The Lone Star Ranger

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There did not appear to be any camp on the outskirts of the
town. But as Duane sat his horse, peering around and undecided
what further move to make, he caught the glint of flickering
lights through the darkness. Heading toward them, he rode
perhaps a quarter of a mile to come upon a grove of mesquite.
The brightness of several fires made the surrounding darkness
all the blacker. Duane saw the moving forms of men and heard
horses. He advanced naturally, expecting any moment to be
halted.

"Who goes there?" came the sharp call out of the gloom.

Duane pulled his horse. The gloom was impenetrable.

"One man--alone," replied Duane.

"A stranger?"

"Yes."

"What do you want?"

"I'm trying to find the ranger camp."

"You've struck it. What's your errand?"

"I want to see Captain MacNelly."

"Get down and advance. Slow. Don't move your hands. It's dark,
but I can see."

Duane dismounted, and, leading his horse, slowly advanced a few
paces. He saw a dully bright object--a gun--before he
discovered the man who held it. A few more steps showed a dark
figure blocking the trail. Here Duane halted.

"Come closer, stranger. Let's have a look at you," the guard
ordered, curtly.

Duane advanced again until he stood before the man. Here the
rays of light from the fires flickered upon Duane's face.

"Reckon you're a stranger, all right. What's your name and your
business with the Captain?"

Duane hesitated, pondering what best to say.

"Tell Captain MacNelly I'm the man he's been asking to ride
into his camp--after dark," finally said Duane.

The ranger bent forward to peer hard at this night visitor. His
manner had been alert, and now it became tense.

"Come here, one of you men, quick," he called, without turning
in the least toward the camp-fire.

"Hello! What's up, Pickens?" came the swift reply. It was
followed by a rapid thud of boots on soft ground. A dark form
crossed the gleams from the fire-light. Then a ranger loomed up
to reach the side of the guard. Duane heard whispering, the
purport of which he could not catch. The second ranger swore
under his breath. Then he turned away and started back.

"Here, ranger, before you go, understand this. My visit is
peaceful--friendly if you'll let it be. Mind, I was asked to
come here--after dark."

Duane's clear, penetrating voice carried far. The listening
rangers at the camp-fire heard what he said.

"Ho, Pickens! Tell that fellow to wait," replied an
authoritative voice. Then a slim figure detached itself from
the dark, moving group at the camp-fire and hurried out.

"Better be foxy, Cap," shouted a ranger, in warning.

"Shut up--all of you," was the reply.

This officer, obviously Captain MacNelly, soon joined the two
rangers who were confronting Duane. He had no fear. He strode
straight up to Duane.

"I'm MacNelly," he said. "If you're my man, don't mention your
name--yet."

All this seemed so strange to Duane, in keeping with much that
had happened lately.

"I met Jeff Aiken to-day," said Duane. "He sent me--"

"You've met Aiken!" exclaimed MacNelly, sharp, eager, low. "By
all that's bully!" Then he appeared to catch himself, to grow
restrained.

"Men, fall back, leave us alone a moment."

The rangers slowly withdrew.

"Buck Duane! It's you?" he whispered, eagerly.

"Yes."

"If I give my word you'll not be arrested--you'll be treated
fairly--will you come into camp and consult with me?"

"Certainly."

"Duane, I'm sure glad to meet you," went on MacNelly; and he
extended his hand.

Amazed and touched, scarcely realizing this actuality, Duane
gave his hand and felt no unmistakable grip of warmth.

"It doesn't seem natural, Captain MacNelly, but I believe I'm
glad to meet you," said Duane, soberly.

"You will be. Now we'll go back to camp. Keep your identity mum
for the present."

He led Duane in the direction of the camp-fire.

"Pickers, go back on duty," he ordered, "and, Beeson, you look
after this horse."

When Duane got beyond the line of mesquite, which had hid a
good view of the camp-site, he saw a group of perhaps fifteen
rangers sitting around the fires, near a long low shed where
horses were feeding, and a small adobe house at one side.

"We've just had grub, but I'll see you get some. Then we'll
talk," said MacNelly. "I've taken up temporary quarters here.
Have a rustler job on hand. Now, when you've eaten, come right
into the house."

