The Lone Star Ranger

Z >> Zane Grey >> The Lone Star Ranger

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"Wal," he resumed, presently, "thet's your introduction to the
border, Buck. An' your card was a high trump. You'll be let
severely alone by real gun-fighters an' men like Bland,
Alloway, Rugg, an' the bosses of the other gangs. After all,
these real men are men, you know, an' onless you cross them
they're no more likely to interfere with you than you are with
them. But there's a sight of fellers like Bosomer in the river
country. They'll all want your game. An' every town you ride
into will scare up some cowpuncher full of booze or a
long-haired four-flush gunman or a sheriff--an' these men will
be playin' to the crowd an' yellin' for your blood. Thet's the
Texas of it. You'll have to hide fer ever in the brakes or
you'll have to KILL such men. Buck, I reckon this ain't
cheerful news to a decent chap like you. I'm only tellin' you
because I've taken a likin' to you, an' I seen right off thet
you ain't border-wise. Let's eat now, an' afterward we'll go
out so the gang can see you're not hidin'."

When Duane went out with Euchre the sun was setting behind a
blue range of mountains across the river in Mexico. The valley
appeared to open to the southwest. It was a tranquil, beautiful
scene. Somewhere in a house near at hand a woman was singing.
And in the road Duane saw a little Mexican boy driving home
some cows, one of which wore a bell. The sweet, happy voice of
a woman and a whistling barefoot boy--these seemed utterly out
of place here.

Euchre presently led to the square and the row of rough houses
Duane remembered. He almost stepped on a wide imprint in the
dust where Bosomer had confronted him. And a sudden fury beset
him that he should be affected strangely by the sight of it.

"Let's have a look in here," said Euchre.

Duane had to bend his head to enter the door. He found himself
in a very large room inclosed by adobe walls and roofed with
brush. It was full of rude benches, tables, seats. At one
corner a number of kegs and barrels lay side by side in a rack.
A Mexican boy was lighting lamps hung on posts that sustained
the log rafters of the roof.

"The only feller who's goin' to put a close eye on you is
Benson," said Euchre. "He runs the place an' sells drinks. The
gang calls him Jackrabbit Benson, because he's always got his
eye peeled an' his ear cocked. Don't notice him if he looks you
over, Buck. Benson is scared to death of every new-comer who
rustles into Bland's camp. An' the reason, I take it, is
because he's done somebody dirt. He's hidin'. Not from a
sheriff or ranger! Men who hide from them don't act like
Jackrabbit Benson. He's hidin' from some guy who's huntin' him
to kill him. Wal, I'm always expectin' to see some feller ride
in here an' throw a gun on Benson. Can't say I'd be grieved."

Duane casually glanced in the direction indicated, and he saw a
spare, gaunt man with a face strikingly white beside the red
and bronze and dark skins of the men around him. It was a
cadaverous face. The black mustache hung down; a heavy lock of
black hair dropped down over the brow; deep-set, hollow,
staring eyes looked out piercingly. The man had a restless,
alert, nervous manner. He put his hands on the board that
served as a bar and stared at Duane. But when he met Duane's
glance he turned hurriedly to go on serving out liquor.

"What have you got against him?" inquired Duane, as he sat down
beside Euchre. He asked more for something to say than from
real interest. What did he care about a mean, haunted, craven-
faced criminal?

"Wal, mebbe I'm cross-grained," replied Euchre, apologetically.
"Shore an outlaw an' rustler such as me can't be touchy. But I
never stole nothin' but cattle from some rancher who never
missed 'em anyway. Thet sneak Benson--he was the means of
puttin' a little girl in Bland's way."

"Girl?" queried Duane, now with real attention.

"Shore. Bland's great on women. I'll tell you about this girl
when we get out of here. Some of the gang are goin' to be
sociable, an' I can't talk about the chief."

