The Lone Star Ranger
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Zane Grey >> The Lone Star Ranger
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"Posse!"
From the scramble to get outdoors Duane judged that word and
the ensuing action was rare in Ord.
"What the hell!" muttered Fletcher, as he gazed down the road
at a dark, compact bunch of horses and riders. "Fust time I
ever seen thet in Ord! We're gettin' popular like them camps
out of Valentine. Wish Phil was here or Poggy. Now all you
gents keep quiet. I'll do the talkin'."
The posse entered the town, trotted up on dusty horses, and
halted in a bunch before the tavern. The party consisted of
about twenty men, all heavily armed, and evidently in charge of
a clean-cut, lean-limbed cowboy. Duane experienced considerable
satisfaction at the absence of the sheriff who he had
understood was to lead the posse. Perhaps he was out in another
direction with a different force.
"Hello, Jim Fletcher," called the cowboy.
"Howdy," replied Fletcher.
At his short, dry response and the way he strode leisurely out
before the posse Duane found himself modifying his contempt for
Fletcher. The outlaw was different now.
"Fletcher, we've tracked a man to all but three miles of this
place. Tracks as plain as the nose on your face. Found his
camp. Then he hit into the brush, an' we lost the trail. Didn't
have no tracker with us. Think he went into the mountains. But
we took a chance an' rid over the rest of the way, seein' Ord
was so close. Anybody come in here late last night or early
this mornin'?"
"Nope," replied Fletcher.
His response was what Duane had expected from his manner, and
evidently the cowboy took it as a matter of course. He turned
to the others of the posse, entering into a low consultation.
Evidently there was difference of opinion, if not real
dissension, in that posse.
"Didn't I tell ye this was a wild-goose chase, comin' way out
here?" protested an old hawk-faced rancher. "Them hoss tracks
we follored ain't like any of them we seen at the water-tank
where the train was held up."
"I'm not so sure of that," replied the leader.
"Wal, Guthrie, I've follored tracks all my life--'
"But you couldn't keep to the trail this feller made in the
brush."
"Gimme time, an' I could. Thet takes time. An' heah you go
hell-bent fer election! But it's a wrong lead out this way. If
you're right this road-agent, after he killed his pals, would
hev rid back right through town. An' with them mail-bags!
Supposin' they was greasers? Some greasers has sense, an' when
it comes to thievin' they're shore cute."
"But we sent got any reason to believe this robber who murdered
the greasers is a greaser himself. I tell you it was a slick
job done by no ordinary sneak. Didn't you hear the facts? One
greaser hopped the engine an' covered the engineer an' fireman.
Another greaser kept flashin' his gun outside the train. The
big man who shoved back the car-door an' did the killin'--he
was the real gent, an' don't you forget it."
Some of the posse sided with the cowboy leader and some with
the old cattleman. Finally the young leader disgustedly
gathered up his bridle.
"Aw, hell! Thet sheriff shoved you off this trail. Mebbe he hed
reasons Savvy thet? If I hed a bunch of cowboys with me--I tell
you what--I'd take a chance an' clean up this hole!"
All the while Jim Fletcher stood quietly with his hands in his
pockets.
"Guthrie, I'm shore treasurin' up your friendly talk," he said.
The menace was in the tone, not the content of his speech.
"You can--an' be damned to you, Fletcher!" called Guthrie, as
the horses started.
Fletcher, standing out alone before the others of his clan,
watched the posse out of sight.
"Luck fer you-all thet Poggy wasn't here," he said, as they
disappeared. Then with a thoughtful mien he strode up on the
porch and led Duane away from the others into the bar-room.
When he looked into Duane's face it was somehow an entirely
changed scrutiny.
"Dodge, where'd you hide the stuff? I reckon I git in on this
deal, seein' I staved off Guthrie."