Duane was hungry, but he hurried through the ample supper that
was set before him, urged on by curiosity and astonishment. The
only way he could account for his presence there in a ranger's
camp was that MacNelly hoped to get useful information out of
him. Still that would hardly have made this captain so eager.
There was a mystery here, and Duane could scarcely wait for it
to be solved. While eating he had bent keen eyes around him.
After a first quiet scrutiny the rangers apparently paid no
more attention to him. They were all veterans in service--Duane
saw that--and rugged, powerful men of iron constitution.
Despite the occasional joke and sally of the more youthful
members, and a general conversation of camp-fire nature, Duane
was not deceived about the fact that his advent had been an
unusual and striking one, which had caused an undercurrent of
conjecture and even consternation among them. These rangers
were too well trained to appear openly curious about their
captain's guest. If they had not deliberately attempted to be
oblivious of his presence Duane would have concluded they
thought him an ordinary visitor, somehow of use to MacNelly. As
it was, Duane felt a suspense that must have been due to a hint
of his identity.

He was not long in presenting himself at the door of the house.

"Come in and have a chair," said MacNelly, motioning for the
one other occupant of the room to rise. "Leave us, Russell, and
close the door. I'll be through these reports right off."

MacNelly sat at a table upon which was a lamp and various
papers. Seen in the light he was a fine-looking, soldierly man
of about forty years, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a bronzed
face, shrewd, stern, strong, yet not wanting in kindliness. He
scanned hastily over some papers, fussed with them, and finally
put them in envelopes. Without looking up he pushed a cigar-
case toward Duane, and upon Duane's refusal to smoke he took a
cigar, rose to light it at the lamp-chimney, and then, settling
back in his chair, he faced Duane, making a vain attempt to
hide what must have been the fulfilment of a long-nourished
curiosity.

"Duane, I've been hoping for this for two years," be began.

Duane smiled a little--a smile that felt strange on his face.
He had never been much of a talker. And speech here seemed more
than ordinarily difficult.

MacNelly must have felt that.

He looked long and earnestly at Duane, and his quick, nervous
manner changed to grave thoughtfulness.

"I've lots to say, but where to begin," he mused. "Duane,
you've had a hard life since you went on the dodge. I never met
you before, don't know what you looked like as a boy. But I can
see what--well, even ranger life isn't all roses."

He rolled his cigar between his lips and puffed clouds of
smoke.

"Ever hear from home since you left Wellston?" he asked,
abruptly.

"No."

"Never a word?"

"Not one," replied Duane, sadly.

"That's tough. I'm glad to be able to tell you that up to just
lately your mother, sister, uncle--all your folks, I
believe--were well. I've kept posted. But haven't heard
lately."

Duane averted his face a moment, hesitated till the swelling
left his throat, and then said, "It's worth what I went through
to-day to hear that."

"I can imagine how you feel about it. When I was in the war--
but let's get down to the business of this meeting."

He pulled his chair close to Duane's.

"You've had word more than once in the last two years that I
wanted to see you?"

"Three times, I remember," replied Duane.

"Why didn't you hunt me up?"

"I supposed you imagined me one of those gun-fighters who
couldn't take a dare and expected me to ride up to your camp
and be arrested."

"That was natural, I suppose," went on MacNelly. "You didn't
know me, otherwise you would have come. I've been a long time
getting to you. But the nature of my job, as far as you're
concerned, made me cautious. Duane, you're aware of the hard
name you bear all over the Southwest?"

"Once in a while I'm jarred into realizing," replied Duane.

"It's the hardest, barring Murrell and Cheseldine, on the Texas
border. But there's this difference. Murrell in his day was
known to deserve his infamous name. Cheseldine in his day also.
But I've found hundreds of men in southwest Texas who're your
friends, who swear you never committed a crime. The farther
south I get the clearer this becomes. What I want to know is
the truth. Have you ever done anything criminal? Tell me the
truth, Duane. It won't make any difference in my plan. And when
I say crime I mean what I would call crime, or any reasonable
Texan."

"That way my hands are clean," replied Duane.

"You never held up a man, robbed a store for grub, stole a
horse when you needed him bad--never anything like that?"

"Somehow I always kept out of that, just when pressed the
hardest."

"Duane, I'm damn glad!" MacNelly exclaimed, gripping Duane's
hand. "Glad for you mother's sakel But, all the same, in spite
of this, you are a Texas outlaw accountable to the state.
You're perfectly aware that under existing circumstances, if
you fell into the hands of the law, you'd probably hang, at
least go to jail for a long term."

"That's what kept me on the dodge all these years," replied
Duane.

"Certainly." MacNelly removed his cigar. His eyes narrowed and
glittered. The muscles along his brown cheeks set hard and
tense. He leaned closer to Duane, laid sinewy, pressing fingers
upon Duane's knee.

