The Lone Star Ranger

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"I'll bet he drops some before he gits to the road," declared
Bill. "I'll bet he runs. Hurry, you four-flush gamblers."

Bill failed to interest any of his companions, and forthwith
became sullen and silent. Strangely his good humor departed in
spite of the fact that he had won considerable.

Duane, watching the disgruntled outlaw, marveled at him and
wondered what was in his mind. These men were more variable
than children, as unstable as water, as dangerous as dynamite.

"Bill, I'll bet you ten you can't spill whatever's in the
bucket thet peon's packin'," said the outlaw called Jim.

Black's head came up with the action of a hawk about to swoop.

Duane glanced from Black to the road, where he saw a crippled
peon carrying a tin bucket toward the river. This peon was a
half-witted Indian who lived in a shack and did odd jobs for
the Mexicans. Duane had met him often.

"Jim, I'll take you up," replied Black.

Something, perhaps a harshness in his voice, caused Duane to
whirl. He caught a leaping gleam in the outlaw's eye.

"Aw, Bill, thet's too fur a shot," said Jasper, as Black rested
an elbow on his knee and sighted over the long, heavy Colt. The
distance to the peon was about fifty paces, too far for even
the most expert shot to hit a moving object so small as a
bucket.

Duane, marvelously keen in the alignment of sights, was
positive that Black held too high. Another look at the hard
face, now tense and dark with blood, confirmed Duane's
suspicion that the outlaw was not aiming at the bucket at all.
Duane leaped and struck the leveled gun out of his hand.
Another outlaw picked it up.

Black fell back astounded. Deprived of his weapon, he did not
seem the same man, or else he was cowed by Duane's significant
and formidable front. Sullenly he turned away without even
asking for his gun.

CHAPTER VIII

What a contrast, Duane thought, the evening of that day
presented to the state of his soul!

The sunset lingered in golden glory over the distant Mexican
mountains; twilight came slowly; a faint breeze blew from the
river cool and sweet; the late cooing of a dove and the tinkle
of a cowbell were the only sounds; a serene and tranquil peace
lay over the valley.

Inside Duane's body there was strife. This third facing of a
desperate man had thrown him off his balance. It had not been
fatal, but it threatened so much. The better side of his nature
seemed to urge him to die rather than to go on fighting or
opposing ignorant, unfortunate, savage men. But the perversity
of him was so great that it dwarfed reason, conscience. He
could not resist it. He felt something dying in him. He
suffered. Hope seemed far away. Despair had seized upon him and
was driving him into a reckless mood when he thought of Jennie.

He had forgotten her. He had forgotten that he had promised to
save her. He had forgotten that he meant to snuff out as many
lives as might stand between her and freedom. The very
remembrance sheered off his morbid introspection. She made a
difference. How strange for him to realize that! He felt
grateful to her. He had been forced into outlawry; she had been
stolen from her people and carried into captivity. They had met
in the river fastness, he to instil hope into her despairing
life, she to be the means, perhaps, of keeping him from sinking
to the level of her captors. He became conscious of a strong
and beating desire to see her, talk with her.

These thoughts had run through his mind while on his way to
Mrs. Bland's house. He had let Euchre go on ahead because he
wanted more time to compose himself. Darkness had about set in
when he reached his destination. There was no light in the
house. Mrs. Bland was waiting for him on the porch.

She embraced him, and the sudden, violent, unfamiliar contact
sent such a shock through him that he all but forgot the deep
game he was playing. She, however, in her agitation did not
notice his shrinking. From her embrace and the tender,
incoherent words that flowed with it he gathered that Euchre
had acquainted her of his action with Black.

"He might have killed your" she whispered, more clearly; and if
Duane had ever heard love in a voice he heard it then. It
softened him. After all, she was a woman, weak, fated through
her nature, unfortunate in her experience of life, doomed to
unhappiness and tragedy. He met her advance so far that he
returned the embrace and kissed her. Emotion such as she showed
would have made any woman sweet, and she had a certain charm.
It was easy, even pleasant, to kiss her; but Duane resolved
that, whatever her abandonment might become, he would not go
further than the lie she made him act.

