CHAPTER XIV

When Duane reached the crossing of the roads the name Fairfield on the

sign-post seemed to be the thing that tipped the oscillating balance of

decision in favor of that direction.

He answered here to unfathomable impulse. If he had been driven to hunt

up Jeff Aiken, now he was called to find this unknown ranger captain.

In Duane's state of mind clear reasoning, common sense, or keenness were

out of the question. He went because he felt he was compelled.

Dusk had fallen when he rode into a town which inquiry discovered to be

Fairfield. Captain MacNelly's camp was stationed just out of the village

limits on the other side.

No one except the boy Duane questioned appeared to notice his arrival.

Like Shirley, the town of Fairfield was large and prosperous, compared

to the innumerable hamlets dotting the vast extent of southwestern

Texas. As Duane rode through, being careful to get off the main street,

he heard the tolling of a church-bell that was a melancholy reminder of

his old home.

There did not appear to be any camp on the outskirts of the town. But as

Duane sat his horse, peering around and undecided what further move to

make, he caught the glint of flickering lights through the darkness.

Heading toward them, he rode perhaps a quarter of a mile to come upon a

grove of mesquite. The brightness of several fires made the surrounding

darkness all the blacker. Duane saw the moving forms of men and heard

horses. He advanced naturally, expecting any moment to be halted.

“Who goes there?” came the sharp call out of the gloom.

Duane pulled his horse. The gloom was impenetrable.

“One man--alone,” replied Duane.

“A stranger?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want?”

“I'm trying to find the ranger camp.”

“You've struck it. What's your errand?”

“I want to see Captain MacNelly.”

“Get down and advance. Slow. Don't move your hands. It's dark, but I can

see.”

Duane dismounted, and, leading his horse, slowly advanced a few paces.

He saw a dully bright object--a gun--before he discovered the man who

held it. A few more steps showed a dark figure blocking the trail. Here

Duane halted.

“Come closer, stranger. Let's have a look at you,” the guard ordered,

curtly.

Duane advanced again until he stood before the man. Here the rays of

light from the fires flickered upon Duane's face.

“Reckon you're a stranger, all right. What's your name and your business

with the Captain?”

Duane hesitated, pondering what best to say.

“Tell Captain MacNelly I'm the man he's been asking to ride into his

camp--after dark,” finally said Duane.

The ranger bent forward to peer hard at this night visitor. His manner

had been alert, and now it became tense.

“Come here, one of you men, quick,” he called, without turning in the

least toward the camp-fire.

“Hello! What's up, Pickens?” came the swift reply. It was followed by a

rapid thud of boots on soft ground. A dark form crossed the gleams from

the fire-light. Then a ranger loomed up to reach the side of the guard.

Duane heard whispering, the purport of which he could not catch. The

second ranger swore under his breath. Then he turned away and started

back.

“Here, ranger, before you go, understand this. My visit is

peaceful--friendly if you'll let it be. Mind, I was asked to come

here--after dark.”

Duane's clear, penetrating voice carried far. The listening rangers at

the camp-fire heard what he said.

“Ho, Pickens! Tell that fellow to wait,” replied an authoritative voice.

Then a slim figure detached itself from the dark, moving group at the

camp-fire and hurried out.

“Better be foxy, Cap,” shouted a ranger, in warning.

“Shut up--all of you,” was the reply.

This officer, obviously Captain MacNelly, soon joined the two rangers

who were confronting Duane. He had no fear. He strode straight up to

Duane.

“I'm MacNelly,” he said. “If you're my man, don't mention your

name--yet.”

All this seemed so strange to Duane, in keeping with much that had

happened lately.

“I met Jeff Aiken to-day,” said Duane. “He sent me--”

“You've met Aiken!” exclaimed MacNelly, sharp, eager, low. “By all

that's bully!” Then he appeared to catch himself, to grow restrained.

“Men, fall back, leave us alone a moment.”

The rangers slowly withdrew.

“Buck Duane! It's you?” he whispered, eagerly.

“Yes.”

“If I give my word you'll not be arrested--you'll be treated

fairly--will you come into camp and consult with me?”

“Certainly.”

“Duane, I'm sure glad to meet you,” went on MacNelly; and he extended

his hand.

Amazed and touched, scarcely realizing this actuality, Duane gave his

hand and felt no unmistakable grip of warmth.

“It doesn't seem natural, Captain MacNelly, but I believe I'm glad to

meet you,” said Duane, soberly.

“You will be. Now we'll go back to camp. Keep your identity mum for the

present.”

He led Duane in the direction of the camp-fire.

“Pickers, go back on duty,” he ordered, “and, Beeson, you look after

this horse.”

When Duane got beyond the line of mesquite, which had hid a good view of

the camp-site, he saw a group of perhaps fifteen rangers sitting around

the fires, near a long low shed where horses were feeding, and a small

adobe house at one side.

“We've just had grub, but I'll see you get some. Then we'll talk,” said

MacNelly. “I've taken up temporary quarters here. Have a rustler job on

hand. Now, when you've eaten, come right into the house.”

