The Lone Star Ranger

Z >> Zane Grey >> The Lone Star Ranger

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She gave him a sharp glance. The woman had an extraordinary
play of feature, Duane thought, and unless she was smiling was
not pretty at all.

"I've been alone," replied Duane. "Haven't seen anybody but a
sick-looking girl with a bucket. And she ran when she saw me."

"That was Jen," said Mrs. Bland. "She's the kid we keep here,
and she sure hardly pays her keep. Did Euchre tell you about
her?"

"Now that I think of it, he did say something or other."

"What did he tell you about me?" bluntly asked Mrs. Bland.

"Wal, Kate," replied Euchre, speaking for himself, "you needn't
worry none, for I told Buck nothin' but compliments."

Evidently the outlaw's wife liked Euchre, for her keen glance
rested with amusement upon him.

"As for Jen, I'll tell you her story some day," went on the
woman. "It's a common enough story along this river. Euchre
here is a tender-hearted old fool, and Jen has taken him in."

"Wal, seein' as you've got me figgered correct," replied
Euchre, dryly, "I'll go in an' talk to Jennie if I may."

"Certainly. Go ahead. Jen calls you her best friend," said Mrs.
Bland, amiably. "You're always fetching some Mexican stuff, and
that's why, I guess."

When Euchre had shuffled into the house Mrs. Bland turned to
Duane with curiosity and interest in her gaze.

"Bland told me about you."

"What did he say?" queried Duane, in pretended alarm.

"Oh, you needn't think he's done you dirt Bland's not that kind
of a man. He said: 'Kate, there's a young fellow in camp--rode
in here on the dodge. He's no criminal, and he refused to join
my band. Wish he would. Slickest hand with a gun I've seen for
many a day! I'd like to see him and Chess meet out there in the
road.' Then Bland went on to tell how you and Bosomer came
together."

"What did you say?" inquired Duane, as she paused.

"Me? Why, I asked him what you looked like," she replied,
gayly.

"Well?" went on Duane.

"Magnificent chap, Bland said. Bigger than any man in the
valley. Just a great blue-eyed sunburned boy!"

"Humph!" exclaimed Duane. "I'm sorry he led you to expect
somebody worth seeing."

"But I'm not disappointed," she returned, archly. "Duane, are
you going to stay long here in camp?"

"Yes, till I run out of money and have to move. Why?"

Mrs. Bland's face underwent one of the singular changes. The
smiles and flushes and glances, all that had been coquettish
about her, had lent her a certain attractiveness, almost beauty
and youth. But with some powerful emotion she changed and
instantly became a woman of discontent, Duane imagined, of
deep, violent nature.

"I'll tell you, Duane," she said, earnestly, "I'm sure glad if
you mean to bide here awhile. I'm a miserable woman, Duane. I'm
an outlaw's wife, and I hate him and the life I have to lead. I
come of a good family in Brownsville. I never knew Bland was an
outlaw till long after he married me. We were separated at
times, and I imagined he was away on business. But the truth
came out. Bland shot my own cousin, who told me. My family cast
me off, and I had to flee with Bland. I was only eighteen then.
I've lived here since. I never see a decent woman or man. I
never hear anything about my old home or folks or friends. I'm
buried here--buried alive with a lot of thieves and murderers.
Can you blame me for being glad to see a young fellow--a
gentleman--like the boys I used to go with? I tell you it makes
me feel full--I want to cry. I'm sick for somebody to talk to.
I have no children, thank God! If I had I'd not stay here. I'm
sick of this hole. I'm lonely--"

There appeared to be no doubt about the truth of all this.
Genuine emotion checked, then halted the hurried speech. She
broke down and cried. It seemed strange to Duane that an
outlaw's wife--and a woman who fitted her consort and the wild
nature of their surroundings--should have weakness enough to
weep. Duane believed and pitied her.

"I'm sorry for you," he said.

