The Lone Star Ranger

Z >> Zane Grey >> The Lone Star Ranger

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"It seems so. Well, I'm going," said Duane, tersely.

"Lucky! I should smiler Bland's been up all night after a most
draggin' ride home. He'll be fagged out this mornin', sleepy,
sore, an' he won't be expectin' hell before breakfast. Now, you
walk over to his house. Meet him how you like. Thet's your
game. But I'm suggestin', if he comes out an' you want to
parley, you can jest say you'd thought over his proposition an'
was ready to join his band, or you ain't. You'll have to kill
him, an' it 'd save time to go fer your gun on sight. Might be
wise, too, fer it's likely he'll do thet same."

"How about the horses?"

"I'll fetch them an' come along about two minnits behind you.
'Pears to me you ought to have the job done an' Jennie outside
by the time I git there. Once on them hosses, we can ride out
of camp before Alloway or anybody else gits into action. Jennie
ain't much heavier than a rabbit. Thet big black will carry you
both."

"All right. But once more let me persuade you to stay--not to
mix any more in this," said Duane, earnestly.

"Nope. I'm goin'. You heard what Benson told me. Alloway
wouldn't give me the benefit of any doubts. Buck, a last
word--look out fer thet Bland woman!"

Duane merely nodded, and then, saying that the horses were
ready, he strode away through the grove. Accounting for the
short cut across grove and field, it was about five minutes'
walk up to Bland's house. To Duane it seemed long in time and
distance, and he had difficulty in restraining his pace. As he
walked there came a gradual and subtle change in his feelings.
Again he was going out to meet a man in conflict. He could have
avoided this meeting. But despite the fact of his courting the
encounter he had not as yet felt that hot, inexplicable rush of
blood. The motive of this deadly action was not personal, and
somehow that made a difference.

No outlaws were in sight. He saw several Mexican herders with
cattle. Blue columns of smoke curled up over some of the
cabins. The fragrant smell of it reminded Duane of his home and
cutting wood for the stove. He noted a cloud of creamy mist
rising above the river, dissolving in the sunlight.

Then he entered Bland's lane.

While yet some distance from the cabin he heard loud, angry
voices of man and woman. Bland and Kate still quarreling! He
took a quick survey of the surroundings. There was now not even
a Mexican in sight. Then he hurried a little. Halfway down the
lane he turned his head to peer through the cottonwoods. This
time he saw Euchre coming with the horses. There was no
indication that the old outlaw might lose his nerve at the end.
Duane had feared this.

Duane now changed his walk to a leisurely saunter. He reached
the porch and then distinguished what was said inside the
cabin.

"If you do, Bland, by Heaven I'll fix you and her!" That was
panted out in Kate Bland's full voice.

"Let me looser I'm going in there, I tell you!" replied Bland,
hoarsely.

"What for?"

"I want to make a little love to her. Ha! ha! It'll be fun to
have the laugh on her new lover."

"You lie!" cried Kate Bland.

"I'm not saying what I'll do to her AFTERWARD!" His voice grew
hoarser with passion. "Let me go now!"

"No! no! I won't let you go. You'll choke the--the truth out of
her--you'll kill her."

"The TRUTH!" hissed Bland.

"Yes. I lied. Jen lied. But she lied to save me. You
needn't--murder her--for that."

Bland cursed horribly. Then followed a wrestling sound of
bodies in violent straining contact--the scrape of feet--the
jangle of spurs--a crash of sliding table or chair, and then
the cry of a woman in pain.

Duane stepped into the open door, inside the room. Kate Bland
lay half across a table where she had been flung, and she was
trying to get to her feet. Bland's back was turned. He had
opened the door into Jennie's room and had one foot across the
threshold. Duane caught the girl's low, shuddering cry. Then he
called out loud and clear.

With cat-like swiftness Bland wheeled, then froze on the
threshold. His sight, quick as his action, caught Duane's
menacing unmistakable position.

Bland's big frame filled the door. He was in a bad place to
reach for his gun. But he would not have time for a step. Duane
read in his eyes the desperate calculation of chances. For a
fleeting instant Bland shifted his glance to his wife. Then his
whole body seemed to vibrate with the swing of his arm.

Duane shot him. He fell forward, his gun exploding as it hit
into the floor, and dropped loose from stretching fingers.
Duane stood over him, stooped to turn him on his back. Bland
looked up with clouded gaze, then gasped his last.

"Duane, you've killed him!" cried Kate Bland, huskily. "I knew
you'd have to!"

She staggered against the wall, her eyes dilating, her strong
hands clenching, her face slowly whitening. She appeared
shocked, half stunned, but showed no grief.

