The Lone Star Ranger

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The hour was late when Duane's mind let him sleep, and then
dreams troubled him. In the morning he bestirred himself so
early that in the gray gloom he had difficulty in finding his
horse. Day had just broken when he struck the old trail again.

He rode hard all morning and halted in a shady spot to rest and
graze his horse. In the afternoon he took to the trail at an
easy trot. The country grew wilder. Bald, rugged mountains
broke the level of the monotonous horizon. About three in the
afternoon he came to a little river which marked the boundary
line of his hunting territory.

The decision he made to travel up-stream for a while was owing
to two facts: the river was high with quicksand bars on each
side, and he felt reluctant to cross into that region where his
presence alone meant that he was a marked man. The bottom-lands
through which the river wound to the southwest were more
inviting than the barrens he had traversed. The rest or that
day he rode leisurely up-stream. At sunset he penetrated the
brakes of willow and cottonwood to spend the night. It seemed
to him that in this lonely cover he would feel easy and
content. But he did not. Every feeling, every imagining he had
experienced the previous night returned somewhat more vividly
and accentuated by newer ones of the same intensity and color.

In this kind of travel and camping he spent three more days,
during which he crossed a number of trails, and one road where
cattle--stolen cattle, probably--had recently passed. Thus time
exhausted his supply of food, except salt, pepper, coffee, and
sugar, of which he had a quantity. There were deer in the.
brakes; but, as he could not get close enough to kill them with
t a revolver, he had to satisfy himself with a rabbit. He knew
he might as well content himself with the hard fare that
assuredly would be his lot.

Somewhere up this river there was a village called Huntsville.
It was distant about a hundred miles from Wellston, and had a
reputation throughout southwestern Texas. He had never been
there. The fact was this reputation was such that honest
travelers gave the town a wide berth. Duane had considerable
money for him in his possession, and he concluded to visit
Huntsville, if he could find it, and buy a stock of provisions.

The following day, toward evening, he happened upon a road
which he believed might lead to the village. There were a good
many fresh horse-tracks in the sand, and these made him
thoughtful. Nevertheless, he followed the road, proceeding
cautiously. He had not gone very far when the sound of rapid
hoof-beats caught his ears. They came from his rear. In the
darkening twilight he could not see any great distance back
along the road. Voices, however, warned him that these riders,
whoever they were, had approached closer than he liked. To go
farther down the road was not to be thought of, so he turned a
little way in among the mesquites and halted, hoping to escape
being seen or heard. As he was now a fugitive, it seemed every
man was his enemy and pursuer.

The horsemen were fast approaching. Presently they were abreast
of Duane's position, so near that he could hear the creak of
saddles, the clink of spurs.

"Shore he crossed the river below," said one man.

"I reckon you're right, Bill. He's slipped us," replied
another.

Rangers or a posse of ranchers in pursuit of a fugitive! The
knowledge gave Duane a strange thrill. Certainly they could not
have been hunting him. But the feeling their proximity gave him
was identical to what it would have been had he been this
particular hunted man. He held his breath; he clenched his
teeth; he pressed a quieting hand upon his horse. Suddenly he
became aware that these horsemen had halted. They were
whispering. He could just make out a dark group closely massed.
What had made them halt so suspiciously?

"You're wrong, Bill," said a man, in a low but distinct voice.

"The idee of hearin' a hoss heave. You're wuss'n a ranger. And
you're hell-bent on killin' that rustler. Now I say let's go
home and eat."

"Wal, I'll just take a look at the sand," replied the man
called Bill.

Duane heard the clink of spurs on steel stirrup and the thud of
boots on the ground. There followed a short silence which was
broken by a sharply breathed exclamation.

Duane waited for no more. They had found his trail. He spurred
his horse straight into the brush. At the second crashing bound
there came yells from the road, and then shots. Duane heard the
hiss of a bullet close by his ear, and as it struck a branch it
made a peculiar singing sound. These shots and the proximity of
that lead missile roused in Duane a quick, hot resentment which
mounted into a passion almost ungovernable. He must escape, yet
it seemed that he did not care whether he did or not. Something
grim kept urging him to halt and return the fire of these men.
After running a couple of hundred yards he raised himself from
over the pommel, where he had bent to avoid the stinging
branches, and tried to guide his horse. In the dark shadows
under mesquites and cottonwoods he was hard put to it to find
open passage; however, he succeeded so well and made such
little noise that gradually he drew away from his pursuers. The
sound of their horses crashing through the thickets died away.
Duane reined in and listened. He had distanced them. Probably
they would go into camp till daylight, then follow his tracks.
He started on again, walking his horse, and peered sharply at
the ground, so that he might take advantage of the first trail
he crossed. It seemed a long while until he came upon one. He
followed it until a late hour, when, striking the willow brakes
again and hence the neighborhood of the river, he picketed his
horse and lay down to rest. But he did not sleep. His mind
bitterly revolved the fate that had come upon him. He made
efforts to think of other things, but in vain.