"Don't be SORRY for me," she said. "That only makes me see
the--the difference between you and me. And don't pay any
attention to what these outlaws say about me. They're ignorant.
They couldn't understand me. You'll hear that Bland killed men
who ran after me. But that's a lie. Bland, like all the other
outlaws along this river, is always looking for somebody to
kill. He SWEARS not, but I don't believe him. He explains that
gunplay gravitates to men who are the real thing--that it is
provoked by the four-flushes, the bad men. I don't know. All I
know is that somebody is being killed every other day. He hated
Spence before Spence ever saw me."

"Would Bland object if I called on you occasionally?" inquired
Duane.

"No, he wouldn't. He likes me to have friends. Ask him yourself
when he comes back. The trouble has been that two or three of
his men fell in love with me, and when half drunk got to
fighting. You're not going to do that."

"I'm not going to get half drunk, that's certain," replied
Duane.

He was surprised to see her eyes dilate, then glow with fire.
Before she could reply Euchre returned to the porch, and that
put an end to the conversation.

Duane was content to let the matter rest there, and had little
more to say. Euchre and Mrs. Bland talked and joked, while
Duane listened. He tried to form some estimate of her
character. Manifestly she had suffered a wrong, if not worse,
at Bland's hands. She was bitter, morbid, overemotional. If she
was a liar, which seemed likely enough, she was a frank one,
and believed herself. She had no cunning. The thing which
struck Duane so forcibly was that she thirsted for respect. In
that, better than in her weakness of vanity, he thought he had
discovered a trait through which he could manage her.

Once, while he was revolving these thoughts, he happened to
glance into the house, and deep in the shadow of a corner he
caught a pale gleam of Jennie's face with great, staring eyes
on him. She had been watching him, listening to what he said.
He saw from her expression that she had realized what had been
so hard for her to believe. Watching his chance, he flashed a
look at her; and then it seemed to him the change in her face
was wonderful.

Later, after he had left Mrs. Bland with a meaning
"Adios--manana," and was walking along beside the old outlaw,
he found himself thinking of the girl instead of the woman, and
of how he had seen her face blaze with hope and gratitude.

CHAPTER VII

That night Duane was not troubled by ghosts haunting his waking
and sleeping hours. He awoke feeling bright and eager, and
grateful to Euchre for having put something worth while into
his mind. During breakfast, however, he was unusually
thoughtful, working over the idea of how much or how little he
would confide in the outlaw. He was aware of Euchre's scrutiny.

"Wal," began the old man, at last, "how'd you make out with the
kid?"

"Kid?" inquired Duane, tentatively.

"Jennie, I mean. What'd you An' she talk about?"

"We had a little chat. You know you wanted me to cheer her up."

Euchre sat with coffee-cup poised and narrow eyes studying
Duane.

"Reckon you cheered her, all right. What I'm afeared of is
mebbe you done the job too well."

"How so?"

"Wal, when I went in to Jen last night I thought she was half
crazy. She was burstin' with excitement, an' the look in her
eyes hurt me. She wouldn't tell me a darn word you said. But
she hung onto my hands, an' showed every way without speakin'
how she wanted to thank me fer bringin' you over. Buck, it was
plain to me thet you'd either gone the limit or else you'd been
kinder prodigal of cheer an' hope. I'd hate to think you'd led
Jennie to hope more'n ever would come true."

Euchre paused, and, as there seemed no reply forthcoming, he
went on:

"Buck, I've seen some outlaws whose word was good. Mine is. You
can trust me. I trusted you, didn't I, takin' you over there
an' puttin' you wise to my tryin' to help thet poor kid?"

Thus enjoined by Euchre, Duane began to tell the conversations
with Jennie and Mrs. Bland word for word. Long before he had
reached an end Euchre set down the coffee-cup and began to
stare, and at the conclusion of the story his face lost some of
its red color and beads of sweat stood out thickly on his brow.