Duane was hungry, but he hurried through the ample supper that was set

before him, urged on by curiosity and astonishment. The only way

he could account for his presence there in a ranger's camp was that

MacNelly hoped to get useful information out of him. Still that would

hardly have made this captain so eager. There was a mystery here, and

Duane could scarcely wait for it to be solved. While eating he had

bent keen eyes around him. After a first quiet scrutiny the rangers

apparently paid no more attention to him. They were all veterans in

service--Duane saw that--and rugged, powerful men of iron constitution.

Despite the occasional joke and sally of the more youthful members, and

a general conversation of camp-fire nature, Duane was not deceived about

the fact that his advent had been an unusual and striking one, which had

caused an undercurrent of conjecture and even consternation among them.

These rangers were too well trained to appear openly curious about their

captain's guest. If they had not deliberately attempted to be oblivious

of his presence Duane would have concluded they thought him an ordinary

visitor, somehow of use to MacNelly. As it was, Duane felt a suspense

that must have been due to a hint of his identity.

He was not long in presenting himself at the door of the house.

“Come in and have a chair,” said MacNelly, motioning for the one other

occupant of the room to rise. “Leave us, Russell, and close the door.

I'll be through these reports right off.”

MacNelly sat at a table upon which was a lamp and various papers. Seen

in the light he was a fine-looking, soldierly man of about forty years,

dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a bronzed face, shrewd, stern, strong,

yet not wanting in kindliness. He scanned hastily over some papers,

fussed with them, and finally put them in envelopes. Without looking up

he pushed a cigar-case toward Duane, and upon Duane's refusal to

smoke he took a cigar, rose to light it at the lamp-chimney, and then,

settling back in his chair, he faced Duane, making a vain attempt to

hide what must have been the fulfilment of a long-nourished curiosity.

“Duane, I've been hoping for this for two years,” he began.

Duane smiled a little--a smile that felt strange on his face. He had

never been much of a talker. And speech here seemed more than ordinarily

difficult.

MacNelly must have felt that.

He looked long and earnestly at Duane, and his quick, nervous manner

changed to grave thoughtfulness.

“I've lots to say, but where to begin,” he mused. “Duane, you've had

a hard life since you went on the dodge. I never met you before, don't

know what you looked like as a boy. But I can see what--well, even

ranger life isn't all roses.”

He rolled his cigar between his lips and puffed clouds of smoke.

“Ever hear from home since you left Wellston?” he asked, abruptly.

“No.”

“Never a word?”

“Not one,” replied Duane, sadly.

“That's tough. I'm glad to be able to tell you that up to just lately

your mother, sister, uncle--all your folks, I believe--were well. I've

kept posted. But haven't heard lately.”

Duane averted his face a moment, hesitated till the swelling left his

throat, and then said, “It's worth what I went through to-day to hear

that.”

“I can imagine how you feel about it. When I was in the war--but let's

get down to the business of this meeting.”

He pulled his chair close to Duane's.

“You've had word more than once in the last two years that I wanted to

see you?”

“Three times, I remember,” replied Duane.

“Why didn't you hunt me up?”

“I supposed you imagined me one of those gun-fighters who couldn't take

a dare and expected me to ride up to your camp and be arrested.”

“That was natural, I suppose,” went on MacNelly. “You didn't know me,

otherwise you would have come. I've been a long time getting to you.

But the nature of my job, as far as you're concerned, made me cautious.

Duane, you're aware of the hard name you bear all over the Southwest?”

“Once in a while I'm jarred into realizing,” replied Duane.

“It's the hardest, barring Murrell and Cheseldine, on the Texas border.

But there's this difference. Murrell in his day was known to deserve his

infamous name. Cheseldine in his day also. But I've found hundreds

of men in southwest Texas who're your friends, who swear you never

committed a crime. The farther south I get the clearer this becomes.

What I want to know is the truth. Have you ever done anything criminal?

Tell me the truth, Duane. It won't make any difference in my plan.

And when I say crime I mean what I would call crime, or any reasonable

Texan.”

“That way my hands are clean,” replied Duane.

“You never held up a man, robbed a store for grub, stole a horse when

you needed him bad--never anything like that?”

“Somehow I always kept out of that, just when pressed the hardest.”

“Duane, I'm damn glad!” MacNelly exclaimed, gripping Duane's hand. “Glad

for you mother's sakel But, all the same, in spite of this, you are a

Texas outlaw accountable to the state. You're perfectly aware that under

existing circumstances, if you fell into the hands of the law, you'd

probably hang, at least go to jail for a long term.”

“That's what kept me on the dodge all these years,” replied Duane.

“Certainly.” MacNelly removed his cigar. His eyes narrowed and

glittered. The muscles along his brown cheeks set hard and tense. He

leaned closer to Duane, laid sinewy, pressing fingers upon Duane's knee.

“Listen to this,” he whispered, hoarsely. “If I place a pardon in your

hand--make you a free, honest citizen once more, clear your name of

infamy, make your mother, your sister proud of you--will you swear

yourself to a service, ANY service I demand of you?”

Duane sat stock still, stunned.

Slowly, more persuasively, with show of earnest agitation, Captain

MacNelly reiterated his startling query.

“My God!” burst from Duane. “What's this? MacNelly, you CAN'T be in

earnest!”

