ENTER JACK BLOME
Strange that the narrating of this incident made Diane Sampson unhappy.
When I told her she exhibited one flash of gladness, such as any woman
might have shown for a noble deed and then she became thoughtful, almost
gloomy, sad. I could not understand her complex emotions. Perhaps she
contrasted Steele with her father; perhaps she wanted to believe in
Steele and dared not; perhaps she had all at once seen the Ranger in his
true light, and to her undoing.
She bade me take Sally for a ride and sought her room. I had my
misgivings when I saw Sally come out in that trim cowgirl suit and look
at me as if to say this day would be my Waterloo.
But she rode hard and long ahead of me before she put any machinations
into effect. The first one found me with a respectful demeanor but an
internal conflict.
"Russ, tighten my cinch," she said when I caught up with her.
Dismounting, I drew the cinch up another hole and fastened it.
"My boot's unlaced, too," she added, slipping a shapely foot out of the
stirrup.
To be sure, it was very much unlaced. I had to take off my gloves to
lace it up, and I did it heroically, with bent head and outward calm,
when all the time I was mad to snatch the girl out of the saddle and
hold her tight or run off with her or do some other fool thing.
"Russ, I believe Diane's in love with Steele," she said soberly, with
the sweet confidence she sometimes manifested in me.
"Small wonder. It's in the air," I replied.
She regarded me doubtfully.
"It was," she retorted demurely.
"The fickleness of women is no new thing to me. I didn't expect Waters
to last long."
"Certainly not when there are nicer fellows around. One, anyway, when he
cares."
A little brown hand slid out of its glove and dropped to my shoulder.
"Make up. You've been hateful lately. Make up with me."
It was not so much what she said as the sweet tone of her voice and the
nearness of her that made a tumult within me. I felt the blood tingle to
my face.
"Why should I make up with you?" I queried in self defense. "You are
only flirting. You won't--you can't ever be anything to me, really."
Sally bent over me and I had not the nerve to look up.
"Never mind things--really," she replied. "The future's far off. Let it
alone. We're together. I--I like you, Russ. And I've got to be--to be
loved. There. I never confessed that to any other man. You've been
hateful when we might have had such fun. The rides in the sun, in the
open with the wind in our faces. The walks at night in the moonlight.
Russ, haven't you missed something?"
The sweetness and seductiveness of her, the little luring devil of her,
irresistible as they were, were no more irresistible than the
naturalness, the truth of her.
I trembled even before I looked up into her flushed face and arch eyes;
and after that I knew if I could not frighten her out of this daring
mood I would have to yield despite my conviction that she only trifled.
As my manhood, as well as duty to Steele, forced me to be unyielding,
all that was left seemed to be to frighten her.
The instant this was decided a wave of emotion--love, regret,
bitterness, anger--surged over me, making me shake. I felt the skin on
my face tighten and chill. I grasped her with strength that might have
need to hold a plunging, unruly horse. I hurt her. I held her as in a
vise.
And the action, the feel of her, her suddenly uttered cry wrought
against all pretense, hurt me as my brutality hurt her, and then I spoke
what was hard, passionate truth.
"Girl, you're playing with fire!" I cried out hoarsely. "I love
you--love you as I'd want my sister loved. I asked you to marry me. That
was proof, if it was foolish. Even if you were on the square, which
you're not, we couldn't ever be anything to each other. Understand?
There's a reason, besides your being above me. I can't stand it. Stop
playing with me or I'll--I'll..."
Whatever I meant to say was not spoken, for Sally turned deathly white,
probably from my grasp and my looks as well as my threat.
I let go of her, and stepping back to my horse choked down my emotion.
"Russ!" she faltered, and there was womanliness and regret trembling
with the fear in her voice. "I--I am on the square."
That had touched the real heart of the girl.
"If you are, then play the game square," I replied darkly.
"I will, Russ, I promise. I'll never tease or coax you again. If I do,
then I'll deserve what you--what I get. But, Russ, don't think me a--a
four-flush."
