The Lone Star Ranger

Z >> Zane Grey >> The Lone Star Ranger

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On the afternoon of the fifth day of Duane's stay in Fairdale
he returned to the inn from his usual stroll, and upon entering
was amazed to have a rough-looking young fellow rush by him out
of the door. Inside Laramie was lying on the floor, with a
bloody bruise on his face. He did not appear to be dangerously
hurt.

"Bo Snecker! He hit me and went after the cash-drawer," said
Laramie, laboring to his feet.

"Are you hurt much?" queried Duane.

"I guess not. But Bo needn't to have soaked me. I've been
robbed before without that."

"Well, I'll take a look after Bo," replied Duane.

He went out and glanced down the street toward the center of
the town. He did not see any one he could take for the
innkeeper's assailant. Then he looked up the street, and he saw
the young fellow about a block away, hurrying along and gazing
back.

Duane yelled for him to stop and started to go after him.
Snecker broke into a run. Then Duane set out to overhaul him.
There were two motives in Duane's action--one of anger, and the
other a desire to make a friend of this man Laramie, whom Duane
believed could tell him much.

Duane was light on his feet, and he had a giant stride. He
gained rapidly upon Snecker, who, turning this way and that,
could not get out of sight. Then he took to the open country
and ran straight for the green hill where Longstreth's house
stood. Duane had almost caught Snecker when he reached the
shrubbery and trees and there eluded him. But Duane kept him in
sight, in the shade, on the paths, and up the road into the
courtyard, and he saw Snecker go straight for Longstreth's
house.

Duane was not to be turned back by that, singular as it was. He
did not stop to consider. It seemed enough to know that fate
had directed him to the path of this rancher Longstreth. Duane
entered the first open door on that side of the court. It
opened into a corridor which led into a plaza. It had wide,
smooth stone porches, and flowers and shrubbery in the center.
Duane hurried through to burst into the presence of Miss
Longstreth and a number of young people. Evidently she was
giving a little party.

Lawson stood leaning against one of the pillars that supported
the porch roof; at sight of Duane his face changed remarkably,
expressing amazement, consternation, then fear.

In the quick ensuing silence Miss Longstreth rose white as her
dress. The young women present stared in astonishment, if they
were not equally perturbed. There were cowboys present who
suddenly grew intent and still. By these things Duane gathered
that his appearance must be disconcerting. He was panting. He
wore no hat or coat. His big gun-sheath showed plainly at his
hip.

Sight of Miss Longstreth had an unaccountable effect upon
Duane. He was plunged into confusion. For the moment he saw no
one but her.

"Miss Longstreth--I came--to search--your house," panted Duane.

He hardly knew what he was saying, yet the instant he spoke he
realized that that should have been the last thing for him to
say. He had blundered. But he was not used to women, and this
dark-eyed girl made him thrill and his heart beat thickly and
his wits go scattering.

"Search my house!" exclaimed Miss Longstreth; and red succeeded
the white in her cheeks. She appeared astonished and angry.
"What for? Why, how dare you! This is unwarrantable!"

"A man--Bo Snecker--assaulted and robbed Jim Laramie," replied
Duane, hurriedly. "I chased Snecker here--saw him run into the
house."

"Here? Oh, sir, you must be mistaken. We have seen no one. In
the absence of my father I'm mistress here. I'll not permit you
to search."

Lawson appeared to come out of his astonishment. He stepped
forward.

"Ray, don't be bothered now," he said, to his cousin. "This
fellow's making a bluff. I'll settle him. See here, Mister, you
clear out!"

"I want Snecker. He's here, and I'm going to get him," replied
Duane, quietly.

"Bah! That's all a bluff," sneered Lawson. "I'm on to your
game. You just wanted an excuse to break in here--to see my
cousin again. When you saw the company you invented that
excuse. Now, be off, or it'll be the worse for you."

Duane felt his face burn with a tide of hot blood. Almost he
felt that he was guilty of such motive. Had he not been unable
to put this Ray Longstreth out of his mind? There seemed to be
scorn in her eyes now. And somehow that checked his
embarrassment.

