The Lone Star Ranger

Z >> Zane Grey >> The Lone Star Ranger

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21

Every one of his victims, singly and collectively, returned to
him for ever, it seemed, in cold, passionless, accusing
domination of these haunted hours. They did not accuse him of
dishonor or cowardice or brutality or murder; they only accused
him of Death. It was as if they knew more than when they were
alive, had learned that life was a divine mysterious gift not
to be taken. They thronged about him with their voiceless
clamoring, drifted around him with their fading eyes.

CHAPTER XI

After nearly six months in the Nueces gorge the loneliness and
inaction of his life drove Duane out upon the trails seeking
anything rather than to hide longer alone, a prey to the
scourge of his thoughts. The moment he rode into sight of men a
remarkable transformation occurred in him. A strange warmth
stirred in him--a longing to see the faces of people, to hear
their voices--a pleasurable emotion sad and strange. But it was
only a precursor of his old bitter, sleepless, and eternal
vigilance. When he hid alone in the brakes he was safe from all
except his deeper, better self; when he escaped from this into
the haunts of men his force and will went to the preservation
of his life.

Mercer was the first village he rode into. He had many friends
there. Mercer claimed to owe Duane a debt. On the outskirts of
the village there was a grave overgrown by brush so that the
rude-lettered post which marked it was scarcely visible to
Duane as he rode by. He had never read the inscription. But he
thought now of Hardin, no other than the erstwhile ally of
Bland. For many years Hardin had harassed the stockmen and
ranchers in and around Mercer. On an evil day for him he or his
outlaws had beaten and robbed a man who once succored Duane
when sore in need. Duane met Hardin in the little plaza of the
village, called him every name known to border men, taunted him
to draw, and killed him in the act.

Duane went to the house of one Jones, a Texan who had known his
father, and there he was warmly received. The feel of an honest
hand, the voice of a friend, the prattle of children who were
not afraid of him or his gun, good wholesome food, and change
of clothes--these things for the time being made a changed man
of Duane. To be sure, he did not often speak. The price of his
head and the weight of his burden made him silent. But eagerly
he drank in all the news that was told him. In the years of his
absence from home he had never heard a word about his mother or
uncle. Those who were his real friends on the border would have
been the last to make inquiries, to write or receive letters
that might give a clue to Duane's whereabouts.

Duane remained all day with this hospitable Jones, and as
twilight fell was loath to go and yielded to a pressing
invitation to remain overnight. It was seldom indeed that Duane
slept under a roof. Early in the evening, while Duane sat on
the porch with two awed and hero-worshiping sons of the house,
Jones returned from a quick visit down to the post-office.
Summarily he sent the boys off. He labored under intense
excitement.

"Duane, there's rangers in town," he whispered. "It's all over
town, too, that you're here. You rode in long after sunup. Lots
of people saw you. I don't believe there's a man or boy that 'd
squeal on you. But the women might. They gossip, and these
rangers are handsome fellows--devils with the women."

"What company of rangers?" asked Duane, quickly.

"Company A, under Captain MacNelly, that new ranger. He made a
big name in the war. And since he's been in the ranger service
he's done wonders. He's cleaned up some bad places south, and
he's working north."

"MacNelly. I've heard of him. Describe him to me."

"Slight-built chap, but wiry and tough. Clean face, black
mustache and hair. Sharp black eyes. He's got a look of
authority. MacNelly's a fine man, Duane. Belongs to a good
Southern family. I'd hate to have him look you up."

Duane did not speak.

"MacNelly's got nerve, and his rangers are all experienced men.
If they find out you're here they'll come after you. MacNelly's
no gun-fighter, but he wouldn't hesitate to do his duty, even
if he faced sure death. Which he would in this case. Duane, you
mustn't meet Captain MacNelly. Your record is clean, if it is
terrible. You never met a ranger or any officer except a rotten
sheriff now and then, like Rod Brown."

Still Duane kept silence. He was not thinking of danger, but of
the fact of how fleeting must be his stay among friends.

"I've already fixed up a pack of grub," went on Jones. "I'll
slip out to saddle your horse. You watch here."

He had scarcely uttered the last word when soft, swift
footsteps sounded on the hard path. A man turned in at the
gate. The light was dim, yet clean enough to disclose an
unusually tall figure. When it appeared nearer he was seen to
be walking with both arms raised, hands high. He slowed his
stride.

"Does Burt Jones live here?" he asked, in a low, hurried voice.