"Buck, you love me?" she whispered.

"Yes--yes," he burst out, eager to get it over, and even as he
spoke he caught the pale gleam of Jennie's face through the
window. He felt a shame he was glad she could not see. Did she
remember that she had promised not to misunderstand any action
of his? What did she think of him, seeing him out there in the
dusk with this bold woman in his arms? Somehow that dim sight
of Jennie's pale face, the big dark eyes, thrilled him,
inspired him to his hard task of the present.

"Listen, dear," he said to the woman, and he meant his words
for the girl. "I'm going to take you away from this outlaw den
if I have to kill Bland, Alloway, Rugg--anybody who stands in
my path. You were dragged here. You are good--I know it.
There's happiness for you somewhere--a home among good people
who will care for you. Just wait till--"

His voice trailed off and failed from excess of emotion. Kate
Bland closed her eyes and leaned her head on his breast. Duane
felt her heart beat against his, and conscience smote him a
keen blow. If she loved him so much! But memory and
understanding of her character hardened him again, and he gave
her such commiseration as was due her sex, and no more.

"Boy, that's good of you," she whispered, "but it's too late.
I'm done for. I can't leave Bland. All I ask is that you love
me a little and stop your gun-throwing."

The moon had risen over the eastern bulge of dark mountain, and
now the valley was flooded with mellow light, and shadows of
cottonwoods wavered against the silver.

Suddenly the clip-clop, clip-clop of hoofs caused Duane to
raise his head and listen. Horses were coming down the road
from the head of the valley. The hour was unusual for riders to
come in. Presently the narrow, moonlit lane was crossed at its
far end by black moving objects. Two horses Duane discerned.

"It's Bland!" whispered the woman, grasping Duane with shaking
hands. "You must run! No, he'd see you. That 'd be worse. It's
Bland! I know his horse's trot."

"But you said he wouldn't mind my calling here," protested
Duane. "Euchre's with me. It'll be all right."

"Maybe so," she replied, with visible effort at self-control.
Manifestly she had a great fear of Bland. "If I could only
think!"

Then she dragged Duane to the door, pushed him in.

"Euchre, come out with me! Duane, you stay with the girl! I'll
tell Bland you're in love with her. Jen, if you give us away
I'll wring your neck."

The swift action and fierce whisper told Duane that Mrs. Bland
was herself again. Duane stepped close to Jennie, who stood
near the window. Neither spoke, but her hands were outstretched
to meet his own. They were small, trembling hands, cold as ice.
He held them close, trying to convey what he felt--that he
would protect her. She leaned against him, and they looked out
of the window. Duane felt calm and sure of himself. His most
pronounced feeling besides that for the frightened girl was a
curiosity as to how Mrs. Bland would rise to the occasion. He
saw the riders dismount down the lane and wearily come forward.
A boy led away the horses. Euchre, the old fox, was talking
loud and with remarkable ease, considering what he claimed was
his natural cowardice.

"--that was way back in the sixties, about the time of the
war," he was saying. "Rustlin' cattle wasn't nuthin' then to
what it is now. An' times is rougher these days. This
gun-throwin' has come to be a disease. Men have an itch for the
draw same as they used to have fer poker. The only real gambler
outside of greasers we ever had here was Bill, an' I presume
Bill is burnin' now."

The approaching outlaws, hearing voices, halted a rod or so
from the porch. Then Mrs. Bland uttered an exclamation,
ostensibly meant to express surprise, and hurried out to meet
them. She greeted her husband warmly and gave welcome to the
other man. Duane could not see well enough in the shadow to
recognize Bland's companion, but he believed it was Alloway.

"Dog-tired we are and starved," said Bland, heavily. "Who's
here with you?"

