The Lone Star Ranger

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"Ruth, I envy the lucky cowboys," Longstreth was saying.

Ruth was a curly-headed girl with gray or hazel eyes.

"I'm crazy to ride bronchos," she said.

Duane gathered she was on a visit to western Texas. The other
girl's deep voice, sweet like a bell, made Duane regard her
closer. She had beauty as he had never seen it in another
woman. She was slender, but the development of her figure gave
Duane the impression she was twenty years old or more. She had
the most exquisite hands Duane had ever seen. She did not
resemble the Colonel, who was evidently her father. She looked
tired, quiet, even melancholy. A finely chiseled oval face;
clear, olive-tinted skin, long eyes set wide apart and black as
coal, beautiful to look into; a slender, straight nose that had
something nervous and delicate about it which made Duane think
of a thoroughbred; and a mouth by no means small, but perfectly
curved; and hair like jet--all these features proclaimed her
beauty to Duane. Duane believed her a descendant of one of the
old French families of eastern Texas. He was sure of it when
she looked at him, drawn by his rather persistent gaze. There
were pride, fire, and passion in her eyes. Duane felt himself
blushing in confusion. His stare at her had been rude, perhaps,
but unconscious. How many years had passed since he had seen a
girl like her! Thereafter he kept his eyes upon his plate, yet
he seemed to be aware that he had aroused the interest of both
girls.

After supper the guests assembled in a big sitting-room where
an open fire place with blazing mesquite sticks gave out warmth
and cheery glow. Duane took a seat by a table in the corner,
and, finding a paper, began to read. Presently when he glanced
up he saw two dark-faced men, strangers who had not appeared
before, and were peering in from a doorway. When they saw Duane
had observed them they stepped back out of sight.

It flashed over Duane that the strangers acted suspiciously. In
Texas in the seventies it was always bad policy to let
strangers go unheeded. Duane pondered a moment. Then he went
out to look over these two men. The doorway opened into a
patio, and across that was a little dingy, dim-lighted
bar-room. Here Duane found the innkeeper dispensing drinks to
the two strangers. They glanced up when he entered, and one of
them whispered. He imagined he had seen one of them before. In
Texas, where outdoor men were so rough, bronzed, bold, and
sometimes grim of aspect, it was no easy task to pick out the
crooked ones. But Duane's years on the border had augmented a
natural instinct or gift to read character, or at least to
sense the evil in men; and he knew at once that these strangers
were dishonest.

"Hey somethin'?" one of them asked, leering. Both looked Duane
up and down.

"No thanks, I don't drink," Duane replied, and returned their
scrutiny with interest. "How's tricks in the Big Bend?"

Both men stared. It had taken only a close glance for Duane to
recognize a type of ruffian most frequently met along the
river. These strangers had that stamp, and their surprise
proved he was right. Here the innkeeper showed signs of
uneasiness, and seconded the surprise of his customers. No more
was said at the instant, and the two rather hurriedly went out.

"Say, boss, do you know those fellows?" Duane asked the
innkeeper.

"Nope."

"Which way did they come?"

"Now I think of it, them fellers rid in from both corners
today," he replied, and he put both hands on the bar and looked
at Duane. "They nooned heah, comin' from Bradford, they said,
an' trailed in after the stage."

When Duane returned to the sitting-room Colonel Longstreth was
absent, also several of the other passengers. Miss Ruth sat in
the chair he had vacated, and across the table from her sat
Miss Longstreth. Duane went directly to them.

"Excuse me," said Duane, addressing them. "I want to tell you
there are a couple of rough-looking men here. I've just seen
them. They mean evil. Tell your father to be careful. Lock your
doors--bar your windows to-night."

"Oh!" cried Ruth, very low. "Ray, do you hear?"

"Thank you; we'll be careful," said Miss Longstreth,
gracefully. The rich color had faded in her cheek. "I saw those
men watching you from that door. They had such bright black
eyes. Is there really danger--here?"