"I reckon. I'm Burt. What can I do for you?" replied Jones.

The stranger peered around, stealthily came closer, still with
his hands up.

"It is known that Buck Duane is here. Captain MacNelly's
camping on the river just out of town. He sends word to Duane
to come out there after dark."

The stranger wheeled and departed as swiftly and strangely as
he had come.

"Bust me! Duane, whatever do you make of that?" exclaimed
Jones.

"A new one on me," replied Duane, thoughtfully.

"First fool thing I ever heard of MacNelly doing. Can't make
head nor tails of it. I'd have said offhand that MacNelly
wouldn't double-cross anybody. He struck me as a square man,
sand all through. But, hell! he must mean treachery. I can't
see anything else in that deal."

"Maybe the Captain wants to give me a fair chance to surrender
without bloodshed," observed Duane. "Pretty decent of him, if
he meant that."

"He INVITES YOU out to his camp AFTER DARK. Something strange
about this, Duane. But MacNelly's a new man out here. He does
some queer things. Perhaps he's getting a swelled head. Well,
whatever his intentions, his presence around Mercer is enough
for us. Duane, you hit the road and put some miles between you
the amiable Captain before daylight. To-morrow I'll go out
there and ask him what in the devil he meant."

"That messenger he sent--he was a ranger," said Duane.

"Sure he was, and a nervy one! It must have taken sand to come
bracing you that way. Duane, the fellow didn't pack a gun. I'll
swear to that. Pretty odd, this trick. But you can't trust it.
Hit the road, Duane."

A little later a black horse with muffled hoofs, bearing a
tall, dark rider who peered keenly into every shadow, trotted
down a pasture lane back of Jones's house, turned into the
road, and then, breaking into swifter gait, rapidly left Mercer
behind.

Fifteen or twenty miles out Duane drew rein in a forest of
mesquite, dismounted, and searched about for a glade with a
little grass. Here he staked his horse on a long lariat; and,
using his saddle for a pillow, his saddle-blanket for covering,
he went to sleep.

Next morning he was off again, working south. During the next
few days he paid brief visits to several villages that lay in
his path. And in each some one particular friend had a piece of
news to impart that made Duane profoundly thoughtful. A ranger
had made a quiet, unobtrusive call upon these friends and left
this message, "Tell Buck Duane to ride into Captain MacNelly's
camp some time after night."

Duane concluded, and his friends all agreed with him, that the
new ranger's main purpose in the Nueces country was to capture
or kill Buck Duane, and that this message was simply an
original and striking ruse, the daring of which might appeal to
certain outlaws.

But it did not appeal to Duane. His curiosity was aroused; it
did not, however, tempt him to any foolhardy act. He turned
southwest and rode a hundred miles until he again reached the
sparsely settled country. Here he heard no more of rangers. It
was a barren region he had never but once ridden through, and
that ride had cost him dear. He had been compelled to shoot his
way out. Outlaws were not in accord with the few ranchers and
their cowboys who ranged there. He learned that both outlaws
and Mexican raiders had long been at bitter enmity with these
ranchers. Being unfamiliar with roads and trails, Duane had
pushed on into the heart of this district, when all the time he
really believed he was traveling around it. A rifle-shot from a
ranch-house, a deliberate attempt to kill him because he was an
unknown rider in those parts, discovered to Duane his mistake;
and a hard ride to get away persuaded him to return to his old
methods of hiding by day and traveling by night.

He got into rough country, rode for three days without covering
much ground, but believed that he was getting on safer
territory. Twice he came to a wide bottom-land green with
willow and cottonwood and thick as chaparral, somewhere through
the middle of which ran a river he decided must be the lower
Nueces.

One evening, as he stole out from a covert where he had camped,
he saw the lights of a village. He tried to pass it on the
left, but was unable to because the brakes of this bottom-land
extended in almost to the outskirts of the village, and he had
to retrace his steps and go round to the right. Wire fences and
horses in pasture made this a task, so it was well after
midnight before he accomplished it. He made ten miles or more
then by daylight, and after that proceeded cautiously along a
road which appeared to be well worn from travel. He passed
several thickets where he would have halted to hide during the
day but for the fact that he had to find water.

He was a long while in coming to it, and then there was no
thicket or clump of mesquite near the waterhole that would
afford him covert. So he kept on.