"That's Euchre on the porch. Duane is inside at the window with
Jen," replied Mrs. Bland.

"Duane!" he exclaimed. Then he whispered low--something Duane
could not catch.

"Why, I asked him to come," said the chief's wife. She spoke
easily and naturally and made no change in tone. "Jen has been
ailing. She gets thinner and whiter every day. Duane came here
one day with Euchre, saw Jen, and went loony over her pretty
face, same as all you men. So I let him come."

Bland cursed low and deep under his breath. The other man made
a violent action of some kind and apparently was quieted by a
restraining hand.

"Kate, you let Duane make love to Jennie?" queried Bland,
incredulously.

"Yes, I did," replied the wife, stubbornly. "Why not? Jen's in
love with him. If he takes her away and marries her she can be
a decent woman."

Bland kept silent a moment, then his laugh pealed out loud and
harsh.

"Chess, did you get that? Well, by God! what do you think of my
wife?"

"She's lyin' or she's crazy," replied Alloway, and his voice
carried an unpleasant ring.

Mrs. Bland promptly and indignantly told her husband's
lieutenant to keep his mouth shut.

"Ho, ho, ho!" rolled out Bland's laugh.

Then he led the way to the porch, his spurs clinking, the
weapons he was carrying rattling, and he flopped down on a
bench.

"How are you, boss?" asked Euchre.

"Hello, old man. I'm well, but all in."

Alloway slowly walked on to the porch and leaned against the
rail. He answered Euchre's greeting with a nod. Then he stood
there a dark, silent figure.

Mrs. Bland's full voice in eager questioning had a tendency to
ease the situation. Bland replied briefly to her, reporting a
remarkably successful trip.

Duane thought it time to show himself. He had a feeling that
Bland and Alloway would let him go for the moment. They were
plainly non-plussed, and Alloway seemed sullen, brooding.
"Jennie," whispered Duane, "that was clever of Mrs. Bland.
We'll keep up the deception. Any day now be ready!"

She pressed close to him, and a barely audible "Hurry!" came
breathing into his ear.

"Good night, Jennie," he said, aloud. "Hope you feel better
to-morrow."

Then he stepped out into the moonlight and spoke. Bland
returned the greeting, and, though he was not amiable, he did
not show resentment.

"Met Jasper as I rode in," said Bland, presently. "He told me
you made Bill Black mad, and there's liable to be a fight. What
did you go off the handle about?"

Duane explained the incident. "I'm sorry I happened to be
there," he went on. "It wasn't my business."

"Scurvy trick that 'd been," muttered Bland. "You did right.
All the same, Duane, I want you to stop quarreling with my men.
If you were one of us--that'd be different. I can't keep my men
from fighting. But I'm not called on to let an outsider hang
around my camp and plug my rustlers."

"I guess I'll have to be hitting the trail for somewhere," said
Duane.

"Why not join my band? You've got a bad start already, Duane,
and if I know this border you'll never be a respectable citizen
again. You're a born killer. I know every bad man on this
frontier. More than one of them have told me that something
exploded in their brain, and when sense came back there lay
another dead man. It's not so with me. I've done a little
shooting, too, but I never wanted to kill another man just to
rid myself of the last one. My dead men don't sit on my chest
at night. That's the gun-fighter's trouble. He's crazy. He has
to kill a new man--he's driven to it to forget the last one."

"But I'm no gun-fighter," protested Duane. "Circumstances made
me--"

"No doubt," interrupted Bland, with a laugh. "Circumstances
made me a rustler. You don't know yourself. You're young;
you've got a temper; your father was one of the most dangerous
men Texas ever had. I don't see any other career for you.
Instead of going it alone--a lone wolf, as the Texans say--why
not make friends with other outlaws? You'll live longer."

Euchre squirmed in his seat.