"Wal, if thet doesn't floor me!" he ejaculated, blinking at
Duane. "Young man, I figgered you was some swift, an' sure to
make your mark on this river; but I reckon I missed your real
caliber. So thet's what it means to be a man! I guess I'd
forgot. Wal, I'm old, an' even if my heart was in the right
place I never was built fer big stunts. Do you know what it'll
take to do all you promised Jen?"

"I haven't any idea," replied Duane, gravely.

"You'll have to pull the wool over Kate Bland's eyes, ant even
if she falls in love with you, which's shore likely, thet won't
be easy. An' she'd kill you in a minnit, Buck, if she ever got
wise. You ain't mistaken her none, are you?"

"Not me, Euchre. She's a woman. I'd fear her more than any
man."

"Wal, you'll have to kill Bland an' Chess Alloway an' Rugg, an'
mebbe some others, before you can ride off into the hills with
thet girl."

"Why? Can't we plan to be nice to Mrs. Bland and then at an
opportune time sneak off without any gun-play?"

"Don't see how on earth," returned Euchre, earnestly. "When
Bland's away he leaves all kinds of spies an' scouts watchin'
the valley trails. They've all got rifles. You couldn't git by
them.

But when the boss is home there's a difference. Only, of
course, him an' Chess keep their eyes peeled. They both stay to
home pretty much, except when they're playin' monte or poker
over at Benson's. So I say the best bet is to pick out a good
time in the afternoon, drift over careless-like with a couple
of hosses, choke Mrs. Bland or knock her on the head, take
Jennie with you, an' make a rush to git out of the valley. If
you had luck you might pull thet stunt without throwin' a gun.
But I reckon the best figgerin' would include dodgin' some lead
an' leavin' at least Bland or Alloway dead behind you. I'm
figgerin', of course, thet when they come home an' find out
you're visitin' Kate frequent they'll jest naturally look fer
results. Chess don't like you, fer no reason except you're
swift on the draw--mebbe swifter 'n him. Thet's the hell of
this gun-play business. No one can ever tell who's the swifter
of two gunmen till they meet. Thet fact holds a fascination
mebbe you'll learn some day. Bland would treat you civil onless
there was reason not to, an' then I don't believe he'd invite
himself to a meetin' with you. He'd set Chess or Rugg to put
you out of the way. Still Bland's no coward, an' if you came
across him at a bad moment you'd have to be quicker 'n you was
with Bosomer."

"All right. I'll meet what comes," said Duane, quickly. "The
great point is to have horses ready and pick the right moment,
then rush the trick through."

"Thet's the ONLY chance fer success. An' you can't do it
alone."

"I'll have to. I wouldn't ask you to help me. Leave you
behind!"

"Wal, I'll take my chances," replied Euchre, gruffly. "I'm
goin' to help Jennie, you can gamble your last peso on thet.
There's only four men in this camp who would shoot me--Bland,
an' his right-hand pards, an' thet rabbit-faced Benson. If you
happened to put out Bland and Chess, I'd stand a good show with
the other two. Anyway, I'm old an' tired--what's the difference
if I do git plugged? I can risk as much as you, Buck, even if I
am afraid of gun-play. You said correct, 'Hosses ready, the
right minnit, then rush the trick.' Thet much 's settled. Now
let's figger all the little details."

They talked and planned, though in truth it was Euchre who
planned, Duane who listened and agreed. While awaiting the
return of Bland and his lieutenants it would be well for Duane
to grow friendly with the other outlaws, to sit in a few games
of monte, or show a willingness to spend a little money. The
two schemers were to call upon Mrs. Bland every day--Euchre to
carry messages of cheer and warning to Jennie, Duane to blind
the elder woman at any cost. These preliminaries decided upon,
they proceeded to put them into action.