Duane played his part. Here was his a tiger after prey he
seized it. First he coolly eyed the outlaw and then disclaimed
any knowledge whatever of the train-robbery other than Fletcher
had heard himself. Then at Fletcher's persistence and
admiration and increasing show of friendliness he laughed
occasionally and allowed himself to swell with pride, though
still denying. Next he feigned a lack of consistent will-power
and seemed to be wavering under Fletcher's persuasion and grew
silent, then surly. Fletcher, evidently sure of ultimate
victory, desisted for the time being; however, in his
solicitous regard and close companionship for the rest of that
day he betrayed the bent of his mind.
Later, when Duane started up announcing his intention to get
his horse and make for camp out in the brush, Fletcher seemed
grievously offended.
"Why don't you stay with me? I've got a comfortable 'dobe over
here. Didn't I stick by you when Guthrie an' his bunch come up?
Supposin' I hedn't showed down a cold hand to him? You'd be
swingin' somewheres now. I tell you, Dodge, it ain't square."
"I'll square it. I pay my debts," replied Duane. "But I can't
put up here all night. If I belonged to the gang it 'd be
different."
"What gang?" asked Fletcher, bluntly.
"Why, Cheseldine's."
Fletcher's beard nodded as his jaw dropped.
Duane laughed. "I run into him the other day. Knowed him on
sight. Sure, he's the king-pin rustler. When he seen me an'
asked me what reason I had for bein' on earth or some such
like--why, I up an' told him."
Fletcher appeared staggered.
"Who in all-fired hell air you talkin' about?"
"Didn't I tell you once? Cheseldine. He calls himself
Longstreth over there."
All of Fletcher's face not covered by hair turned a dirty
white. "Cheseldine--Longstreth!" he whispered, hoarsely. "Gord
Almighty! You braced the--" Then a remarkable transformation
came over the outlaw. He gulped; he straightened his face; he
controlled his agitation. But he could not send the healthy
brown back to his face. Duane, watching this rude man, marveled
at the change in him, the sudden checking movement, the proof
of a wonderful fear and loyalty. It all meant Cheseldine, a
master of men!
"WHO AIR YOU?" queried Fletcher, in a queer, strained voice.
"You gave me a handle, didn't you? Dodge. Thet's as good as
any. Shore it hits me hard. Jim, I've been pretty lonely for
years, an' I'm gettin' in need of pals. Think it over, will
you? See you manana."
The outlaw watched Duane go off after his horse, watched him as
he returned to the tavern, watched him ride out into the
darkness--all without a word.
Duane left the town, threaded a quiet passage through cactus
and mesquite to a spot he had marked before, and made ready for
the night. His mind was so full that he found sleep aloof. Luck
at last was playing his game. He sensed the first slow heave of
a mighty crisis. The end, always haunting, had to be sternly
blotted from thought. It was the approach that needed all his
mind.
He passed the night there, and late in the morning, after
watching trail and road from a ridge, he returned to Ord. If
Jim Fletcher tried to disguise his surprise the effort was a
failure. Certainly he had not expected to see Duane again.
Duane allowed himself a little freedom with Fletcher, an
attitude hitherto lacking.
That afternoon a horseman rode in from Bradford, an outlaw
evidently well known and liked by his fellows, and Duane beard
him say, before he could possibly have been told the
train-robber was in Ord, that the loss of money in the holdup
was slight. Like a flash Duane saw the luck of this report. He
pretended not to have heard.
In the early twilight at an opportune moment he called Fletcher
to him, and, linking his arm within the outlaw's, he drew him
off in a stroll to a log bridge spanning a little gully. Here
after gazing around, he took out a roll of bills, spread it
out, split it equally, and without a word handed one half to
Fletcher. With clumsy fingers Fletcher ran through the roll.
"Five hundred!" he exclaimed. "Dodge, thet's damn handsome of
you, considerin' the job wasn't--"
"Considerin' nothin'," interrupted Duane. "I'm makin' no
reference to a job here or there. You did me a good turn. I
split my pile. If thet doesn't make us pards, good turns an'
money ain't no use in this country."