Every moment he expected the chill, the sense of loneliness
that yet was ominous of a strange visitation, the peculiarly
imagined lights and shades of the night--these things that
presaged the coming of Cal Bain. Doggedly Duane fought against
the insidious phantom. He kept telling himself that it was just
imagination, that it would wear off in time. Still in his heart
he did not believe what he hoped. But he would not give up; he
would not accept the ghost of his victim as a reality.

Gray dawn found him in the saddle again headed for the river.
Half an hour of riding brought him to the dense chaparral and
willow thickets. These he threaded to come at length to the
ford. It was a gravel bottom, and therefore an easy crossing.
Once upon the opposite shore he reined in his horse and looked
darkly back. This action marked his acknowledgment of his
situation: he had voluntarily sought the refuge of the outlaws;
he was beyond the pale. A bitter and passionate curse passed
his lips as he spurred his horse into the brakes on that alien
shore.

He rode perhaps twenty miles, not sparing his horse nor caring
whether or not he left a plain trail.

"Let them hunt me!" he muttered.

When the heat of the day began to be oppressive, and hunger and
thirst made themselves manifest, Duane began to look about him
for a place to halt for the noon-hours. The trail led into a
road which was hard packed and smooth from the tracks of
cattle. He doubted not that he had come across one of the roads
used by border raiders. He headed into it, and had scarcely
traveled a mile when, turning a curve, he came point-blank upon
a single horseman riding toward him. Both riders wheeled their
mounts sharply and were ready to run and shoot back. Not more
than a hundred paces separated them. They stood then for a
moment watching each other.

"Mawnin', stranger," called the man, dropping his hand from his
hip.

"Howdy," replied Duane, shortly.

They rode toward each other, closing half the gap, then they
halted again.

"I seen you ain't no ranger," called the rider, "an' shore I
ain't none."

He laughed loudly, as if he had made a joke.

"How'd you know I wasn't a ranger?" asked Duane, curiously.
Somehow he had instantly divined that his horseman was no
officer, or even a rancher trailing stolen stock.

"Wal," said the fellow, starting his horse forward at a walk,
"a ranger'd never git ready to run the other way from one man."

He laughed again. He was small and wiry, slouchy of attire, and
armed to the teeth, and he bestrode a fine bay horse. He had
quick, dancing brown eyes, at once frank and bold, and a
coarse, bronzed face. Evidently he was a good-natured ruffian.

Duane acknowledged the truth of the assertion, and turned over
in his mind how shrewdly the fellow had guessed him to be a
hunted man.

"My name's Luke Stevens, an' I hail from the river. Who're
you?" said this stranger.

Duane was silent.

"I reckon you're Buck Duane," went on Stevens. "I heerd you was
a damn bad man with a gun."

This time Duane laughed, not at the doubtful compliment, but at
the idea that the first outlaw he met should know him. Here was
proof of how swiftly facts about gun-play traveled on the Texas
border.

"Wal, Buck," said Stevens, in a friendly manner, "I ain't
presumin' on your time or company. I see you're headin' fer the
river. But will you stop long enough to stake a feller to a
bite of grub?"

"I'm out of grub, and pretty hungry myself," admitted Duane.

"Been pushin' your hoss, I see. Wal, I reckon you'd better
stock up before you hit thet stretch of country."

He made a wide sweep of his right arm, indicating the
southwest, and there was that in his action which seemed
significant of a vast and barren region.

"Stock up?" queried Duane, thoughtfully.

"Shore. A feller has jest got to eat. I can rustle along
without whisky, but not without grub. Thet's what makes it so
embarrassin' travelin' these parts dodgin' your shadow. Now,
I'm on my way to Mercer. It's a little two-bit town up the
river a ways. I'm goin' to pack out some grub."

Stevens's tone was inviting. Evidently he would welcome Duane's
companionship, but he did not openly say so. Duane kept
silence, however, and then Stevens went on.

"Stranger, in this here country two's a crowd. It's safer. 1
never was much on this lone-wolf dodgin', though I've done it
of necessity. It takes a damn good man to travel alone any
length of time. Why, I've been thet sick I was jest achin' fer
some ranger to come along an' plug me. Give me a pardner any
day. Now, mebbe you're not thet kind of a feller, an' I'm shore
not presumin' to ask. But I just declares myself sufficient."