All the long ride home we did not exchange another word. The traveling
gait of Sally's horse was a lope, that of mine a trot; and therefore, to
my relief, she was always out in front.
As we neared the ranch, however, Sally slowed down until I caught up
with her; and side by side we rode the remainder of the way. At the
corrals, while I unsaddled, she lingered.
"Russ, you didn't tell me if you agreed with me about Diane," she said
finally.
"Maybe you're right. I hope she's fallen in love with Steele. Lord knows
I hope so," I blurted out.
I bit my tongue. There was no use in trying to be as shrewd with women
as I was with men. I made no reply.
"Misery loves company. Maybe that's why," she added. "You told me Steele
lost his head over Diane at first sight. Well, we all have company. Good
night, Russ."
That night I told Steele about the singular effect the story of his
treatment of Vey had upon Miss Sampson. He could not conceal his
feelings. I read him like an open book.
If she was unhappy because he did something really good, then she was
unhappy because she was realizing she had wronged him.
Steele never asked questions, but the hungry look in his eyes was enough
to make even a truthful fellow exaggerate things.
I told him how Diane was dressed, how her face changed with each
emotion, how her eyes burned and softened and shadowed, how her voice
had been deep and full when she admitted her father hated him, how much
she must have meant when she said she was between two fires. I divined
how he felt and I tried to satisfy in some little measure his craving
for news of her.
When I had exhausted my fund and stretched my imagination I was rewarded
by being told that I was a regular old woman for gossip.
Much taken back by this remarkable statement I could but gape at my
comrade. Irritation had followed shortly upon his curiosity and
pleasure, and then the old sane mind reasserted itself, the old stern
look, a little sad now, replaced the glow, the strange eagerness of
youth on his face.
"Son, I beg your pardon," he said, with his hand on my shoulder. "We're
Rangers, but we can't help being human. To speak right out, it seems two
sweet and lovable girls have come, unfortunately for us all, across the
dark trail we're on. Let us find what solace we can in the hope that
somehow, God only knows how, in doing our duty as Rangers we may yet be
doing right by these two innocent girls. I ask you, as my friend, please
do not speak again to me of--Miss Sampson."
I left him and went up the quiet trail with the thick shadows all around
me and the cold stars overhead; and I was sober in thought, sick at
heart for him as much as for myself, and I tortured my mind in fruitless
conjecture as to what the end of this strange and fateful adventure
would be.
I discovered that less and less the old wild spirit abided with me and I
become conscious of a dull, deep-seated ache in my breast, a pang in the
bone.
From that day there was a change in Diane Sampson. She became feverishly
active. She wanted to ride, to see for herself what was going on in
Linrock, to learn of that wild Pecos county life at first hand.
She made such demands on my time now that I scarcely ever found an hour
to be with or near Steele until after dark. However, as he was playing a
waiting game on the rustlers, keeping out of the resorts for the
present, I had not great cause for worry. Hoden was slowly gathering men
together, a band of trustworthy ones, and until this organization was
complete and ready, Steele thought better to go slow.
It was of little use for me to remonstrate with Miss Sampson when she
refused to obey a distracted and angry father. I began to feel sorry for
Sampson. He was an unscrupulous man, but he loved this daughter who
belonged to another and better and past side of his life.
I heard him appeal to her to go back to Louisiana; to let him take her
home, giving as urgent reason the probability of trouble for him. She
could not help, could only handicap him.
She agreed to go, provided he sold his property, took the best of his
horses and went with her back to the old home to live there the rest of
their lives. He replied with considerable feeling that he wished he
could go, but it was impossible. Then that settled the matter for her,
she averred.
Failing to persuade her to leave Linrock, he told her to keep to the
ranch. Naturally, in spite of his anger, Miss Sampson refused to obey;
and she frankly told him that it was the free, unfettered life of the
country, the riding here and there that appealed so much to her.
