THE LONE STAR RANGER
By Zane Grey
To
CAPTAIN JOHN HUGHES
and his Texas Rangers
It may seem strange to you that out of all the stories I heard on the
Rio Grande I should choose as first that of Buck Duane--outlaw and
gunman.
But, indeed, Ranger Coffee's story of the last of the Duanes has haunted
me, and I have given full rein to imagination and have retold it in my
own way. It deals with the old law--the old border days--therefore it is
better first. Soon, perchance, I shall have the pleasure of writing of
the border of to-day, which in Joe Sitter's laconic speech, “Shore is
'most as bad an' wild as ever!”
In the North and East there is a popular idea that the frontier of the
West is a thing long past, and remembered now only in stories. As I
think of this I remember Ranger Sitter when he made that remark, while
he grimly stroked an unhealed bullet wound. And I remember the giant
Vaughn, that typical son of stalwart Texas, sitting there quietly with
bandaged head, his thoughtful eye boding ill to the outlaw who had
ambushed him. Only a few months have passed since then--when I had my
memorable sojourn with you--and yet, in that short time, Russell and
Moore have crossed the Divide, like Rangers.
Gentlemen,--I have the honor to dedicate this book to you, and the
hope that it shall fall to my lot to tell the world the truth about a
strange, unique, and misunderstood body of men--the Texas Rangers--who
made the great Lone Star State habitable, who never know peaceful rest
and sleep, who are passing, who surely will not be forgotten and will
some day come into their own.
ZANE GREY
BOOK I. THE OUTLAW
CHAPTER I
So it was in him, then--an inherited fighting instinct, a driving
intensity to kill. He was the last of the Duanes, that old fighting
stock of Texas. But not the memory of his dead father, nor the pleading
of his soft-voiced mother, nor the warning of this uncle who stood
before him now, had brought to Buck Duane so much realization of
the dark passionate strain in his blood. It was the recurrence, a
hundred-fold increased in power, of a strange emotion that for the last
three years had arisen in him.
“Yes, Cal Bain's in town, full of bad whisky an' huntin' for you,”
repeated the elder man, gravely.
“It's the second time,” muttered Duane, as if to himself.
“Son, you can't avoid a meetin'. Leave town till Cal sobers up. He ain't
got it in for you when he's not drinkin'.”
“But what's he want me for?” demanded Duane. “To insult me again? I
won't stand that twice.”
“He's got a fever that's rampant in Texas these days, my boy. He wants
gun-play. If he meets you he'll try to kill you.”
Here it stirred in Duane again, that bursting gush of blood, like a
wind of flame shaking all his inner being, and subsiding to leave him
strangely chilled.
“Kill me! What for?” he asked.
“Lord knows there ain't any reason. But what's that to do with most of
the shootin' these days? Didn't five cowboys over to Everall's kill
one another dead all because they got to jerkin' at a quirt among
themselves? An' Cal has no reason to love you. His girl was sweet on
you.”
“I quit when I found out she was his girl.”
“I reckon she ain't quit. But never mind her or reasons. Cal's here,
just drunk enough to be ugly. He's achin' to kill somebody. He's one of
them four-flush gun-fighters. He'd like to be thought bad. There's a lot
of wild cowboys who're ambitious for a reputation. They talk about how
quick they are on the draw. They ape Bland an' King Fisher an' Hardin
an' all the big outlaws. They make threats about joinin' the gangs along
the Rio Grande. They laugh at the sheriffs an' brag about how they'd
fix the rangers. Cal's sure not much for you to bother with, if you only
keep out of his way.”
“You mean for me to run?” asked Duane, in scorn.
“I reckon I wouldn't put it that way. Just avoid him. Buck, I'm not
afraid Cal would get you if you met down there in town. You've your
father's eye an' his slick hand with a gun. What I'm most afraid of is
that you'll kill Bain.”
Duane was silent, letting his uncle's earnest words sink in, trying to
realize their significance.
“If Texas ever recovers from that fool war an' kills off these outlaws,
why, a young man will have a lookout,” went on the uncle. “You're
twenty-three now, an' a powerful sight of a fine fellow, barrin' your
temper. You've a chance in life. But if you go gun-fightin', if you kill
a man, you're ruined. Then you'll kill another. It'll be the same old
story. An' the rangers would make you an outlaw. The rangers mean law
an' order for Texas. This even-break business doesn't work with them. If
you resist arrest they'll kill you. If you submit to arrest, then you go
to jail, an' mebbe you hang.”
“I'd never hang,” muttered Duane, darkly.
“I reckon you wouldn't,” replied the old man. “You'd be like your
father. He was ever ready to draw--too ready. In times like these, with
the Texas rangers enforcin' the law, your Dad would have been driven to
the river. An', son, I'm afraid you're a chip off the old block. Can't
you hold in--keep your temper--run away from trouble? Because it'll only
result in you gettin' the worst of it in the end. Your father was killed
in a street-fight. An' it was told of him that he shot twice after a
bullet had passed through his heart. Think of the terrible nature of a
man to be able to do that. If you have any such blood in you, never give
it a chance.”