"You mean you'd like me to go with you?" asked Duane.

Stevens grinned. "Wal, I should smile. I'd be particular proud
to be braced with a man of your reputation."

"See here, my good fellow, that's all nonsense," declared
Duane, in some haste.

"Shore I think modesty becomin' to a youngster," replied
Stevens. "I hate a brag. An' I've no use fer these four-flush
cowboys thet 're always lookin' fer trouble an' talkin'
gun-play. Buck, I don't know much about you. But every man
who's lived along the Texas border remembers a lot about your
Dad. It was expected of you, I reckon, an' much of your rep was
established before you thronged your gun. I jest heerd thet you
was lightnin' on the draw, an' when you cut loose with a gun,
why the figger on the ace of spades would cover your cluster of
bullet-holes. Thet's the word thet's gone down the border. It's
the kind of reputation most sure to fly far an' swift ahead of
a man in this country. An' the safest, too; I'll gamble on
thet. It's the land of the draw. I see now you're only a boy,
though you're shore a strappin' husky one. Now, Buck, I'm not a
spring chicken, an' I've been long on the dodge. Mebbe a little
of my society won't hurt you none. You'll need to learn the
country."

There was something sincere and likable about this outlaw.

"I dare say you're right," replied Duane, quietly. "And I'll go
to Mercer with you."

Next moment he was riding down the road with Stevens. Duane had
never been much of a talker, and now he found speech difficult.
But his companion did not seem to mind that. He was a jocose,
voluble fellow, probably glad now to hear the sound of his own
voice. Duane listened, and sometimes he thought with a pang of
the distinction of name and heritage of blood his father had
left to him.

CHAPTER III

Late that day, a couple of hours before sunset, Duane and
Stevens, having rested their horses in the shade of some
mesquites near the town of Mercer, saddled up and prepared to
move.

"Buck, as we're lookin' fer grub, an' not trouble, I reckon
you'd better hang up out here," Stevens was saying, as he
mounted. "You see, towns an' sheriffs an' rangers are always
lookin' fer new fellers gone bad. They sort of forget most of
the old boys, except those as are plumb bad. Now, nobody in
Mercer will take notice of me. Reckon there's been a thousand
men run into the river country to become outlaws since yours
truly. You jest wait here an' be ready to ride hard. Mebbe my
besettin' sin will go operatin' in spite of my good intentions.
In which case there'll be--"

His pause was significant. He grinned, and his brown eyes
danced with a kind of wild humor.

"Stevens, have you got any money?" asked Duane.

"Money!" exclaimed Luke, blankly. "Say, I haven't owned a
two-bit piece since--wal, fer some time."

"I'll furnish money for grub," returned Duane. "And for whisky,
too, providing you hurry back here--without making trouble."

"Shore you're a downright good pard," declared Stevens, in
admiration, as he took the money. "I give my word, Buck, an'
I'm here to say I never broke it yet. Lay low, an' look fer me
back quick."

With that he spurred his horse and rode out of the mesquites
toward the town. At that distance, about a quarter of a mile,
Mercer appeared to be a cluster of low adobe houses set in a
grove of cottonwoods. Pastures of alfalfa were dotted by horses
and cattle. Duane saw a sheep-herder driving in a meager flock.

Presently Stevens rode out of sight into the town. Duane
waited, hoping the outlaw would make good his word. Probably
not a quarter of an hour had elapsed when Duane heard the clear
reports of a Winchester rifle, the clatter of rapid hoof-beats,
and yells unmistakably the kind to mean danger for a man like
Stevens. Duane mounted and rode to the edge of the mesquites.

He saw a cloud of dust down the road and a bay horse running
fast. Stevens apparently had not been wounded by any of the
shots, for he had a steady seat in his saddle and his riding,
even at that moment, struck Duane as admirable. He carried a
large pack over the pommel, and he kept looking back. The shots
had ceased, but the yells increased. Duane saw several men
running and waving their arms. Then he spurred his horse and
got into a swift stride, so Stevens would not pass him.
Presently the outlaw caught up with him. Stevens was grinning,
but there was now no fun in the dancing eyes. It was a devil
that danced n them. His face seemed a shade paler.

"Was jest comin' out of the store," yelled Stevens. "Run plumb
into a rancher--who knowed me. He opened up with a rifle. Think
they'll chase us."

They covered several miles before there were any signs of
pursuit, and when horsemen did move into sight out of the
cottonwoods Duane and his companion steadily drew farther away.

"No hosses in thet bunch to worry us," called out Stevens.

