The Lone Star Ranger

Z >> Zane Grey >> The Lone Star Ranger

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The bank was steep and crumbly. He must not break off any earth
to splash into the water. There was a willow growing back some
few feet from the edge of the bank. Cautiously he pulled it
down, bent it over the water so that when he released it there
would be no springing back. Then he trusted his weight to it,
with his feet sliding carefully down the bank. He went into the
water almost up to his knees, felt the quicksand grip his feet;
then, leaning forward till he reached the plank, he pulled it
toward him and lay upon it.

Without a sound one end went slowly under water and the farther
end appeared lightly braced against the overhanging willows.
Very carefully then Duane began to extricate his right foot
from the sucking sand. It seemed as if his foot was incased in
solid rock. But there was a movement upward, and he pulled with
all the power he dared use. It came slowly and at length was
free. The left one he released with less difficulty. The next
few moments he put all his attention on the plank to ascertain
if his weight would sink it into the sand. The far end slipped
off the willows with a little splash and gradually settled to
rest upon the bottom. But it sank no farther, and Duane's
greatest concern was relieved. However, as it was manifestly
impossible for him to keep his head up for long he carefully
crawled out upon the plank until he could rest an arm and
shoulder upon the willows.

When he looked up it was to find the night strangely luminous
with fires. There was a bonfire on the extreme end of the,
bluff, another a hundred paces beyond. A great flare extended
over the brake in that direction. Duane heard a roaring on the
wind, and he knew his pursuers had fired the willows. He did
not believe that would help them much. The brake was dry
enough, but too green to burn readily. And as for the bonfires
he discovered that the men, probably having run out of wood,
were keeping up the light with oil and stuff from the village.
A dozen men kept watch on the bluff scarcely fifty paces from
where Duane lay concealed by the willows. They talked, cracked
jokes, sang songs, and manifestly considered this
outlaw-hunting a great lark. As long as the bright light lasted
Duane dared not move. He had the patience and the endurance to
wait for the breaking of the storm, and if that did not come,
then the early hour before dawn when the gray fog and gloom
were over the river.

Escape was now in his grasp. He felt it. And with that in his
mind he waited, strong as steel in his conviction, capable of
withstanding any strain endurable by the human frame.

The wind blew in puffs, grew wilder, and roared through the
willows, carrying bright sparks upward. Thunder rolled down
over the river, and lightning began to flash. Then the rain
fell in heavy sheets, but not steadily. The flashes of
lightning and the broad flares played so incessantly that Duane
could not trust himself out on the open river. Certainly the
storm rather increased the watchfulness of the men on the
bluff. He knew how to wait, and he waited, grimly standing pain
and cramp and chill. The storm wore away as desultorily as it
had come, and the long night set in. There were times when
Duane thought he was paralyzed, others when he grew sick,
giddy, weak from the strained posture. The first paling of the
stars quickened him with a kind of wild joy. He watched them
grow paler, dimmer, disappear one by one. A shadow hovered
down, rested upon the river, and gradually thickened. The
bonfire on the bluff showed as through a foggy veil. The
watchers were mere groping dark figures.

Duane, aware of how cramped he had become from long inaction,
began to move his legs and uninjured arm and body, and at
length overcame a paralyzing stiffness. Then, digging his hand
in the sand and holding the plank with his knees, he edged it
out into the river. Inch by inch he advanced until clear of the
willows. Looking upward, he saw the shadowy figures of the men
on the bluff. He realized they ought to see him, feared that
they would. But he kept on, cautiously, noiselessly, with a
heart-numbing slowness. From time to time his elbow made a
little gurgle and splash in the water. Try as he might, he
could not prevent this. It got to be like the hollow roar of a
rapid filling his ears with mocking sound. There was a
perceptible current out in the river, and it hindered straight
advancement. Inch by inch he crept on, expecting to hear the
bang of rifles, the spattering of bullets. He tried not to look
backward, but failed. The fire appeared a little dimmer, the
moving shadows a little darker.

Once the plank stuck in the sand and felt as if it were
settling. Bringing feet to aid his hand, he shoved it over the
treacherous place. This way he made faster progress. The
obscurity of the river seemed to be enveloping him. When he
looked back again the figures of the men were coalescing with
the surrounding gloom, the fires were streaky, blurred patches
of light. But the sky above was brighter. Dawn was not far off.

To the west all was dark. With infinite care and implacable
spirit and waning strength Duane shoved the plank along, and
when at last he discerned the black border of bank it came in
time, he thought, to save him. He crawled out, rested till the
gray dawn broke, and then headed north through the willows.