“What you say is all very well, uncle,” returned Duane, “but the only
way out for me is to run, and I won't do it. Cal Bain and his outfit
have already made me look like a coward. He says I'm afraid to come out
and face him. A man simply can't stand that in this country. Besides,
Cal would shoot me in the back some day if I didn't face him.”
“Well, then, what're you goin' to do?” inquired the elder man.
“I haven't decided--yet.”
“No, but you're comin' to it mighty fast. That damned spell is workin'
in you. You're different to-day. I remember how you used to be moody an'
lose your temper an' talk wild. Never was much afraid of you then. But
now you're gettin' cool an' quiet, an' you think deep, an' I don't like
the light in your eye. It reminds me of your father.”
“I wonder what Dad would say to me to-day if he were alive and here,”
said Duane.
“What do you think? What could you expect of a man who never wore a
glove on his right hand for twenty years?”
“Well, he'd hardly have said much. Dad never talked. But he would have
done a lot. And I guess I'll go down-town and let Cal Bain find me.”
Then followed a long silence, during which Duane sat with downcast eyes,
and the uncle appeared lost in sad thought of the future. Presently he
turned to Duane with an expression that denoted resignation, and yet a
spirit which showed wherein they were of the same blood.
“You've got a fast horse--the fastest I know of in this country. After
you meet Bain hurry back home. I'll have a saddle-bag packed for you and
the horse ready.”
With that he turned on his heel and went into the house, leaving Duane
to revolve in his mind his singular speech. Buck wondered presently if
he shared his uncle's opinion of the result of a meeting between himself
and Bain. His thoughts were vague. But on the instant of final decision,
when he had settled with himself that he would meet Bain, such a storm
of passion assailed him that he felt as if he was being shaken with
ague. Yet it was all internal, inside his breast, for his hand was like
a rock and, for all he could see, not a muscle about him quivered. He
had no fear of Bain or of any other man; but a vague fear of himself, of
this strange force in him, made him ponder and shake his head. It was as
if he had not all to say in this matter. There appeared to have been in
him a reluctance to let himself go, and some voice, some spirit from a
distance, something he was not accountable for, had compelled him.
That hour of Duane's life was like years of actual living, and in it he
became a thoughtful man.
He went into the house and buckled on his belt and gun. The gun was a
Colt.45, six-shot, and heavy, with an ivory handle. He had packed it,
on and off, for five years. Before that it had been used by his father.
There were a number of notches filed in the bulge of the ivory handle.
This gun was the one his father had fired twice after being shot
through the heart, and his hand had stiffened so tightly upon it in
the death-grip that his fingers had to be pried open. It had never been
drawn upon any man since it had come into Duane's possession. But the
cold, bright polish of the weapon showed how it had been used. Duane
could draw it with inconceivable rapidity, and at twenty feet he could
split a card pointing edgewise toward him.
Duane wished to avoid meeting his mother. Fortunately, as he thought,
she was away from home. He went out and down the path toward the gate.
The air was full of the fragrance of blossoms and the melody of birds.
Outside in the road a neighbor woman stood talking to a countryman in a
wagon; they spoke to him; and he heard, but did not reply. Then he began
to stride down the road toward the town.
Wellston was a small town, but important in that unsettled part of the
great state because it was the trading-center of several hundred miles
of territory. On the main street there were perhaps fifty buildings,
some brick, some frame, mostly adobe, and one-third of the lot, and by
far the most prosperous, were saloons. From the road Duane turned into
this street. It was a wide thoroughfare lined by hitching-rails and
saddled horses and vehicles of various kinds. Duane's eye ranged down
the street, taking in all at a glance, particularly persons moving
leisurely up and down. Not a cowboy was in sight. Duane slackened his
stride, and by the time he reached Sol White's place, which was the
first saloon, he was walking slowly. Several people spoke to him and
turned to look back after they had passed. He paused at the door of
White's saloon, took a sharp survey of the interior, then stepped
inside.
The saloon was large and cool, full of men and noise and smoke. The
noise ceased upon his entrance, and the silence ensuing presently broke
to the clink of Mexican silver dollars at a monte table. Sol White, who
was behind the bar, straightened up when he saw Duane; then, without
speaking, he bent over to rinse a glass. All eyes except those of the
Mexican gamblers were turned upon Duane; and these glances were keen,
speculative, questioning. These men knew Bain was looking for trouble;
they probably had heard his boasts. But what did Duane intend to do?
Several of the cowboys and ranchers present exchanged glances. Duane had
been weighed by unerring Texas instinct, by men who all packed guns. The
boy was the son of his father. Whereupon they greeted him and returned
to their drinks and cards. Sol White stood with his big red hands out
upon the bar; he was a tall, raw-boned Texan with a long mustache waxed
to sharp points.