"Listen to this," he whispered, hoarsely. "If I place a pardon
in your hand--make you a free, honest citizen once more, clear
your name of infamy, make your mother, your sister proud of
you--will you swear yourself to a service, ANY service I demand
of you?"

Duane sat stock still, stunned.

Slowly, more persuasively, with show of earnest agitation,
Captain MacNelly reiterated his startling query.

"My God!" burst from Duane. "What's this? MacNelly, you CAN'T
be in earnest!"

"Never more so in my life. I've a deep game. I'm playing it
square. What do you say?"

He rose to his feet. Duane, as if impelled, rose with him.
Ranger and outlaw then locked eyes that searched each other's
souls. In MacNelly's Duane read truth, strong, fiery purpose,
hope, even gladness, and a fugitive mounting assurance of
victory.

Twice Duane endeavored to speak, failed of all save a hoarse,
incoherent sound, until, forcing back a flood of speech, he
found a voice.

"Any service? Every service! MacNelly, I give my word," said
Duane.

A light played over MacNelly's face, warming out all the grim
darkness. He held out his hand. Duane met it with his in a
clasp that men unconsciously give in moments of stress.

When they unclasped and Duane stepped back to drop into a chair
MacNelly fumbled for another cigar--he had bitten the other
into shreds--and, lighting it as before, he turned to his
visitor, now calm and cool. He had the look of a man who had
justly won something at considerable cost. His next move was to
take a long leather case from his pocket and extract from it
several folded papers.

"Here's your pardon from the Governor," he said, quietly.
"You'll see, when you look it over, that it's conditional. When
you sign this paper I have here the condition will be met."

He smoothed out the paper, handed Duane a pen, ran his
forefinger along a dotted line.

Duane's hand was shaky. Years had passed since he had held a
pen. It was with difficulty that he achieved his signature.
Buckley Duane--how strange the name looked!

"Right here ends the career of Buck Duane, outlaw and
gunfighter," said MacNelly; and, seating himself, he took the
pen from Duane's fingers and wrote several lines in several
places upon the paper. Then with a smile he handed it to Duane.

"That makes you a member of Company A, Texas Rangers."

"So that's it!" burst out Duane, a light breaking in upon his
bewilderment. "You want me for ranger service?"

"Sure. That's it," replied the Captain, dryly. "Now to hear
what that service is to be. I've been a busy man since I took
this job, and, as you may have heard, I've done a few things. I
don't mind telling you that political influence put me in here
and that up Austin way there's a good deal of friction in the
Department of State in regard to whether or not the ranger
service is any good--whether it should be discontinued or not.
I'm on the party side who's defending the ranger service. I
contend that it's made Texas habitable. Well, it's been up to
me to produce results. So far I have been successful. My great
ambition is to break up the outlaw gangs along the river. I
have never ventured in there yet because I've been waiting to
get the lieutenant I needed. You, of course, are the man I had
in mind. It's my idea to start way up the Rio Grande and begin
with Cheseldine. He's the strongest, the worst outlaw of the
times. He's more than rustler. It's Cheseldine and his gang who
are operating on the banks. They're doing bank-robbing. That's
my private opinion, but it's not been backed up by any
evidence. Cheseldine doesn't leave evidences. He's intelligent,
cunning. No one seems to have seen him--to know what he looks
like. I assume, of course, that you are a stranger to the
country he dominates. It's five hundred miles west of your
ground. There's a little town over there called Fairdale. It's
the nest of a rustler gang. They rustle and murder at will.
Nobody knows who the leader is. I want you to find out. Well,
whatever way you decide is best you will proceed to act upon.
You are your own boss. You know such men and how they can be
approached. You will take all the time needed, if it's months.
It will be necessary for you to communicate with me, and that
will be a difficult matter. For Cheseldine dominates several
whole counties. You must find some way to let me know when I
and my rangers are needed. The plan is to break up Cheseldine's
gang. It's the toughest job on the border. Arresting him alone
isn't to be heard of. He couldn't be brought out. Killing him
isn't much better, for his select men, the ones he operates
with, are as dangerous to the community as he is. We want to
kill or jail this choice selection of robbers and break up the
rest of the gang. To find them, to get among them somehow, to
learn their movements, to lay your trap for us rangers to
spring--that, Duane, is your service to me, and God knows it's
a great one!"

"I have accepted it," replied Duane.