"I think so," was Duane's reply.

Soft swift steps behind him preceded a harsh voice: "Hands up!"

No man quicker than Duane to recognize the intent in those
words! His hands shot up. Miss Ruth uttered a little frightened
cry and sank into her chair. Miss Longstreth turned white, her
eyes dilated. Both girls were staring at some one behind Duane.

"Turn around!" ordered the harsh voice.

The big, dark stranger, the bearded one who had whispered to
his comrade in the bar-room and asked Duane to drink, had him
covered with a cocked gun. He strode forward, his eyes
gleaming, pressed the gun against him, and with his other hand
dove into his inside coat pocket and tore out his roll of
bills. Then he reached low at Duane's hip, felt his gun, and
took it. Then he slapped the other hip, evidently in search of
another weapon. That done, he backed away, wearing an
expression of fiendish satisfaction that made Duane think he
was only a common thief, a novice at this kind of game.

His comrade stood in the door with a gun leveled at two other
men, who stood there frightened, speechless.

"Git a move on, Bill," called this fellow; and he took a hasty
glance backward. A stamp of hoofs came from outside. Of course
the robbers had horses waiting. The one called Bill strode
across the room, and with brutal, careless haste began to prod
the two men with his weapon and to search them. The robber in
the doorway called "Rustle!" and disappeared.

Duane wondered where the innkeeper was, and Colonel Longstreth
and the other two passengers. The bearded robber quickly got
through with his searching, and from his growls Duane gathered
he had not been well remunerated. Then he wheeled once more.
Duane had not moved a muscle, stood perfectly calm with his
arms high. The robber strode back with his bloodshot eyes
fastened upon the girls. Miss Longstreth never flinched, but
the little girl appeared about to faint.

"Don't yap, there!" he said, low and hard. He thrust the gun
close to Ruth. Then Duane knew for sure that he was no knight
of the road, but a plain cutthroat robber. Danger always made
Duane exult in a kind of cold glow. But now something hot
worked within him. He had a little gun in his pocket. The
robber had missed it. And he began to calculate chances.

"Any money, jewelry, diamonds!" ordered the ruffian, fiercely.

Miss Ruth collapsed. Then he made at Miss Longstreth. She stood
with her hands at her breast. Evidently the robber took this
position to mean that she had valuables concealed there. But
Duane fancied she had instinctively pressed her hands against a
throbbing heart.

"Come out with it!" he said, harshly, reaching for her.

"Don't dare touch me!" she cried, her eyes ablaze. She did not
move. She had nerve.

It made Duane thrill. He saw he was going to get a chance.
Waiting had been a science with him. But here it was hard. Miss
Ruth had fainted, and that was well. Miss Longstreth had fight
in her, which fact helped Duane, yet made injury possible to
her. She eluded two lunges the man made at her. Then his rough
hand caught her waist, and with one pull ripped it asunder,
exposing her beautiful shoulder, white as snow.

She cried out. The prospect of being robbed or even killed had
not shaken Miss Longstreth's nerve as had this brutal tearing
off of half her waist.

The ruffian was only turned partially away from Duane. For
himself he could have waited no longer. But for her! That gun
was still held dangerously upward close to her. Duane watched
only that. Then a bellow made him jerk his head. Colonel
Longstreth stood in the doorway in a magnificent rage. He had
no weapon. Strange how he showed no fear! He bellowed something
again.

Duane's shifting glance caught the robber's sudden movement. It
was a kind of start. He seemed stricken. Duane expected him to
shoot Longstreth. Instead the hand that clutched Miss
Longstreth's torn waist loosened its hold. The other hand with
its cocked weapon slowly dropped till it pointed to the floor.
That was Duane's chance.

Swift as a flash he drew his gun and fired. Thud! went his
bullet, and he could not tell on the instant whether it hit the
robber or went into the ceiling. Then the robber's gun boomed
harmlessly. He fell with blood spurting over his face. Duane
realized he had hit him, but the small bullet had glanced.