“Never more so in my life. I've a deep game. I'm playing it square. What

do you say?”

He rose to his feet. Duane, as if impelled, rose with him. Ranger and

outlaw then locked eyes that searched each other's souls. In MacNelly's

Duane read truth, strong, fiery purpose, hope, even gladness, and a

fugitive mounting assurance of victory.

Twice Duane endeavored to speak, failed of all save a hoarse, incoherent

sound, until, forcing back a flood of speech, he found a voice.

“Any service? Every service! MacNelly, I give my word,” said Duane.

A light played over MacNelly's face, warming out all the grim darkness.

He held out his hand. Duane met it with his in a clasp that men

unconsciously give in moments of stress.

When they unclasped and Duane stepped back to drop into a chair MacNelly

fumbled for another cigar--he had bitten the other into shreds--and,

lighting it as before, he turned to his visitor, now calm and cool. He

had the look of a man who had justly won something at considerable

cost. His next move was to take a long leather case from his pocket and

extract from it several folded papers.

“Here's your pardon from the Governor,” he said, quietly. “You'll see,

when you look it over, that it's conditional. When you sign this paper I

have here the condition will be met.”

He smoothed out the paper, handed Duane a pen, ran his forefinger along

a dotted line.

Duane's hand was shaky. Years had passed since he had held a pen. It

was with difficulty that he achieved his signature. Buckley Duane--how

strange the name looked!

“Right here ends the career of Buck Duane, outlaw and gunfighter,” said

MacNelly; and, seating himself, he took the pen from Duane's fingers and

wrote several lines in several places upon the paper. Then with a smile

he handed it to Duane.

“That makes you a member of Company A, Texas Rangers.”

“So that's it!” burst out Duane, a light breaking in upon his

bewilderment. “You want me for ranger service?”

“Sure. That's it,” replied the Captain, dryly. “Now to hear what that

service is to be. I've been a busy man since I took this job, and, as

you may have heard, I've done a few things. I don't mind telling you

that political influence put me in here and that up Austin way there's a

good deal of friction in the Department of State in regard to whether or

not the ranger service is any good--whether it should be discontinued or

not. I'm on the party side who's defending the ranger service. I contend

that it's made Texas habitable. Well, it's been up to me to produce

results. So far I have been successful. My great ambition is to break

up the outlaw gangs along the river. I have never ventured in there

yet because I've been waiting to get the lieutenant I needed. You, of

course, are the man I had in mind. It's my idea to start way up the Rio

Grande and begin with Cheseldine. He's the strongest, the worst outlaw

of the times. He's more than rustler. It's Cheseldine and his gang

who are operating on the banks. They're doing bank-robbing. That's my

private opinion, but it's not been backed up by any evidence. Cheseldine

doesn't leave evidences. He's intelligent, cunning. No one seems to have

seen him--to know what he looks like. I assume, of course, that you are

a stranger to the country he dominates. It's five hundred miles west of

your ground. There's a little town over there called Fairdale. It's the

nest of a rustler gang. They rustle and murder at will. Nobody knows who

the leader is. I want you to find out. Well, whatever way you decide is

best you will proceed to act upon. You are your own boss. You know such

men and how they can be approached. You will take all the time needed,

if it's months. It will be necessary for you to communicate with me, and

that will be a difficult matter. For Cheseldine dominates several whole

counties. You must find some way to let me know when I and my rangers

are needed. The plan is to break up Cheseldine's gang. It's the toughest

job on the border. Arresting him alone isn't to be heard of. He couldn't

be brought out. Killing him isn't much better, for his select men, the

ones he operates with, are as dangerous to the community as he is. We

want to kill or jail this choice selection of robbers and break up the

rest of the gang. To find them, to get among them somehow, to learn

their movements, to lay your trap for us rangers to spring--that, Duane,

is your service to me, and God knows it's a great one!”

“I have accepted it,” replied Duane.

“Your work will be secret. You are now a ranger in my service. But no

one except the few I choose to tell will know of it until we pull off

the job. You will simply be Buck Duane till it suits our purpose to

acquaint Texas with the fact that you're a ranger. You'll see there's

no date on that paper. No one will ever know just when you entered the

service. Perhaps we can make it appear that all or most of your outlawry

has really been good service to the state. At that, I'll believe it'll

turn out so.”

MacNelly paused a moment in his rapid talk, chewed his cigar, drew his

brows together in a dark frown, and went on. “No man on the border knows

so well as you the deadly nature of this service. It's a thousand to one

that you'll be killed. I'd say there was no chance at all for any other

man beside you. Your reputation will go far among the outlaws. Maybe

that and your nerve and your gun-play will pull you through. I'm hoping

so. But it's a long, long chance against your ever coming back.”

“That's not the point,” said Duane. “But in case I get killed out

there--what--”

“Leave that to me,” interrupted Captain MacNelly. “Your folks will know

at once of your pardon and your ranger duty. If you lose your life out

there I'll see your name cleared--the service you render known. You can

rest assured of that.”

“I am satisfied,” replied Duane. “That's so much more than I've dared to

hope.”

“Well, it's settled, then. I'll give you money for expenses. You'll

start as soon as you like--the sooner the better. I hope to think of

other suggestions, especially about communicating with me.”