"Your work will be secret. You are now a ranger in my service.
But no one except the few I choose to tell will know of it
until we pull off the job. You will simply be Buck Duane till
it suits our purpose to acquaint Texas with the fact that
you're a ranger. You'll see there's no date on that paper. No
one will ever know just when you entered the service. Perhaps
we can make it appear that all or most of your outlawry has
really been good service to the state. At that, I'll believe
it'll turn out so."

MacNelly paused a moment in his rapid talk, chewed his cigar,
drew his brows together in a dark frown, and went on. "No man
on the border knows so well as you the deadly nature of this
service. It's a thousand to one that you'll be killed. I'd say
there was no chance at all for any other man beside you. Your
reputation will go far among the outlaws. Maybe that and your
nerve and your gun-play will pull you through. I'm hoping so.
But it's a long, long chance against your ever coming back."

"That's not the point," said Duane. "But in case I get killed
out there--what--"

"Leave that to me," interrupted Captain MacNelly. "Your folks
will know at once of your pardon and your ranger duty. If you
lose your life out there I'll see your name cleared--the
service you render known. You can rest assured of that."

"I am satisfied," replied Duane. "That's so much more than I've
dared to hope."

"Well, it's settled, then. I'll give you money for expenses.
You'll start as soon as you like--the sooner the better. I hope
to think of other suggestions, especially about communicating
with me."

Long after the lights were out and the low hum of voices had
ceased round the camp-fire Duane lay wide awake, eyes staring
into the blackness, marveling over the strange events of the
day. He was humble, grateful to the depths of his soul. A huge
and crushing burden had been lifted from his heart. He welcomed
this hazardous service to the man who had saved him. Thought of
his mother and sister and Uncle Jim, of his home, of old
friends came rushing over him the first time in years that he
had happiness in the memory. The disgrace he had put upon them
would now be removed; and in the light of that, his wasted life
of the past, and its probable tragic end in future service as
atonement changed their aspects. And as he lay there, with the
approach of sleep finally dimming the vividness of his thought,
so full of mystery, shadowy faces floated in the blackness
around him, haunting him as he had always been haunted.

It was broad daylight when he awakened. MacNelly was calling
him to breakfast. Outside sounded voices of men, crackling of
fires, snorting and stamping of horses, the barking of dogs.
Duane rolled out of his blankets and made good use of the soap
and towel and razor and brush near by on a bench--things of
rare luxury to an outlaw on the ride. The face he saw in the
mirror was as strange as the past he had tried so hard to
recall. Then he stepped to the door and went out.

The rangers were eating in a circle round a tarpaulin spread
upon the ground.

"Fellows," said MacNelly, "shake hands with Buck Duane. He's on
secret ranger service for me. Service that'll likely make you
all hump soon! Mind you, keep mum about it."

The rangers surprised Duane with a roaring greeting, the warmth
of which he soon divined was divided between pride of his
acquisition to their ranks and eagerness to meet that violent
service of which their captain hinted. They were jolly, wild
fellows, with just enough gravity in their welcome to show
Duane their respect and appreciation, while not forgetting his
lone-wolf record. When he had seated himself in that circle,
now one of them, a feeling subtle and uplifting pervaded him.

After the meal Captain MacNelly drew Duane aside.

"Here's the money. Make it go as far as you can. Better strike
straight for El Paso, snook around there and hear things. Then
go to Valentine. That's near the river and within fifty miles
or so of the edge of the Rim Rock. Somewhere up there
Cheseldine holds fort. Somewhere to the north is the town
Fairdale. But he doesn't hide all the time in the rocks. Only
after some daring raid or hold-up. Cheseldine's got border
towns on his staff, or scared of him, and these places we want
to know about, especially Fairdale. Write me care of the
adjutant at Austin. I don't have to warn you to be careful
where you mail letters. Ride a hundred, two hundred miles, if
necessary, or go clear to El Paso."

MacNelly stopped with an air of finality, and then Duane slowly
rose.

"I'll start at once," he said, extending his hand to the
Captain. "I wish--I'd like to thank you."

"Hell, man! Don't thank me!" replied MacNelly, crushing the
proffered hand. "I've sent a lot of good men to their deaths,
and maybe you're another. But, as I've said, you've one chance
in a thousand. And, by Heaven! I'd hate to be Cheseldine or any
other man you were trailing. No, not good-by--Adios, Duane! May
we meet again!"

