The Lone Star Ranger
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Zane Grey >> The Lone Star Ranger
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If his visit surprised Laramie he did not show any evidence.
But Lawson showed rage as he saw the ranger, and then a dark
glint flitted from the eyes that shifted from Duane to Laramie
and back again. Duane leaned easily against the counter.
"Say, that was a bad break of yours," Lawson said. "If you come
fooling round the ranch again there'll be hell."
It seemed strange that a man who had lived west of the Pecos
for ten years could not see in Duane something which forbade
that kind of talk. It certainly was not nerve Lawson showed;
men of courage were seldom intolerant. With the matchless nerve
that characterized the great gunmen of the day there was a
cool, unobtrusive manner, a speech brief, almost gentle,
certainly courteous. Lawson was a hot-headed Louisianian of
French extraction; a man, evidently, who had never been crossed
in anything, and who was strong, brutal, passionate, which
qualities in the face of a situation like this made him simply
a fool.
"I'm saying again, you used your ranger bluff just to get near
Ray Longstreth," Lawson sneered. "Mind you, if you come up
there again there'll be hell."
"You're right. But not the kind you think," Duane retorted, his
voice sharp and cold.
"Ray Longstreth wouldn't stoop to know a dirty blood-tracker
like you," said Lawson, hotly. He did not seem to have a
deliberate intention to rouse Duane; the man was simply
rancorous, jealous. "I'll call you right. You cheap bluffer!
You four-flush! You damned interfering, conceited ranger!"
"Lawson, I'll not take offense, because you seem to be
championing your beautiful cousin," replied Duane, in slow
speech. "But let me return your compliment. You're a fine
Southerner! Why, you're only a cheap four-flush--damned,
bull-headed RUSTLER!"
Duane hissed the last word. Then for him there was the truth in
Lawson's working passion-blackened face.
Lawson jerked, moved, meant to draw. But how slow! Duane lunged
forward. His long arm swept up. And Lawson staggered backward,
knocking table and chairs, to fall hard, in a half-sitting
posture against the wall.
"Don't draw!" warned Duane.
"Lawson, git away from your gun!" yelled Laramie.
But Lawson was crazed with fury. He tugged at his hip, his face
corded with purple welts, malignant, murderous. Duane kicked
the gun out of his hand. Lawson got up, raging, and rushed out.
Laramie lifted his shaking hands.
"What'd you wing him for?" he wailed. "He was drawin' on you.
Kickin' men like him won't do out here."
"That bull-headed fool will roar and butt himself with all his
gang right into our hands. He's just the man I've needed to
meet. Besides, shooting him would have been murder."
"Murder!" exclaimed Laramie.
"Yes, for me," replied Duane.
"That may be true--whoever you are--but if Lawson's the man you
think he is he'll begin thet secret underground bizness. Why,
Lawson won't sleep of nights now. He an' Longstreth have always
been after me."
"Laramie, what are your eyes for?" demanded Duane. "Watch out.
And now here. See your friend Morton. Tell him this game grows
hot. Together you approach four or five men you know well and
can absolutely trust. I may need your help."
Then Duane went from place to place, corner to corner, bar to
bar, watching, listening, recording. The excitement had
preceded him, and speculation was rife. He thought best to keep
out of it. After dark he stole up to Longstreth's ranch. The
evening was warm; the doors were open; and in the twilight the
only lamps that had been lit were in Longstreth's big sitting-
room, at the far end of the house. When a buckboard drove up
and Longstreth and Lawson alighted, Duane was well hidden in
the bushes, so well screened that he could get but a fleeting
glimpse of Longstreth as he went in. For all Duane could see,
he appeared to be a calm and quiet man, intense beneath the
surface, with an air of dignity under insult. Duane's chance to
observe Lawson was lost. They went into the house without
speaking and closed the door.
At the other end of the porch, close under a window, was an
offset between step and wall, and there in the shadow Duane
hid. So Duane waited there in the darkness with patience born
of many hours of hiding.
Presently a lamp was lit; and Duane heard the swish of skirts.
"Something's happened surely, Ruth," he heard Miss Longstreth
say, anxiously. "Papa just met me in the hall and didn't speak.
He seemed pale, worried."
"Cousin Floyd looked like a thunder-cloud," said Ruth. "For
once he didn't try to kiss me. Something's happened. Well, Ray,
this had been a bad day."
"Oh, dear! Ruth, what can we do? These are wild men. Floyd
makes life miserable for me. And he teases you unmer--"
"I don't call it teasing. Floyd wants to spoon," declared Ruth,
emphatically. "He'd run after any woman."
"A fine compliment to me, Cousin Ruth," laughed Ray.