Long after the lights were out and the low hum of voices had ceased

round the camp-fire Duane lay wide awake, eyes staring into the

blackness, marveling over the strange events of the day. He was humble,

grateful to the depths of his soul. A huge and crushing burden had been

lifted from his heart. He welcomed this hazardous service to the man who

had saved him. Thought of his mother and sister and Uncle Jim, of his

home, of old friends came rushing over him the first time in years that

he had happiness in the memory. The disgrace he had put upon them would

now be removed; and in the light of that, his wasted life of the past,

and its probable tragic end in future service as atonement changed their

aspects. And as he lay there, with the approach of sleep finally dimming

the vividness of his thought, so full of mystery, shadowy faces floated

in the blackness around him, haunting him as he had always been haunted.

It was broad daylight when he awakened. MacNelly was calling him to

breakfast. Outside sounded voices of men, crackling of fires, snorting

and stamping of horses, the barking of dogs. Duane rolled out of his

blankets and made good use of the soap and towel and razor and brush

near by on a bench--things of rare luxury to an outlaw on the ride. The

face he saw in the mirror was as strange as the past he had tried so

hard to recall. Then he stepped to the door and went out.

The rangers were eating in a circle round a tarpaulin spread upon the

ground.

“Fellows,” said MacNelly, “shake hands with Buck Duane. He's on secret

ranger service for me. Service that'll likely make you all hump soon!

Mind you, keep mum about it.”

The rangers surprised Duane with a roaring greeting, the warmth of which

he soon divined was divided between pride of his acquisition to their

ranks and eagerness to meet that violent service of which their captain

hinted. They were jolly, wild fellows, with just enough gravity in

their welcome to show Duane their respect and appreciation, while not

forgetting his lone-wolf record. When he had seated himself in that

circle, now one of them, a feeling subtle and uplifting pervaded him.

After the meal Captain MacNelly drew Duane aside.

“Here's the money. Make it go as far as you can. Better strike straight

for El Paso, snook around there and hear things. Then go to Valentine.

That's near the river and within fifty miles or so of the edge of the

Rim Rock. Somewhere up there Cheseldine holds fort. Somewhere to the

north is the town Fairdale. But he doesn't hide all the time in the

rocks. Only after some daring raid or hold-up. Cheseldine's got border

towns on his staff, or scared of him, and these places we want to know

about, especially Fairdale. Write me care of the adjutant at Austin.

I don't have to warn you to be careful where you mail letters. Ride a

hundred, two hundred miles, if necessary, or go clear to El Paso.”

MacNelly stopped with an air of finality, and then Duane slowly rose.

“I'll start at once,” he said, extending his hand to the Captain. “I

wish--I'd like to thank you.”

“Hell, man! Don't thank me!” replied MacNelly, crushing the proffered

hand. “I've sent a lot of good men to their deaths, and maybe you're

another. But, as I've said, you've one chance in a thousand. And, by

Heaven! I'd hate to be Cheseldine or any other man you were trailing.

No, not good-by--Adios, Duane! May we meet again!”

BOOK II. THE RANGER

CHAPTER XV

West of the Pecos River Texas extended a vast wild region, barren in the

north where the Llano Estacado spread its shifting sands, fertile in

the south along the Rio Grande. A railroad marked an undeviating course

across five hundred miles of this country, and the only villages and

towns lay on or near this line of steel. Unsettled as was this western

Texas, and despite the acknowledged dominance of the outlaw bands, the

pioneers pushed steadily into it. First had come the lone rancher; then

his neighbors in near and far valleys; then the hamlets; at last the

railroad and the towns. And still the pioneers came, spreading

deeper into the valleys, farther and wider over the plains. It was

mesquite-dotted, cactus-covered desert, but rich soil upon which water

acted like magic. There was little grass to an acre, but there were

millions of acres. The climate was wonderful. Cattle flourished and

ranchers prospered.

The Rio Grande flowed almost due south along the western boundary for a

thousand miles, and then, weary of its course, turned abruptly north,

to make what was called the Big Bend. The railroad, running west, cut

across this bend, and all that country bounded on the north by the

railroad and on the south by the river was as wild as the Staked Plains.

It contained not one settlement. Across the face of this Big Bend, as

if to isolate it, stretched the Ord mountain range, of which Mount

Ord, Cathedral Mount, and Elephant Mount raised bleak peaks above their

fellows. In the valleys of the foothills and out across the plains were

ranches, and farther north villages, and the towns of Alpine and Marfa.

Like other parts of the great Lone Star State, this section of Texas

was a world in itself--a world where the riches of the rancher were

ever enriching the outlaw. The village closest to the gateway of this

outlaw-infested region was a little place called Ord, named after the

dark peak that loomed some miles to the south. It had been settled

originally by Mexicans--there were still the ruins of adobe

missions--but with the advent of the rustler and outlaw many inhabitants

were shot or driven away, so that at the height of Ord's prosperity and

evil sway there were but few Mexicans living there, and these had their

choice between holding hand-and-glove with the outlaws or furnishing

target practice for that wild element.