Sampson came to me a little later and his worn face showed traces of
internal storm.
"Russ, for a while there I wanted to get rid of you," he said. "I've
changed. Diane always was a spoiled kid. Now she's a woman. Something's
fired her blood. Maybe it's this damned wild country. Anyway, she's got
the bit between her teeth. She'll run till she's run herself out.
"Now, it seems the safety of Diane, and Sally, too, has fallen into your
hands. The girls won't have one of my cowboys near them. Lately they've
got shy of George, too. Between you and me I want to tell you that
conditions here in Pecos are worse than they've seemed since you-all
reached the ranch. But bad work will break out again--it's coming soon.
"I can't stop it. The town will be full of the hardest gang in western
Texas. My daughter and Sally would not be safe if left alone to go
anywhere. With you, perhaps, they'll be safe. Can I rely on you?"
"Yes, Sampson, you sure can," I replied. "I'm on pretty good terms with
most everybody in town. I think I can say none of the tough set who hang
out down there would ever made any move while I'm with the girls. But
I'll be pretty careful to avoid them, and particularly strange fellows
who may come riding in.
"And if any of them do meet us and start trouble, I'm going for my gun,
that's all. There won't be any talk."
"Good! I'll back you," Sampson replied. "Understand, Russ, I didn't want
you here, but I always had you sized up as a pretty hard nut, a man not
to be trifled with. You've got a bad name. Diane insists the name's not
deserved. She'd trust you with herself under any circumstances. And the
kid, Sally, she'd be fond of you if it wasn't for the drink. Have you
been drunk a good deal? Straight now, between you and me."
"Not once," I replied.
"George's a liar then. He's had it in for you since that day at
Sanderson. Look out you two don't clash. He's got a temper, and when
he's drinking he's a devil. Keep out of his way."
"I've stood a good deal from Wright, and guess I can stand more."
"All right, Russ," he continued, as if relieved. "Chuck the drink and
cards for a while and keep an eye on the girls. When my affairs
straighten out maybe I'll make you a proposition."
Sampson left me material for thought. Perhaps it was not only the
presence of a Ranger in town that gave him concern, nor the wilfulness
of his daughter. There must be internal strife in the rustler gang with
which we had associated him.
Perhaps a menace of publicity, rather than risk, was the cause of the
wearing strain on him. I began to get a closer insight into Sampson, and
in the absence of any conclusive evidence of his personal baseness I
felt pity for him.
In the beginning he had opposed me just because I did not happen to be a
cowboy he had selected. This latest interview with me, amounting in some
instances to confidence, proved absolutely that he had not the slightest
suspicion that I was otherwise than the cowboy I pretended to be.
Another interesting deduction was that he appeared to be out of patience
with Wright. In fact, I imagined I sensed something of fear and distrust
in this spoken attitude toward his relative. Not improbably here was the
internal strife between Sampson and Wright, and there flashed into my
mind, absolutely without reason, an idea that the clash was over Diane
Sampson.
I scouted this intuitive idea as absurd; but, just the same, it refused
to be dismissed.
As I turned my back on the coarse and exciting life in the saloons and
gambling hells, and spent all my time except when sleeping, out in the
windy open under blue sky and starry heaven, my spirit had an uplift.
I was glad to be free of that job. It was bad enough to have to go into
these dens to arrest men, let alone living with them, almost being one.
Diane Sampson noted a change in me, attributed it to the absence of the
influence of drink, and she was glad. Sally made no attempt to conceal
her happiness; and to my dismay, she utterly failed to keep her promise
not to tease or tempt me further.
She was adorable, distracting.
We rode every day and almost all day. We took our dinner and went clear
to the foothills to return as the sun set. We visited outlying ranches,
water-holes, old adobe houses famous in one way or another as scenes of
past fights of rustlers and ranchers.
We rode to the little village of Sampson, and half-way to Sanderson, and
all over the country.
There was no satisfying Miss Sampson with rides, new places, new faces,
new adventures. And every time we rode out she insisted on first riding
through Linrock; and every time we rode home she insisted on going back
that way.