During the ensuing half-hour a number of outlaws passed by
Duane and Euchre, halted for a greeting or sat down for a
moment. They were all gruff, loud-voiced, merry, and good-
natured. Duane replied civilly and agreeably when he was
personally addressed; but he refused all invitations to drink
and gamble. Evidently he had been accepted, in a way, as one of
their clan. No one made any hint of an allusion to his affair
with Bosomer. Duane saw readily that Euchre was well liked. One
outlaw borrowed money from him: another asked for tobacco.

By the time it was dark the big room was full of outlaws and
Mexicans, most of whom were engaged at monte. These gamblers,
especially the Mexicans, were intense and quiet. The noise in
the place came from the drinkers, the loungers. Duane had seen
gambling-resorts--some of the famous ones in San Antonio and El
Paso, a few in border towns where license went unchecked. But
this place of Jackrabbit Benson's impressed him as one where
guns and knives were accessories to the game. To his perhaps
rather distinguishing eye the most prominent thing about the
gamesters appeared to be their weapons. On several of the
tables were piles of silver--Mexican pesos--as large and high
as the crown of his hat. There were also piles of gold and
silver in United States coin. Duane needed no experienced eyes
to see that betting was heavy and that heavy sums exchanged
hands. The Mexicans showed a sterner obsession, an intenser
passion. Some of the Americans staked freely, nonchalantly, as
befitted men to whom money was nothing. These latter were
manifestly winning, for there were brother outlaws there who
wagered coin with grudging, sullen, greedy eyes. Boisterous
talk and laughter among the drinking men drowned, except at
intervals, the low, brief talk of the gamblers. The clink of
coin sounded incessantly; sometimes just low, steady musical
rings; and again, when a pile was tumbled quickly, there was a
silvery crash. Here an outlaw pounded on a table with the butt
of his gun; there another noisily palmed a roll of dollars
while he studied his opponent's face. The noises, however, in
Benson's den did not contribute to any extent to the sinister
aspect of the place. That seemed to come from the grim and
reckless faces, from the bent, intent heads, from the dark
lights and shades. There were bright lights, but these served
only to make the shadows. And in the shadows lurked
unrestrained lust of gain, a spirit ruthless and reckless, a
something at once suggesting lawlessness, theft, murder, and
hell.

"Bland's not here to-night," Euchre was saying. "He left today
on one of his trips, takin' Alloway an' some others. But his
other man, Rugg, he's here. See him standin' with them three
fellers, all close to Benson. Rugg's the little bow-legged man
with the half of his face shot off. He's one-eyed. But he can
shore see out of the one he's got. An', darn me! there's
Hardin. You know him? He's got an outlaw gang as big as
Bland's. Hardin is standin' next to Benson. See how quiet an'
unassumin' he looks. Yes, thet's Hardin. He comes here once in
a while to see Bland. They're friends, which's shore strange.
Do you see thet greaser there--the one with gold an' lace on
his sombrero? Thet's Manuel, a Mexican bandit. He's a great
gambler. Comes here often to drop his coin. Next to him is Bill
Marr--the feller with the bandana round his head. Bill rode in
the other day with some fresh bullet-holes. He's been shot
more'n any feller I ever heard of. He's full of lead. Funny,
because Bill's no troublehunter, an', like me, he'd rather run
than shoot. But he's the best rustler Bland's got--a grand
rider, an' a wonder with cattle. An' see the tow-headed
youngster. Thet's Kid Fuller, the kid of Bland's gang. Fuller
has hit the pace hard, an' he won't last the year out on the
border. He killed his sweetheart's father, got run out of
Staceytown, took to stealin' hosses. An' next he's here with
Bland. Another boy gone wrong, an' now shore a hard nut."

Euchre went on calling Duane's attention to other men, just as
he happened to glance over them. Any one of them would have
been a marked man in a respectable crowd. Here each took his
place with more or less distinction, according to the record of
his past wild prowess and his present possibilities. Duane,
realizing that he was tolerated there, received in careless
friendly spirit by this terrible class of outcasts, experienced
a feeling of revulsion that amounted almost to horror. Was his
being there not an ugly dream? What had he in common with such
ruffians? Then in a flash of memory came the painful proof--he
was a criminal in sight of Texas law; he, too, was an outcast.