Toward the close of a day in September a stranger rode into Ord, and in

a community where all men were remarkable for one reason or another

he excited interest. His horse, perhaps, received the first and

most engaging attention--horses in that region being apparently more

important than men. This particular horse did not attract with beauty.

At first glance he seemed ugly. But he was a giant, black as coal, rough

despite the care manifestly bestowed upon him, long of body, ponderous

of limb, huge in every way. A bystander remarked that he had a grand

head. True, if only his head had been seen he would have been a

beautiful horse. Like men, horses show what they are in the shape, the

size, the line, the character of the head. This one denoted fire, speed,

blood, loyalty, and his eyes were as soft and dark as a woman's. His

face was solid black, except in the middle of his forehead, where there

was a round spot of white.

“Say mister, mind tellin' me his name?” asked a ragged urchin, with born

love of a horse in his eyes.

“Bullet,” replied the rider.

“Thet there's fer the white mark, ain't it?” whispered the youngster to

another. “Say, ain't he a whopper? Biggest hoss I ever seen.”

Bullet carried a huge black silver-ornamented saddle of Mexican make, a

lariat and canteen, and a small pack rolled into a tarpaulin.

This rider apparently put all care of appearances upon his horse. His

apparel was the ordinary jeans of the cowboy without vanity, and it

was torn and travel-stained. His boots showed evidence of an intimate

acquaintance with cactus. Like his horse, this man was a giant in

stature, but rangier, not so heavily built. Otherwise the only striking

thing about him was his somber face with its piercing eyes, and hair

white over the temples. He packed two guns, both low down--but that was

too common a thing to attract notice in the Big Bend. A close observer,

however, would have noted a singular fact--this rider's right hand was

more bronzed, more weather-beaten than his left. He never wore a glove

on that right hand!

He had dismounted before a ramshackle structure that bore upon its wide,

high-boarded front the sign, “Hotel.” There were horsemen coming and

going down the wide street between its rows of old stores, saloons,

and houses. Ord certainly did not look enterprising. Americans had

manifestly assimilated much of the leisure of the Mexicans. The hotel

had a wide platform in front, and this did duty as porch and sidewalk.

Upon it, and leaning against a hitching-rail, were men of varying ages,

most of them slovenly in old jeans and slouched sombreros. Some were

booted, belted, and spurred. No man there wore a coat, but all wore

vests. The guns in that group would have outnumbered the men.

It was a crowd seemingly too lazy to be curious. Good nature did not

appear to be wanting, but it was not the frank and boisterous kind

natural to the cowboy or rancher in town for a day. These men were

idlers; what else, perhaps, was easy to conjecture. Certainly to this

arriving stranger, who flashed a keen eye over them, they wore an

atmosphere never associated with work.

Presently a tall man, with a drooping, sandy mustache, leisurely

detached himself from the crowd.

“Howdy, stranger,” he said.

The stranger had bent over to loosen the cinches; he straightened up and

nodded. Then: “I'm thirsty!”

That brought a broad smile to faces. It was characteristic greeting.

One and all trooped after the stranger into the hotel. It was a dark,

ill-smelling barn of a place, with a bar as high as a short man's head.

A bartender with a scarred face was serving drinks.

“Line up, gents,” said the stranger.

They piled over one another to get to the bar, with coarse jests and

oaths and laughter. None of them noted that the stranger did not appear

so thirsty as he had claimed to be. In fact, though he went through the

motions, he did not drink at all.

“My name's Jim Fletcher,” said the tall man with the drooping, sandy

mustache. He spoke laconically, nevertheless there was a tone that

showed he expected to be known. Something went with that name. The

stranger did not appear to be impressed.

“My name might be Blazes, but it ain't,” he replied. “What do you call

this burg?”

“Stranger, this heah me-tropoles bears the handle Ord. Is thet new to

you?”

He leaned back against the bar, and now his little yellow eyes, clear as

crystal, flawless as a hawk's, fixed on the stranger. Other men crowded

close, forming a circle, curious, ready to be friendly or otherwise,

according to how the tall interrogator marked the new-comer.

“Sure, Ord's a little strange to me. Off the railroad some, ain't it?

Funny trails hereabouts.”

“How fur was you goin'?”

“I reckon I was goin' as far as I could,” replied the stranger, with a

hard laugh.

His reply had subtle reaction on that listening circle. Some of the

men exchanged glances. Fletcher stroked his drooping mustache, seemed

thoughtful, but lost something of that piercing scrutiny.

“Wal, Ord's the jumpin'-off place,” he said, presently. “Sure you've

heerd of the Big Bend country?”

“I sure have, an' was makin' tracks fer it,” replied the stranger.

Fletcher turned toward a man in the outer edge of the group. “Knell,

come in heah.”

This individual elbowed his way in and was seen to be scarcely more than

a boy, almost pale beside those bronzed men, with a long, expressionless

face, thin and sharp.

“Knell, this heah's--” Fletcher wheeled to the stranger. “What'd you

call yourself?”

“I'd hate to mention what I've been callin' myself lately.”

This sally fetched another laugh. The stranger appeared cool, careless,

indifferent. Perhaps he knew, as the others present knew, that this show

of Fletcher's, this pretense of introduction, was merely talk while he

was looked over.