"I don't care," replied Ruth, stubbornly. "it's so. He's mushy.
And when he's been drinking and tries to kiss me--I hate him!"
There were steps on the hall floor.
"Hello, girls!" sounded out Lawson's voice, minus its usual
gaiety.
"Floyd, what's the matter?" asked Ray, presently. "I never saw
papa as he is to-night, nor you so--so worried. Tell me, what
has happened?"
"Well, Ray, we had a jar to-day," replied Lawson, with a blunt,
expressive laugh.
"Jar?" echoed both the girls, curiously.
"We had to submit to a damnable outrage," added Lawson,
passionately, as if the sound of his voice augmented his
feeling. "Listen, girls; I'll tell you-all about it." He
coughed, cleared his throat in a way that betrayed he had been
drinking.
Duane sunk deeper into the shadow of his covert, and,
stiffening his muscles for a protected spell of rigidity,
prepared to listen with all acuteness and intensity. Just one
word from this Lawson, inadvertently uttered in a moment of
passion, might be the word Duane needed for his clue.
"It happened at the town hall," began Lawson, rapidly. "Your
father and Judge Owens and I were there in consultation with
three ranchers from out of town. Then that damned ranger
stalked in dragging Snecker, the fellow who hid here in the
house. He had arrested Snecker for alleged assault on a
restaurant-keeper named Laramie. Snecker being obviously
innocent, he was discharged. Then this ranger began shouting
his insults. Law was a farce in Fairdale. The court was a
farce. There was no law. Your father's office as mayor should
be impeached. He made arrests only for petty offenses. He was
afraid of the rustlers, highwaymen, murderers. He was afraid
or--he just let them alone. He used his office to cheat
ranchers and cattlemen in lawsuits. All this the ranger yelled
for every one to hear. A damnable outrage. Your father, Ray,
insulted in his own court by a rowdy ranger!"
"Oh!" cried Ray Longstreth, in mingled distress and anger.
"The ranger service wants to rule western Texas," went on
Lawson. "These rangers are all a low set, many of them worse
than the outlaws they hunt. Some of them were outlaws and
gun-fighters before they became rangers. This is one of the
worst of the lot. He's keen, intelligent, smooth, and that
makes him more to be feared. For he is to be feared. He wanted
to kill. He would kill. If your father had made the least move
he would have shot him. He's a cold-nerved devil--the born
gunman. My God, any instant I expected to see your father fall
dead at my feet!"
"Oh, Floyd! The unspeakable ruffian!" cried Ray Longstreth,
passionately.
"You see, Ray, this fellow, like all rangers, seeks notoriety.
He made that play with Snecker just for a chance to rant
against your father. He tried to inflame all Fairdale against
him. That about the lawsuits was the worst! Damn him! He'll
make us enemies."
"What do you care for the insinuations of such a man?" said Ray
Longstreth, her voice now deep and rich with feeling. "After a
moment's thought no one will be influenced by them. Do not
worry, Floyd. Tell papa not to worry. Surely after all these
years he can't be injured in reputation by--by an adventurer."
"Yes, he can be injured," replied Floyd, quickly. "The frontier
is a queer place. There are many bitter men here--men who have
failed at ranching. And your father has been wonderfully
successful. The ranger has dropped poison, and it'll spread."
CHAPTER XVIII
Strangers rode into Fairdale; and other hard-looking customers,
new to Duane if not to Fairdale, helped to create a charged and
waiting atmosphere. The saloons did unusual business and were
never closed. Respectable citizens of the town were awakened in
the early dawn by rowdies carousing in the streets.
Duane kept pretty close under cover during the day. He did not
entertain the opinion that the first time he walked down-street
he would be a target for guns. Things seldom happened that way;
and when they did happen so, it was more accident than design.
But at night he was not idle. He met Laramie, Morton, Zimmer,
and others of like character; a secret club had been formed;
and all the members were ready for action. Duane spent hours at
night watching the house where Floyd Lawson stayed when he was
not up at Longstreth's. At night he was visited, or at least
the house was, by strange men who were swift, stealthy,
mysterious--all that kindly disposed friends or neighbors would
not have been. Duane had not been able to recognize any of
these night visitors; and he did not think the time was ripe
for a bold holding-up of one of them. Nevertheless, he was sure
such an event would discover Lawson, or some one in that house,
to be in touch with crooked men.
Laramie was right. Not twenty-four hours after his last talk
with Duane, in which he advised quick action, he was found
behind the little bar of his restaurant with a bullet-hole in
his breast, dead. No one could be found who had heard a shot.