For the moment Duane was wrapped up in painful reflections; but
Euchre's heavy hand, clapping with a warning hold on his arm,
brought him back to outside things.

The hum of voices, the clink of coin, the loud laughter had
ceased. There was a silence that manifestly had followed some
unusual word or action sufficient to still the room. It was
broken by a harsh curse and the scrape of a bench on the floor.
Some man had risen.

"You stacked the cards, you--!"

"Say that twice," another voice replied, so different in its
cool, ominous tone from the other.

"I'll say it twice," returned the first gamester, in hot haste.
"I'll say it three times. I'll whistle it. Are you deaf? You
light-fingered gent! You stacked the cards!"

Silence ensued, deeper than before, pregnant with meaning. For
all that Duane saw, not an outlaw moved for a full moment. Then
suddenly the room was full of disorder as men rose and ran and
dived everywhere.

"Run or duck!" yelled Euchre, close to Duane's ear. With that
he dashed for the door. Duane leaped after him. They ran into a
jostling mob. Heavy gun-shots and hoarse yells hurried the
crowd Duane was with pell-mell out into the darkness. There
they all halted, and several peeped in at the door.

"Who was the Kid callin'?" asked one outlaw.

"Bud Marsh," replied another.

"I reckon them fust shots was Bud's. Adios Kid. It was comin'
to him," went on yet another.

"How many shots?"

"Three or four, I counted."

"Three heavy an' one light. Thet light one was the Kid's .38.
Listen! There's the Kid hollerin' now. He ain't cashed,
anyway."

At this juncture most of the outlaws began to file back into
the room. Duane thought he had seen and heard enough in
Benson's den for one night and he started slowly down the walk.
Presently Euchre caught up with him.

"Nobody hurt much, which's shore some strange," he said. "The
Kid--young Fuller thet I was tellin' you about--he was drinkin'
an' losin'. Lost his nut, too, callin' Bud Marsh thet way.
Bud's as straight at cards as any of 'em. Somebody grabbed Bud,
who shot into the roof. An' Fuller's arm was knocked up. He
only hit a greaser."

CHAPTER VI

Next morning Duane found that a moody and despondent spell had
fastened on him. Wishing to be alone, he went out and walked a
trail leading round the river bluff. He thought and thought.
After a while he made out that the trouble with him probably
was that he could not resign himself to his fate. He abhorred
the possibility chance seemed to hold in store for him. He
could not believe there was no hope. But what to do appeared
beyond his power to tell.

Duane had intelligence and keenness enough to see his
peril--the danger threatening his character as a man, just as
much as that which threatened his life. He cared vastly more,
he discovered, for what he considered honor and integrity than
he did for life. He saw that it was bad for him to be alone.
But, it appeared, lonely months and perhaps years inevitably
must be his. Another thing puzzled him. In the bright light of
day he could not recall the state of mind that was his at
twilight or dusk or in the dark night. By day these visitations
became to him what they really were--phantoms of his
conscience. He could dismiss the thought of them then. He could
scarcely remember or believe that this strange feat of fancy or
imagination had troubled him, pained him, made him sleepless
and sick.

That morning Duane spent an unhappy hour wrestling decision out
of the unstable condition of his mind. But at length he
determined to create interest in all that he came across and so
forget himself as much as possible. He had an opportunity now
to see just what the outlaw's life really was. He meant to
force himself to be curious, sympathetic, clear-sighted. And he
would stay there in the valley until its possibilities had been
exhausted or until circumstances sent him out upon his
uncertain way.

When he returned to the shack Euchre was cooking dinner.