Knell stepped up, and it was easy to see, from the way Fletcher

relinquished his part in the situation, that a man greater than he had

appeared upon the scene.

“Any business here?” he queried, curtly. When he spoke his

expressionless face was in strange contrast with the ring, the quality,

the cruelty of his voice. This voice betrayed an absence of humor, of

friendliness, of heart.

“Nope,” replied the stranger.

“Know anybody hereabouts?”

“Nary one.”

“Jest ridin' through?”

“Yep.”

“Slopin' fer back country, eh?”

There came a pause. The stranger appeared to grow a little resentful and

drew himself up disdainfully.

“Wal, considerin' you-all seem so damn friendly an' oncurious down

here in this Big Bend country, I don't mind sayin' yes--I am in on the

dodge,” he replied, with deliberate sarcasm.

“From west of Ord--out El Paso way, mebbe?”

“Sure.”

“A-huh! Thet so?” Knell's words cut the air, stilled the room. “You're

from way down the river. Thet's what they say down there--'on the

dodge.'... Stranger, you're a liar!”

With swift clink of spur and thump of boot the crowd split, leaving

Knell and the stranger in the center.

Wild breed of that ilk never made a mistake in judging a man's nerve.

Knell had cut out with the trenchant call, and stood ready. The stranger

suddenly lost his every semblance to the rough and easy character before

manifest in him. He became bronze. That situation seemed familiar

to him. His eyes held a singular piercing light that danced like a

compass-needle.

“Sure I lied,” he said; “so I ain't takin' offense at the way you called

me. I'm lookin' to make friends, not enemies. You don't strike me as one

of them four-flushes, achin' to kill somebody. But if you are--go ahead

an' open the ball.... You see, I never throw a gun on them fellers till

they go fer theirs.”

Knell coolly eyed his antagonist, his strange face not changing in the

least. Yet somehow it was evident in his look that here was metal which

rang differently from what he had expected. Invited to start a fight

or withdraw, as he chose, Knell proved himself big in the manner

characteristic of only the genuine gunman.

“Stranger, I pass,” he said, and, turning to the bar, he ordered liquor.

The tension relaxed, the silence broke, the men filled up the gap; the

incident seemed closed. Jim Fletcher attached himself to the stranger,

and now both respect and friendliness tempered his asperity.

“Wal, fer want of a better handle I'll call you Dodge,” he said.

“Dodge's as good as any.... Gents, line up again--an' if you can't be

friendly, be careful!”

Such was Buck Duane's debut in the little outlaw hamlet of Ord.

Duane had been three months out of the Nueces country. At El Paso

he bought the finest horse he could find, and, armed and otherwise

outfitted to suit him, he had taken to unknown trails. Leisurely he rode

from town to town, village to village, ranch to ranch, fitting his talk

and his occupation to the impression he wanted to make upon different

people whom he met. He was in turn a cowboy, a rancher, a cattleman,

a stock-buyer, a boomer, a land-hunter; and long before he reached the

wild and inhospitable Ord he had acted the part of an outlaw, drifting

into new territory. He passed on leisurely because he wanted to learn

the lay of the country, the location of villages and ranches, the work,

habit, gossip, pleasures, and fears of the people with whom he came

in contact. The one subject most impelling to him--outlaws--he never

mentioned; but by talking all around it, sifting the old ranch and

cattle story, he acquired a knowledge calculated to aid his plot. In

this game time was of no moment; if necessary he would take years to

accomplish his task. The stupendous and perilous nature of it showed

in the slow, wary preparation. When he heard Fletcher's name and faced

Knell he knew he had reached the place he sought. Ord was a hamlet on

the fringe of the grazing country, of doubtful honesty, from which,

surely, winding trails led down into that free and never-disturbed

paradise of outlaws--the Big Bend.

Duane made himself agreeable, yet not too much so, to Fletcher and

several other men disposed to talk and drink and eat; and then, after

having a care for his horse, he rode out of town a couple of miles to

a grove he had marked, and there, well hidden, he prepared to spend the

night. This proceeding served a double purpose--he was safer, and the

habit would look well in the eyes of outlaws, who would be more inclined

to see in him the lone-wolf fugitive.

Long since Duane had fought out a battle with himself, won a hard-earned

victory. His outer life, the action, was much the same as it had been;

but the inner life had tremendously changed. He could never become a

happy man, he could never shake utterly those haunting phantoms that had

once been his despair and madness; but he had assumed a task impossible

for any man save one like him, he had felt the meaning of it grow

strangely and wonderfully, and through that flourished up consciousness

of how passionately he now clung to this thing which would blot out his

former infamy. The iron fetters no more threatened his hands; the iron

door no more haunted his dreams. He never forgot that he was free.

Strangely, too, along with this feeling of new manhood there gathered

the force of imperious desire to run these chief outlaws to their dooms.

He never called them outlaws--but rustlers, thieves, robbers, murderers,

criminals. He sensed the growth of a relentless driving passion, and

sometimes he feared that, more than the newly acquired zeal and pride in

this ranger service, it was the old, terrible inherited killing instinct

lifting its hydra-head in new guise. But of that he could not be sure.