"Miss Longstreth, will you let me search the house?" he asked.

"No."

"Then--I regret to say--I'll do so without your permission."

"You'll not dare!" she flashed. She stood erect, her bosom
swelling.

"Pardon me, yes, I will."

"Who are you?" she demanded, suddenly.

"I'm a Texas Ranger," replied Duane.

"A TEXAS RANGER!" she echoed.

Floyd Lawson's dark face turned pale.

"Miss Longstreth, I don't need warrants to search houses," said
Duane. "I'm sorry to annoy you. I'd prefer to have your
permission. A ruffian has taken refuge here--in your father's
house. He's hidden somewhere. May I look for him?"

"If you are indeed a ranger."

Duane produced his papers. Miss Longstreth haughtily refused to
look at them.

"Miss Longstreth, I've come to make Fairdale a safer, cleaner,
better place for women and children. I don't wonder at your
resentment. But to doubt me--insult me. Some day you may be
sorry."

Floyd Lawson made a violent motion with his hands.

"All stuff! Cousin, go on with your party. I'll take a couple
of cowboys and go with this--this Texas Ranger."

"Thanks," said Duane, coolly, as he eyed Lawson. "Perhaps
you'll be able to find Snecker quicker than I could."

"What do you mean?" demanded Lawson, and now he grew livid.
Evidently he was a man of fierce quick passions.

"Don't quarrel," said Miss Longstreth. "Floyd, you go with him.
Please hurry. I'll be nervous till--the man's found or you're
sure there's not one."

They started with several cowboys to search the house. They
went through the rooms searching, calling out, peering into
dark places. It struck Duane more than forcibly that Lawson did
all the calling. He was hurried, too, tried to keep in the
lead. Duane wondered if he knew his voice would be recognized
by the hiding man. Be that as it might, it was Duane who peered
into a dark corner and then, with a gun leveled, said "Come
out!"

He came forth into the flare--a tall, slim, dark-faced youth,
wearing sombrero, blouse and trousers. Duane collared him
before any of the others could move and held the gun close
enough to make him shrink. But he did not impress Duane as
being frightened just then; nevertheless, he had a clammy face,
the pallid look of a man who had just gotten over a shock. He
peered into Duane's face, then into that of the cowboy next to
him, then into Lawson's, and if ever in Duane's life he beheld
relief it was then. That was all Duane needed to know, but he
meant to find out more if he could.

"Who're you?" asked Duane, quietly.

"Bo Snecker," he said.

"What'd you hide here for?"

He appeared to grow sullen.

"Reckoned I'd be as safe in Longstreth's as anywheres."

"Ranger, what'll you do with him?" Lawson queried, as if
uncertain, now the capture was made.

"I'll see to that," replied Duane, and he pushed Snecker in
front of him out into the court.

Duane had suddenly conceived the idea of taking Snecker before
Mayor Longstreth in the court.

When Duane arrived at the hall where court was held there were
other men there, a dozen or more, and all seemed excited;
evidently, news of Duane had preceded him. Longstreth sat at a
table up on a platform. Near him sat a thick-set grizzled man,
with deep eyes, and this was Hanford Owens, county judge. To
the right stood a tall, angular, yellow-faced fellow with a
drooping sandy mustache. Conspicuous on his vest was a huge
silver shield. This was Gorsech, one of Longstreth's sheriffs.
There were four other men whom Duane knew by sight, several
whose faces were familiar, and half a dozen strangers, all
dusty horsemen.

Longstreth pounded hard on the table to be heard. Mayor or not,
he was unable at once to quell the excitement. Gradually,
however, it subsided, and from the last few utterances before
quiet was restored Duane gathered that he had intruded upon
some kind of a meeting in the hall.

"What'd you break in here for," demanded Longstreth.

"Isn't this the court? Aren't you the Mayor of Fairdale?"
interrogated Duane. His voice was clear and loud, almost
piercing.