It had been deliberate murder, for upon the bar had been left
a piece of paper rudely scrawled with a pencil: "All friends of
rangers look for the same."
This roused Duane. His first move, however, was to bury
Laramie. None of Laramie's neighbors evinced any interest in
the dead man or the unfortunate family he had left. Duane saw
that these neighbors were held in check by fear. Mrs. Laramie
was ill; the shock of her husband's death was hard on her; and
she had been left almost destitute with five children. Duane
rented a small adobe house on the outskirts of town and moved
the family into it. Then he played the part of provider and
nurse and friend.
After several days Duane went boldly into town and showed that
he meant business. It was his opinion that there were men in
Fairdale secretly glad of a ranger's presence. What he intended
to do was food for great speculation. A company of militia
could not have had the effect upon the wild element of Fairdale
that Duane's presence had. It got out that he was a gunman
lightning swift on the draw. It was death to face him. He had
killed thirty men--wildest rumor of all. lt was actually said
of him he had the gun-skill of Buck Duane or of Poggin.
At first there had not only been great conjecture among the
vicious element, but also a very decided checking of all kinds
of action calculated to be conspicuous to a keen-eyed ranger.
At the tables, at the bars and lounging-places Duane heard the
remarks: "Who's thet ranger after? What'll he do fust off? Is
he waitin' fer somebody? Who's goin' to draw on him fust--an'
go to hell? Jest about how soon will he be found somewheres
full of lead?"
When it came out somewhere that Duane was openly cultivating
the honest stay-at-home citizens to array them in time against
the other element, then Fairdale showed its wolf-teeth. Several
times Duane was shot at in the dark and once slightly injured.
Rumor had it that Poggin, the gunman, was coming to meet him.
But the lawless element did not rise up in a mass to slay Duane
on sight. It was not so much that the enemies of the law
awaited his next move, but just a slowness peculiar to the
frontier. The ranger was in their midst. He was interesting, if
formidable. He would have been welcomed at card-tables, at the
bars, to play and drink with the men who knew they were under
suspicion. There was a rude kind of good humor even in their
open hostility.
Besides, one ranger or a company of rangers could not have held
the undivided attention of these men from their games and
drinks and quarrels except by some decided move. Excitement,
greed, appetite were rife in them. Duane marked, however, a
striking exception to the usual run of strangers he had been in
the habit of seeing. Snecker had gone or was under cover. Again
Duane caught a vague rumor of the coming of Poggin, yet he
never seemed to arrive. Moreover, the goings-on among the
habitues of the resorts and the cowboys who came in to drink
and gamble were unusually mild in comparison with former
conduct. This lull, however, did not deceive Duane. It could
not last. The wonder was that it had lasted so long.
Duane went often to see Mrs. Laramie and her children. One
afternoon while he was there he saw Miss Longstreth and Ruth
ride up to the door. They carried a basket. Evidently they had
heard of Mrs. Laramie's trouble. Duane felt strangely glad, but
he went into an adjoining room rather than meet them.
"Mrs. Laramie, I've come to see you," said Miss Longstreth,
cheerfully.
The little room was not very light, there being only one window
and the doors, but Duane could see plainly enough. Mrs. Laramie
lay, hollow-checked and haggard, on a bed. Once she had
evidently been a woman of some comeliness. The ravages of
trouble and grief were there to read in her worn face; it had
not, however, any of the hard and bitter lines that had
characterized her husband's.
Duane wondered, considering that Longstreth had ruined Laramie,
how Mrs. Laramie was going to regard the daughter of an enemy.
"So you're Granger Longstreth's girl?" queried the woman, with
her bright, black eyes fixed on her visitor.
"Yes," replied Miss Longstreth, simply. "This is my cousin,
Ruth Herbert. We've come to nurse you, take care of the
children, help you in any way you'll let us."
There was a long silence.
"Well, you look a little like Longstreth," finally said Mrs.
Laramie, "but you're not at ALL like him. You must take after
your mother. Miss Longstreth, I don't know if I can--if I ought
accept anything from you. Your father ruined my husband."
"Yes, I know," replied the girl, sadly. "That's all the more
reason you should let me help you. Pray don't refuse. It will--
mean so much to me."
If this poor, stricken woman had any resentment it speedily
melted in the warmth and sweetness of Miss Longstreth's manner.
Duane's idea was that the impression of Ray Longstreth's beauty
was always swiftly succeeded by that of her generosity and
nobility. At any rate, she had started well with Mrs. Laramie,
and no sooner had she begun to talk to the children than both
they and the mother were won. The opening of that big basket
was an event. Poor, starved little beggars! Duane's feelings
seemed too easily roused. Hard indeed would it have gone with
Jim Laramie's slayer if he could have laid eyes on him then.