"Jennie!" called Duane, sharply.

"Oh--Duane!" came a halting reply.

"Yes. Come out. Hurry!"

She came out with uneven steps, seeing only him, and she
stumbled over Bland's body. Duane caught her arm, swung her
behind him. He feared the woman when she realized how she had
been duped. His action was protective, and his movement toward
the door equally as significant.

"Duane," cried Mrs. Bland.

It was no time for talk. Duane edged on, keeping Jennie behind
him. At that moment there was a pounding of iron-shod hoofs out
in the lane. Kate Bland bounded to the door. When she turned
back her amazement was changing to realization.

"Where 're you taking Jen?" she cried, her voice like a man's.
"Get out of my way," replied Duane. His look perhaps, without
speech, was enough for her. In an instant she was transformed
into a fury.

"You hound! All the time you were fooling me! You made love to
me! You let me believe--you swore you loved me! Now I see what
was queer about you. All for that girl! But you can't have her.
You'll never leave here alive. Give me that girl! Let me--get
at her! She'll never win any more men in this camp."

She was a powerful woman, and it took all Duane's strength to
ward off her onslaughts. She clawed at Jennie over his upheld
arm. Every second her fury increased.

"HELP! HELP! HELP!" she shrieked, in a voice that must have
penetrated to the remotest cabin in the valley.

"Let go! Let go!" cried Duane, low and sharp. He still held his
gun in his right hand, and it began to be hard for him to ward
the woman off. His coolness had gone with her shriek for help.
"Let go!" he repeated, and he shoved her fiercely.

Suddenly she snatched a rifle off the wall and backed away, her
strong hands fumbling at the lever. As she jerked it down,
throwing a shell into the chamber and cocking the weapon, Duane
leaped upon her. He struck up the rifle as it went off, the
powder burning his face.

"Jennie, run out! Get on a horse!" he said.

Jennie flashed out of the door.

With an iron grasp Duane held to the rifle-barrel. He had
grasped it with his left hand, and he gave such a pull that he
swung the crazed woman off the floor. But he could not loose
her grip. She was as strong as he.

"Kate! Let go!"

He tried to intimidate her. She did not see his gun thrust in
her face, or reason had given way to such an extent to passion
that she did not care. She cursed. Her husband had used the
same curses, and from her lips they seemed strange, unsexed,
more deadly. Like a tigress she fought him; her face no longer
resembled a woman's. The evil of that outlaw life, the wildness
and rage, the meaning to kill, was even in such a moment
terribly impressed upon Duane.

He heard a cry from outside--a man's cry, hoarse and alarming.

It made him think of loss of time. This demon of a woman might
yet block his plan.

"Let go!" he whispered, and felt his lips stiff. In the
grimness of that instant he relaxed his hold on the
rifle-barrel.

With sudden, redoubled, irresistible strength she wrenched the
rifle down and discharged it. Duane felt a blow--a shock--a
burning agony tearing through his breast. Then in a frenzy he
jerked so powerfully upon the rifle that he threw the woman
against the wall. She fell and seemed stunned.

Duane leaped back, whirled, flew out of the door to the porch.
The sharp cracking of a gun halted him. He saw Jennie holding
to the bridle of his bay horse. Euchre was astride the other,
and he had a Colt leveled, and he was firing down the lane.
Then came a single shot, heavier, and Euchre's ceased. He fell
from the horse.

A swift glance back showed to Duane a man coming down the lane.
Chess Alloway! His gun was smoking. He broke into a run. Then
in an instant he saw Duane, and tried to check his pace as he
swung up his arm. But that slight pause was fatal. Duane shot,
and Alloway was falling when his gun went off. His bullet
whistled close to Duane and thudded into the cabin.

Duane bounded down to the horses. Jennie was trying to hold the
plunging bay. Euchre lay flat on his back, dead, a bullet-hole
in his shirt, his face set hard, and his hands twisted round
gun and bridle.

"Jennie, you've nerve, all right!" cried Duane, as he dragged
down the horse she was holding. "Up with you now! There! Never
mind--long stirrups! Hang on somehow!"

He caught his bridle out of Euchre's clutching grip and leaped
astride. The frightened horses jumped into a run and thundered
down the lane into the road. Duane saw men running from cabins.
He heard shouts. But there were no shots fired. Jennie seemed
able to stay on her horse, but without stirrups she was thrown
about so much that Duane rode closer and reached out to grasp
her arm.

Thus they rode through the valley to the trail that led up
over, the steep and broken Rim Rock. As they began to climb
Duane looked back. No pursuers were in sight.