We visited all the stores, the blacksmith, the wagon shop, the feed and
grain houses--everywhere that she could find excuse for visiting. I had
to point out to her all the infamous dens in town, and all the lawless
and lounging men we met.
She insisted upon being shown the inside of the Hope So, to the extreme
confusion of that bewildered resort.
I pretended to be blind to this restless curiosity. Sally understood the
cause, too, and it divided her between a sweet gravity and a naughty
humor.
The last, however, she never evinced in sight or hearing of Diane.
It seemed that we were indeed fated to cross the path of Vaughn Steele.
We saw him working round his adobe house; then we saw him on horseback.
Once we met him face to face in a store.
He gazed steadily into Diane Sampson's eyes and went his way without any
sign of recognition. There was red in her face when he passed and white
when he had gone.
That day she rode as I had never seen her, risking her life, unmindful
of her horse.
Another day we met Steele down in the valley, where, inquiry discovered
to us, he had gone to the home of an old cattleman who lived alone and
was ill.
Last and perhaps most significant of all these meetings was the one when
we were walking tired horses home through the main street of Linrock and
came upon Steele just in time to see him in action.
It happened at a corner where the usual slouchy, shirt-sleeved loungers
were congregated. They were in high glee over the predicament of one
ruffian who had purchased or been given a poor, emaciated little burro
that was on his last legs. The burro evidently did not want to go with
its new owner, who pulled on a halter and then viciously swung the end
of the rope to make welts on the worn and scarred back.
If there was one thing that Diane Sampson could not bear it was to see
an animal in pain. She passionately loved horses, and hated the sight of
a spur or whip.
When we saw the man beating the little burro she cried out to me:
"Make the brute stop!"
I might have made a move had I not on the instant seen Steele heaving
into sight round the corner.
Just then the fellow, whom I now recognized to be a despicable character
named Andrews, began to bestow heavy and brutal kicks upon the body of
the little burro. These kicks sounded deep, hollow, almost like the boom
of a drum.
The burro uttered the strangest sound I ever heard issue from any beast
and it dropped in its tracks with jerking legs that told any horseman
what had happened. Steele saw the last swings of Andrews' heavy boot. He
yelled. It was a sharp yell that would have made anyone start. But it
came too late, for the burro had dropped.
Steele knocked over several of the jeering men to get to Andrews. He
kicked the fellow's feet from under him, sending him hard to the ground.
Then Steele picked up the end of the halter and began to swing it
powerfully. Resounding smacks mingled with hoarse bellows of fury and
pain. Andrews flopped here and there, trying to arise, but every time
the heavy knotted halter beat him down.
Presently Steele stopped. Andrews rose right in front of the Ranger, and
there, like the madman he was, he went for his gun.
But it scarcely leaped from its holster when Steele's swift hand
intercepted it. Steele clutched Andrews' arm.
Then came a wrench, a cracking of bones, a scream of agony.
The gun dropped into the dust; and in a moment of wrestling fury
Andrews, broken, beaten down, just able to moan, lay beside it.
Steele, so cool and dark for a man who had acted with such passionate
swiftness, faced the others as if to dare them to move. They neither
moved nor spoke, and then he strode away.
Miss Sampson did not speak a word while we were riding the rest of the
way home, but she was strangely white of face and dark of eye. Sally
could not speak fast enough to say all she felt.
And I, of course, had my measure of feelings. One of them was that as
sure as the sun rose and set it was written that Diane Sampson was to
love Vaughn Steele.
I could not read her mind, but I had a mind of my own.
How could any woman, seeing this maligned and menaced Ranger, whose
life was in danger every moment he spent on the streets, in the light of
his action on behalf of a poor little beast, help but wonder and brood
over the magnificent height he might reach if he had love--passion--a
woman for his inspiration?