No hard task was it to win the friendship of the most of those
good-natured outlaws. They were used to men of a better order
than theirs coming to the hidden camps and sooner or later
sinking to their lower level. Besides, with them everything was
easy come, easy go. That was why life itself went on so
carelessly and usually ended so cheaply. There were men among
them, however, that made Duane feel that terrible inexplicable
wrath rise in his breast. He could not bear to be near them. He
could not trust himself. He felt that any instant a word, a
deed, something might call too deeply to that instinct he could
no longer control. Jackrabbit Benson was one of these men.
Because of him and other outlaws of his ilk Duane could
scarcely ever forget the reality of things. This was a hidden
valley, a robbers' den, a rendezvous for murderers, a wild
place stained red by deeds of wild men. And because of that
there was always a charged atmosphere. The merriest, idlest,
most careless moment might in the flash of an eye end in
ruthless and tragic action. In an assemblage of desperate
characters it could not be otherwise. The terrible thing that
Duane sensed was this. The valley was beautiful, sunny,
fragrant, a place to dream in; the mountaintops were always
blue or gold rimmed, the yellow river slid slowly and
majestically by, the birds sang in the cottonwoods, the horses
grazed and pranced, children played and women longed for love,
freedom, happiness; the outlaws rode in and out, free with
money and speech; they lived comfortably in their adobe homes,
smoked, gambled, talked, laughed, whiled away the idle
hours--and all the time life there was wrong, and the simplest
moment might be precipitated by that evil into the most awful
of contrasts. Duane felt rather than saw a dark, brooding
shadow over the valley.

Then, without any solicitation or encouragement from Duane, the
Bland woman fell passionately in love with him. His conscience
was never troubled about the beginning of that affair. She
launched herself. It took no great perspicuity on his part to
see that. And the thing which evidently held her in check was
the newness, the strangeness, and for the moment the
all-satisfying fact of his respect for her. Duane exerted
himself to please, to amuse, to interest, to fascinate her, and
always with deference. That was his strong point, and it had
made his part easy so far. He believed he could carry the whole
scheme through without involving himself any deeper.

He was playing at a game of love--playing with life and deaths
Sometimes he trembled, not that he feared Bland or Alloway or
any other man, but at the deeps of life he had come to see
into. He was carried out of his old mood. Not once since this
daring motive had stirred him had he been haunted by the
phantom of Bain beside his bed. Rather had he been haunted by
Jennie's sad face, her wistful smile, her eyes. He never was
able to speak a word to her. What little communication he had
with her was through Euchre, who carried short messages. But he
caught glimpses of her every time he went to the Bland house.
She contrived somehow to pass door or window, to give him a
look when chance afforded. And Duane discovered with surprise
that these moments were more thrilling to him than any with
Mrs. Bland. Often Duane knew Jennie was sitting just inside the
window, and then he felt inspired in his talk, and it was all
made for her. So at least she came to know him while as yet she
was almost a stranger. Jennie had been instructed by Euchre to
listen, to understand that this was Duane's only chance to help
keep her mind from constant worry, to gather the import of
every word which had a double meaning.

Euchre said that the girl had begun to wither under the strain,
to burn up with intense hope which had flamed within her. But
all the difference Duane could see was a paler face and darker,
more wonderful eyes. The eyes seemed to be entreating him to
hurry, that time was flying, that soon it might be too late.
Then there was another meaning in them, a light, a strange fire
wholly inexplicable to Duane. It was only a flash gone in an
instant. But he remembered it because he had never seen it in
any other woman's eyes. And all through those waiting days he
knew that Jennie's face, and especially the warm, fleeting
glance she gave him, was responsible for a subtle and gradual
change in him. This change he fancied, was only that through
remembrance of her he got rid of his pale, sickening ghosts.