CHAPTER XIII

How long Duane was traveling out of that region he never knew.
But he reached familiar country and found a rancher who had
before befriended him. Here his arm was attended to; he had
food and sleep; and in a couple of weeks he was himself again.

When the time came for Duane to ride away on his endless trail
his friend reluctantly imparted the information that some
thirty miles south, near the village of Shirley, there was
posted at a certain cross-road a reward for Buck Duane dead or
alive. Duane had heard of such notices, but he had never seen
one. His friend's reluctance and refusal to state for what
particular deed this reward was offered roused Duane's
curiosity. He had never been any closer to Shirley than this
rancher's home. Doubtless some post-office burglary, some
gun-shooting scrape had been attributed to him. And he had been
accused of worse deeds. Abruptly Duane decided to ride over
there and find out who wanted him dead or alive, and why.

As he started south on the road he reflected that this was the
first time he had ever deliberately hunted trouble.
Introspection awarded him this knowledge; during that last
terrible flight on the lower Nueces and while he lay abed
recuperating he had changed. A fixed, immutable, hopeless
bitterness abided with him. He had reached the end of his rope.
All the power of his mind and soul were unavailable to turn him
back from his fate.

That fate was to become an outlaw in every sense of the term,
to be what he was credited with being--that is to say, to
embrace evil. He had never committed a crime. He wondered now
was crime close to him? He reasoned finally that the
desperation of crime had been forced upon him, if not its
motive; and that if driven, there was no limit to his
possibilities. He understood now many of the hitherto
inexplicable actions of certain noted outlaws--why they had
returned to the scene of the crime that had outlawed them; why
they took such strangely fatal chances; why life was no more to
them than a breath of wind; why they rode straight into the
jaws of death to confront wronged men or hunting rangers,
vigilantes, to laugh in their very faces. It was such
bitterness as this that drove these men.

Toward afternoon, from the top of a long hill, Duane saw the
green fields and trees and shining roofs of a town he
considered must be Shirley. And at the bottom of the hill he
came upon an intersecting road. There was a placard nailed on
the crossroad sign-post. Duane drew rein near it and leaned
close to read the faded print. $1000 REWARD FOR BUCK DUANE DEAD
OR ALIVE. Peering closer to read the finer, more faded print,
Duane learned that he was wanted for the murder of Mrs. Jeff
Aiken at her ranch near Shirley. The month September was named,
but the date was illegible. The reward was offered by the
woman's husband, whose name appeared with that of a sheriff's
at the bottom of the placard.

Duane read the thing twice. When he straightened he was sick
with the horror of his fate, wild with passion at those
misguided fools who could believe that he had harmed a woman.
Then he remembered Kate Bland, and, as always when she returned
to him, he quaked inwardly. Years before word had gone abroad
that he had killed her, and so it was easy for men wanting to
fix a crime to name him. Perhaps it had been done
often. Probably he bore on his shoulders a burden of numberless
crimes.

A dark, passionate fury possessed him. It shook him like a
storm shakes the oak. When it passed, leaving him cold, with
clouded brow and piercing eye, his mind was set. Spurring his
horse, he rode straight toward the village.

Shirley appeared to be a large, pretentious country town. A
branch of some railroad terminated there. The main street was
wide, bordered by trees and commodious houses, and many of the
stores were of brick. A large plaza shaded by giant cottonwood
trees occupied a central location.

Duane pulled his running horse and halted him, plunging and
snorting, before a group of idle men who lounged on benches in
the shade of a spreading cottonwood. How many times had Duane
seen just that kind of lazy shirt-sleeved Texas group! Not
often, however, had he seen such placid, lolling, good-natured
men change their expression, their attitude so swiftly. His
advent apparently was momentous. They evidently took him for an
unusual visitor. So far as Duane could tell, not one of them
recognized him, had a hint of his identity.

He slid off his horse and threw the bridle.

"I'm Buck Duane," he said. "I saw that placard--out there on a
sign-post. It's a damn lie! Somebody find this man Jeff Aiken.
I want to see him."

His announcement was taken in absolute silence. That was the
only effect he noted, for he avoided looking at these
villagers. The reason was simple enough; Duane felt himself
overcome with emotion. There were tears in his eyes. He sat
down on a bench, put his elbows on his knees and his hands to
his face. For once he had absolutely no concern for his fate.
This ignominy was the last straw.

Presently, however, he became aware of some kind of commotion
among these villagers. He heard whisperings, low, hoarse
voices, then the shuffle of rapid feet moving away. All at once
a violent hand jerked his gun from its holster. When Duane rose
a gaunt man, livid of face, shaking like a leaf, confronted him
with his own gun.