The country before him was ridgy and began to show cottonwoods
here and there in the hollows and yucca and mesquite on the
higher ground. As he mounted a ridge he noted that the road
made a sharp turn, and he could not see what was beyond it. He
slowed up and was making the turn, which was down-hill between
high banks of yellow clay, when his mettlesome horse heard
something to frighten him or shied at something and bolted.

The few bounds he took before Duane's iron arm checked him were
enough to reach the curve. One flashing glance showed Duane the
open once more, a little valley below with a wide, shallow,
rocky stream, a clump of cottonwoods beyond, a somber group of
men facing him, and two dark, limp, strangely grotesque figures
hanging from branches.

The sight was common enough in southwest Texas, but Duane had
never before found himself so unpleasantly close.

A hoarse voice pealed out: "By hell! there's another one!"

"Stranger, ride down an' account fer yourself!" yelled another.

"Hands up!"

"Thet's right, Jack; don't take no chances. Plug him!"

These remarks were so swiftly uttered as almost to be
continuous. Duane was wheeling his horse when a rifle cracked.
The bullet struck his left forearm and he thought broke it, for
he dropped the rein. The frightened horse leaped. Another
bullet whistled past Duane. Then the bend in the road saved him
probably from certain death. Like the wind his fleet steed wend
down the long hill.

Duane was in no hurry to look back. He knew what to expect. His
chief concern of the moment was for his injured arm. He found
that the bones were still intact; but the wound, having been
made by a soft bullet, was an exceedingly bad one. Blood poured
from it. Giving the horse his head, Duane wound his scarf
tightly round the holes, and with teeth and hand tied it
tightly. That done, he looked back over his shoulder.

Riders were making the dust fly on the hillside road. There
were more coming round the cut where the road curved. The
leader was perhaps a quarter of a mile back, and the others
strung out behind him. Duane needed only one glance to tell him
that they were fast and hard-riding cowboys in a land where all
riders were good. They would not have owned any but strong,
swift horses. Moreover, it was a district where ranchers had
suffered beyond all endurance the greed and brutality of
outlaws. Duane had simply been so unfortunate as to run right
into a lynching party at a time of all times when any stranger
would be in danger and any outlaw put to his limit to escape
with his life.

Duane did not look back again till he had crossed the ridgy
piece of ground and had gotten to the level road. He had gained
upon his pursuers. When he ascertained this he tried to save
his horse, to check a little that killing gait. This horse was
a magnificent animal, big, strong, fast; but his endurance had
never been put to a grueling test. And that worried Duane. His
life had made it impossible to keep one horse very long at a
time, and this one was an unknown quantity.

Duane had only one plan--the only plan possible in this
case--and that was to make the river-bottoms, where he might
elude his pursuers in the willow brakes. Fifteen miles or so
would bring him to the river, and this was not a hopeless
distance for any good horse if not too closely pressed. Duane
concluded presently that the cowboys behind were losing a
little in the chase because they were not extending their
horses. It was decidedly unusual for such riders to save their
mounts. Duane pondered over this, looking backward several
times to see if their horses were stretched out. They were not,
and the fact was disturbing. Only one reason presented itself
to Duane's conjecturing, and it was that with him headed
straight on that road his pursuers were satisfied not to force
the running. He began to hope and look for a trail or a road
turning off to right or left. There was none. A rough,
mesquite-dotted and yucca-spired country extended away on
either side. Duane believed that he would be compelled to take
to this hard going. One thing was certain--he had to go round
the village. The river, however, was on the outskirts of the
village; and once in the willows, he would be safe.

Dust-clouds far ahead caused his alarm to grow. He watched with
his eyes strained; he hoped to see a wagon, a few stray cattle.
But no, he soon descried several horsemen. Shots and yells
behind him attested to the fact that his pursuers likewise had
seen these new-comers on the scene. More than a mile separated
these two parties, yet that distance did not keep them from
soon understanding each other. Duane waited only to see this
new factor show signs of sudden quick action, and then, with a
muttered curse, he spurred his horse off the road into the
brush.

He chose the right side, because the river lay nearer that way.
There were patches of open sandy ground between clumps of
cactus and mesquite, and he found that despite a zigzag course
he made better time. It was impossible for him to locate his
pursuers. They would come together, he decided, and take to his
tracks.