"Yes," replied Longstreth. Like flint he seemed, yet Duane felt
his intense interest.

"I've arrested a criminal," said Duane.

"Arrested a criminal!" ejaculated Longstreth. "You? Who're
you?"

"I'm a ranger," replied Duane.

A significant silence ensued.

"I charge Snecker with assault on Laramie and attempted
robbery--if not murder. He's had a shady past here, as this
court will know if it keeps a record."

"What's this I hear about you, Bo? Get up and speak for
yourself," said Longstreth, gruffly.

Snecker got up, not without a furtive glance at Duane, and he
had shuffled forward a few steps toward the Mayor. He had an
evil front, but not the boldness even of a rustler.

"It ain't so, Longstreth," he began, loudly. "I went in
Laramie's place fer grub. Some feller I never seen before come
in from the hall an' hit Laramie an' wrestled him on the floor.
I went out. Then this big ranger chased me an' fetched me
here. 1 didn't do nothin'. This ranger's hankerin' to arrest
somebody. Thet's my hunch, Longstreth."

Longstreth said something in an undertone to Judge Owens, and
that worthy nodded his great bushy head.

"Bo, you're discharged," said Longstreth, bluntly. "Now the
rest of you clear out of here."

He absolutely ignored the ranger. That was his rebuff to
Duane--his slap in the face to an interfering ranger service.
If Longstreth was crooked he certainly had magnificent nerve.
Duane almost decided he was above suspicion. But his
nonchalance, his air of finality, his authoritative
assurance--these to Duane's keen and practiced eyes were in
significant contrast to a certain tenseness of line about his
mouth and a slow paling of his olive skin. In that momentary
lull Duane's scrutiny of Longstreth gathered an impression of
the man's intense curiosity.

Then the prisoner, Snecker, with a cough that broke the spell
of silence, shuffled a couple of steps toward the door.

"Hold on!" called Duane. The call halted Snecker, as if it had
been a bullet.

"Longstreth, I saw Snecker attack Laramie," said Duane, his
voice still ringing. "What has the court to say to that?"

"The court has this to say. West of the Pecos we'll not aid any
ranger service. We don't want you out here. Fairdale doesn't
need you."

"That's a lie, Longstreth," retorted Duane. "I've letters from
Fairdale citizens all begging for ranger service."

Longstreth turned white. The veins corded at his temples. He
appeared about to burst into rage. He was at a loss for quick
reply.

Floyd Lawson rushed in and up to the table. The blood showed
black and thick in his face; his utterance was incoherent, his
uncontrollable outbreak of temper seemed out of all proportion
to any cause he should reasonably have had for anger.
Longstreth shoved him back with a curse and a warning glare.

"Where's your warrant to arrest Snecker?" shouted Longstreth.

"I don't need warrants to make arrests. Longstreth, you're
ignorant of the power of Texas Rangers."

"You'll come none of your damned ranger stunts out here. I'll
block you."

That passionate reply of Longstreth's was the signal Duane had
been waiting for. He had helped on the crisis. He wanted to
force Longstreth's hand and show the town his stand.

Duane backed clear of everybody.

"Men! I call on you all!" cried Duane, piercingly. "I call on
you to witness the arrest of a criminal prevented by
Longstreth, Mayor of Fairdale. It will be recorded in the
report to the Adjutant-General at Austin. Longstreth, you'll
never prevent another arrest."

Longstreth sat white with working jaw.

"Longstreth, you've shown your hand," said Duane, in a voice
that carried far and held those who heard. "Any honest citizen
of Fairdale can now see what's plain--yours is a damn poor
hand! You're going to hear me call a spade a spade. In the two
years you've been Mayor you've never arrested one rustler.
Strange, when Fairdale's a nest for rustlers! You've never sent
a prisoner to Del Rio, let alone to Austin. You have no jail.
There have been nine murders during your office--innumerable
street-fights and holdups. Not one arrest! But you have ordered
arrests for trivial offenses, and have punished these out of
all proportion. There have been lawsuits in your court-suits
over water-rights, cattle deals, property lines. Strange how in
these lawsuits you or Lawson or other men close to you were
always involved! Strange how it seems the law was stretched to
favor your interest!"