"Hands up, thar, you Buck Duane!" he roared, waving the gun.

That appeared to be the cue for pandemonium to break loose.
Duane opened his lips to speak, but if he had yelled at the top
of his lungs he could not have made himself heard. In weary
disgust he looked at the gaunt man, and then at the others, who
were working themselves into a frenzy. He made no move,
however, to hold up his hands. The villagers surrounded him,
emboldened by finding him now unarmed. Then several men lay
hold of his arms and pinioned them behind his back. Resistance
was useless even if Duane had had the spirit. Some one of them
fetched his halter from his saddle, and with this they bound
him helpless.

People were running now from the street, the stores, the
houses. Old men, cowboys, clerks, boys, ranchers came on the
trot. The crowd grew. The increasing clamor began to attract
women as well as men. A group of girls ran up, then hung back
in fright and pity.

The presence of cowboys made a difference. They split up the
crowd, got to Duane, and lay hold of him with rough,
businesslike hands. One of them lifted his fists and roared at
the frenzied mob to fall back, to stop the racket. He beat them
back into a circle; but it was some little time before the
hubbub quieted down so a voice could be heard.

"Shut up, will you-all?" he was yelling. "Give us a chance to
hear somethin'. Easy now--soho. There ain't nobody goin' to be
hurt. Thet's right; everybody quiet now. Let's see what's come
off."

This cowboy, evidently one of authority, or at least one of
strong personality, turned to the gaunt man, who still waved
Duane's gun.

"Abe, put the gun down," he said. "It might go off. Here, give
it to me. Now, what's wrong? Who's this roped gent, an' what's
he done?"

The gaunt fellow, who appeared now about to collapse, lifted a
shaking hand and pointed.

"Thet thar feller--he's Buck Duane!" he panted.

An angry murmur ran through the surrounding crowd.

"The rope! The rope! Throw it over a branch! String him up!"
cried an excited villager.

"Buck Duane! Buck Duane!"

"Hang him!"

The cowboy silenced these cries.

"Abe, how do you know this fellow is Buck Duane?" he asked,
sharply.

"Why--he said so," replied the man called Abe.

"What!" came the exclamation, incredulously.

"It's a tarnal fact," panted Abe, waving his hands importantly.
He was an old man and appeared to be carried away with the
significance of his deed. "He like to rid' his hoss right over
us-all. Then he jumped off, says he was Buck Duane, an' he
wanted to see Jeff Aiken bad."

This speech caused a second commotion as noisy though not so
enduring as the first. When the cowboy, assisted by a couple of
his mates, had restored order again some one had slipped the
noose-end of Duane's rope over his head.

"Up with him!" screeched a wild-eyed youth.

The mob surged closer was shoved back by the cowboys.

"Abe, if you ain't drunk or crazy tell thet over," ordered
Abe's interlocutor.

With some show of resentment and more of dignity Abe reiterated
his former statement.

"If he's Buck Duane how'n hell did you get hold of his gun?"
bluntly queried the cowboy.

"Why--he set down thar--an' he kind of hid his face on his
hand. An' I grabbed his gun an' got the drop on him."

What the cowboy thought of this was expressed in a laugh. His
mates likewise grinned broadly. Then the leader turned to
Duane.

"Stranger, I reckon you'd better speak up for yourself," he
said.

That stilled the crowd as no command had done.

"I'm Buck Duane, all right." said Duane, quietly. "It was this
way--"

The big cowboy seemed to vibrate with a shock. All the ruddy
warmth left his face; his jaw began to bulge; the corded veins
in his neck stood out in knots. In an instant he had a hard,
stern, strange look. He shot out a powerful hand that fastened
in the front of Duane's blouse.

"Somethin' queer here. But if you're Duane you're sure in bad.
Any fool ought to know that. You mean it, then?"

"Yes."

"Rode in to shoot up the town, eh? Same old stunt of you
gunfighters? Meant to kill the man who offered a reward? Wanted
to see Jeff Aiken bad, huh?"

"No," replied Duane. "Your citizen here misrepresented things.
He seems a little off his head."

"Reckon he is. Somebody is, that's sure. You claim Buck Duane,
then, an' all his doings?"

"I'm Duane; yes. But I won't stand for the blame of things I
never did. That's why I'm here. I saw that placard out there
offering the reward. Until now I never was within half a day's
ride of this town. I'm blamed for what I never did. I rode in
here, told who I was, asked somebody to send for Jeff Aiken."

"An' then you set down an' let this old guy throw your own gun
on you?" queried the cowboy in amazement.

"I guess that's it," replied Duane.