He dreaded the thought. He could only wait.

Another aspect of the change in Duane, neither passionate nor driving,

yet not improbably even more potent of new significance to life, was

the imperceptible return of an old love of nature dead during his outlaw

days.

For years a horse had been only a machine of locomotion, to carry him

from place to place, to beat and spur and goad mercilessly in flight;

now this giant black, with his splendid head, was a companion, a friend,

a brother, a loved thing, guarded jealously, fed and trained and ridden

with an intense appreciation of his great speed and endurance. For years

the daytime, with its birth of sunrise on through long hours to the

ruddy close, had been used for sleep or rest in some rocky hole or

willow brake or deserted hut, had been hated because it augmented danger

of pursuit, because it drove the fugitive to lonely, wretched hiding;

now the dawn was a greeting, a promise of another day to ride, to plan,

to remember, and sun, wind, cloud, rain, sky--all were joys to him,

somehow speaking his freedom. For years the night had been a black

space, during which he had to ride unseen along the endless trails, to

peer with cat-eyes through gloom for the moving shape that ever pursued

him; now the twilight and the dusk and the shadows of grove and canyon

darkened into night with its train of stars, and brought him calm

reflection of the day's happenings, of the morrow's possibilities,

perhaps a sad, brief procession of the old phantoms, then sleep. For

years canyons and valleys and mountains had been looked at as retreats

that might be dark and wild enough to hide even an outlaw; now he saw

these features of the great desert with something of the eyes of the boy

who had once burned for adventure and life among them.

This night a wonderful afterglow lingered long in the west, and against

the golden-red of clear sky the bold, black head of Mount Ord reared

itself aloft, beautiful but aloof, sinister yet calling. Small wonder

that Duane gazed in fascination upon the peak! Somewhere deep in

its corrugated sides or lost in a rugged canyon was hidden the secret

stronghold of the master outlaw Cheseldine. All down along the ride from

El Paso Duane had heard of Cheseldine, of his band, his fearful deeds,

his cunning, his widely separated raids, of his flitting here and there

like a Jack-o'-lantern; but never a word of his den, never a word of his

appearance.

Next morning Duane did not return to Ord. He struck off to the north,

riding down a rough, slow-descending road that appeared to have been

used occasionally for cattle-driving. As he had ridden in from the west,

this northern direction led him into totally unfamiliar country. While

he passed on, however, he exercised such keen observation that in the

future he would know whatever might be of service to him if he chanced

that way again.

The rough, wild, brush-covered slope down from the foothills gradually

leveled out into plain, a magnificent grazing country, upon which till

noon of that day Duane did not see a herd of cattle or a ranch. About

that time he made out smoke from the railroad, and after a couple of

hours' riding he entered a town which inquiry discovered to be Bradford.

It was the largest town he had visited since Marfa, and he calculated

must have a thousand or fifteen hundred inhabitants, not including

Mexicans. He decided this would be a good place for him to hold up for

a while, being the nearest town to Ord, only forty miles away. So he

hitched his horse in front of a store and leisurely set about studying

Bradford.

It was after dark, however, that Duane verified his suspicions

concerning Bradford. The town was awake after dark, and there was one

long row of saloons, dance-halls, gambling-resorts in full blast. Duane

visited them all, and was surprised to see wildness and license equal to

that of the old river camp of Bland's in its palmiest days. Here it was

forced upon him that the farther west one traveled along the river

the sparser the respectable settlements, the more numerous the hard

characters, and in consequence the greater the element of lawlessness.

Duane returned to his lodging-house with the conviction that MacNelly's

task of cleaning up the Big Bend country was a stupendous one. Yet, he

reflected, a company of intrepid and quick-shooting rangers could have

soon cleaned up this Bradford.

The innkeeper had one other guest that night, a long black-coated and

wide-sombreroed Texan who reminded Duane of his grandfather. This man

had penetrating eyes, a courtly manner, and an unmistakable leaning

toward companionship and mint-juleps. The gentleman introduced himself

as Colonel Webb, of Marfa, and took it as a matter of course that Duane

made no comment about himself.

“Sir, it's all one to me,” he said, blandly, waving his hand. “I have

traveled. Texas is free, and this frontier is one where it's healthier

and just as friendly for a man to have no curiosity about his companion.

You might be Cheseldine, of the Big Bend, or you might be Judge Little,

of El Paso-it's all one to me. I enjoy drinking with you anyway.”

Duane thanked him, conscious of a reserve and dignity that he could not

have felt or pretended three months before. And then, as always, he was

a good listener. Colonel Webb told, among other things, that he had come

out to the Big Bend to look over the affairs of a deceased brother who

had been a rancher and a sheriff of one of the towns, Fairdale by name.

“Found no affairs, no ranch, not even his grave,” said Colonel Webb.

“And I tell you, sir, if hell's any tougher than this Fairdale I don't

want to expiate my sins there.”

“Fairdale.... I imagine sheriffs have a hard row to hoe out here,”

replied Duane, trying not to appear curious.

The Colonel swore lustily.

