the consequence of his act. But sight of the
horse and the look of his uncle recalled the fact that he must
now become a fugitive. An unreasonable anger took hold of him.

"The d--d fool!" he exclaimed, hotly. "Meeting Bain wasn't
much, Uncle Jim. He dusted my boots, that's all. And for that
I've got to go on the dodge."

"Son, you killed him--then?" asked the uncle, huskily.

"Yes. I stood over him--watched him die. I did as I would have
been done by."

"I knew it. Long ago I saw it comin'. But now we can't stop to
cry over spilt blood. You've got to leave town an' this part of
the country."

"Mother!" exclaimed Duane.

"She's away from home. You can't wait. I'll break it to
her--what she always feared."

Suddenly Duane sat down and covered his face with his hands.

"My God! Uncle, what have I done?" His broad shoulders shook.

"Listen, son, an' remember what I say," replied the elder man,
earnestly. "Don't ever forget. You're not to blame. I'm glad to
see you take it this way, because maybe you'll never grow hard
an' callous. You're not to blame. This is Texas. You're your
father's son. These are wild times. The law as the rangers are
laying it down now can't change life all in a minute. Even your
mother, who's a good, true woman, has had her share in making
you what you are this moment. For she was one of the
pioneers--the fightin' pioneers of this state. Those years of
wild times, before you was born, developed in her instinct to
fight, to save her life, her children, an' that instinct has
cropped out in you. It will be many years before it dies out of
the boys born in Texas."

"I'm a murderer," said Duane, shuddering.

"No, son, you're not. An' you never will be. But you've got to
be an outlaw till time makes it safe for you to come home."

"An outlaw?"

"I said it. If we had money an' influence we'd risk a trial.
But we've neither. An' I reckon the scaffold or jail is no
place for Buckley Duane. Strike for the wild country, an'
wherever you go an' whatever you do-be a man. Live honestly, if
that's possible. If it isn't, be as honest as you can. If you
have to herd with outlaws try not to become bad. There are
outlaws who 're not all bad--many who have been driven to the
river by such a deal as this you had. When you get among these
men avoid brawls. Don't drink; don't gamble. I needn't tell you
what to do if it comes to gun-play, as likely it will. You
can't come home. When this thing is lived down, if that time
ever comes, I'll get word into the unsettled country. It'll
reach you some day. That's all. Remember, be a man. Goodby."

Duane, with blurred sight and contracting throat, gripped his
uncle's hand and bade him a wordless farewell. Then he leaped
astride the black and rode out of town.

As swiftly as was consistent with a care for his steed, Duane
put a distance of fifteen or eighteen miles behind him. With
that he slowed up, and the matter of riding did not require all
his faculties. He passed several ranches and was seen by men.
This did not suit him, and he took an old trail across country.
It was a flat region with a poor growth of mesquite and
prickly-pear cactus. Occasionally he caught a glimpse of low
hills in the distance. He had hunted often in that section, and
knew where to find grass and water. When he reached this higher
ground he did not, however, halt at the first favorable
camping-spot, but went on and on. Once he came out upon the
brow of a hill and saw a considerable stretch of country
beneath him. It had the gray sameness characterizing all that
he had traversed. He seemed to want to see wide spaces--to get
a glimpse of the great wilderness lying somewhere beyond to the
southwest. It was sunset when he decided to camp at a likely
spot he came across. He led the horse to water, and then began
searching through the shallow valley for a suitable place to
camp. He passed by old camp-sites that he well remembered.
These, however, did not strike his fancy this time, and the
significance of the change in him did not occur at the moment.
At last he found a secluded spot, under cover of thick
mesquites and oaks, at a goodly distance from the old trail. He
took saddle and pack off the horse. He looked among his effects
for a hobble, and, finding that his uncle had failed to put one
in, he suddenly remembered that he seldom used a hobble, and
never on this horse. He cut a few feet off the end of his lasso
and used that. The horse, unused to such hampering of his free
movements, had to be driven out upon the grass.

Duane made a small fire, prepared and ate his supper. This
done, ending the work of that day, he sat down and filled his
pipe. Twilight had waned into dusk. A few wan stars had just
begun to show and brighten. Above the low continuous hum of
insects sounded the evening carol of robins. Presently the
birds ceased their singing, and then the quiet was more
noticeable. When night set in and the place seemed all the more
isolated and lonely for that Duane had a sense of relief.

It dawned upon him all at once that he was nervous, watchful,
sleepless. The fact caused him surprise, and he began to think
back, to take note of his late actions and their motives. The
change one day had wrought amazed him. He who had always been
free, easy, happy, especially when out alone in the open, had
become in a few short hours bound, serious, preoccupied. The
silence that had once been sweet now meant nothing to him
except a medium whereby he might the better hear the sounds of
pursuit. The loneliness, the night, the wild, that had always
been beautiful to him, now only conveyed a sense of safety for
the present. He watched, he listened, he thought. He felt
tired, yet had no inclination to rest. He intended to be off by
dawn, heading toward the southwest. Had he a destination? It
was vague as his knowledge of that great waste of mesquite and
rock bordering the Rio Grande. Somewhere out there was a
refuge. For he was a fugitive from justice, an outlaw.

This being an outlaw then meant eternal vigilance. No home, no
rest, no sleep, no content, no life worth the livingl He must
be a lone wolf or he must herd among men obnoxious to him. If
he worked for an honest living he still must hide his identity
and take risks of detection. If he did not work on some distant
outlying ranch, how was he to live? The idea of stealing was
repugnant to him. The future seemed gray and somber enough. And
he was twenty-three years old.

Why had this hard life been imposed upon him?

The bitter question seemed to start a strange iciness that
stole along his veins. What was wrong with him? He stirred the
few sticks of mesquite into a last flickering blaze. He was
cold, and for some reason he wanted some light. The black
circle of darkness weighed down upon him, closed in around him.
Suddenly he sat bolt upright and then froze in that position.
He had heard a step. It was behind him--no--on the side. Some
one was there. He forced his hand down to his gun, and the
touch of cold steel was another icy shock. Then he waited. But
all was silent--silent as only a wilderness arroyo can be, with
its low murmuring of wind in the mesquite. Had he heard a step?
He began to breathe again.

But what was the matter with the light of his camp-fire? It had
taken on a strange green luster and seemed to be waving off
into the outer shadows. Duane heard no step, saw no movement;
nevertheless, there was another present at that camp-fire
vigil. Duane saw him. He lay there in the middle of the green
brightness, prostrate, motionless, dying. Cal Bain! His
features were wonderfully distinct, clearer than any cameo,
more sharply outlined than those of any picture. It was a hard
face softening at the threshold of eternity. The red tan of
sun, the coarse signs of drunkenness, the ferocity and hate so
characteristic of Bain were no longer there. This face
represented a different Bain, showed all that was human in him
fading, fading as swiftly as it blanched white. The lips wanted
to speak, but had not the power. The eyes held an agony of
thought. They revealed what might have been possible for this
man if he lived--that he saw his mistake too late. Then they
rolled, set blankly, and closed in death.

That haunting visitation left Duane sitting there in a cold
sweat, a remorse gnawing at his vitals, realizing the curse
that was on him. He divined that never would he be able to keep
off that phantom. He remembered how his father had been
eternally pursued by the furies of accusing guilt, how he had
never been able to forget in work or in sleep those men he had
killed.

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