Fletcher was won.
The two men spent much time together. Duane made up a short
fictitious history about himself that satisfied the outlaw,
only it drew forth a laughing jest upon Duane's modesty. For
Fletcher did not hide his belief that this new partner was a
man of achievements. Knell and Poggin, and then Cheseldine
himself, would be persuaded of this fact, so Fletcher boasted.
He had influence. He would use it. He thought he pulled a
stroke with Knell. But nobody on earth, not even the boss, had
any influence on Poggin. Poggin was concentrated ice part of
the time; all the rest he was bursting hell. But Poggin loved a
horse. He never loved anything else. He could be won with that
black horse Bullet. Cheseldine was already won by Duane's
monumental nerve; otherwise he would have killed Duane.
Little by little the next few days Duane learned the points he
longed to know; and how indelibly they etched themselves in his
memory! Cheseldine's hiding-place was on the far slope of Mount
Ord, in a deep, high-walled valley. He always went there just
before a contemplated job, where he met and planned with his
lieutenants. Then while they executed he basked in the sunshine
before one or another of the public places he owned. He was
there in the Ord den now, getting ready to plan the biggest job
yet. It was a bank-robbery; but where, Fletcher had not as yet
been advised.
Then when Duane had pumped the now amenable outlaw of all
details pertaining to the present he gathered data and facts
and places covering a period of ten years Fletcher had been
with Cheseldine. And herewith was unfolded a history so dark in
its bloody regime, so incredible in its brazen daring, so
appalling in its proof of the outlaw's sweep and grasp of the
country from Pecos to Rio Grande, that Duane was stunned.
Compared to this Cheseldine of the Big Bend, to this rancher,
stock-buyer, cattle-speculator, property-holder, all the
outlaws Duane had ever known sank into insignificance. The
power of the man stunned Duane; the strange fidelity given him
stunned Duane; the intricate inside working of his great system
was equally stunning. But when Duane recovered from that the
old terrible passion to kill consumed him, and it raged
fiercely and it could not be checked. If that red-handed
Poggin, if that cold-eyed, dead-faced Knell had only been at
Ord! But they were not, and Duane with help of time got what he
hoped was the upper hand of himself.
CHAPTER XXII
Again inaction and suspense dragged at Duane's spirit. Like a
leashed hound with a keen scent in his face Duane wanted to
leap forth when he was bound. He almost fretted. Something
called to him over the bold, wild brow of Mount Ord. But while
Fletcher stayed in Ord waiting for Knell and Poggin, or for
orders, Duane knew his game was again a waiting one.
But one day there were signs of the long quiet of Ord being
broken. A messenger strange to Duane rode in on a secret
mission that had to do with Fletcher. When he went away
Fletcher became addicted to thoughtful moods and lonely walks.
He seldom drank, and this in itself was a striking contrast to
former behavior. The messenger came again. Whatever
communication he brought, it had a remarkable effect upon the
outlaw. Duane was present in the tavern when the fellow
arrived, saw the few words whispered, but did not hear them.
Fletcher turned white with anger or fear, perhaps both, and he
cursed like a madman. The messenger, a lean, dark-faced,
hard-riding fellow reminding Duane of the cowboy Guthrie, left
the tavern without even a drink and rode away off to the west.
This west mystified and fascinated Duane as much as the south
beyond Mount Ord. Where were Knell and Poggin? Apparently they
were not at present with the leader on the mountain. After the
messenger left Fletcher grew silent and surly. He had presented
a variety of moods to Duane's observation, and this latest one
was provocative of thought. Fletcher was dangerous. It became
clear now that the other outlaws of the camp feared him, kept
out of his way. Duane let him alone, yet closely watched him.
Perhaps an hour after the messenger had left, not longer,
Fletcher manifestly arrived at some decision, and he called for
his horse. Then he went to his shack and returned. To Duane the
outlaw looked in shape both to ride and to fight. He gave
orders for the men in camp to keep close until he returned.