"Jennie, we're going to get away!" he cried, exultation for her
in his voice.

She was gazing horror-stricken at his breast, as in turning to
look back he faced her.

"Oh, Duane, your shirt's all bloody!" she faltered, pointing
with trembling fingers.

With her words Duane became aware of two things--the hand he
instinctively placed to his breast still held his gun, and he
had sustained a terrible wound.

Duane had been shot through the breast far enough down to give
him grave apprehension of his life. The clean-cut hole made by
the bullet bled freely both at its entrance and where it had
come out, but with no signs of hemorrhage. He did not bleed at
the mouth; however, he began to cough up a reddish-tinged foam.

As they rode on, Jennie, with pale face and mute lips, looked
at him.

"I'm badly hurt, Jennie," he said, "but I guess I'll stick it
out."

"The woman--did she shoot you?"

"Yes. She was a devil. Euchre told me to look out for her. I
wasn't quick enough."

"You didn't have to--to--" shivered the girl.

"No! no!" he replied.

They did not stop climbing while Duane tore a scarf and made
compresses, which he bound tightly over his wounds. The fresh
horses made fast time up the rough trail. From open places
Duane looked down. When they surmounted the steep ascent and
stood on top of the Rim Rock, with no signs of pursuit down in
the valley, and with the wild, broken fastnesses before them,
Duane turned to the girl and assured her that they now had
every chance of escape.

"But--your--wound!" she faltered, with dark, troubled eyes. "I
see--the blood--dripping from your back!"

"Jennie, I'll take a lot of killing," he said.

Then he became silent and attended to the uneven trail. He was
aware presently that he had not come into Bland's camp by this
route. But that did not matter; any trail leading out beyond
the Rim Rock was safe enough. What he wanted was to get far
away into some wild retreat where he could hide till he
recovered from his wound. He seemed to feel a fire inside his
breast, and his throat burned so that it was necessary for him
to take a swallow of water every little while. He began to
suffer considerable pain, which increased as the hours went by
and then gave way to a numbness. From that time on he had need
of his great strength and endurance. Gradually he lost his
steadiness and his keen sight; and he realized that if he were
to meet foes, or if pursuing outlaws should come up with him,
he could make only a poor stand. So he turned off on a trail
that appeared seldom traveled.

Soon after this move he became conscious of a further
thickening of his senses. He felt able to hold on to his saddle
for a while longer, but he was failing. Then he thought he
ought to advise Jennie, so in case she was left alone she would
have some idea of what to do.

"Jennie, I'll give out soon," he said. "No-I don't mean--what
you think. But I'll drop soon. My strength's going. If I
die--you ride back to the main trail. Hide and rest by day.
Ride at night. That trail goes to water. I believe you could
get across the Nueces, where some rancher will take you in."

Duane could not get the meaning of her incoherent reply. He
rode on, and soon he could not see the trail or hear his horse.
He did not know whether they traveled a mile or many times that
far. But he was conscious when the horse stopped, and had a
vague sense of falling and feeling Jennie's arms before all
became dark to him.

When consciousness returned he found himself lying in a little
hut of mesquite branches. It was well built and evidently some
years old. There were two doors or openings, one in front and
the other at the back. Duane imagined it had been built by a
fugitive--one who meant to keep an eye both ways and not to be
surprised. Duane felt weak and had no desire to move. Where was
he, anyway? A strange, intangible sense of time, distance, of
something far behind weighed upon him. Sight of the two packs
Euchre had made brought his thought to Jennie. What had become
of her? There was evidence of her work in a smoldering fire and
a little blackened coffee-pot. Probably she was outside looking
after the horses or getting water. He thought he heard a step
and listened, but he felt tired, and presently his eyes closed
and he fell into a doze.

Awakening from this, he saw Jennie sitting beside him. In some
way she seemed to have changed. When he spoke she gave a start
and turned eagerly to him.

"Duane!" she cried.

"Hello. How're you, Jennie, and how am I?" he said, finding it
a little difficult to talk.

"Oh, I'm all right," she replied. "And you've come to--your
wound's healed; but you've been sick. Fever, I guess. I did all
I could."

Duane saw now that the difference in her was a whiteness and
tightness of skin, a hollowness of eye, a look of strain.

"Fever? How long have we been here?" he asked.

She took some pebbles from the crown of his sombrero and
counted them.

"Nine. Nine days," she answered.

"Nine days!" he exclaimed, incredulously. But another look at
her assured him that she meant what she said. "I've been sick
all the time? You nursed me?"

"Yes."

"Bland's men didn't come along here?"

"No."

"Where are the horses?"