“Howdy, Buck,” was his greeting to Duane. He spoke carelessly and
averted his dark gaze for an instant.
“Howdy, Sol,” replied Duane, slowly. “Say, Sol, I hear there's a gent in
town looking for me bad.”
“Reckon there is, Buck,” replied White. “He came in heah aboot an
hour ago. Shore he was some riled an' a-roarin' for gore. Told me
confidential a certain party had given you a white silk scarf, an' he
was hell-bent on wearin' it home spotted red.”
“Anybody with him?” queried Duane.
“Burt an' Sam Outcalt an' a little cowpuncher I never seen before.
They-all was coaxin' trim to leave town. But he's looked on the flowin'
glass, Buck, an' he's heah for keeps.”
“Why doesn't Sheriff Oaks lock him up if he's that bad?”
“Oaks went away with the rangers. There's been another raid at Flesher's
ranch. The King Fisher gang, likely. An' so the town's shore wide open.”
Duane stalked outdoors and faced down the street. He walked the whole
length of the long block, meeting many people--farmers, ranchers,
clerks, merchants, Mexicans, cowboys, and women. It was a singular fact
that when he turned to retrace his steps the street was almost empty. He
had not returned a hundred yards on his way when the street was wholly
deserted. A few heads protruded from doors and around corners. That main
street of Wellston saw some such situation every few days. If it was an
instinct for Texans to fight, it was also instinctive for them to sense
with remarkable quickness the signs of a coming gun-play. Rumor could
not fly so swiftly. In less than ten minutes everybody who had been on
the street or in the shops knew that Buck Duane had come forth to meet
his enemy.
Duane walked on. When he came to within fifty paces of a saloon he
swerved out into the middle of the street, stood there for a moment,
then went ahead and back to the sidewalk. He passed on in this way the
length of the block. Sol White was standing in the door of his saloon.
“Buck, I'm a-tippin' you off,” he said, quick and low-voiced. “Cal
Bain's over at Everall's. If he's a-huntin' you bad, as he brags, he'll
show there.”
Duane crossed the street and started down. Notwithstanding White's
statement Duane was wary and slow at every door. Nothing happened,
and he traversed almost the whole length of the block without seeing a
person. Everall's place was on the corner.
Duane knew himself to be cold, steady. He was conscious of a strange
fury that made him want to leap ahead. He seemed to long for this
encounter more than anything he had ever wanted. But, vivid as were his
sensations, he felt as if in a dream.
Before he reached Everall's he heard loud voices, one of which was
raised high. Then the short door swung outward as if impelled by a
vigorous hand. A bow-legged cowboy wearing wooley chaps burst out upon
the sidewalk. At sight of Duane he seemed to bound into the air, and he
uttered a savage roar.
Duane stopped in his tracks at the outer edge of the sidewalk, perhaps a
dozen rods from Everall's door.
If Bain was drunk he did not show it in his movement. He swaggered
forward, rapidly closing up the gap. Red, sweaty, disheveled, and
hatless, his face distorted and expressive of the most malignant intent,
he was a wild and sinister figure. He had already killed a man, and this
showed in his demeanor. His hands were extended before him, the right
hand a little lower than the left. At every step he bellowed his rancor
in speech mostly curses. Gradually he slowed his walk, then halted. A
good twenty-five paces separated the men.
“Won't nothin' make you draw, you--!” he shouted, fiercely.
“I'm waitin' on you, Cal,” replied Duane.
Bain's right hand stiffened--moved. Duane threw his gun as a boy throws
a ball underhand--a draw his father had taught him. He pulled twice,
his shots almost as one. Bain's big Colt boomed while it was pointed
downward and he was falling. His bullet scattered dust and gravel at
Duane's feet. He fell loosely, without contortion.
In a flash all was reality for Duane. He went forward and held his gun
ready for the slightest movement on the part of Bain. But Bain lay upon
his back, and all that moved were his breast and his eyes. How strangely
the red had left his face--and also the distortion! The devil that had
showed in Bain was gone. He was sober and conscious. He tried to
speak, but failed. His eyes expressed something pitifully human. They
changed--rolled--set blankly.
Duane drew a deep breath and sheathed his gun. He felt calm and cool,
glad the fray was over. One violent expression burst from him. “The
fool!”
When he looked up there were men around him.
“Plumb center,” said one.
Another, a cowboy who evidently had just left the gaming-table, leaned
down and pulled open Bain's shirt. He had the ace of spades in his hand.
He laid it on Bain's breast, and the black figure on the card covered
the two bullet-holes just over Bain's heart.
Duane wheeled and hurried away. He heard another man say:
“Reckon Cal got what he deserved. Buck Duane's first gunplay. Like
father like son!”