Miss Longstreth reeled and might have fallen had Duane not
supported her. It was only a few steps to a couch, to which he
half led, half carried her. Then he rushed out of the room,
across the patio, through the bar to the yard. Nevertheless, he
was cautious. In the gloom stood a saddled horse, probably the
one belonging to the fellow he had shot. His comrade had
escaped. Returning to the sitting-room, Duane found a condition
approaching pandemonium.

The innkeeper rushed in, pitchfork in hands. Evidently he had
been out at the barn. He was now shouting to find out what had
happened. Joel, the stage-driver, was trying to quiet the men
who had been robbed. The woman, wife of one of the men, had
come in, and she had hysterics. The girls were still and white.
The robber Bill lay where he had fallen, and Duane guessed he
had made a fair shot, after all. And, lastly, the thing that
struck Duane most of all was Longstreth's rage. He never saw
such passion. Like a caged lion Longstreth stalked and roared.
There came a quieter moment in which the innkeeper shrilly
protested:

"Man, what're you ravin' aboot? Nobody's hurt, an' thet's
lucky. I swear to God I hadn't nothin' to do with them
fellers!"

"I ought to kill you anyhow!" replied Longstreth. And his voice
now astounded Duane, it was so full of power.

Upon examination Duane found that his bullet had furrowed the
robber's temple, torn a great piece out of his scalp, and, as
Duane had guessed, had glanced. He was not seriously injured,
and already showed signs of returning consciousness.

"Drag him out of here!" ordered Longstreth; and he turned to
his daughter.

Before the innkeeper reached the robber Duane had secured the
money and gun taken from him; and presently recovered the
property of the other men. Joel helped the innkeeper carry the
injured man somewhere outside.

Miss Longstreth was sitting white but composed upon the couch,
where lay Miss Ruth, who evidently had been carried there by
the Colonel. Duane did not think she had wholly lost
consciousness, and now she lay very still, with eyes dark and
shadowy, her face pallid and wet. The Colonel, now that he
finally remembered his women-folk, seemed to be gentle and
kind. He talked soothingly to Miss Ruth, made light of the
adventure, said she must learn to have nerve out here where
things happened.

"Can I be of any service?" asked Duane, solicitously.

"Thanks; I guess there's nothing you can do. Talk to these
frightened girls while I go see what's to be done with that
thick-skulled robber," he replied, and, telling the girls that
there was no more danger, he went out.

Miss Longstreth sat with one hand holding her torn waist in
place; the other she extended to Duane. He took it awkwardly,
and he felt a strange thrill.

"You saved my life," she said, in grave, sweet seriousness.

"No, no!" Duane exclaimed. "He might have struck you, hurt you,
but no more."

"I saw murder in his eyes. He thought I had jewels under my
dress. I couldn't bear his touch. The beast! I'd have fought.
Surely my life was in peril."

"Did you kill him?" asked Miss Ruth, who lay listening.

"Oh no. He's not badly hurt."

"I'm very glad he's alive," said Miss Longstreth, shuddering.

"My intention was bad enough," Duane went on. "It was a
ticklish place for me. You see, he was half drunk, and I was
afraid his gun might go off. Fool careless he was!"

"Yet you say you didn't save me," Miss Longstreth returned,
quickly.

"Well, let it go at that," Duane responded. "I saved you
something."

"Tell me all about it?" asked Miss Ruth, who was fast
recovering.

Rather embarrassed, Duane briefly told the incident from his
point of view.

"Then you stood there all the time with your hands up thinking
of nothing--watching for nothing except a little moment when
you might draw your gun?" asked Miss Ruth.

"I guess that's about it," he replied.

"Cousin," said Miss Longstreth, thoughtfully, "it was fortunate
for us that this gentleman happened to be here. Papa
scouts--laughs at danger. He seemed to think there was no
danger. Yet he raved after it came."