Duane paused in his cold, ringing speech. In the silence, both
outside and inside the hall, could be heard the deep breathing
of agitated men. Longstreth was indeed a study. Yet did he
betray anything but rage at this interloper?

"Longstreth, here's plain talk for you and Fairdale," went on
Duane. "I don't accuse you and your court of dishonesty. I say
STRANGE! Law here has been a farce. The motive behind all this
laxity isn't plain to me--yet. But I call your hand!"

CHAPTER XVII

Duane left the hall, elbowed his way through the crowd, and
went down the street. He was certain that on the faces of some
men he had seen ill-concealed wonder and satisfaction. He had
struck some kind of a hot trait, and he meant to see where it
led. It was by no means unlikely that Cheseldine might be at
the other end. Duane controlled a mounting eagerness. But ever
and anon it was shot through with a remembrance of Ray
Longstreth. He suspected her father of being not what he
pretended. He might, very probably would, bring sorrow and
shame to this young woman. The thought made him smart with
pain. She began to haunt him, and then he was thinking more of
her beauty and sweetness than of the disgrace he might bring
upon her. Some strange emotion, long locked inside Duane's
heart, knocked to be heard, to be let out. He was troubled.

Upon returning to the inn he found Laramie there, apparently
none the worse for his injury.

"How are you, Laramie?" he asked.

"Reckon I'm feelin' as well as could be expected," replied
Laramie. His head was circled by a bandage that did not conceal
the lump where he had been struck. He looked pale, but was
bright enough.

"That was a good crack Snecker gave you," remarked Duane.

"I ain't accusin' Bo," remonstrated Laramie, with eyes that
made Duane thoughtful.

"Well, I accuse him. I caught him--took him to Longstreth's
court. But they let him go."

Laramie appeared to be agitated by this intimation of
friendship.

"See here, Laramie," went on Duane, "in some parts of Texas
it's policy to be close-mouthed. Policy and health-preserving!
Between ourselves, I want you to know I lean on your side of
the fence."

Laramie gave a quick start. Presently Duane turned and frankly
met his gaze. He had startled Laramie out of his habitual set
taciturnity; but even as he looked the light that might have
been amaze and joy faded out of his face, leaving it the same
old mask. Still Duane had seen enough. Like a bloodhound he had
a scent.

"Talking about work, Laramie, who'd you say Snecker worked
for?"

"I didn't say."

"Well, say so now, can't you? Laramie, you're powerful peevish
to-day. It's that bump on your head. Who does Snecker work
for?"

"When he works at all, which sure ain't often, he rides for
Longstreth."

"Humph! Seems to me that Longstreth's the whole circus round
Fairdale. I was some sore the other day to find I was losing
good money at Longstreth's faro game. Sure if I'd won I
wouldn't have been sore--ha, ha! But I was surprised to hear
some one say Longstreth owned the Hope So joint."

"He owns considerable property hereabouts," replied Laramie,
constrainedly.

"Humph again! Laramie, like every other fellow I meet in this
town, you're afraid to open your trap about Longstreth.Get me
straight, Laramie. I don't care a damn for Colonel Mayor
Longstreth. And for cause I'd throw a gun on him just as quick
as on any rustler in Pecos."

"Talk's cheap," replied Laramie, making light of his bluster,
but the red was deeper in his face.

"Sure. I know that," Duane said. "And usually I don't talk.
Then it's not well known that Longstreth owns the Hope So?"

"Reckon it's known in Pecos, all right. But Longstreth's name
isn't connected with the Hope So. Blandy runs the place."

"That Blandy. His faro game's crooked, or I'm a locoed bronch.
Not that we don't have lots of crooked faro-dealers. A fellow
can stand for them. But Blandy's mean, back-handed, never looks
you in the eyes. That Hope So place ought to be run by a good
fellow like you, Laramie."

