The Lone Star Ranger

Z >> Zane Grey >> The Lone Star Ranger

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But beyond and above all other claims came Captain MacNelly's.
It was then there was something cold and death-like in Duane's
soul. For he knew, whatever happened, of one thing he was
sure--he would have to kill either Longstreth or Lawson.
Longstreth might be trapped into arrest; but Lawson had no
sense, no control, no fear. He would snarl like a panther and
go for his gun, and he would have to be killed. This, of all
consummations, was the one to be calculated upon.

Duane came out of it all bitter and callous and sore--in the
most fitting of moods to undertake a difficult and deadly
enterprise. He had fallen upon his old strange, futile dreams,
now rendered poignant by reason of love. He drove away those
dreams. In their places came the images of the olive-skinned
Longstreth with his sharp eyes, and the dark, evil-faced
Lawson, and then returned tenfold more thrilling and sinister
the old strange passion to meet Poggin.

It was about one o'clock when Duane rode into Fairdale. The
streets for the most part were deserted. He went directly to
find Morton and Zimmer. He found them at length, restless,
somber, anxious, but unaware of the part he had played at Ord.
They said Longstreth was home, too. It was possible that
Longstreth had arrived home in ignorance.

Duane told them to be on hand in town with their men in case he
might need them, and then with teeth locked he set off for
Longstreth's ranch.

Duane stole through the bushes and trees, and when nearing the
porch he heard loud, angry, familiar voices. Longstreth and
Lawson were quarreling again. How Duane's lucky star guided
him! He had no plan of action, but his brain was equal to a
hundred lightning-swift evolutions. He meant to take any risk
rather than kill Longstreth. Both of the men were out on the
porch. Duane wormed his way to the edge of the shrubbery and
crouched low to watch for his opportunity.

Longstreth looked haggard and thin. He was in his shirt-
sleeves, and he had come out with a gun in his hand. This he
laid on a table near the wall. He wore no belt.

Lawson was red, bloated, thick-lipped, all fiery and sweaty
from drink, though sober on the moment, and he had the
expression of a desperate man in his last stand. It was his
last stand, though he was ignorant of that.

"What's your news? You needn't be afraid of my feelings," said
Lawson.

"Ray confessed to an interest in this ranger," replied
Longstreth.

Duane thought Lawson would choke. He was thick-necked anyway,
and the rush of blood made him tear at the soft collar of his
shirt. Duane awaited his chance, patient, cold, all his
feelings shut in a vise.

"But why should your daughter meet this ranger?" demanded
Lawson, harshly.

"She's in love with him, and he's in love with her."

Duane reveled in Lawson's condition. The statement might have
had the force of a juggernaut. Was Longstreth sincere? What was
his game?

Lawson, finding his voice, cursed Ray, cursed the ranger, then
Longstreth.

"You damned selfish fool!" cried Longstreth, in deep bitter
scorn. "All you think of is yourself--your loss of the girl.
Think once of ME--my home--my life!"

Then the connection subtly put out by Longstreth apparently
dawned upon the other. Somehow through this girl her father and
cousin were to be betrayed. Duane got that impression, though
he could not tell how true it was. Certainly Lawson's jealousy
was his paramount emotion.

"To hell with you!" burst out Lawson, incoherently. He was
frenzied. "I'll have her, or nobody else will!"

"You never will," returned Longstreth, stridently. "So help me
God I'd rather see her the ranger's wife than yours!"

While Lawson absorbed that shock Longstreth leaned toward him,
all of hate and menace in his mien.

"Lawson, you made me what I am," continued Longstreth. "I
backed you--shielded you. YOU'RE Cheseldine--if the truth is
told! Now it's ended. I quit you. I'm done!"

Their gray passion-corded faces were still as stones.

"GENTLEMEN!" Duane called in far-reaching voice as he stepped
out. "YOU'RE BOTH DONE!"

They wheeled to confront Duane.

"Don't move! Not a muscle! Not a finger!" he warned.