Duane had the same conviction, and he did not look back again.
He rode somewhat to the fore, and was constantly aware of the
rapid thudding of hoofs behind, as Stevens kept close to him.
At sunset they reached the willow brakes and the river. Duane's
horse was winded and lashed with sweat and lather. It was not
until the crossing had been accomplished that Duane halted to
rest his animal. Stevens was riding up the low, sandy bank. He
reeled in the saddle. With an exclamation of surprise Duane
leaped off and ran to the outlaw's side.

Stevens was pale, and his face bore beads of sweat. The whole
front of his shirt was soaked with blood.

"You're shot!" cried Duane.

"Wal, who 'n hell said I wasn't? Would you mind givin' me a
lift--on this here pack?"

Duane lifted the heavy pack down and then helped Stevens to
dismount. The outlaw had a bloody foam on his lips, and he was
spitting blood.

"Oh, why didn't you say so!" cried Duane. "I never thought. You
seemed all right."

"Wal, Luke Stevens may be as gabby as an old woman, but
sometimes he doesn't say anythin'. It wouldn't have done no
good."

Duane bade him sit down, removed his shirt, and washed the
blood from his breast and back. Stevens had been shot in the
breast, fairly low down, and the bullet had gone clear through
him. His ride, holding himself and that heavy pack in the
saddle, had been a feat little short of marvelous. Duane did
not see how it had been possible, and he felt no hope for the
outlaw. But he plugged the wounds and bound them tightly.

"Feller's name was Brown," Stevens said. "Me an' him fell out
over a hoss I stole from him over in Huntsville. We had a
shootin'-scrape then. Wal, as I was straddlin' my hoss back
there in Mercer I seen this Brown, an' seen him before he seen
me. Could have killed him, too. But I wasn't breakin' my word
to you. I kind of hoped he wouldn't spot me. But he did--an'
fust shot he got me here. What do you think of this hole?"

"It's pretty bad," replied Duane; and he could not look the
cheerful outlaw in the eyes.

"I reckon it is. Wal, I've had some bad wounds I lived over.
Guess mebbe I can stand this one. Now, Buck, get me some place
in the brakes, leave me some grub an' water at my hand, an'
then you clear out."

"Leave you here alone?" asked Duane, sharply.

"Shore. You see, I can't keep up with you. Brown an' his
friends will foller us across the river a ways. You've got to
think of number one in this game."

"What would you do in my case?" asked Duane, curiously.

"Wal, I reckon I'd clear out an' save my hide," replied
Stevens.

Duane felt inclined to doubt the outlaw's assertion. For his
own part he decided his conduct without further speech. First
he watered the horses, filled canteens and water bag, and then
tied the pack upon his own horse. That done, he lifted Stevens
upon his horse, and, holding him in the saddle, turned into the
brakes, being careful to pick out hard or grassy ground that
left little signs of tracks. Just about dark he ran across a
trail that Stevens said was a good one to take into the wild
country.

"Reckon we'd better keep right on in the dark--till I drop,"
concluded Stevens, with a laugh.

All that night Duane, gloomy and thoughtful, attentive to the
wounded outlaw, walked the trail and never halted till
daybreak. He was tired then and very hungry. Stevens seemed in
bad shape, although he was still spirited and cheerful. Duane
made camp. The outlaw refused food, but asked for both whisky
and water. Then he stretched out.

"Buck, will you take off my boots?" he asked, with a faint
smile on his pallid face.

Duane removed them, wondering if the outlaw had the thought
that he did not want to die with his boots on. Stevens seemed
to read his mind.

"Buck, my old daddy used to say thet I was born to be hanged.
But I wasn't--an' dyin' with your boots on is the next wust way
to croak."

"You've a chance to-to get over this," said Duane.

"Shore. But I want to be correct about the boots--an' say,
pard, if I do go over, jest you remember thet I was
appreciatin' of your kindness."

Then he closed his eyes and seemed to sleep.

Duane could not find water for the horses, but there was an
abundance of dew-wet grass upon which he hobbled them. After
that was done he prepared himself a much-needed meal. The sun
was getting warm when he lay down to sleep, and when he awoke
it was sinking in the west. Stevens was still alive, for he
breathed heavily. The horses were in sight. All was quiet
except the hum of insects in the brush. Duane listened awhile,
then rose and went for the horses.

When he returned with them he found Stevens awake, bright-eyed,
cheerful as usual, and apparently stronger.

"Wal, Buck, I'm still with you an' good fer another night's
ride," he said. "Guess about all I need now is a big pull on
thet bottle. Help me, will you? There! thet was bully. I ain't
swallowin' my blood this evenin'. Mebbe I've bled all there was
in me."