Then he mounted.
"Come here, Dodge," he called.
Duane went up and laid a hand on the pommel of the saddle.
Fletcher walked his horse, with Duane beside him, till they
reached the log bridge, when he halted.
"Dodge, I'm in bad with Knell," he said. "An' it 'pears I'm the
cause of friction between Knell an' Poggy. Knell never had any
use fer me, but Poggy's been square, if not friendly. The boss
has a big deal on, an' here it's been held up because of this
scrap. He's waitin' over there on the mountain to give orders
to Knell or Poggy, an' neither one's showin' up. I've got to
stand in the breach, an' I ain't enjoyin' the prospects."
"What's the trouble about, Jim?" asked Duane.
"Reckon it's a little about you, Dodge," said Fletcher, dryly.
"Knell hadn't any use fer you thet day. He ain't got no use fer
a man onless he can rule him. Some of the boys here hev blabbed
before I edged in with my say, an' there's hell to pay. Knell
claims to know somethin' about you that'll make both the boss
an' Poggy sick when he springs it. But he's keepin' quiet. Hard
man to figger, thet Knell. Reckon you'd better go back to
Bradford fer a day or so, then camp out near here till I come
back."
"Why?"
"Wal, because there ain't any use fer you to git in bad, too."
"The gang will ride over here any day. If they're friendly,
I'll light a fire on the hill there, say three nights from
to-night. If you don't see it thet night you hit the trail.
I'll do what I can. Jim Fletcher sticks to his pals. So long,
Dodge."
Then he rode away.
He left Duane in a quandary. This news was black. Things had
been working out so well. Here was a setback. At the moment
Duane did not know which way to turn, but certainly he had no
idea of going back to Bradford. Friction between the two great
lieutenants of Cheseldine! Open hostility between one of them
and another of the chief's right-hand men! Among outlaws that
sort of thing was deadly serious. Generally such matters were
settled with guns. Duane gathered encouragement even from
disaster. Perhaps the disintegration of Cheseldine's great band
had already begun. But what did Knell know? Duane did not
circle around the idea with doubts and hopes; if Knell knew
anything it was that this stranger in Ord, this new partner of
Fletcher's, was no less than Buck Duane. Well, it was about
time, thought Duane, that he made use of his name if it were to
help him at all. That name had been MacNelly's hope. He had
anchored all his scheme to Duane's fame. Duane was tempted to
ride off after Fletcher and stay with him. This, however, would
hardly be fair to an outlaw who had been fair to him. Duane
concluded to await developments and when the gang rode in to
Ord, probably from their various hiding-places, he would be
there ready to be denounced by Knell. Duane could not see any
other culmination of this series of events than a meeting
between Knell and himself. If that terminated fatally for Knell
there was all probability of Duane's being in no worse
situation than he was now. If Poggin took up the quarrel! Here
Duane accused himself again--tried in vain to revolt from a
judgment that he was only reasoning out excuses to meet these
outlaws.
Meanwhile, instead of waiting, why not hunt up Cheseldine in
his mountain retreat? The thought no sooner struck Duane than
he was hurrying for his horse.
He left Ord, ostensibly toward Bradford, but, once out of
sight, he turned off the road, circled through the brush, and
several miles south of town he struck a narrow grass-grown
trail that Fletcher had told him led to Cheseldine's camp. The
horse tracks along this trail were not less than a week old,
and very likely much more. It wound between low, brush-covered
foothills, through arroyos and gullies lined with mesquite,
cottonwood, and scrub-oak.
In an hour Duane struck the slope of Mount Ord, and as he
climbed he got a view of the rolling, black-spotted country,
partly desert, partly fertile, with long, bright lines of dry
stream-beds winding away to grow dim in the distance. He got
among broken rocks and cliffs, and here the open,
downward-rolling land disappeared, and he was hard put to it to
find the trail. He lost it repeatedly and made slow progress.