One day a careless Mexican threw a lighted cigarette up into
the brush matting that served as a ceiling for Benson's den,
and there was a fire which left little more than the adobe
walls standing. The result was that while repairs were being
made there was no gambling and drinking. Time hung very heavily
on the hands of some two-score outlaws. Days passed by without
a brawl, and Bland's valley saw more successive hours of peace
than ever before. Duane, however, found the hours anything but
empty. He spent more time at Mrs. Bland's; he walked miles on
all the trails leading out of the valley; he had a care for the
condition of his two horses.

Upon his return from the latest of these tramps Euchre
suggested that they go down to the river to the boat-landing.

"Ferry couldn't run ashore this mornin'," said Euchre. "River
gettin' low an' sand-bars makin' it hard fer hosses. There's a
greaser freight-wagon stuck in the mud. I reckon we might hear
news from the freighters. Bland's supposed to be in Mexico."

Nearly all the outlaws in camp were assembled on the riverbank,
lolling in the shade of the cottonwoods. The heat was
oppressive. Not an outlaw offered to help the freighters, who
were trying to dig a heavily freighted wagon out of the
quicksand. Few outlaws would work for themselves, let alone for
the despised Mexicans.

Duane and Euchre joined the lazy group and sat down with them.
Euchre lighted a black pipe, and, drawing his hat over his
eyes, lay back in comfort after the manner of the majority of
the outlaws. But Duane was alert, observing, thoughtful. He
never missed anything. It was his belief that any moment an
idle word might be of benefit to him. Moreover, these rough men
were always interesting.

"Bland's been chased across the river," said one.

"New, he's deliverin' cattle to thet Cuban ship," replied
another.

"Big deal on, hey?"

"Some big. Rugg says the boss hed an order fer fifteen
thousand."

"Say, that order'll take a year to fill."

"New. Hardin is in cahoots with Bland. Between 'em they'll fill
orders bigger 'n thet."

"Wondered what Hardin was rustlin' in here fer."

Duane could not possibly attend to all the conversation among
the outlaws. He endeavored to get the drift of talk nearest to
him.

"Kid Fuller's goin' to cash," said a sandy-whiskered little
outlaw.

"So Jim was tellin' me. Blood-poison, ain't it? Thet hole
wasn't bad. But he took the fever," rejoined a comrade.

"Deger says the Kid might pull through if he hed nursin'."

"Wal, Kate Bland ain't nursin' any shot-up boys these days. She
hasn't got time."

A laugh followed this sally; then came a penetrating silence.
Some of the outlaws glanced good-naturedly at Duane. They bore
him no ill will. Manifestly they were aware of Mrs. Bland's
infatuation.

"Pete, 'pears to me you've said thet before."

"Shore. Wal, it's happened before."

This remark drew louder laughter and more significant glances
at Duane. He did not choose to ignore them any longer.

"Boys, poke all the fun you like at me, but don't mention any
lady's name again. My hand is nervous and itchy these days."

He smiled as he spoke, and his speech was drawled; but the good
humor in no wise weakened it. Then his latter remark was
significant to a class of men who from inclination and
necessity practiced at gun-drawing until they wore callous and
sore places on their thumbs and inculcated in the very deeps of
their nervous organization a habit that made even the simplest
and most innocent motion of the hand end at or near the hip.
There was something remarkable about a gun-fighter's hand. It
never seemed to be gloved, never to be injured, never out of
sight or in an awkward position.

There were grizzled outlaws in that group, some of whom had
many notches on their gun-handles, and they, with their
comrades, accorded Duane silence that carried conviction of the
regard in which he was held.

Duane could not recall any other instance where he had let fall
a familiar speech to these men, and certainly he had never
before hinted of his possibilities. He saw instantly that he
could not have done better.

"Orful hot, ain't it?" remarked Bill Black, presently. Bill
could not keep quiet for long. He was a typical Texas
desperado, had never been anything else. He was
stoop-shouldered and bow-legged from much riding; a wiry little
man, all muscle, with a square head, a hard face partly black
from scrubby beard and red from sun, and a bright, roving,
cruel eye. His shirt was open at the neck, showing a grizzled
breast.