"Say, Buck, I've news for you," he said; and his tone conveyed
either pride in his possession of such news or pride in Duane.
"Feller named Bradley rode in this mornin'. He's heard some
about you. Told about the ace of spades they put over the
bullet holes in thet cowpuncher Bain you plugged. Then there
was a rancher shot at a water-hole twenty miles south of
Wellston. Reckon you didn't do it?"

"No, I certainly did not," replied Duane.

"Wal, you get the blame. It ain't nothin' for a feller to be
saddled with gun-plays he never made. An', Buck, if you ever
get famous, as seems likely, you'll be blamed for many a crime.
The border'll make an outlaw an' murderer out of you. Wal,
thet's enough of thet. I've more news. You're goin' to be
popular."

"Popular? What do you mean?"

"I met Bland's wife this mornin'. She seen you the other day
when you rode in. She shore wants to meet you, an' so do some
of the other women in camp. They always want to meet the new
fellers who've just come in. It's lonesome for women here, an'
they like to hear news from the towns."

"Well, Euchre, I don't want to be impolite, but I'd rather not
meet any women," rejoined Duane.

"I was afraid you wouldn't. Don't blame you much. Women are
hell. I was hopin', though, you might talk a little to thet
poor lonesome kid."

"What kid?" inquired Duane, in surprise.

"Didn't I tell you about Jennie--the girl Bland's holdin'
here--the one Jackrabbit Benson had a hand in stealin'?"

"You mentioned a girl. That's all. Tell me now," replied Duane,
abruptly.

"Wal, I got it this way. Mebbe it's straight, an' mebbe it
ain't. Some years ago Benson made a trip over the river to buy
mescal an' other drinks. He'll sneak over there once in a
while. An' as I get it he run across a gang of greasers with
some gringo prisoners. I don't know, but I reckon there was
some barterin', perhaps murderin'. Anyway, Benson fetched the
girl back. She was more dead than alive. But it turned out she
was only starved an' scared half to death. She hadn't been
harmed. I reckon she was then about fourteen years old.
Benson's idee, he said, was to use her in his den sellin'
drinks an' the like. But I never went much on Jackrabbit's
word. Bland seen the kid right off and took her--bought her
from Benson. You can gamble Bland didn't do thet from notions
of chivalry. I ain't gainsayin, however, but thet Jennie was
better off with Kate Bland. She's been hard on Jennie, but
she's kept Bland an' the other men from treatin' the kid
shameful. Late Jennie has growed into an all-fired pretty girl,
an' Kate is powerful jealous of her. I can see hell brewin'
over there in Bland's cabin. Thet's why I wish you'd come over
with me. Bland's hardly ever home. His wife's invited you.
Shore, if she gets sweet on you, as she has on--Wal, thet 'd
complicate matters. But you'd get to see Jennie, an' mebbe you
could help her. Mind, I ain't hintin' nothin'. I'm just wantin'
to put her in your way. You're a man an' can think fer
yourself. I had a baby girl once, an' if she'd lived she be as
big as Jennie now, an', by Gawd, I wouldn't want her here in
Bland's camp."

"I'll go, Euchre. Take me over," replied Duane. He felt
Euchre's eyes upon him. The old outlaw, however, had no more to
say.

In the afternoon Euchre set off with Duane, and soon they
reached Bland's cabin. Duane remembered it as the one where he
had seen the pretty woman watching him ride by. He could not
recall what she looked like. The cabin was the same as the
other adobe structures in the valley, but it was larger and
pleasantly located rather high up in a grove of cottonwoods. In
the windows and upon the porch were evidences of a woman's
hand. Through the open door Duane caught a glimpse of bright
Mexican blankets and rugs.

Euchre knocked upon the side of the door.

"Is that you, Euchre?" asked a girl's voice, low, hesitatingly.
The tone of it, rather deep and with a note of fear, struck
Duane. He wondered what she would be like.

"Yes, it's me, Jennie. Where's Mrs. Bland?" answered Euchre.

"She went over to Deger's. There's somebody sick," replied the
girl.