"Thanks," replied he; and Duane imagined his voice a little
husky. "Didn't you hear I used to run it?"

"No. Did you?" Duane said, quickly.

"I reckon. I built the place, made additions twice, owned it
for eleven years."

"Well, I'll be doggoned." It was indeed Duane's turn to be
surprised, and with the surprise came a glimmering. "I'm sorry
you're not there now. Did you sell out?"

"No. Just lost the place."

Laramie was bursting for relief now--to talk, to tell. Sympathy
had made him soft.

"It was two years ago-two years last March," he went on. "I was
in a big cattle deal with Longstreth. We got the stock--an' my
share, eighteen hundred head, was rustled off. I owed
Longstreth. He pressed me. It come to a lawsuit--an' I--was
ruined.

It hurt Duane to look at Laramie. He was white, and tears
rolled down his cheeks. Duane saw the bitterness, the defeat,
the agony of the man. He had failed to meet his obligations;
nevertheless, he had been swindled. All that he suppressed, all
that would have been passion had the man's spirit not been
broken, lay bare for Duane to see. He had now the secret of his
bitterness. But the reason he did not openly accuse Longstreth,
the secret of his reticence and fear--these Duane thought best
to try to learn at some later time.

"Hard luck! It certainly was tough," Duane said. "But you're a
good loser. And the wheel turns! Now, Laramie, here's what. I
need your advice. I've got a little money. But before I lose it
I want to invest some. Buy some stock, or buy an interest in
some rancher's herd. What I want you to steer me on is a good
square rancher. Or maybe a couple of ranchers, if there happen
to be two honest ones. Ha, ha! No deals with ranchers who ride
in the dark with rustlers! I've a hunch Fairdale is full of
them. Now, Laramie, you've been here for years. Sure you must
know a couple of men above suspicion."

"Thank God I do," he replied, feelingly. "Frank Morton an' Si
Zimmer, my friends an' neighbors all my prosperous days, an'
friends still. You can gamble on Frank and Si. But if you want
advice from me--don't invest money in stock now."

"Why?"

"Because any new feller buyin' stock these days will be rustled
quicker 'n he can say Jack Robinson. The pioneers, the new
cattlemen--these are easy pickin' for the rustlers. Lord knows
all the ranchers are easy enough pickin'. But the new fellers
have to learn the ropes. They don't know anythin' or anybody.
An' the old ranchers are wise an' sore. They'd fight if they--"

"What?" Duane put in, as he paused. "If they knew who was
rustling the stock?"

"Nope."

"If they had the nerve?"

"Not thet so much."

"What then? What'd make them fight?"

"A leader!"

"Howdy thar, Jim," boomed a big voice.

A man of great bulk, with a ruddy, merry face, entered the
room.

"Hello, Morton," replied Laramie. "I'd introduce you to my
guest here, but I don't know his name."

"Haw! Haw! Thet's all right. Few men out hyar go by their right
names."

"Say, Morton," put in Duane, "Laramie gave me a hunch you'd be
a good man to tie to. Now, I've a little money and before I
lose it I'd like to invest it in stock."

Morton smiled broadly.

"I'm on the square," Duane said, bluntly. "If you fellows never
size up your neighbors any better than you have sized me--well,
you won't get any richer."

It was enjoyment for Duane to make his remarks to these men
pregnant with meaning. Morton showed his pleasure, his
interest, but his faith held aloof.

"I've got some money. Will you let me in on some kind of deal?
Will you start me up as a stockman with a little herd all my
own?"

"Wal, stranger, to come out flat-footed, you'd be foolish to
buy cattle now. I don't want to take your money an' see you
lose out. Better go back across the Pecos where the rustlers
ain't so strong. I haven't had more'n twenty-five hundred herd
of stock for ten years. The rustlers let me hang on to a
breedin' herd. Kind of them, ain't it?"