"Boss, I've been givin' the boy egzactly thet same line of
talk. Thet's why I took him in to bunk with me. If he makes
pards among us there won't be any more trouble. An' he'd be a
grand feller fer the gang. I've seen Wild Bill Hickok throw a
gun, an' Billy the Kid, an' Hardin, an' Chess here--all the
fastest men on the border. An' with apologies to present
company, I'm here to say Duane has them all skinned. His draw
is different. You can't see how he does it."

Euchre's admiring praise served to create an effective little
silence. Alloway shifted uneasily on his feet, his spurs
jangling faintly, and did not lift his head. Bland seemed
thoughtful.

"That's about the only qualification I have to make me eligible
for your band," said Duane, easily.

"It's good enough," replied Bland, shortly. "Will you consider
the idea?"

"I'll think it over. Good night."

He left the group, followed by Euchre. When they reached the
end of the lane, and before they had exchanged a word, Bland
called Euchre back. Duane proceeded slowly along the moonlit
road to the cabin and sat down under the cottonwoods to wait
for Euchre. The night was intense and quiet, a low hum of
insects giving the effect of a congestion of life. The beauty
of the soaring moon, the ebony canons of shadow under the
mountain, the melancholy serenity of the perfect night, made
Duane shudder in the realization of how far aloof he now was
from enjoyment of these things. Never again so long as he lived
could he be natural. His mind was clouded. His eye and ear
henceforth must register impressions of nature, but the joy of
them had fled.

Still, as he sat there with a foreboding of more and darker
work ahead of him there was yet a strange sweetness left to
him, and it lay in thought of Jennie. The pressure of her cold
little hands lingered in his. He did not think of her as a
woman, and he did not analyze his feelings. He just had vague,
dreamy thoughts and imaginations that were interspersed in the
constant and stern revolving of plans to save her.

A shuffling step roused him. Euchre's dark figure came crossing
the moonlit grass under the cottonwoods. The moment the outlaw
reached him Duane saw that he was laboring under great
excitement. It scarcely affected Duane. He seemed to be
acquiring patience, calmness, strength.

"Bland kept you pretty long," he said.

"Wait till I git my breath," replied Euchre. He sat silent a
little while, fanning himself with a sombrero, though the night
was cool, and then he went into the cabin to return presently
with a lighted pipe.

"Fine night," he said; and his tone further acquainted Duane
with Euchre's quaint humor. "Fine night for love-affairs, by
gum!"

"I'd noticed that," rejoined Duane, dryly.

"Wal, I'm a son of a gun if I didn't stand an' watch Bland
choke his wife till her tongue stuck out an' she got black in
the face."

"No!" ejaculated Duane.

"Hope to die if I didn't. Buck, listen to this here yarn. When
I got back to the porch I seen Bland was wakin' up. He'd been
too fagged out to figger much. Alloway an' Kate had gone in the
house, where they lit up the lamps. I heard Kate's high voice,
but Alloway never chirped. He's not the talkin' kind, an' he's
damn dangerous when he's thet way. Bland asked me some
questions right from the shoulder. I was ready for them, an' I
swore the moon was green cheese. He was satisfied. Bland always
trusted me, an' liked me, too, I reckon. I hated to lie black
thet way. But he's a hard man with bad intentions toward
Jennie, an' I'd double-cross him any day.

"Then we went into the house. Jennie had gone to her little
room, an' Bland called her to come out. She said she was
undressin'. An' he ordered her to put her clothes back on.
Then, Buck, his next move was some surprisin'. He deliberately
thronged a gun on Kate. Yes sir, he pointed his big blue Colt
right at her, an' he says:

"'I've a mind to blow out your brains.'

"'Go ahead,' says Kate, cool as could be.

"'You lied to me,' he roars.