Euchre turned and whispered something about luck. The snap of
the outlaw's eyes was added significance to Duane.

"Jennie, come out or let us come in. Here's the young man I was
tellin' you about," Euchre said.

"Oh, I can't! I look so--so--"

"Never mind how you look," interrupted the outlaw, in a
whisper. "It ain't no time to care fer thet. Here's young
Duane. Jennie, he's no rustler, no thief. He's different. Come
out, Jennie, an' mebbe he'll--"

Euchre did not complete his sentence. He had spoken low, with
his glance shifting from side to side.

But what he said was sufficient to bring the girl quickly. She
appeared in the doorway with downcast eyes and a stain of red
in her white cheek. She had a pretty, sad face and bright hair.

"Don't be bashful, Jennie," said Euchre. "You an' Duane have a
chance to talk a little. Now I'll go fetch Mrs. Bland, but I
won't be hurryin'."

With that Euchre went away through the cottonwoods.

"I'm glad to meet you, Miss--Miss Jennie," said Duane. "Euchre
didn't mention your last name. He asked me to come over to--"

Duane's attempt at pleasantry halted short when Jennie lifted
her lashes to look at him. Some kind of a shock went through
Duane. Her gray eyes were beautiful, but it had not been beauty
that cut short his speech. He seemed to see a tragic struggle
between hope and doubt that shone in her piercing gaze. She
kept looking, and Duane could not break the silence. It was no
ordinary moment.

"What did you come here for?" she asked, at last.

"To see you," replied Duane, glad to speak.

"Why?"

"Well--Euchre thought--he wanted me to talk to you, cheer you
up a bit," replied Duane, somewhat lamely. The earnest eyes
embarrassed him.

"Euchre's good. He's the only person in this awful place who's
been good to me. But he's afraid of Bland. He said you were
different. Who are you?"

Duane told her.

"You're not a robber or rustler or murderer or some bad man
come here to hide?"

"No, I'm not," replied Duane, trying to smile.

"Then why are you here?"

"I'm on the dodge. You know what that means. I got in a
shooting-scrape at home and had to run off. When it blows over
I hope to go back."

"But you can't be honest here?"

"Yes, I can."

"Oh, I know what these outlaws are. Yes, you're different." She
kept the strained gaze upon him, but hope was kindling, and the
hard lines of her youthful face were softening.

Something sweet and warm stirred deep in Duane as he realized
the unfortunate girl was experiencing a birth of trust in him.

"O God! Maybe you're the man to save me--to take me away before
it's too later"

Duane's spirit leaped.

"Maybe I am," he replied, instantly.

She seemed to check a blind impulse to run into his arms. Her
cheek flamed, her lips quivered, her bosom swelled under her
ragged dress. Then the glow began to fade; doubt once more
assailed her.

"It can't be. You're only--after me, too, like Bland--like all
of them."

Duane's long arms went out and his hands clasped her shoulders.
He shook her.

"Look at me--straight in the eye. There are decent men. Haven't
you a father--a brother?"

"They're dead--killed by raiders. We lived in Dimmit County. I
was carried away," Jennie replied, hurriedly. She put up an
appealing hand to him. "Forgive me. I believe--I know you're
good. It was only--I live so much in fear--I'm half crazy--I've
almost forgotten what good men are like, Mister Duane, you'll
help me?"

"Yes, Jennie, I will. Tell me how. What must I do? Have you any
plan?"

"Oh no. But take me away."

"I'll try," said Duane, simply. "That won't be easy, though. I
must have time to think. You must help me. There are many
things to consider. Horses, food, trails, and then the best
time to make the attempt. Are you watched--kept prisoner?"