While Duane got a hurried meal for himself, packed up the
little outfit, and saddled the horses Stevens kept on talking.
He seemed to be in a hurry to tell Duane all about the country.
Another night ride would put them beyond fear of pursuit,
within striking distance of the Rio Grande and the
hiding-places of the outlaws.

When it came time for mounting the horses Stevens said, "Reckon
you can pull on my boots once more." In spite of the laugh
accompanying the words Duane detected a subtle change in the
outlaw's spirit.

On this night travel was facilitated by the fact that the trail
was broad enough for two horses abreast, enabling Duane to ride
while upholding Stevens in the saddle.

The difficulty most persistent was in keeping the horses in a
walk. They were used to a trot, and that kind of gait would not
do for Stevens. The red died out of the west; a pale afterglow
prevailed for a while; darkness set in; then the broad expanse
of blue darkened and the stars brightened. After a while
Stevens ceased talking and drooped in his saddle. Duane kept
the horses going, however, and the slow hours wore away. Duane
thought the quiet night would never break to dawn, that there
was no end to the melancholy, brooding plain. But at length a
grayness blotted out the stars and mantled the level of
mesquite and cactus.

Dawn caught the fugitives at a green camping-site on the bank
of a rocky little stream. Stevens fell a dead weight into
Duane's arms, and one look at the haggard face showed Duane
that the outlaw had taken his last ride. He knew it, too. Yet
that cheerfulness prevailed.

"Buck, my feet are orful tired packin' them heavy boots," he
said, and seemed immensely relieved when Duane had removed
them.

This matter of the outlaw's boots was strange, Duane thought.
He made Stevens as comfortable as possible, then attended to
his own needs. And the outlaw took up the thread of his
conversation where he had left off the night before.

"This trail splits up a ways from here, an' every branch of it
leads to a hole where you'll find men--a few, mebbe, like
yourself--some like me--an' gangs of no-good hoss-thieves,
rustlers, an' such. It's easy livin', Buck. I reckon, though,
that you'll not find it easy. You'll never mix in. You'll be a
lone wolf. I seen that right off. Wal, if a man can stand the
loneliness, an' if he's quick on the draw, mebbe lone-wolfin'
it is the best. Shore I don't know. But these fellers in here
will be suspicious of a man who goes it alone. If they get a
chance they'll kill you."

Stevens asked for water several times. He had forgotten or he
did not want the whisky. His voice grew perceptibly weaker.

"Be quiet," said Duane. "Talking uses up your strength."

"Aw, I'll talk till--I'm done," he replied, doggedly. "See
here, pard, you can gamble on what I'm tellin' you. An' it'll
be useful. From this camp we'll--you'll meet men right along.
An' none of them will be honest men. All the same, some are
better'n others. I've lived along the river fer twelve years.
There's three big gangs of outlaws. King Fisher--you know him,
I reckon, fer he's half the time livin' among respectable
folks. King is a pretty good feller. It'll do to tie up with
him ant his gang. Now, there's Cheseldine, who hangs out in the
Rim Rock way up the river. He's an outlaw chief. I never seen
him, though I stayed once right in his camp. Late years he's
got rich an' keeps back pretty well hid. But Bland--I knowed
Bland fer years. An' I haven't any use fer him. Bland has the
biggest gang. You ain't likely to miss strikin' his place
sometime or other. He's got a regular town, I might say. Shore
there's some gamblin' an' gun-fightin' goin' on at Bland's camp
all the time. Bland has killed some twenty men, an' thet's not
countin' greasers."

Here Stevens took another drink and then rested for a while.

"You ain't likely to get on with Bland," he resumed, presently.
"You're too strappin' big an' good-lookin' to please the chief.
Fer he's got women in his camp. Then he'd be jealous of your
possibilities with a gun. Shore I reckon he'd be careful,
though. Bland's no fool, an' he loves his hide. I reckon any of
the other gangs would be better fer you when you ain't goin' it
alone."

Apparently that exhausted the fund of information and advice
Stevens had been eager to impart. He lapsed into silence and
lay with closed eyes. Meanwhile the sun rose warm; the breeze
waved the mesquites; the birds came down to splash in the
shallow stream; Duane dozed in a comfortable seat. By and by
something roused him. Stevens was once more talking, but with a
changed tone.

"Feller's name--was Brown," he rambled. "We fell out--over a
hoss I stole from him--in Huntsville. He stole it fuss. Brown's
one of them sneaks--afraid of the open--he steals an' pretends
to be honest. Say, Buck, mebbe you'll meet Brown some day--You
an' me are pards now."

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