Longstreth read what Lawson had not the mind to read. His face
turned from gray to ashen.

"What d'ye mean?" yelled Lawson, fiercely, shrilly. It was not
in him to obey a command, to see impending death.

All quivering and strung, yet with perfect control, Duane
raised his left hand to turn back a lapel of his open vest. The
silver star flashed brightly.

Lawson howled like a dog. With barbarous and insane fury, with
sheer impotent folly, he swept a clawing hand for his gun.
Duane's shot broke his action.

Before Lawson ever tottered, before he loosed the gun,
Longstreth leaped behind him, clasped him with left arm, quick
as lightning jerked the gun from both clutching fingers and
sheath. Longstreth protected himself with the body of the dead
man. Duane saw red flashes, puffs of smoke; he heard quick
reports. Something stung his left arm. Then a blow like wind,
light of sound yet shocking in impact, struck him, staggered
him. The hot rend of lead followed the blow. Duane's heart
seemed to explode, yet his mind kept extraordinarily clear and
rapid.

Duane heard Longstreth work the action of Lawson's gun. He
heard the hammer click, fall upon empty shells. Longstreth had
used up all the loads in Lawson's gun. He cursed as a man
cursed at defeat. Duane waited, cool and sure now. Longstreth
tried to lift the dead man, to edge him closer toward the table
where his own gun lay. But, considering the peril of exposing
himself, he found the task beyond him. He bent peering at Duane
under Lawson's arm, which flopped out from his side.
Longstreth's eyes were the eyes of a man who meant to kill.
There was never any mistaking the strange and terrible light of
eyes like those. More than once Duane had a chance to aim at
them, at the top of Longstreth's head, at a strip of his side.

Longstreth flung Lawson's body off. But even as it dropped,
before Longstreth could leap, as he surely intended, for the
gun, Duane covered him, called piercingly to him:

"Don't jump for the gun! Don't! I'll kill you! Sure as God I'll
kill you!"

Longstreth stood perhaps ten feet from the table where his gun
lay Duane saw him calculating chances. He was game. He had the
courage that forced Duane to respect him. Duane just saw him
measure the distance to that gun. He was magnificent. He meant
to do it. Duane would have to kill him.

"Longstreth, listen," cried Duane, swiftly. "The game's up.
You're done. But think of your daughter! I'll spare your
life--I'll try to get you freedom on one condition. For her
sake! I've got you nailed--all the proofs. There lies Lawson.
You're alone. I've Morton and men to my aid. Give up.
Surrender. Consent to demands, and I'll spare you. Maybe I can
persuade MacNelly to let you go free back to your old country.
It's for Ray's sake! Her life, perhaps her happiness, can be
saved! Hurry, man! Your answer!"

"Suppose I refuse?" he queried, with a dark and terrible
earnestness.

"Then I'll kill you in your tracks! You can't move a hand! Your
word or death! Hurry, Longstreth! Be a man! For her sake!
Quick! Another second now--I'll kill you!"

"All right, Buck Duane, I give my word," he said, and
deliberately walked to the chair and fell into it.

Longstreth looked strangely at the bloody blot on Duane's
shoulder.

"There come the girls!" he suddenly exclaimed. "Can you help me
drag Lawson inside? They mustn't see him."

Duane was facing down the porch toward the court and corrals.
Miss Longstreth and Ruth had come in sight, were swiftly
approaching, evidently alarmed. The two men succeeded in
drawing Lawson into the house before the girls saw him.

"Duane, you're not hard hit?" said Longstreth.

"Reckon not," replied Duane.

"I'm sorry. If only you could have told me sooner! Lawson, damn
him! Always I've split over him!"

"But the last time, Longstreth."

"Yes, and I came near driving you to kill me, too. Duane, you
talked me out of it. For Ray's sake! She'll be in here in a
minute. This'll be harder than facing a gun."

"Hard now. But I hope it'll turn out all right."