"Well, it's powerful strange, if you're really Buck Duane."

A man elbowed his way into the circle.

"It's Duane. I recognize him. I seen him in more'n one place,"
he said. "Sibert, you can rely on what I tell you. I don't know
if he's locoed or what. But I do know he's the genuine Buck
Duane. Any one who'd ever seen him onct would never forget
him."

"What do you want to see Aiken for?" asked the cowboy Sibert.

"I want to face him, and tell him I never harmed his wife."

"Why?"

"Because I'm innocent, that's all."

"Suppose we send for Aiken an' he hears you an' doesn't believe
you; what then?"

"If he won't believe me--why, then my case's so bad--I'd be
better off dead."

A momentary silence was broken by Sibert.

"If this isn't a queer deal! Boys, reckon we'd better send for
Jeff."

"Somebody went fer him. He'll be comin' soon," replied a man.

Duane stood a head taller than that circle of curious faces. He
gazed out above and beyond them. It was in this way that he
chanced to see a number of women on the outskirts of the crowd.
Some were old, with hard faces, like the men. Some were young
and comely, and most of these seemed agitated by excitement or
distress. They cast fearful, pitying glances upon Duane as he
stood there with that noose round his neck. Women were more
human than men, Duane thought. He met eyes that dilated, seemed
fascinated at his gaze, but were not averted. It was the old
women who were voluble, loud in expression of their feelings.

Near the trunk of the cottonwood stood a slender woman in
white. Duane's wandering glance rested upon her. Her eyes were
riveted upon him. A soft-hearted woman, probably, who did not
want to see him hanged!

"Thar comes Jeff Aiken now," called a man, loudly.

The crowd shifted and trampled in eagerness.

Duane saw two men coming fast, one of whom, in the lead, was of
stalwart build. He had a gun in his hand, and his manner was
that of fierce energy.

The cowboy Sibert thrust open the jostling circle of men.

"Hold on, Jeff," he called, and he blocked the man with the
gun. He spoke so low Duane could not hear what he said, and his
form hid Aiken's face. At that juncture the crowd spread out,
closed in, and Aiken and Sibert were caught in the circle.
There was a pushing forward, a pressing of many bodies, hoarse
cries and flinging hands--again the insane tumult was about to
break out--the demand for an outlaw's blood, the call for a
wild justice executed a thousand times before on Texas's bloody
soil.

Sibert bellowed at the dark encroaching mass. The cowboys with
him beat and cuffed in vain.

"Jeff, will you listen?" broke in Sibert, hurriedly, his hand
on the other man's arm.

Aiken nodded coolly. Duane, who had seen many men in perfect
control of themselves under circumstances like these,
recognized the spirit that dominated Aiken. He was white, cold,
passionless. There were lines of bitter grief deep round his
lips. If Duane ever felt the meaning of death he felt it then.

"Sure this 's your game, Aiken," said Sibert. "But hear me a
minute. Reckon there's no doubt about this man bein' Buck
Duane. He seen the placard out at the cross-roads. He rides in
to Shirley. He says he's Buck Duane an' he's lookin' for Jeff
Aiken. That's all clear enough. You know how these gunfighters
go lookin' for trouble. But here's what stumps me. Duane sits
down there on the bench and lets old Abe Strickland grab his
gun ant get the drop on him. More'n that, he gives me some
strange talk about how, if he couldn't make you believe he's
innocent, he'd better be dead. You see for yourself Duane ain't
drunk or crazy or locoed. He doesn't strike me as a man who
rode in here huntin' blood. So I reckon you'd better hold on
till you hear what he has to say."

Then for the first time the drawn-faced, hungry-eyed giant
turned his gaze upon Duane. He had intelligence which was not
yet subservient to passion. Moreover, he seemed the kind of man
Duane would care to have judge him in a critical moment like
this.

"Listen," said Duane, gravely, with his eyes steady on Aiken's,
"I'm Buck Duane. I never lied to any man in my life. I was
forced into outlawry. I've never had a chance to leave the
country. I've killed men to save my own life. I never
intentionally harmed any woman. I rode thirty miles
to-day--deliberately to see what this reward was, who made it,
what for. When I read the placard I went sick to the bottom of
my soul. So I rode in here to find you--to tell you this: I
never saw Shirley before to-day. It was impossible for me to
have--killed your wife. Last September I was two hundred miles
north of here on the upper Nueces. I can prove that. Men who
know me will tell you I couldn't murder a woman. I haven't any
idea why such a deed should be laid at my hands. It's just that
wild border gossip. I have no idea what reasons you have for
holding me responsible. I only know--you're wrong. You've been
deceived. And see here, Aiken. You understand I'm a miserable
man. I'm about broken, I guess. I don't care any more for life,
for anything. If you can't look me in the eyes, man to man, and
believe what I say--why, by God! you can kill me!"