What, then, was his surprise and dismay to run out of a thicket
right into a low ridge of rough, broken rock, impossible to get
a horse over. He wheeled to the left along its base. The sandy
ground gave place to a harder soil, where his horse did not
labor so. Here the growths of mesquite and cactus became
scanter, affording better travel but poor cover. He kept sharp
eyes ahead, and, as he had expected, soon saw moving
dust-clouds and the dark figures of horses. They were half a
mile away, and swinging obliquely across the flat, which fact
proved that they had entertained a fair idea of the country and
the fugitive's difficulty.

Without an instant's hesitation Duane put his horse to his best
efforts, straight ahead. He had to pass those men. When this
was seemingly made impossible by a deep wash from which he had
to turn, Duane began to feel cold and sick. Was this the end?
Always there had to be an end to an outlaw's career. He wanted
then to ride straight at these pursuers. But reason outweighed
instinct. He was fleeing for his life; nevertheless, the
strongest instinct at the time was his desire to fight.

He knew when these three horsemen saw him, and a moment
afterward he lost sight of them as he got into the mesquite
again. He meant now to try to reach the road, and pushed his
mount severely, though still saving him for a final burst.
Rocks, thickets, bunches of cactus, washes--all operated
against his following a straight line. Almost he lost his
bearings, and finally would have ridden toward his enemies had
not good fortune favored him in the matter of an open
burned-over stretch of ground.

Here he saw both groups of pursuers, one on each side and
almost within gun-shot. Their sharp yells, as much as his cruel
spurs, drove his horse into that pace which now meant life or
death for him. And never had Duane bestrode a gamer, swifter,
stancher beast. He seemed about to accomplish the impossible.
In the dragging sand he was far superior to any horse in
pursuit, and on this sandy open stretch he gained enough to
spare a little in the brush beyond. Heated now and thoroughly
terrorized, he kept the pace through thickets that almost tore
Duane from his saddle. Something weighty and grim eased off
Duane. He was going to get out in front! The horse had speed,
fire, stamina.

Duane dashed out into another open place dotted by few trees,
and here, right in his path, within pistol-range, stood
horsemen waiting. They yelled, they spurred toward him, but did
not fire at him. He turned his horse--faced to the right. Only
one thing kept him from standing his ground to fight it out. He
remembered those dangling limp figures hanging from the
cottonwoods. These ranchers would rather hang an outlaw than do
anything. They might draw all his fire and then capture him.
His horror of hanging was so great as to be all out of
proportion compared to his gun-fighter's instinct of
self-preservation.

A race began then, a dusty, crashing drive through gray
mesquite. Duane could scarcely see, he was so blinded by
stinging branches across his eyes. The hollow wind roared in
his ears. He lost his sense of the nearness of his pursuers.
But they must have been close. Did they shoot at him? He
imagined he heard shots. But that might have been the cracking
of dead snags. His left arm hung limp, almost useless; he
handled the rein with his right; and most of the time he hung
low over the pommel. The gray walls flashing by him, the whip
of twigs, the rush of wind, the heavy, rapid pound of hoofs,
the violent motion of his horse--these vied in sensation with
the smart of sweat in his eyes, the rack of his wound, the
cold, sick cramp in his stomach. With these also was dull,
raging fury. He had to run when he wanted to fight. It took all
his mind to force back that bitter hate of himself, of his
pursuers, of this race for his useless life.

Suddenly he burst out of a line of mesquite into the road. A
long stretch of lonely road! How fiercely, with hot, strange
joy, he wheeled his horse upon it! Then he was sweeping along,
sure now that he was out in front. His horse still had strength
and speed, but showed signs of breaking. Presently Duane looked
back. Pursuers--he could not count how many--were loping along
in his rear. He paid no more attention to them, and with teeth
set he faced ahead, grimmer now in his determination to foil
them.

He passed a few scattered ranch-houses where horses whistled
from corrals, and men curiously watched him fly past. He saw
one rancher running, and he felt intuitively that this fellow
was going to join in the chase. Duane's steed pounded on, not
noticeably slower, but with a lack of former smoothness, with a
strained, convulsive, jerking stride which showed he was almost
done.

Sight of the village ahead surprised Duane. He had reached it
sooner than he expected. Then he made a discovery--he had
entered the zone of wire fences. As he dared not turn back now,
he kept on, intending to ride through the village. Looking
backward, he saw that his pursuers were half a mile distant,
too far to alarm any villagers in time to intercept him in his
flight. As he rode by the first houses his horse broke and
began to labor. Duane did not believe he would last long enough
to go through the village.