"Duane, will you do me a favor?" he asked, and he seemed
shamefaced.

"Sure."

"Let Ray and Ruth think Lawson shot you. He's dead. It can't
matter. Duane, the old side of my life is coming back. It's
been coming. It'll be here just about when she enters this
room. And, by God, I'd change places with Lawson if I could!"

"Glad you--said that, Longstreth," replied Duane. "And
sure--Lawson plugged me. It's our secret."

Just then Ray and Ruth entered the room. Duane heard two low
cries, so different in tone, and he saw two white faces. Ray
came to his side, She lifted a shaking hand to point at the
blood upon his breast. White and mute, she gazed from that to
her father.

"Papa!" cried Ray, wringing her hands.

"Don't give way," he replied, huskily. "Both you girls will
need your nerve. Duane isn't badly hurt. But Floyd is--is dead.
Listen. Let me tell it quick. There's been a fight. It--it was
Lawson--it was Lawson's gun that shot Duane. Duane let me off.
In fact, Ray, he saved me. I'm to divide my property--return so
far as possible what I've stolen--leave Texas at once with
Duane, under arrest. He says maybe he can get MacNelly, the
ranger captain, to let me go. For your sake!"

She stood there, realizing her deliverance, with the dark and
tragic glory of her eyes passing from her father to Duane.

"You must rise above this," said Duane to her. "I expected this
to ruin you. But your father is alive. He will live it down.
I'm sure I can promise you he'll be free. Perhaps back there in
Louisiana the dishonor will never be known. This country is far
from your old home. And even in San Antonio and.Austin a man's
evil repute means little. Then the line between a rustler and a
rancher is hard to draw in these wild border days. Rustling is
stealing cattle, and I once heard a well-known rancher say that
all rich cattlemen had done a little stealing Your father
drifted out here, and, like a good many others, he succeeded.
It's perhaps just as well not to split hairs, to judge him by
the law and morality of a civilized country. Some way or other
he drifted in with bad men. Maybe a deal that was honest
somehow tied his hands. This matter of land, water, a few stray
head of stock had to be decided out of court. I'm sure in his
case he never realized where he was drifting. Then one thing
led to another, until he was face to face with dealing that
took on crooked form. To protect himself he bound men to him.
And so the gang developed. Many powerful gangs have developed
that way out here. He could not control them. He became
involved with them. And eventually their dealings became
deliberately and boldly dishonest. That meant the inevitable
spilling of blood sooner or later, and so he grew into the
leader because he was the strongest. Whatever he is to be
judged for, I think he could have been infinitely worse."

CHAPTER XXIV

On the morning of the twenty-sixth Duane rode into Bradford in
time to catch the early train. His wounds did not seriously
incapacitate him. Longstreth was with him. And Miss Longstreth
and Ruth Herbert would not be left behind. They were all
leaving Fairdale for ever. Longstreth had turned over the whole
of his property to Morton, who was to divide it as he and his
comrades believed just. Duane had left Fairdale with his party
by night, passed through Sanderson in the early hours of dawn,
and reached Bradford as he had planned.

That fateful morning found Duane outwardly calm, but inwardly
he was in a tumult. He wanted to rush to Val Verde. Would
Captain MacNelly be there with his rangers, as Duane had
planned for them to be? Memory of that tawny Poggin returned
with strange passion. Duane had borne hours and weeks and
months of waiting, had endured the long hours of the outlaw,
but now he had no patience. The whistle of the train made him
leap.

It was a fast train, yet the ride seemed slow.

Duane, disliking to face Longstreth and the passengers in the
car, changed his seat to one behind his prisoner. They had
seldom spoken. Longstreth sat with bowed head, deep in thought.
The girls sat in a seat near by and were pale but composed.
Occasionally the train halted briefly at a station. The latter
half of that ride Duane had observed a wagon-road running
parallel with the railroad, sometimes right alongside,
at others near or far away. When the train was about twenty
miles from Val Verde Duane espied a dark group of horsemen
trotting eastward. His blood beat like a hammer at his temples.
The gang! He thought he recognized the tawny Poggin and felt a
strange inward contraction. He thought he recognized the
clean-cut Blossom Kane, the black-bearded giant Boldt, the
red-faced Panhandle Smith, and Fletcher. There was another man
strange to him. Was that Knell? No! it could not have been
Knell.