"Go with us all the way to Fairdale--please?" asked Miss Ruth,
sweetly offering her hand. "I am Ruth Herbert. And this is my
cousin, Ray Longstreth."

"I'm traveling that way," replied Duane, in great confusion. He
did not know how to meet the situation.

Colonel Longstreth returned then, and after bidding Duane a
good night, which seemed rather curt by contrast to the
graciousness of the girls, he led them away.

Before going to bed Duane went outside to take a look at the
injured robber and perhaps to ask him a few questions. To
Duane's surprise, he was gone, and so was his horse. The
innkeeper was dumfounded. He said that he left the fellow on
the floor in the bar-room.

"Had he come to?" inquired Duane.

"Sure. He asked for whisky."

"Did he say anything else?"

"Not to me. I heard him talkin' to the father of them girls."

"You mean Colonel Longstreth?"

"I reckon. He sure was some riled, wasn't he? Jest as if I was
to blame fer that two-bit of a hold-up!"

"What did you make of the old gent's rage?" asked Duane,
watching the innkeeper. He scratched his head dubiously. He was
sincere, and Duane believed in his honesty.

"Wal, I'm doggoned if I know what to make of it. But I reckon
he's either crazy or got more nerve than most Texans."

"More nerve, maybe," Duane replied. "Show me a bed now,
innkeeper."

Once in bed in the dark, Duane composed himself to think over
the several events of the evening. He called up the details of
the holdup and carefully revolved them in mind. The Colonel's
wrath, under circumstances where almost any Texan would have
been cool, nonplussed Duane, and he put it down to a choleric
temperament. He pondered long on the action of the robber when
Longstreth's bellow of rage burst in upon him. This ruffian, as
bold and mean a type as Duane had ever encountered, had, from
some cause or other, been startled. From whatever point Duane
viewed the man's strange indecision he could come to only one
conclusion--his start, his check, his fear had been that of
recognition. Duane compared this effect with the suddenly
acquired sense he had gotten of Colonel Longstreth's powerful
personality. Why had that desperate robber lowered his gun and
stood paralyzed at sight and sound of the Mayor of Fairdale?
This was not answerable. There might have been a number of
reasons, all to Colonel Longstreth's credit, but Duane could
not understand. Longstreth had not appeared to see danger for
his daughter, even though she had been roughly handled, and had
advanced in front of a cocked gun. Duane probed deep into this
singular fact, and he brought to bear on the thing all his
knowledge and experience of violent Texas life. And he found
that the instant Colonel Longstreth had appeared on the scene
there was no further danger threatening his daughter. Why? That
likewise Duane could not answer. Then his rage, Duane
concluded, had been solely at the idea of HIS daughter being
assaulted by a robber. This deduction was indeed a
thought-disturber, but Duane put it aside to crystallize and
for more careful consideration.

Next morning Duane found that the little town was called
Sanderson. It was larger than he had at first supposed. He
walked up the main street and back again. Just as he arrived
some horsemen rode up to the inn and dismounted. And at this
juncture the Longstreth party came out. Duane heard Colonel
Longstreth utter an exclamation. Then he saw him shake hands
with a tall man. Longstreth looked surprised and angry, and he
spoke with force; but Duane could not hear what it was he said.
The fellow laughed, yet somehow he struck Duane as sullen,
until suddenly he espied Miss Longstreth. Then his face
changed, and he removed his sombrero. Duane went closer.

"Floyd, did you come with the teams?" asked Longstreth,
sharply.

"Not me. I rode a horse, good and hard," was the reply.

"Humph! I'll have a word to say to you later." Then Longstreth
turned to his daughter. "Ray, here's the cousin I've told you
about. You used to play with him ten years ago--Floyd Lawson.
Floyd, my daughter--and my niece, Ruth Herbert."

Duane always scrutinized every one he met, and now with a
dangerous game to play, with a consciousness of Longstreth's
unusual and significant personality, he bent a keen and
searching glance upon this Floyd Lawson.