"Is there any guy in this heah outfit sport enough to go
swimmin'?" he asked.

"My Gawd, Bill, you ain't agoin' to wash!" exclaimed a comrade.

This raised a laugh in which Black joined. But no one seemed
eager to join him in a bath.

"Laziest outfit I ever rustled with," went on Bill,
discontentedly. "Nuthin' to do! Say, if nobody wants to swim
maybe some of you'll gamble?"

He produced a dirty pack of cards and waved them at the
motionless crowd.

"Bill, you're too good at cards," replied a lanky outlaw.

"Now, Jasper, you say thet powerful sweet, an' you look sweet,
er I might take it to heart," replied Black, with a sudden
change of tone.

Here it was again--that upflashing passion. What Jasper saw fit
to reply would mollify the outlaw or it would not. There was an
even balance.

"No offense, Bill," said Jasper, placidly, without moving.

Bill grunted and forgot Jasper. But he seemed restless and
dissatisfied. Duane knew him to be an inveterate gambler. And
as Benson's place was out of running-order, Black was like a
fish on dry land.

"Wal, if you-all are afraid of the cairds, what will you bet
on?" he asked, in disgust.

"Bill, I'll play you a game of mumbly peg fer two bits."
replied one.

Black eagerly accepted. Betting to him was a serious matter.
The game obsessed him, not the stakes. He entered into the
mumbly peg contest with a thoughtful mien and a corded brow. He
won. Other comrades tried their luck with him and lost.
Finally, when Bill had exhausted their supply of two-bit pieces
or their desire for that particular game, he offered to bet on
anything.

"See thet turtle-dove there?" he said, pointing. "I'll bet
he'll scare at one stone or he won't. Five pesos he'll fly or
he won't fly when some one chucks a stone. Who'll take me up?"

That appeared to be more than the gambling spirit of several
outlaws could withstand.

"Take thet. Easy money," said one.

"Who's goin' to chuck the stone?" asked another.

"Anybody," replied Bill.

"Wal, I'll bet you I can scare him with one stone," said the
first outlaw.

"We're in on thet, Jim to fire the darnick," chimed in the
others.

The money was put up, the stone thrown. The turtle-dove took
flight, to the great joy of all the outlaws except Bill.

"I'll bet you-all he'll come back to thet tree inside of five
minnits," he offered, imperturbably.

Hereupon the outlaws did not show any laziness in their
alacrity to cover Bill's money as it lay on the grass. Somebody
had a watch, and they all sat down, dividing attention between
the timepiece and the tree. The minutes dragged by to the
accompaniment of various jocular remarks anent a fool and his
money. When four and three-quarter minutes had passed a
turtle-dove alighted in the cottonwood. Then ensued an
impressive silence while Bill calmly pocketed the fifty
dollars.

"But it hadn't the same dove!" exclaimed one outlaw, excitedly.
"This 'n'is smaller, dustier, not so purple."

Bill eyed the speaker loftily.

"Wal, you'll have to ketch the other one to prove thet. Sabe,
pard? Now I'll bet any gent heah the fifty I won thet I can
scare thet dove with one stone."

No one offered to take his wager.

"Wal, then, I'll bet any of you even money thet you CAN'T scare
him with one stone."

Not proof against this chance, the outlaws made up a purse, in
no wise disconcerted by Bill's contemptuous allusions to their
banding together. The stone was thrown. The dove did not fly.
Thereafter, in regard to that bird, Bill was unable to coax or
scorn his comrades into any kind of wager.

He tried them with a multiplicity of offers, and in vain. Then
he appeared at a loss for some unusual and seductive wager.
Presently a little ragged Mexican boy came along the river
trail, a particularly starved and poor-looking little fellow.
Bill called to him and gave him a handful of silver coins.
Speechless, dazed, he went his way hugging the money.

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