"Sort of kind. All I hear is rustlers, Morton," replied Duane,
with impatience. "You see, I haven't ever lived long in a
rustler-run county. Who heads the gang, anyway?"

Morton looked at Duane with a curiously amused smile, then
snapped his big jaw as if to shut in impulsive words.

"Look here, Morton. It stands to reason, no matter how strong
these rustlers are, how hidden their work, however involved
with supposedly honest men--they CAN"T last."

"They come with the pioneers, an' they'll last till thar's a
single steer left," he declared.

"Well, if you take that view of circumstances I just figure you
as one of the rustlers""

Morton looked as if he were about to brain Duane with the butt
of his whip. His anger flashed by then, evidently as unworthy
of him, and, something striking him as funny, he boomed out a
laugh.

"It's not so funny," Duane went on. "If you're going to pretend
a yellow streak, what else will I think?"

"Pretend?" he repeated.

"Sure. I know men of nerve. And here they're not any different
from those in other places. I say if you show anything like a
lack of sand it's all bluff. By nature you've got nerve. There
are a lot of men around Fairdale who're afraid of their
shadows--afraid to be out after dark--afraid to open their
mouths. But you're not one. So I say if you claim these
rustlers will last you're pretending lack of nerve just to help
the popular idea along. For they CAN"T last. What you need out
here is some new blood. Savvy what I mean?"

"Wal, I reckon I do," he replied, looking as if a storm had
blown over him. "Stranger, I'll look you up the next time I
come to town."

Then he went out.

Laramie had eyes like flint striking fire.

He breathed a deep breath and looked around the room before his
gaze fixed again on Duane.

"Wal," he replied, speaking low. "You've picked the right men.
Now, who in the hell are you?"

Reaching into the inside pocket of his buckskin vest, Duane
turned the lining out. A star-shaped bright silver object
flashed as he shoved it, pocket and all, under Jim's hard eyes.

"RANGER!" he whispered, cracking the table with his fist. "You
sure rung true to me."

"Laramie, do you know who's boss of this secret gang of
rustlers hereabouts?" asked Duane, bluntly. It was
characteristic of him to come sharp to the point. His
voice--something deep, easy, cool about him--seemed to steady
Laramie.

"No," replied Laramie.

"Does anybody know?" went on Duane.

"Wal, I reckon there's not one honest native who KNOWS."

"But you have your suspicions?"

"We have."

"Give me your idea about this crowd that hangs round the
saloons--the regulars."

"Jest a bad lot," replied Laramie, with the quick assurance of
knowledge. "Most of them have been here years. Others have
drifted in. Some of them work, odd times. They rustle a few
steers, steal, rob, anythin' for a little money to drink an'
gamble. Jest a bad lot!"

"Have you any idea whether Cheseldine and his gang are
associated with this gang here?"

"Lord knows. I've always suspected them the same gang. None of
us ever seen Cheseldine--an' thet's strange, when Knell,
Poggin, Panhandle Smith, Blossom Kane, and Fletcher, they all
ride here often. No, Poggin doesn't come often. But the others
do. For thet matter, they're around all over west of the
Pecos."

"Now I'm puzzled over this," said Duane. "Why do
men--apparently honest men--seem to be so close-mouthed here?
Is that. a fact, or only my impression?"

"It's a sure fact," replied Laramie, darkly. "Men have lost
cattle an' property in Fairdale--lost them honestly or
otherwise, as hasn't been proved. An' in some cases when they
talked--hinted a little--they was found dead. Apparently held
up an robbed. But dead. Dead men don't talk! Thet's why we're
close mouthed."

Duane felt a dark, somber sternness. Rustling cattle was not
intolerable. Western Texas had gone on prospering, growing in
spite of the hordes of rustlers ranging its vast stretches; but
a cold, secret, murderous hold on a little struggling community
was something too strange, too terrible for men to stand long.

The ranger was about to speak again when the clatter of hoofs
interrupted him. Horses halted out in front, and one rider got
down. Floyd Lawson entered. He called for tobacco.

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