It was the day after this incident that, as Sally, Diane, and I were
riding homeward on the road from Sampson, I caught sight of a group of
dark horses and riders swiftly catching up with us.
We were on the main road, in plain sight of town and passing by ranches;
nevertheless, I did not like the looks of the horsemen and grew uneasy.
Still, I scarcely thought it needful to race our horses just to reach
town a little ahead of these strangers.
Accordingly, they soon caught up with us.
They were five in number, all dark-faced except one, dark-clad and
superbly mounted on dark bays and blacks. They had no pack animals and,
for that matter, carried no packs at all.
Four of them, at a swinging canter, passed us, and the fifth pulled his
horse to suit our pace and fell in between Sally and me.
"Good day," he said pleasantly to me. "Don't mind my ridin' in with
you-all, I hope?"
Considering his pleasant approach, I could not but be civil.
He was a singularly handsome fellow, at a quick glance, under forty
years, with curly, blond hair, almost gold, a skin very fair for that
country, and the keenest, clearest, boldest blue eyes I had ever seen in
a man.
"You're Russ, I reckon," he said. "Some of my men have seen you ridin'
round with Sampson's girls. I'm Jack Blome."
He did not speak that name with any flaunt or flourish. He merely stated
it.
Blome, the rustler! I grew tight all over.
Still, manifestly there was nothing for me to do but return his
pleasantry. I really felt less uneasiness after he had made himself
known to me. And without any awkwardness, I introduced him to the girls.
He took off his sombrero and made gallant bows to both.
Miss Sampson had heard of him and his record, and she could not help a
paleness, a shrinking, which, however, he did not appear to notice.
Sally had been dying to meet a real rustler, and here he was, a very
prince of rascals.
But I gathered that she would require a little time before she could be
natural. Blome seemed to have more of an eye for Sally than for Diane.
"Do you like Pecos?" he asked Sally.
"Out here? Oh, yes, indeed!" she replied.
"Like ridin'?"
"I love horses."
Like almost every man who made Sally's acquaintance, he hit upon the
subject best calculated to make her interesting to free-riding, outdoor
Western men.
That he loved a thoroughbred horse himself was plain. He spoke naturally
to Sally with interest, just as I had upon first meeting her, and he
might not have been Jack Blome, for all the indication he gave of the
fact in his talk.
But the look of the man was different. He was a desperado, one of the
dashing, reckless kind--more famous along the Pecos and Rio Grande than
more really desperate men. His attire proclaimed a vanity seldom seen in
any Westerner except of that unusual brand, yet it was neither gaudy or
showy.
One had to be close to Blome to see the silk, the velvet, the gold, the
fine leather. When I envied a man's spurs then they were indeed worth
coveting.
Blome had a short rifle and a gun in saddle-sheaths. My sharp eye,
running over him, caught a row of notches on the bone handle of the big
Colt he packed.
It was then that the marshal, the Ranger in me, went hot under the
collar. The custom that desperadoes and gun-fighters had of cutting a
notch on their guns for every man killed was one of which the mere
mention made my gorge rise.
At the edge of town Blome doffed his sombrero again, said "_Adios_," and
rode on ahead of us. And it was then I was hard put to it to keep track
of the queries, exclamations, and other wild talk of two very much
excited young ladies. I wanted to think; I _needed_ to think.
"Wasn't he lovely? Oh, I could adore him!" rapturously uttered Miss
Sally Langdon several times, to my ultimate disgust.
Also, after Blome had ridden out of sight, Miss Sampson lost the evident
effect of his sinister presence, and she joined Miss Langdon in paying
the rustler compliments, too. Perhaps my irritation was an indication of
the quick and subtle shifting of my mind to harsher thought.
"Jack Blome!" I broke in upon their adulations. "Rustler and gunman. Did
you see the notches on his gun? Every notch for a man he's killed! For
weeks reports have come to Linrock that soon as he could get round to it
he'd ride down and rid the community of that bothersome fellow, that
Texas Ranger! He's come to kill Vaughn Steele!"