Duane leaned over the seat and touched Longstreth on the
shoulder.

"Look!" he whispered. Cheseldine was stiff. He had already
seen.

The train flashed by; the outlaw gang receded out of range of
sight.

"Did you notice Knell wasn't with them?" whispered Duane.

Duane did not speak to Longstreth again till the train stopped
at Val Verde.

They got off the car, and the girls followed as naturally as
ordinary travelers. The station was a good deal larger than
that at Bradford, and there was considerable action and bustle
incident to the arrival of the train.

Duane's sweeping gaze searched faces, rested upon a man who
seemed familiar. This fellow's look, too, was that of one who
knew Duane, but was waiting for a sign, a cue. Then Duane
recognized him--MacNelly, clean-shaven. Without mustache he
appeared different, younger.

When MacNelly saw that Duane intended to greet him, to meet
him, he hurried forward. A keen light flashed from his eyes. He
was glad, eager, yet suppressing himself, and the glances he
sent back and forth from Duane to Longstreth were questioning,
doubtful. Certainly Longstreth did not look the part of an
outlaw.

"Duane! Lord, I'm glad to see you," was the Captain's greeting.
Then at closer look into Duane's face his warmth
fled--something he saw there checked his enthusiasm, or at
least its utterance.

"MacNelly, shake hand with Cheseldine," said Duane, low-voiced.

The ranger captain stood dumb, motionless. But he saw
Longstreth's instant action, and awkwardly he reached for the
outstretched hand.

"Any of your men down here?" queried Duane, sharply.

"No. They're up-town."

"Come. MacNelly, you walk with him. We've ladies in the party.
I'll come behind with them."

They set off up-town. Longstreth walked as if he were with
friends on the way to dinner. The girls were mute. MacNelly
walked like a man in a trance. There was not a word spoken in
four blocks.

Presently Duane espied a stone building on a corner of the
broad street. There was a big sign, "Rancher's Bank."

"There's the hotel," said MacNelly. "Some of my men are there.
We've scattered around."

They crossed the street, went through office and lobby, and
then Duane asked MacNelly to take them to a private room.
Without a word the Captain complied. When they were all inside
Duane closed the door, and, drawing a deep breath as if of
relief, he faced them calmly.

"Miss Longstreth, you and Miss Ruth try to make yourselves
comfortable now," he said. "And don't be distressed." Then he
turned to his captain. "MacNelly, this girl is the daughter of
the man I've brought to you, and this one is his niece."

Then Duane briefly related Longstreth's story, and, though he
did not spare the rustler chief, he was generous.

"When I went after Longstreth," concluded Duane, "it was either
to kill him or offer him freedom on conditions. So I chose the
latter for his daughter's sake. He has already disposed of all
his property. I believe he'll live up to the conditions. He's
to leave Texas never to return. The name Cheseldine has been a
mystery, and now it'll fade."

A few moments later Duane followed MacNelly to a large room,
like a hall, and here were men reading and smoking. Duane knew
them--rangers!

MacNelly beckoned to his men.

"Boys, here he is."

"How many men have you?" asked Duane.

"Fifteen."

MacNelly almost embraced Duane, would probably have done so but
for the dark grimness that seemed to be coming over the man.
Instead he glowed, he sputtered, he tried to talk, to wave his
hands. He was beside himself. And his rangers crowded closer,
eager, like hounds ready to run. They all talked at once, and
the word most significant and frequent in their speech was
"outlaws."

MacNelly clapped his fist in his hand.