He was under thirty, yet gray at his temples--dark,
smooth-shaven, with lines left by wildness, dissipation,
shadows under dark eyes, a mouth strong and bitter, and a
square chin--a reckless, careless, handsome, sinister face
strangely losing the hardness when he smiled. The grace of a
gentleman clung round him, seemed like an echo in his mellow
voice. Duane doubted not that he, like many a young man, had
drifted out to the frontier, where rough and wild life had
wrought sternly but had not quite effaced the mark of good
family.

Colonel Longstreth apparently did not share the pleasure of his
daughter and his niece in the advent of this cousin. Something
hinged on this meeting. Duane grew intensely curious, but, as
the stage appeared ready for the journey, he had no further
opportunity to gratify it.

CHAPTER XVI

Duane followed the stage through the town, out into the open,
on to a wide, hard-packed road showing years of travel. It
headed northwest. To the left rose a range of low, bleak
mountains he had noted yesterday, and to the right sloped the
mesquite-patched sweep of ridge and flat. The driver pushed his
team to a fast trot, which gait surely covered ground rapidly.

The stage made three stops in the forenoon, one at a place
where the horses could be watered, the second at a chuck-wagon
belonging to cowboys who were riding after stock, and the third
at a small cluster of adobe and stone houses constituting a
hamlet the driver called Longstreth, named after the Colonel.
From that point on to Fairdale there were only a few ranches,
each one controlling great acreage.

Early in the afternoon from a ridge-top Duane sighted Fairdale,
a green patch in the mass of gray. For the barrens of Texas it
was indeed a fair sight. But he was more concerned with its
remoteness from civilization than its beauty. At that time, in
the early seventies, when the vast western third of Texas was a
wilderness, the pioneer had done wonders to settle there and
establish places like Fairdale.

It needed only a glance for Duane to pick out Colonel
Longstreth's ranch. The house was situated on the only
elevation around Fairdale, and it was not high, nor more than a
few minutes' walk from the edge of the town. It was a low,
flat-roofed structure made of red adobe bricks, and covered
what appeared to be fully an acre of ground. All was green
about it, except where the fenced corrals and numerous barns or
sheds showed gray and red.

Duane soon reached the shady outskirts of Fairdale, and entered
the town with mingled feelings of curiosity, eagerness, and
expectation. The street he rode down was a main one, and on
both sides of the street was a solid row of saloons, resorts,
hotels. Saddled horses stood hitched all along the sidewalk in
two long lines, with a buckboard and team here and there
breaking the continuity. This block was busy and noisy.

From all outside appearances Fairdale was no different from
other frontier towns, and Duane's expectations were scarcely
realized. As the afternoon was waning he halted at a little
inn. A boy took charge of his horse. Duane questioned the lad
about Fairdale and gradually drew to the subject most in mind.

"Colonel Longstreth has a big outfit, eh?"

"Reckon he has," replied the lad. "Doan know how many cowboys.
They're always comin' and goin'. I ain't acquainted with half
of them."

"Much movement of stock these days?"

"Stock's always movin'," he replied, with a queer look.

"Rustlers?"

But he did not follow up that look with the affirmative Duane
expected.

"Lively place, I hear--Fairdale is?"

"Ain't so lively as Sanderson, but it's bigger."

"Yes, I heard it was. Fellow down there was talking about two
cowboys who were arrested."

"Sure. I heered all about that. Joe Bean an' Brick Higgins--
they belong heah, but they ain't heah much. Longstreth's boys."

Duane did not want to appear over-inquisitive, so he turned the
talk into other channels.