However, Miss Longstreth and Ruth, after the nature of tender
and practical girls, did not appear to take the sad situation
to heart. The havoc was wrought in that household.
The needs now were cheerfulness, kindness, help, action--and
these the girls furnished with a spirit that did Duane good.
"Mrs. Laramie, who dressed this baby?" presently asked Miss
Longstreth. Duane peeped in to see a dilapidated youngster on
her knee. That sight, if any other was needed, completed his
full and splendid estimate of Ray Longstreth and wrought
strangely upon his heart.
"The ranger," replied Mrs. Laramie.
"The ranger!" exclaimed Miss Longstreth.
"Yes, he's taken care of us all since--since--" Mrs. Laramie
choked.
"Oh! So you've had no help but his," replied Miss Longstreth,
hastily. "No women. Too bad! I'll send some one, Mrs. Laramie,
and I'll come myself."
"It'll be good of you," went on the older woman. "You see, Jim
had few friends--that is, right in town. And they've been
afraid to help us--afraid they'd get what poor Jim--"
"That's awful!" burst out Miss Longstreth, passionately. "A
brave lot of friends! Mrs. Laramie, don't you worry any more.
We'll take care of you. Here, Ruth, help me. Whatever is the
matter with baby's dress?"
Manifestly Miss Longstreth had some difficulty in subduing her
emotion.
"Why, it's on hind side before," declared Ruth. "I guess Mr.
Ranger hasn't dressed many babies."
"He did the best he could," said Mrs. Laramie. "Lord only knows
what would have become of us!"
"Then he is--is something more than a ranger?" queried Miss
Longstreth, with a little break in her voice.
"He's more than I can tell," replied Mrs. Laramie. "He buried
Jim. He paid our debts. He fetched us here. He bought food for
us. He cooked for us and fed us. He washed and dressed the
baby. He sat with me the first two nights after Jim's death,
when I thought I'd die myself. He's so kind, so gentle, so
patient. He has kept me up just by being near. Sometimes I'd
wake from a doze, an', seeing him there, I'd know how false
were all these tales Jim heard about him and believed at first.
Why, he plays with the children just--just like any good man
might. When he has the baby up I just can't believe he's a
bloody gunman, as they say. He's good, but he isn't happy. He
has such sad eyes. He looks far off sometimes when the children
climb round him. They love him. His life is sad. Nobody need
tell me--he sees the good in things. Once he said somebody had
to be a ranger. Well, I say, 'Thank God for a ranger like him!'
"
Duane did not want to hear more, so he walked into the room.
"It was thoughtful of you," Duane said. "Womankind are needed
here. I could do so little. Mrs. Laramie, you look better
already. I'm glad. And here's baby, all clean and white. Baby,
what a time I had trying to puzzle out the way your clothes
went on! Well, Mrs. Laramie, didn't I tell you--friends would
come? So will the brighter side."
"Yes, I've more faith than I had," replied Mrs. Laramie.
"Granger Longstreth's daughter has come to me. There for a
while after Jim's death I thought I'd sink. We have nothing.
How could I ever take care of my little ones? But I'm gaining
courage to--"
"Mrs. Laramie, do not distress yourself any more," said Miss
Longstreth. "I shall see you are well cared for. I promise
you."
"Miss Longstreth, that's fine!" exclaimed Duane. "It's what I'd
have--expected of you."
It must have been sweet praise to her, for the whiteness of her
face burned out in a beautiful blush.
"And it's good of you, too, Miss Herbert, to come," added
Duane. "Let me thank you both. I'm glad I have you girls as
allies in part of my lonely task here. More than glad for the
sake of this good woman and the little ones. But both of you be
careful about coming here alone. There's risk. And now I'll be
going. Good-by, Mrs. Laramie. I'll drop in again to-night.
Good-by."
"Mr. Ranger, wait!" called Miss Longstreth, as he went out. She
was white and wonderful. She stepped out of the door close to
him.
"I have wronged your" she said, impulsively.
"Miss Longstreth! How can you say that?" he returned.
"I believed what my father and Floyd Lawson said about you. Now
I see--I wronged you."
"You make me very glad. But, Miss Longstreth, please don't
speak of wronging me. I have been a--a gunman, I am a ranger--
and much said of me is true. My duty is hard on
others--sometimes on those who are innocent, alas! But God
knows that duty is hard, too, on me."
"I did wrong you. If you entered my home again I would think it
an honor. I--"
"Please--please don't, Miss Longstreth," interrupted Duane.
"But, sir, my conscience flays me," she went on. There was no
other sound like her voice. "Will you take my hand? Will you
forgive me?"