Finally he climbed into a region of all rock benches, rough
here, smooth there, with only an occasional scratch of iron
horseshoe to guide him. Many times he had to go ahead and then
work to right or left till he found his way again. It was slow
work; it took all day; and night found him half-way up the
mountain. He halted at a little side-canon with grass and
water, and here he made camp. The night was clear and cool at
that height, with a dark-blue sky and a streak of stars
blinking across. With this day of action behind him he felt
better satisfied than he had been for some time. Here, on this
venture, he was answering to a call that had so often directed
his movements, perhaps his life, and it was one that logic or
intelligence could take little stock of. And on this night,
lonely like the ones he used to spend in the Nueces gorge, and
memorable of them because of a likeness to that old
hiding-place, he felt the pressing return of old haunting
things--the past so long ago, wild flights, dead faces--and the
places of these were taken by one quiveringly alive, white,
tragic, with its dark, intent, speaking eyes--Ray Longstreth's.
That last memory he yielded to until he slept.
In the morning, satisfied that he had left still fewer tracks
than he had followed up this trail, he led his horse up to the
head of the canon, there a narrow crack in low cliffs, and with
branches of cedar fenced him in. Then he went back and took up
the trail on foot.
Without the horse he made better time and climbed through deep
clefts, wide canons, over ridges, up shelving slopes, along
precipices--a long, hard climb--till he reached what he
concluded was a divide. Going down was easier, though the
farther he followed this dim and winding trail the wider the
broken battlements of rock. Above him he saw the black fringe
of pinon and pine, and above that the bold peak, bare, yellow,
like a desert butte. Once, through a wide gateway between great
escarpments, he saw the lower country beyond the range, and
beyond this, vast and clear as it lay in his sight, was the
great river that made the Big Bend. He went down and down,
wondering how a horse could follow that broken trail, believing
there must be another better one somewhere into Cheseldine's
hiding-place.
He rounded a jutting corner, where view had been shut off, and
presently came out upon the rim of a high wall. Beneath, like a
green gulf seen through blue haze, lay an amphitheater walled
in on the two sides he could see. It lay perhaps a thousand
feet below him; and, plain as all the other features of that
wild environment, there shone out a big red stone or adobe
cabin, white water shining away between great borders, and
horses and cattle dotting the levels. It was a peaceful,
beautiful scene. Duane could not help grinding his teeth at the
thought of rustlers living there in quiet and ease.
Duane worked half-way down to the level, and, well hidden in a
niche, he settled himself to watch both trail and valley. He
made note of the position of the sun and saw that if anything
developed or if he decided to descend any farther there was
small likelihood of his getting back to his camp before dark.
To try that after nightfall he imagined would be vain effort.
Then he bent his keen eyes downward. The cabin appeared to be a
crude structure. Though large in size, it had, of course, been
built by outlaws.
There was no garden, no cultivated field, no corral. Excepting
for the rude pile of stones and logs plastered together with
mud, the valley was as wild, probably, as on the day of
discovery. Duane seemed to have been watching for a long time
before he saw any sign of man, and this one apparently went to
the stream for water and returned to the cabin.
The sun went down behind the wall, and shadows were born in the
darker places of the valley. Duane began to want to get closer
to that cabin. What had he taken this arduous climb for? He
held back, however, trying to evolve further plans.
While he was pondering the shadows quickly gathered and
darkened. If he was to go back to camp he must set out at once.
Still he lingered. And suddenly his wide-roving eye caught
sight of two horsemen riding up the valley. The must have
entered at a point below, round the huge abutment of rock,
beyond Duane's range of sight. Their horses were tired and
stopped at the stream for a long drink.