"I keep them grazing down in a gorge back of here. There's good
grass and water."

"Have you slept any?"

"A little. Lately I couldn't keep awake."

"Good Lord! I should think not. You've had a time of it sitting
here day and night nursing me, watching for the outlaws. Come,
tell me all about it."

"There's nothing much to tell."

"I want to know, anyway, just what you did--how you felt."

"I can't remember very well," she replied, simply. "We must
have ridden forty miles that day we got away. You bled all the
time. Toward evening you lay on your horse's neck. When we came
to this place you fell out of the saddle. I dragged you in here
and stopped your bleeding. I thought you'd die that night. But
in the morning I had a little hope. I had forgotten the horses.
But luckily they didn't stray far. I caught them and kept them
down in the gorge. When your wounds closed and you began to
breathe stronger I thought you'd get well quick. It was fever
that put you back. You raved a lot, and that worried me,
because I couldn't stop you. Anybody trailing us could have
heard you a good ways. I don't know whether I was scared most
then or when you were quiet, and it was so dark and lonely and
still all around. Every day I put a stone in your hat."

"Jennie, you saved my life," said Duane.

"I don't know. Maybe. I did all I knew how to do," she replied.
"You saved mine--more than my life."

Their eyes met in a long gaze, and then their hands in a close
clasp.

"Jennie, we're going to get away," he said, with gladness.
"I'll be well in a few days. You don't know how strong I am.
We'll hide by day and travel by night. I can get you across the
river."

"And then?" she asked.

"We'll find some honest rancher."

"And then?" she persisted.

"Why," he began, slowly, "that's as far as my thoughts ever
got. It was pretty hard, I tell you, to assure myself of so
much. It means your safety. You'll tell your story. You'll be
sent to some village or town and taken care of until a relative
or friend is notified."

"And you?" she inquired, in a strange voice.

Duane kept silence.

"What will you do?" she went on.

"Jennie, I'll go back to the brakes. I daren't show my face
among respectable people. I'm an outlaw."

"You're no criminal!" she declared, with deep passion.

"Jennie, on this border the little difference between an out
law and a criminal doesn't count for much."

"You won't go back among those terrible men? You, with your
gentleness and sweetness--all that's good about you? Oh, Duane,
don't--don't go!"

"I can't go back to the outlaws, at least not Bland's band. No,
I'll go alone. I'll lone-wolf it, as they say on the border.
What else can I do, Jennie?"

"Oh, I don't know. Couldn't you hide? Couldn't you slip,out of
Texas--go far away?"

"I could never get out of Texas without being arrested. I could
hide, but a man must live. Never mind about me, Jennie."

In three days Duane was able with great difficulty to mount his
horse. During daylight, by short relays, he and Jennie rode
back to the main trail, where they hid again till he had
rested. Then in the dark they rode out of the canons and
gullies of the Rim Rock, and early in the morning halted at the
first water to camp.

From that point they traveled after nightfall and went into
hiding during the day. Once across the Nueces River, Duane was
assured of safety for her and great danger for himself. They
had crossed into a country he did not know. Somewhere east of
the river there were scattered ranches. But he was as liable to
find the rancher in touch with the outlaws as he was likely to
find him honest. Duane hoped his good fortune would not desert
him in this last service to Jennie. Next to the worry of that
was realization of his condition. He had gotten up too soon; he
had ridden too far and hard, and now he felt that any moment he
might fall from his saddle. At last, far ahead over a barren
mesquite-dotted stretch of dusty ground, he espied a patch of
green and a little flat, red ranch-house. He headed his horse
for it and turned a face he tried to make cheerful for Jennie's
sake. She seemed both happy and sorry.

When near at hand he saw that the rancher was a thrifty farmer.
And thrift spoke for honesty. There were fields of alfalfa,
fruit-trees, corrals, windmill pumps, irrigation-ditches, all
surrounding a neat little adobe house. Some children were
playing in the yard. The way they ran at sight of Duane hinted
of both the loneliness and the fear of their isolated lives.
Duane saw a woman come to the door, then a man. The latter
looked keenly, then stepped outside. He was a sandy-haired,
freckled Texan.

"Howdy, stranger," he called, as Duane halted. "Get down, you
an' your woman. Say, now, air you sick or shot or what? Let
me--"

Duane, reeling in his saddle, bent searching eyes upon the
rancher. He thought he saw good will, kindness, honesty. He
risked all on that one sharp glance. Then he almost plunged
from the saddle.

The rancher caught him, helped him to a bench.

"Martha, come out here!" he called. "This man's sick. No; he's
shot, or I don't know blood-stains."