"This'll make the adjutant sick with joy. Maybe we won't have
it on the Governor! We'll show them about the ranger service.
Duane! how'd you ever do it?"

"Now, Captain, not the half nor the quarter of this job's done.
The gang's coming down the road. I saw them from the train.
They'll ride into town on the dot--two-thirty."

"How many?" asked MacNelly.

"Poggin, Blossom Kane, Panhandle Smith, Boldt, Jim Fletcher,
and another man I don't know. These are the picked men of
Cheseldine's gang. I'll bet they'll be the fastest, hardest
bunch you rangers ever faced."

"Poggin--that's the hard nut to crack! I've heard their records
since I've been in Val Verde. Where's Knell? They say he's a
boy, but hell and blazes!"

"Knell's dead."

"Ah!" exclaimed MacNelly, softly. Then he grew businesslike,
cool, and of harder aspect. "Duane, it's your game to-day. I'm
only a ranger under orders. We're all under your orders. We've
absolute faith in you. Make your plan quick, so I can go around
and post the boys who're not here."

"You understand there's no sense in trying to arrest Poggin,
Kane, and that lot?" queried Duane.

"No, I don't understand that," replied MacNelly, bluntly.

"It can't be done. The drop can't be got on such men. If you
meet them they shoot, and mighty quick and straight. Poggin!
That outlaw has no equal with a gun--unless--He's got to be
killed quick. They'll all have to be killed. They're all bad,
desperate, know no fear, are lightning in action."

"Very well, Duane; then it's a fight. That'll be easier,
perhaps. The boys are spoiling for a fight. Out with your plan,
now."

"Put one man at each end of this street, just at the edge of
town. Let him hide there with a rifle to block the escape of
any outlaw that we might fail to get. I had a good look at the
bank building. It's well situated for our purpose. Put four men
up in that room over the bank--four men, two at each open
window. Let them hide till the game begins. They want to be
there so in case these foxy outlaws get wise before they're
down on the ground or inside the bank. The rest of your men put
inside behind the counters, where they'll hide. Now go over to
the bank, spring the thing on the bank officials, and don't let
them shut up the bank. You want their aid. Let them make sure
of their gold. But the clerks and cashier ought to be at their
desks or window when Poggin rides up. He'll glance in before he
gets down. They make no mistakes, these fellows. We must be
slicker than they are, or lose. When you get the bank people
wise, send your men over one by one. No hurry, no excitement,
no unusual thing to attract notice in the bank."

"All right. That's great. Tell me, where do you intend to
wait?"

Duane heard MacNelly's question, and it struck him peculiarly.
He had seemed to be planning and speaking mechanically. As he
was confronted by the fact it nonplussed him somewhat, and he
became thoughtful, with lowered head.

"Where'll you wait, Duane?" insisted MacNelly, with keen eyes
speculating.

"I'll wait in front, just inside the door," replied Duane, with
an effort.

"Why?" demanded the Captain.

"Well," began Duane, slowly, "Poggin will get down first and
start in. But the others won't be far behind. They'll not get
swift till inside. The thing is--they MUSTN'T get clear inside,
because the instant they do they'll pull guns. That means death
to somebody. If we can we want to stop them just at the door."

"But will you hide?" asked MacNelly.

"Hide!" The idea had not occurred to Duane.

"There's a wide-open doorway, a sort of round hall, a
vestibule, with steps leading up to the bank. There's a door in
the vestibule, too. It leads somewhere. We can put men in
there. You can be there."

Duane was silent.

"See here, Duane," began MacNelly, nervously. "You shan't take
any undue risk here. You'll hide with the rest of us?"

"No!"The word was wrenched from Duane.

MacNelly stared, and then a strange, comprehending light seemed
to flit over his face.

"Duane, I can give you no orders to-day," he said, distinctly.
"I'm only offering advice. Need you take any more risks? You've
done a grand job for the service--already. You've paid me a
thousand times for that pardon. You've redeemed yourself.--The
Governor, the adjutant-general--the whole state will rise up
and honor you. The game's almost up. We'll kill these outlaws,
or enough of them to break for ever their power. I say, as a
ranger, need you take more risk than your captain?"