"No. I could have run off lots of times. But I was afraid. I'd
only have fallen into worse hands. Euchre has told me that.
Mrs. Bland beats me, half starves me, but she has kept me from
her husband and these other dogs. She's been as good as that,
and I'm grateful. She hasn't done it for love of me, though.
She always hated me. And lately she's growing jealous. There
was' a man came here by the name of Spence--so he called
himself. He tried to be kind to me. But she wouldn't let him.
She was in love with him. She's a bad woman. Bland finally shot
Spence, and that ended that. She's been jealous ever since. I
hear her fighting with Bland about me. She swears she'll kill
me before he gets me. And Bland laughs in her face. Then I've
heard Chess Alloway try to persuade Bland to give me to him.
But Bland doesn't laugh then. Just lately before Bland went
away things almost came to a head. I couldn't sleep. I wished
Mrs. Bland would kill me. I'll certainly kill myself if they
ruin me. Duane, you must be quick if you'd save me."

"I realize that," replied he, thoughtfully. "I think my
difficulty will be to fool Mrs. Bland. If she suspected me
she'd have the whole gang of outlaws on me at once."

"She would that. You've got to be careful--and quick."

"What kind of woman is she?" inquired Duane.

"She's--she's brazen. I've heard her with her lovers. They get
drunk sometimes when Bland's away. She's got a terrible temper.
She's vain. She likes flattery. Oh, you could fool her easy
enough if you'd lower yourself to--to--"

"To make love to her?" interrupted Duane.

Jennie bravely turned shamed eyes to meet his.

"My girl, I'd do worse than that to get you away from here," he
said, bluntly.

"But--Duane," she faltered, and again she put out the appealing
hand. "Bland will kill you."

Duane made no reply to this. He was trying to still a rising
strange tumult in his breast. The old emotion--the rush of an
instinct to kill! He turned cold all over.

"Chess Alloway will kill you if Bland doesn't," went on Jennie,
with her tragic eyes on Duane's.

"Maybe he will," replied Duane. It was difficult for him to
force a smile. But he achieved one.

"Oh, better take me off at once," she said. "Save me without
risking so much--without making love to Mrs. Bland!"

"Surely, if I can. There! I see Euchre coming with a woman."

"That's her. Oh, she mustn't see me with you."

"Wait--a moment," whispered Duane, as Jennie slipped indoors.
"We've settled it. Don't forget. I'll find some way to get word
to you, perhaps through Euchre. Meanwhile keep up your courage.
Remember I'll save you somehow. We'll try strategy first.
Whatever you see or hear me do, don't think less of me--"

Jennie checked him with a gesture and a wonderful gray flash of
eyes.

"I'll bless you with every drop of blood in my heart," she
whispered, passionately.

It was only as she turned away into the room that Duane saw she
was lame and that she wore Mexican sandals over bare feet.

He sat down upon a bench on the porch and directed his
attention to the approaching couple. The trees of the grove
were thick enough for him to make reasonably sure that Mrs.
Bland had not seen him talking to Jennie. When the outlaw's
wife drew near Duane saw that she was a tall, strong, full-
bodied woman, rather good-looking with a fullblown, bold
attractiveness. Duane was more concerned with her expression
than with her good looks; and as she appeared unsuspicious he
felt relieved. The situation then took on a singular zest.

Euchre came up on the porch and awkwardly introduced Duane to
Mrs. Bland. She was young, probably not over twenty-five, and
not quite so prepossessing at close range. Her eyes were large,
rather prominent, and brown in color. Her mouth, too, was
large, with the lips full, and she had white teeth.

Duane took her proffered hand and remarked frankly that he was
glad to meet her.

Mrs. Bland appeared pleased; and her laugh, which followed, was
loud and rather musical.

"Mr. Duane--Buck Duane, Euchre said, didn't he?" she asked.

"Buckley," corrected Duane. "The nickname's not of my
choosing."

"I'm certainly glad to meet you, Buckley Duane," she said, as
she took the seat Duane offered her. "Sorry to have been out.
Kid Fuller's lying over at Deger's. You know he was shot last
night. He's got fever to-day. When Bland's away I have to nurse
all these shot-up boys, and it sure takes my time. Have you
been waiting here alone? Didn't see that slattern girl of
mine?"

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