Duane left his perch, took to the steep trail, and descended as
fast as he could without making noise. It did not take him long
to reach the valley floor. It was almost level, with deep
grass, and here and there clumps of bushes. Twilight was
already thick down there. Duane marked the location of the
trail, and then began to slip like a shadow through the grass
and from bush to bush. He saw a bright light before he made out
the dark outline of the cabin. Then he heard voices, a merry
whistle, a coarse song, and the clink of iron cooking-utensils.
He smelled fragrant wood-smoke. He saw moving dark figures
cross the light. Evidently there was a wide door, or else the
fire was out in the open.
Duane swerved to the left, out of direct line with the light,
and thus was able to see better. Then he advanced noiselessly
but swiftly toward the back of the house. There were trees
close to the wall. He would make no noise, and he could
scarcely be seen--if only there was no watch-dog! But all his
outlaw days he had taken risks with only his useless life at
stake; now, with that changed, he advanced stealthy and bold as
an Indian. He reached the cover of the trees, knew he was
hidden in their shadows, for at few paces' distance he had been
able to see only their tops. From there he slipped up to the
house and felt along the wall with his hands.
He came to a little window where light shone through. He peeped
in. He saw a room shrouded in shadows, a lamp turned low, a
table, chairs. He saw an open door, with bright flare beyond,
but could not see the fire. Voices came indistinctly. Without
hesitation Duane stole farther along--all the way to the end of
the cabin. Peeping round, he saw only the flare of light on
bare ground. Retracing his cautious steps, he paused at the
crack again, saw that no man was in the room, and then he went
on round that end of the cabin. Fortune favored him. There were
bushes, an old shed, a wood-pile, all the cover he needed at
that corner. He did not even need to crawl.
Before he peered between the rough corner of wall and the bush
growing close to it Duane paused a moment. This excitement was
different from that he had always felt when pursued. It had no
bitterness, no pain, no dread. There was as much danger here,
perhaps more, yet it was not the same. Then he looked.
He saw a bright fire, a red-faced man bending over it,
whistling, while he handled a steaming pot. Over him was a
roofed shed built against the wall, with two open sides and two
supporting posts. Duane's second glance, not so blinded by the
sudden bright light, made out other men, three in the shadow,
two in the flare, but with backs to him.
"It's a smoother trail by long odds, but ain't so short as this
one right over the mountain," one outlaw was saying.
"What's eatin' you, Panhandle?" ejaculated another. "Blossom
an' me rode from Faraway Springs, where Poggin is with some of
the gang."
"Excuse me, Phil. Shore I didn't see you come in, an' Boldt
never said nothin'."
"It took you a long time to get here, but I guess that's just
as well," spoke up a smooth, suave voice with a ring in it.
Longstreth's voice--Cheseldine's voice!
Here they were--Cheseldine, Phil Knell, Blossom Kane, Panhandle
Smith, Boldt--how well Duane remembered the names!--all here,
the big men of Cheseldine's gang, except the biggest--Poggin.
Duane had holed them, and his sensations of the moment deadened
sight and sound of what was before him. He sank down,
controlled himself, silenced a mounting exultation, then from a
less-strained position he peered forth again.
The outlaws were waiting for supper. Their conversation might
have been that of cowboys in camp, ranchers at a roundup. Duane
listened with eager ears, waiting for the business talk that he
felt would come. All the time he watched with the eyes of a
wolf upon its quarry. Blossom Kane was the lean-limbed
messenger who had so angered Fletcher. Boldt was a giant in
stature, dark, bearded, silent. Panhandle Smith was the
red-faced cook, merry, profane, a short, bow-legged man
resembling many rustlers Duane had known, particularly Luke
Stevens. And Knell, who sat there, tall, slim, like a boy in
build, like a boy in years, with his pale, smooth,
expressionless face and his cold, gray eyes. And Longstreth,
who leaned against the wall, handsome, with his dark face and
beard like an aristocrat, resembled many a rich Louisiana
planter Duane had met. The sixth man sat so much in the shadow
that he could not be plainly discerned, and, though addressed,
his name was not mentioned.
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