Still Duane remained silent. He was locked between two forces.
And one, a tide that was bursting at its bounds, seemed about
to overwhelm him. Finally that side of him, the retreating
self, the weaker, found a voice.

"Captain, you want this job to be sure?" he asked.

"Certainly."

"I've told you the way. I alone know the kind of men to be met.
Just WHAT I'll do or WHERE I'll be I can't say yet. In meetings
like this the moment decides. But I'll be there!"

MacNelly spread wide his hands, looked helplessly at his
curious and sympathetic rangers, and shook his head.

"Now you've done your work--laid the trap--is this strange move
of yours going to be fair to Miss Longstreth?" asked MacNelly,
in significant low voice.

Like a great tree chopped at the roots Duane vibrated to that.
He looked up as if he had seen a ghost.

Mercilessly the ranger captain went on: "You can win her,
Duane! Oh, you can't fool me. I was wise in a minute. Fight
with us from cover--then go back to her. You will have served
the Texas Rangers as no other man has. I'll accept your
resignation. You'll be free, honored, happy. That girl loves
you! I saw it in her eyes. She's--"

But Duane cut him short with a fierce gesture. He lunged up to
his feet, and the rangers fell back. Dark, silent, grim as he
had been, still there was a transformation singularly more
sinister, stranger.

"Enough. I'm done," he said, somberly. "I've planned. Do we
agree--or shall I meet Poggin and his gang alone?"

MacNelly cursed and again threw up his hands, this time in
baffled chagrin. There was deep regret in his dark eyes as they
rested upon Duane.

Duane was left alone.

Never had his mind been so quick, so clear, so wonderful in its
understanding of what had heretofore been intricate and elusive
impulses of his strange nature. His determination was to meet
Poggin; meet him before any one else had a chance--Poggin
first--and then the others! He was as unalterable in that
decision as if on the instant of its acceptance he had become
stone.

Why? Then came realization. He was not a ranger now. He cared
nothing for the state. He had no thought of freeing the
community of a dangerous outlaw, of ridding the country of an
obstacle to its progress and prosperity. He wanted to kill
Poggin. It was significant now that he forgot the other
outlaws. He was the gunman, the gun-thrower, the gun-fighter,
passionate and terrible. His father's blood, that dark and
fierce strain, his mother's spirit, that strong and
unquenchable spirit of the surviving pioneer--these had been in
him; and the killings, one after another, the wild and haunted
years, had made him, absolutely in spite of his will, the
gunman. He realized it now, bitterly, hopelessly. The thing he
had intelligence enough to hate he had become. At last he
shuddered under the driving, ruthless inhuman blood-lust of the
gunman. Long ago he had seemed to seal in a tomb that horror of
his kind--the need, in order to forget the haunting, sleepless
presence of his last victim, to go out and kill another. But it
was still there in his mind, and now it stalked out, worse,
more powerful, magnified by its rest, augmented by the violent
passions peculiar and inevitable to that strange, wild product
of the Texas frontier--the gun-fighter. And those passions were
so violent, so raw, so base, so much lower than what ought to
have existed in a thinking man. Actual pride of his record!
Actual vanity in his speed with a gun. Actual jealousy of any
rival!

Duane could not believe it. But there he was, without a choice.
What he had feared for years had become a monstrous reality.
Respect for himself, blindness, a certain honor that he had
clung to while in outlawry--all, like scales, seemed to fall
away from him. He stood stripped bare, his soul naked--the soul
of Cain. Always since the first brand had been forced and
burned upon him he had been ruined. But now with conscience
flayed to the quick, yet utterly powerless over this tiger
instinct, he was lost. He said it. He admitted it. And at the
utter abasement the soul he despised suddenly leaped and
quivered with the thought of Ray Longstreth.

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