She gave it royally, while the other was there pressing at her
breast. Duane took the proffered hand. He did not know what
else to do.
Then it seemed to dawn upon him that there was more behind this
white, sweet, noble intensity of her than just the making
amends for a fancied or real wrong. Duane thought the man did
not live on earth who could have resisted her then.
"I honor you for your goodness to this unfortunate woman," she
said, and now her speech came swiftly. "When she was all alone
and helpless you were her friend. It was the deed of a man. But
Mrs. Laramie isn't the only unfortunate woman in the world. I,
too, am unfortunate. Ah, how I may soon need a friend! Will you
be my friend? I'm so alone. I'm terribly worried. I fear--I
fear--Oh, surely I'll need a friend soon--soon. Oh, I'm afraid
of what you'll find out sooner or later. I want to help you.
Let us save life if not honor. Must I stand alone--all alone?
Will you--will you be--" Her voice failed.
It seemed to Duane that she must have discovered what he had
begun to suspect--that her father and Lawson were not the
honest ranchers they pretended to be. Perhaps she knew more!
Her appeal to Duane shook him deeply. He wanted to help her
more than he had ever wanted anything. And with the meaning of
the tumultuous sweetness she stirred in him there came
realization of a dangerous situation.
"I must be true to my duty," he said, hoarsely.
"If you knew me you'd know I could never ask you to be false to
it."
"Well, then--I'll do anything for you."
"Oh, thank you! I'm ashamed that I believed my cousin Floyd! He
lied--he lied. I'm all in the dark, strangely distressed. My
father wants me to go back home. Floyd is trying to keep me
here. They've quarreled. Oh, I know something dreadful will
happen. I know I'll need you if--if--Will you help me?"
"Yes," replied Duane, and his look brought the blood to her
face.
CHAPTER XIX
After supper Duane stole out for his usual evening's spying.
The night was dark, without starlight, and a stiff wind rustled
the leaves. Duane bent his steps toward the Longstreth's
ranchhouse. He had so much to think about that he never knew
where the time went. This night when he reached the edge of the
shrubbery he heard Lawson's well-known footsteps and saw
Longstreth's door open, flashing a broad bar of light in the
darkness. Lawson crossed the threshold, the door closed, and
all was dark again outside. Not a ray of light escaped from the
window.
Little doubt there was that his talk with Longstreth would be
interesting to Duane. He tiptoed to the door and listened, but
could hear only a murmur of voices. Besides, that position was
too risky. He went round the corner of the house.
This side of the big adobe house was of much older construction
than the back and larger part. There was a narrow passage
between the houses, leading from the outside through to the
patio.
This passage now afforded Duane an opportunity, and he decided
to avail himself of it in spite of the very great danger.
Crawling on very stealthily, he got under the shrubbery to the
entrance of the passage. In the blackness a faint streak of
light showed the location of a crack in the wall. He had to
slip in sidewise. It was a tight squeeze, but he entered
without the slightest noise. As he progressed the passage grew
a very little wider in that direction, and that fact gave rise
to the thought that in case of a necessary and hurried exit he
would do best by working toward the patio. It seemed a good
deal of time was consumed in reaching a vantage-point. When he
did get there the crack he had marked was a foot over his head.
There was nothing to do but find toe-holes in the crumbling
walls, and by bracing knees on one side, back against the
other, hold himself up Once with his eye there he did not care
what risk he ran. Longstreth appeared disturbed; he sat
stroking his mustache; his brow was clouded. Lawson's face
seemed darker, more sullen, yet lighted by some indomitable
resolve.
"We'll settle both deals to-night," Lawson was saying. "That's
what I came for."
"But suppose I don't choose to talk here?" protested
Longstreth, impatiently. "I never before made my house a place
to--"
"We've waited long enough. This place's as good as any. You've
lost your nerve since that ranger hit the town. First now, will
you give Ray to me?"
"Floyd; you talk like a spoiled boy. Give Ray to you! Why,
she's a woman, and I'm finding out that she's got a mind of her
own. I told you I was willing for her to marry you. I tried to
persuade her. But Ray hasn't any use for you now. She liked you
at first. But now she doesn't. So what can I do?"
"You can make her marry me," replied Lawson.
"Make that girl do what she doesn't want to? It couldn't be
done even if I tried. And I don't believe I'll try. I haven't
the highest opinion of you as a prospective son-in-law, Floyd.
But if Ray loved you I would consent. We'd all go away together
before this damned miserable business is out. Then she'd never
know. And maybe you might be more like you used to be before
the West ruined you. But as matters stand, you fight your own
game with her. And I'll tell you now you'll lose."
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