"Kate laughed in his face. Bland slammed the gun down an' made
a grab fer her. She fought him, but wasn't a match fer him, an'
he got her by the throat. He choked her till I thought she was
strangled. Alloway made him stop. She flopped down on the bed
an' gasped fer a while. When she come to them hardshelled
cusses went after her, trying to make her give herself away. I
think Bland was jealous. He suspected she'd got thick with you
an' was foolin' him. I reckon thet's a sore feelin' fer a man
to have--to guess pretty nice, but not to BE sure. Bland gave
it up after a while. An' then he cussed an' raved at her. One
sayin' of his is worth pinnin' in your sombrero: 'It ain't
nuthin' to kill a man. I don't need much fer thet. But I want
to KNOW, you hussy!'

"Then he went in an' dragged poor Jen out. She'd had time to
dress. He was so mad he hurt her sore leg. You know Jen got
thet injury fightin' off one of them devils in the dark. An'
when I seen Bland twist her--hurt her--I had a queer hot
feelin' deep down in me, an' fer the only time in my life I
wished I was a gun-fighter.

"Wal, Jen amazed me. She was whiter'n a sheet, an' her eyes
were big and stary, but she had nerve. Fust time I ever seen
her show any.

"'Jennie,' he said, 'my wife said Duane came here to see you. I
believe she's lyin'. I think she's been carryin' on with him,
an' I want to KNOW. If she's been an' you tell me the truth
I'll let you go. I'll send you out to Huntsville, where you can
communicate with your friends. I'll give you money.'

"Thet must hev been a hell of a minnit fer Kate Bland. If evet
I seen death in a man's eye I seen it in Bland's. He loves her.
Thet's the strange part of it.

"'Has Duane been comin' here to see my wife?' Bland asked,
fierce-like.

"'No,' said Jennie.

"'He's been after you?'

"'Yes.'

"'He has fallen in love with you? Kate said thet.'

"'I--I'm not--I don't know--he hasn't told me.'

"'But you're in love with him?'

"'Yes,' she said; an', Buck, if you only could have seen her!
She thronged up her head, an' her eyes were full of fire. Bland
seemed dazed at sight of her. An' Alloway, why, thet little
skunk of an outlaw cried right out. He was hit plumb center.
He's in love with Jen. An' the look of her then was enough to
make any feller quit. He jest slunk out of the room. I told
you, mebbe, thet he'd been tryin' to git Bland to marry Jen to
him. So even a tough like Alloway can love a woman!

"Bland stamped up an' down the room. He sure was dyin' hard.

"'Jennie,' he said, once more turnin' to her. 'You swear in
fear of your life thet you're tellin' truth. Kate's not in love
with Duane? She's let him come to see you? There's been nuthin'
between them?'

"'No. I swear,' answered Jennie; an' Bland sat down like a man
licked.

"'Go to bed, you white-faced--' Bland choked on some word or
other--a bad one, I reckon--an' he positively shook in his
chair.

"Jennie went then, an' Kate began to have hysterics. An' your
Uncle Euchre ducked his nut out of the door an' come home."

Duane did not have a word to say at the end of Euchre's long
harangue. He experienced relief. As a matter of fact, he had
expected a good deal worse. He thrilled at the thought of
Jennie perjuring herself to save that abandoned woman. What
mysteries these feminine creatures were!

"Wal, there's where our little deal stands now," resumed
Euchre, meditatively. "You know, Buck, as well as me thet if
you'd been some feller who hadn't shown he was a wonder with a
gun you'd now be full of lead. If you'd happen to kill Bland
an' Alloway, I reckon you'd be as safe on this here border as
you would in Santone. Such is gun fame in this land of the
draw."

CHAPTER IX

Both men were awake early, silent with the premonition of
trouble ahead, thoughtful of the fact that the time for the
long-planned action was at hand. It was remarkable that a man
as loquacious as Euchre could hold his tongue so long; and this
was significant of the deadly nature of the intended deed.
During breakfast he said a few words customary in the service
of food. At the conclusion of the meal he seemed to come to an
end of deliberation.

"Buck, the sooner the better now," he declared, with a glint in
his eye. "The more time we use up now the less surprised
Bland'll be."

"I'm ready when you are," replied Duane, quietly, and he rose
from the table.