Aiken heaved a great breath.

"Buck Duane, whether I'm impressed or not by what you say
needn't matter. You've had accusers, justly or unjustly, as
will soon appear. The thing is we can prove you innocent or
guilty. My girl Lucy saw my wife's assailant."

He motioned for the crowd of men to open up.

"Somebody--you, Sibert--go for Lucy. That'll settle this
thing."

Duane heard as a man in an ugly dream. The faces around him,
the hum of voices, all seemed far off. His life hung by the
merest thread. Yet he did not think of that so much as of the
brand of a woman-murderer which might be soon sealed upon him
by a frightened, imaginative child.

The crowd trooped apart and closed again. Duane caught a
blurred image of a slight girl clinging to Sibert's hand. He
could not see distinctly. Aiken lifted the child, whispered
soothingly to her not to be afraid. Then he fetched her closer
to Duane.

"Lucy, tell me. Did you ever see this man before?" asked Aiken,
huskily and low. "Is he the one--who came in the house that
day--struck you down--and dragged mama--?"

Aiken's voice failed.

A lightning flash seemed to clear Duane's blurred sight. He saw
a pale, sad face and violet eyes fixed in gloom and horror upon
his. No terrible moment in Duane's life ever equaled this one
of silence--of suspense.

"It's ain't him!" cried the child.

Then Sibert was flinging the noose off Duane's neck and
unwinding the bonds round his arms. The spellbound crowd awoke
to hoarse exclamations.

"See there, my locoed gents, how easy you'd hang the wrong
man," burst out the cowboy, as he made the rope-end hiss.
"You-all are a lot of wise rangers. Haw! haw!"

He freed Duane and thrust the bone-handled gun back in Duane's
holster.

"You Abe, there. Reckon you pulled a stunt! But don't try the
like again. And, men, I'll gamble there's a hell of a lot of
bad work Buck Duane's named for--which all he never done. Clear
away there. Where's his hoss? Duane, the road's open out of
Shirley."

Sibert swept the gaping watchers aside and pressed Duane toward
the horse, which another cowboy held. Mechanically Duane
mounted, felt a lift as he went up. Then the cowboy's hard face
softened in a smile.

"I reckon it ain't uncivil of me to say--hit that road quick!"
he said, frankly.

He led the horse out of the crowd. Aiken joined him, and
between them they escorted Duane across the plaza. The crowd
appeared irresistibly drawn to follow.

Aiken paused with his big hand on Duane's knee. In it,
unconsciously probably, he still held the gun.

"Duane, a word with you," he said. "I believe you're not so
black as you've been painted. I wish there was time to say
more. Tell me this, anyway. Do you know the Ranger Captain
MacNelly?"

"I do not," replied Duane, in surprise.

"I met him only a week ago over in Fairfield," went on Aiken,
hurriedly. "He declared you never killed my wife. I didn't
believe him--argued with him. We almost had hard words over it.
Now--I'm sorry. The last thing he said was: 'If you ever see
Duane don't kill him. Send him into my camp after dark!' He
meant something strange. What--I can't say. But he was right,
and I was wrong. If Lucy had batted an eye I'd have killed you.
Still, I wouldn't advise you to hunt up MacNelly's camp. He's
clever. Maybe he believes there's no treachery in his new ideas
of ranger tactics. I tell you for all it's worth. Good-by. May
God help you further as he did this day!"

Duane said good-by and touched the horse with his spurs.

"So long, Buck!" called Sibert, with that frank smile breaking
warm over his brown face; and he held his sombrero high.

CHAPTER XIV

When Duane reached the crossing of the roads the name Fairfield
on the sign-post seemed to be the thing that tipped the
oscillating balance of decision in favor of that direction.

He answered here to unfathomable impulse. If he had been driven
to hunt up Jeff Aiken, now he was called to find this unknown
ranger captain. In Duane's state of mind clear reasoning,
common sense, or keenness were out of the question. He went
because he felt he was compelled.

Dusk had fallen when he rode into a town which inquiry
discovered to be Fairfield. Captain MacNelly's camp was
stationed just out of the village limits on the other side.

No one except the boy Duane questioned appeared to notice his
arrival. Like Shirley, the town of Fairfield was large and
prosperous, compared to the innumerable hamlets dotting the
vast extent of southwestern Texas. As Duane rode through, being
careful to get off the main street, he heard the tolling of a
church-bell that was a melancholy reminder of his old home.

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