BOOK II THE RANGER

CHAPTER XV

West of the Pecos River Texas extended a vast wild region,
barren in the north where the Llano Estacado spread its
shifting sands, fertile in the south along the Rio Grande. A
railroad marked an undeviating course across five hundred miles
of this country, and the only villages and towns lay on or near
this line of steel. Unsettled as was this western Texas, and
despite the acknowledged dominance of the outlaw bands, the
pioneers pushed steadily into it. First had come the lone
rancher; then his neighbors in near and far valleys; then the
hamlets; at last the railroad and the towns. And still the
pioneers came, spreading deeper into the valleys, farther and
wider over the plains. It was mesquite-dotted, cactus-covered
desert, but rich soil upon which water acted like magic. There
was little grass to an acre, but there were millions of acres.
The climate was wonderful. Cattle flourished and ranchers
prospered.

The Rio Grande flowed almost due south along the western
boundary for a thousand miles, and then, weary of its course,
turned abruptly north, to make what was called the Big Bend.
The railroad, running west, cut across this bend, and all that
country bounded on the north by the railroad and on the south
by the river was as wild as the Staked Plains. It contained not
one settlement. Across the face of this Big Bend, as if to
isolate it, stretched the Ord mountain range, of which Mount
Ord, Cathedral Mount, and Elephant Mount raised bleak peaks
above their fellows. In the valleys of the foothills and out
across the plains were ranches, and farther north villages, and
the towns of Alpine and Marfa.

Like other parts of the great Lone Star State, this section of
Texas was a world in itself--a world where the riches of the
rancher were ever enriching the outlaw. The village closest to
the gateway of this outlaw-infested region was a little place
called Ord, named after the dark peak that loomed some miles to
the south. It had been settled originally by Mexicans--there
were still the ruins of adobe missions--but with the advent of
the rustler and outlaw many inhabitants were shot or driven
away, so that at the height of Ord's prosperity and evil sway
there were but few Mexicans living there, and these had their
choice between holding hand-and-glove with the outlaws or
furnishing target practice for that wild element.

Toward the close of a day in September a stranger rode into
Ord, and in a community where all men were remarkable for one
reason or another he excited interest. His horse, perhaps,
received the first and most engaging attention--horses in that
region being apparently more important than men. This
particular horse did not attract with beauty. At first glance
he seemed ugly. But he was a giant, black as coal, rough
despite the care manifestly bestowed upon him, long of body,
ponderous of limb, huge in every way. A bystander remarked that
he had a grand head. True, if only his head had been seen he
would have been a beautiful horse. Like men, horses show what
they are in the shape, the size, the line, the character of the
head. This one denoted fire, speed, blood, loyalty, and his
eyes were as soft and dark as a woman's. His face was solid
black, except in the middle of his forehead, where there was a
round spot of white.

"Say mister, mind tellin' me his name?" asked a ragged urchin,
with born love of a horse in his eyes.

"Bullet," replied the rider.

"Thet there's fer the white mark, ain't it?" whispered the
youngster to another. "Say, ain't he a whopper? Biggest hoss I
ever seen."

Bullet carried a huge black silver-ornamented saddle of Mexican
make, a lariat and canteen, and a small pack rolled into a
tarpaulin.

This rider apparently put all care of appearances upon his
horse. His apparel was the ordinary jeans of the cowboy without
vanity, and it was torn and travel-stained. His boots showed
evidence of an intimate acquaintance with cactus. Like his
horse, this man was a giant in stature, but rangier, not so
heavily built. Otherwise the only striking thing about him was
his somber face with its piercing eyes, and hair white over the
temples. He packed two guns, both low down--but that was too
common a thing to attract notice in the Big Bend. A close
observer, however, would have noted a singular fact--this
rider's right hand was more bronzed, more weather-beaten than
his left. He never wore a glove on that right hand!

He had dismounted before a ramshackle structure that bore upon
its wide, high-boarded front the sign, "Hotel." There were
horsemen coming and going down the wide street between its rows
of old stores, saloons, and houses. Ord certainly did not look
enterprising. Americans had manifestly assimilated much of the
leisure of the Mexicans. The hotel had a wide platform in
front, and this did duty as porch and sidewalk. Upon it, and
leaning against a hitching-rail, were men of varying ages, most
of them slovenly in old jeans and slouched sombreros. Some were
booted, belted, and spurred. No man there wore a coat, but all
wore vests. The guns in that group would have outnumbered the
men.

It was a crowd seemingly too lazy to be curious. Good nature
did not appear to be wanting, but it was not the frank and
boisterous kind natural to the cowboy or rancher in town for a
day. These men were idlers; what else, perhaps, was easy to
conjecture. Certainly to this arriving stranger, who flashed a
keen eye over them, they wore an atmosphere never associated
with work.

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