"Wal, saddle up, then," went on Euchre, gruffly. "Tie on them
two packs I made, one fer each saddle. You can't tell--mebbe
either hoss will be carryin' double. It's good they're both
big, strong hosses. Guess thet wasn't a wise move of your Uncle
Euchre's--bringin' in your hosses an' havin' them ready?"

"Euchre, I hope you're not going to get in bad here. I'm afraid
you are. Let me do the rest now," said Duane.

The old outlaw eyed him sarcastically.

"Thet 'd be turrible now, wouldn't it? If you want to know,
why, I'm in bad already. I didn't tell you thet Alloway called
me last night. He's gettin' wise pretty quick."

"Euchre, you're going with me?" queried Duane, suddenly
divining the truth. '

"Wal, I reckon. Either to hell or safe over the mountain! I
wisht I was a gun-fighter. I hate to leave here without takin'
a peg at Jackrabbit Benson. Now, Buck, you do some hard
figgerin' while I go nosin' round. It's pretty early, which 's
all the better."

Euchre put on his sombrero, and as he went out Duane saw that
he wore a gun-and-cartridge belt. It was the first time Duane
had ever seen the outlaw armed.

Duane packed his few belongings into his saddlebags, and then
carried the saddles out to the corral. An abundance of alfalfa
in the corral showed that the horses had fared well. They had
gotten almost fat during his stay in the valley. He watered
them, put on the saddles loosely cinched, and then the bridles.
His next move was to fill the two canvas water-bottles. That
done, he returned to the cabin to wait.

At the moment he felt no excitement or agitation of any kind.
There was no more thinking and planning to do. The hour had
arrived, and he was ready. He understood perfectly the
desperate chances he must take. His thoughts became confined to
Euchre and the surprising loyalty and goodness in the hardened
old outlaw. Time passed slowly. Duane kept glancing at his
watch. He hoped to start the thing and get away before the
outlaws were out of their beds. Finally he heard the shuffle of
Euchre's boots on the hard path. The sound was quicker than
usual.

When Euchre came around the corner of the cabin Duane was not
so astounded as he was concerned to see the outlaw white and
shaking. Sweat dripped from him. He had a wild look.

"Luck ours--so-fur, Buck!" he panted.

"You don't look it," replied Duane.

"I'm turrible sick. Jest killed a man. Fust one I ever killed!"

"Who?" asked Duane, startled.

"Jackrabbit Benson. An' sick as I am, I'm gloryin' in it. I
went nosin' round up the road. Saw Alloway goin' into Deger's.
He's thick with the Degers. Reckon he's askin' questions.
Anyway, I was sure glad to see him away from Bland's. An' he
didn't see me. When I dropped into Benson's there wasn't nobody
there but Jackrabbit an' some greasers he was startin' to work.
Benson never had no use fer me. An' he up an' said he wouldn't
give a two-bit piece fer my life. I asked him why.

"'You're double-crossin' the boss an' Chess,' he said.

"'Jack, what 'd you give fer your own life?' I asked him.

"He straightened up surprised an' mean-lookin'. An' I let him
have it, plumb center! He wilted, an' the greasers run. I
reckon I'll never sleep again. But I had to do it."

Duane asked if the shot had attracted any attention outside.

"I didn't see anybody but the greasers, an' I sure looked
sharp. Comin' back I cut across through the cottonwoods past
Bland's cabin. I meant to keep out of sight, but somehow I had
an idee I might find out if Bland was awake yet. Sure enough I
run plumb into Beppo, the boy who tends Bland's hosses. Beppo
likes me. An' when I inquired of his boss he said Bland had
been up all night fightin' with the Senora. An', Buck, here's
how I figger. Bland couldn't let up last night. He was sore,
an' he went after Kate again, tryin' to wear her down. Jest as
likely he might have went after Jennie, with wuss intentions.
Anyway, he an' Kate must have had it hot an' heavy. We're
pretty lucky."

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