Saddled horses in front of a store gave Duane an idea, not by
any means new, and one he had carried out successfully before.
As he pulled in his heaving mount and leaped off, a couple of
ranchers came out of the place, and one of them stepped to a
clean-limbed, fiery bay. He was about to get into his saddle
when he saw Duane, and then he halted, a foot in the stirrup.

Duane strode forward, grasped the bridle of this man's horse.

"Mine's done--but not killed," he panted. "Trade with me."

"Wal, stranger, I'm shore always ready to trade," drawled the
man. "But ain't you a little swift?"

Duane glanced back up the road. His pursuers were entering the
village.

"I'm Duane--Buck Duane," he cried, menacingly. "Will you trade?
Hurry!"

The rancher, turning white, dropped his foot from the stirrup
and fell back.

"I reckon I'll trade," he said.

Bounding up, Duane dug spurs into the bay's flanks. The horse
snorted in fright, plunged into a run. He was fresh, swift,
half wild. Duane flashed by the remaining houses on the street
out into the open. But the road ended at that village or else
led out from some other quarter, for he had ridden straight
into the fields and from them into rough desert. When he
reached the cover of mesquite once more he looked back to find
six horsemen within rifle-shot of him, and more coming behind
them.

His new horse had not had time to get warm before Duane reached
a high sandy bluff below which lay the willow brakes. As far as
he could see extended an immense flat strip of red-tinged
willow. How welcome it was to his eye! He felt like a hunted
wolf that, weary and lame, had reached his hole in the rocks.
Zigzagging down the soft slope, he put the bay to the dense
wall of leaf and branch. But the horse balked.

There was little time to lose. Dismounting, he dragged the
stubborn beast into the thicket. This was harder and slower
work than Duane cared to risk. If he had not been rushed he
might have had better success. So he had to abandon the horse--
a circumstance that only such sore straits could have driven
him to. Then he went slipping swiftly through the narrow
aisles.

He had not gotten under cover any too soon. For he heard his
pursuers piling over the bluff, loud-voiced, confident, brutal.
They crashed into the willows.

"Hi, Sid! Heah's your hoss!" called one, evidently to the man
Duane had forced into a trade.

"Say, if you locoed gents'll hold up a little I'll tell you
somethin'," replied a voice from the bluff.

"Come on, Sid! We got him corralled," said the first speaker.

"Wal, mebbe, an' if you hev it's liable to be damn hot. THET
FELLER WAS BUCK DUANE!"

Absolute silence followed that statement. Presently it was
broken by a rattling of loose gravel and then low voices.

"He can't git across the river, I tell you," came to Duane's
ears. "He's corralled in the brake. I know thet hole."

Then Duane, gliding silently and swiftly through the willows,
heard no more from his pursuers. He headed straight for the
river. Threading a passage through a willow brake was an old
task for him. Many days and nights had gone to the acquiring of
a skill that might have been envied by an Indian.

The Rio Grande and its tributaries for the most of their length
in Texas ran between wide, low, flat lands covered by a dense
growth of willow. Cottonwood, mesquite, prickly pear, and other
growths mingled with the willow, and altogether they made a
matted, tangled copse, a thicket that an inexperienced man
would have considered impenetrable. From above, these wild
brakes looked green and red; from the inside they were gray and
yellow--a striped wall. Trails and glades were scarce. There
were a few deer-runways and sometimes little paths made by
peccaries--the jabali, or wild pigs, of Mexico. The ground was
clay and unusually dry, sometimes baked so hard that it left no
imprint of a track. Where a growth of cottonwood had held back
the encroachment of the willows there usually was thick grass
and underbrush. The willows were short, slender poles with
stems so close together that they almost touched, and with the
leafy foliage forming a thick covering. The depths of this
brake Duane had penetrated was a silent, dreamy, strange place.
In the middle of the day the light was weird and dim. When a
breeze fluttered the foliage, then slender shafts and spears of
sunshine pierced the green mantle and danced like gold on the
ground.

Duane had always felt the strangeness of this kind of place,
and likewise he had felt a protecting, harboring something
which always seemed to him to be the sympathy of the brake for
a hunted creature. Any unwounded creature, strong and
resourceful, was safe when he had glided under the low,
rustling green roof of this wild covert. It was not hard to
conceal tracks; the springy soil gave forth no sound; and men
could hunt each other for weeks, pass within a few yards of
each other and never know it. The problem of sustaining life
was difficult; but, then, hunted men and animals survived on
very little.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21