After getting supper Duane strolled up and down the main
street. When darkness set in he went into a hotel, bought
cigars, sat around, and watched. Then he passed out and went
into the next place. This was of rough crude exterior, but the
inside was comparatively pretentious and ablaze with lights. It
was full of men coming and going--a dusty-booted crowd that
smelled of horses and smoke. Duane sat down for a while, with
wide eyes and open ears. Then he hunted up the bar, where most
of the guests had been or were going. He found a great square
room lighted by six huge lamps, a bar at one side, and all the
floor-space taken up by tables and chairs. This was the only
gambling place of any size in southern Texas in which he had
noted the absence of Mexicans. There was some card-playing
going on at this moment. Duane stayed in there for a while, and
knew that strangers were too common in Fairdale to be
conspicuous. Then he returned to the inn where he had engaged a
room.

Duane sat down on the steps of the dingy little restaurant. Two
men were conversing inside, and they had not noticed Duane.

"Laramie, what's the stranger's name?" asked one.

"He didn't say," replied the other.

"Sure was a strappin' big man. Struck me a little odd, he did.
No cattleman, him. How'd you size him?"

"Well, like one of them cool, easy, quiet Texans who's been
lookin' for a man for years--to kill him when he found him."

"Right you are, Laramie; and, between you an' me, I hope he's
lookin' for Long--"

"'S--sh!" interrupted Laramie. "You must be half drunk, to go
talkie' that way."

Thereafter they conversed in too low a tone for Duane to hear,
and presently Laramie's visitor left. Duane went inside, and,
making himself agreeable, began to ask casual questions about
Fairdale. Laramie was not communicative.

Duane went to his room in a thoughtful frame of mind. Had
Laramie's visitor meant he hoped some one had come to kill
Longstreth? Duane inferred just that from the interrupted
remark. There was something wrong about the Mayor of Fairdale.
Duane felt it. And he felt also, if there was a crooked and
dangerous man, it was this Floyd Lawson. The innkeeper Laramie
would be worth cultivating. And last in Duane's thoughts that
night was Miss Longstreth. He could not help thinking of
her--how strangely the meeting with her had affected him. It
made him remember that long-past time when girls had been a
part of his life. What a sad and dark and endless void lay
between that past and the present! He had no right even to
dream of a beautiful woman like Ray Longstreth. That
conviction, however, did not dispel her; indeed, it seemed
perversely to make her grow more fascinating. Duane grew
conscious of a strange, unaccountable hunger, a something that
was like a pang in his breast.

Next day he lounged about the inn. He did not make any
overtures to the taciturn proprietor. Duane had no need of
hurry now. He contented himself with watching and listening.
And at the close of that day he decided Fairdale was what
MacNelly had claimed it to be, and that he was on the track of
an unusual adventure. The following day he spent in much the
same way, though on one occasion he told Laramie he was looking
for a man. The innkeeper grew a little less furtive and
reticent after that. He would answer casual queries, and it did
not take Duane long to learn that Laramie had seen better
days--that he was now broken, bitter, and hard. Some one had
wronged him.

Several days passed. Duane did not succeed in getting any
closer to Laramie, but he found the idlers on the corners and
in front of the stores unsuspicious and willing to talk. It did
not take him long to find out that Fairdale stood parallel with
Huntsville for gambling, drinking, and fighting. The street was
always lined with dusty, saddled horses, the town full of
strangers. Money appeared more abundant than in any place Duane
had ever visited; and it was spent with the abandon that spoke
forcibly of easy and crooked acquirement. Duane decided that
Sanderson, Bradford, and Ord were but notorious outposts to
this Fairdale, which was a secret center of rustlers and
outlaws. And what struck Duane strangest of all was the fact
that Longstreth was mayor here and held court daily. Duane knew
intuitively, before a chance remark gave him proof, that this
court was a sham, a farce. And he wondered if it were not a
blind. This wonder of his was equivalent to suspicion of
Colonel Longstreth, and Duane reproached himself. Then he
realized that the reproach was because of the daughter. Inquiry
had brought him the fact that Ray Longstreth had just come to
live with her father. Longstreth had originally been a planter
in Louisiana, where his family had remained after his advent in
the West. He was a rich rancher; he owned half of Fairdale; he
was a cattle-buyer on a large scale. Floyd Lawson was his
lieutenant and associate in deals.

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