Jennie had slipped off her horse and to Duane's side. Duane
appeared about to faint.

"Air you his wife?" asked the rancher.

"No. I'm only a girl he saved from outlaws. Oh, he's so paler
Duane, Duane!"

"Buck Duane!" exclaimed the rancher, excitedly. "The man who
killed Bland an' Alloway? Say, I owe him a good turn, an' I'll
pay it, young woman."

The rancher's wife came out, and with a manner at once kind and
practical essayed to make Duane drink from a flask. He was not
so far gone that he could not recognize its contents, which he
refused, and weakly asked for water. When that was given him he
found his voice.

"Yes, I'm Duane. I've only overdone myself--just all in. The
wounds I got at Bland's are healing. Will you take this girl
in--hide her awhile till the excitement's over among the
outlaws?"

"I shore will," replied the Texan.

"Thanks. I'll remember you--I'll square it."

"What 're you goin' to do?"

"I'll rest a bit--then go back to the brakes."

"Young man, you ain't in any shape to travel. See here--any
rustlers on your trail?"

"I think we gave Bland's gang the slip."

"Good. I'll tell you what. I'll take you in along with the
girl, an' hide both of you till you get well. It'll be safe. My
nearest neighbor is five miles off. We don't have much
company."

"You risk a great deal. Both outlaws and rangers are hunting
me," said Duane.

"Never seen a ranger yet in these parts. An' have always got
along with outlaws, mebbe exceptin' Bland. I tell you I owe you
a good turn."

"My horses might betray you," added Duane.

"I'll hide them in a place where there's water an' grass.
Nobody goes to it. Come now, let me help you indoors."

Duane's last fading sensations of that hard day were the
strange feel of a bed, a relief at the removal of his heavy
boots, and of Jennie's soft, cool hands on his hot face.

He lay ill for three weeks before he began to mend, and it was
another week then before he could walk out a little in the dusk
of the evenings. After that his strength returned rapidly. And
it was only at the end of this long siege that he recovered his
spirits. During most of his illness he had been silent, moody.

"Jennie, I'll be riding off soon," he said, one evening. "I
can't impose on this good man Andrews much longer. I'll never
forget his kindness. His wife, too--she's been so good to us.
Yes, Jennie, you and I will have to say good-by very soon."

"Don't hurry away," she replied.

Lately Jennie had appeared strange to him. She had changed from
the girl he used to see at Mrs. Bland's house. He took her
reluctance to say good-by as another indication of her regret
that he must go back to the brakes. Yet somehow it made him
observe her more closely. She wore a plain, white dress made
from material Mrs. Andrews had given her. Sleep and good food
had improved her. If she had been pretty out there in the
outlaw den now she was more than that. But she had the same
paleness, the same strained look, the same dark eyes full of
haunting shadows. After Duane's realization of the change in
her he watched her more, with a growing certainty that he would
be sorry not to see her again.

"It's likely we won't ever see each other again," he said.
"That's strange to think of. We've been through some hard days,
and I seem to have known you a long time."

Jennie appeared shy, almost sad, so Duane changed the subject
to something less personal.

Andrews returned one evening from a several days' trip to
Huntsville.

"Duane, everybody's talkie' about how you cleaned up the Bland
outfit," he said, important and full of news. "It's some
exaggerated, accordin' to what you told me; but you've shore
made friends on this side of the Nueces. I reckon there ain't a
town where you wouldn't find people to welcome you. Huntsville,
you know, is some divided in its ideas. Half the people are
crooked. Likely enough, all them who was so loud in praise of
you are the crookedest. For instance, I met King Fisher, the
boss outlaw of these parts. Well, King thinks he's a decent
citizen. He was tellin' me what a grand job yours was for the
border an' honest cattlemen. Now that Bland and Alloway are
done for, King Fisher will find rustlin' easier. There's talk
of Hardin movie' his camp over to Bland's. But I don't know how
true it is. I reckon there ain't much to it. In the past when a
big outlaw chief went under, his band almost always broke up
an' scattered. There's no one left who could run thet outfit."

"Did you hear of any outlaws hunting me?" asked Duane.

"Nobody from Bland's outfit is huntin' you, thet's shore,"
replied Andrews. "Fisher said there never was a hoss straddled
to go on your trail. Nobody had any use for Bland. Anyhow, his
men would be afraid to trail you. An' you could go right in to
Huntsville, where you'd be some popular. Reckon you'd be safe,
too, except when some of them fool saloon loafers or bad
cowpunchers would try to shoot you for the glory in it. Them
kind of men will bob up everywhere you go, Duane."

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