“My brother was the only honest sheriff Fairdale ever had. It was

wonderful how long he lasted. But he had nerve, he could throw a gun,

and he was on the square. Then he was wise enough to confine his work

to offenders of his own town and neighborhood. He let the riding outlaws

alone, else he wouldn't have lasted at all.... What this frontier needs,

sir, is about six companies of Texas Rangers.”

Duane was aware of the Colonel's close scrutiny.

“Do you know anything about the service?” he asked.

“I used to. Ten years ago when I lived in San Antonio. A fine body of

men, sir, and the salvation of Texas.”

“Governor Stone doesn't entertain that opinion,” said Duane.

Here Colonel Webb exploded. Manifestly the governor was not his choice

for a chief executive of the great state. He talked politics for a

while, and of the vast territory west of the Pecos that seemed never to

get a benefit from Austin. He talked enough for Duane to realize that

here was just the kind of intelligent, well-informed, honest citizen

that he had been trying to meet. He exerted himself thereafter to

be agreeable and interesting; and he saw presently that here was an

opportunity to make a valuable acquaintance, if not a friend.

“I'm a stranger in these parts,” said Duane, finally. “What is this

outlaw situation you speak of?”

“It's damnable, sir, and unbelievable. Not rustling any more, but just

wholesale herd-stealing, in which some big cattlemen, supposed to be

honest, are equally guilty with the outlaws. On this border, you know,

the rustler has always been able to steal cattle in any numbers. But to

get rid of big bunches--that's the hard job. The gang operating between

here and Valentine evidently have not this trouble. Nobody knows where

the stolen stock goes. But I'm not alone in my opinion that most of

it goes to several big stockmen. They ship to San Antonio, Austin, New

Orleans, also to El Paso. If you travel the stock-road between here and

Marfa and Valentine you'll see dead cattle all along the line and stray

cattle out in the scrub. The herds have been driven fast and far, and

stragglers are not rounded up.”

“Wholesale business, eh?” remarked Duane. “Who are these--er--big

stock-buyers?”

Colonel Webb seemed a little startled at the abrupt query. He bent his

penetrating gaze upon Duane and thoughtfully stroked his pointed beard.

“Names, of course, I'll not mention. Opinions are one thing, direct

accusation another. This is not a healthy country for the informer.”

When it came to the outlaws themselves Colonel Webb was disposed to talk

freely. Duane could not judge whether the Colonel had a hobby of that

subject or the outlaws were so striking in personality and deed that

any man would know all about them. The great name along the river was

Cheseldine, but it seemed to be a name detached from an individual. No

person of veracity known to Colonel Webb had ever seen Cheseldine,

and those who claimed that doubtful honor varied so diversely in

descriptions of the chief that they confused the reality and lent to

the outlaw only further mystery. Strange to say of an outlaw leader, as

there was no one who could identify him, so there was no one who could

prove he had actually killed a man. Blood flowed like water over the

Big Bend country, and it was Cheseldine who spilled it. Yet the fact

remained there were no eye-witnesses to connect any individual called

Cheseldine with these deeds of violence. But in striking contrast to

this mystery was the person, character, and cold-blooded action of

Poggin and Knell, the chief's lieutenants. They were familiar figures in

all the towns within two hundred miles of Bradford. Knell had a record,

but as gunman with an incredible list of victims Poggin was supreme.

If Poggin had a friend no one ever heard of him. There were a hundred

stories of his nerve, his wonderful speed with a gun, his passion for

gambling, his love of a horse--his cold, implacable, inhuman wiping out

of his path any man that crossed it.

“Cheseldine is a name, a terrible name,” said Colonel Webb. “Sometimes

I wonder if he's not only a name. In that case where does the brains of

this gang come from? No; there must be a master craftsman behind this

border pillage; a master capable of handling those terrors Poggin and

Knell. Of all the thousands of outlaws developed by western Texas in the

last twenty years these three are the greatest. In southern Texas, down

between the Pecos and the Nueces, there have been and are still many

bad men. But I doubt if any outlaw there, possibly excepting Buck Duane,

ever equaled Poggin. You've heard of this Duane?”

“Yes, a little,” replied Duane, quietly. “I'm from southern Texas. Buck

Duane then is known out here?”

“Why, man, where isn't his name known?” returned Colonel Webb. “I've

kept track of his record as I have all the others. Of course, Duane,

being a lone outlaw, is somewhat of a mystery also, but not like

Cheseldine. Out here there have drifted many stories of Duane, horrible

some of them. But despite them a sort of romance clings to that Nueces

outlaw. He's killed three great outlaw leaders, I believe--Bland,

Hardin, and the other I forgot. Hardin was known in the Big Bend, had

friends there. Bland had a hard name at Del Rio.”

“Then this man Duane enjoys rather an unusual repute west of the Pecos?”

inquired Duane.

“He's considered more of an enemy to his kind than to honest men.

I understand Duane had many friends, that whole counties swear by

him--secretly, of course, for he's a hunted outlaw with rewards on his

head. His fame in this country appears to hang on his matchless gun-play

and his enmity toward outlaw chiefs. I've heard many a rancher say: 'I

wish to God that Buck Duane would drift out here! I'd give a hundred

pesos to see him and Poggin meet.' It's a singular thing, stranger, how

jealous these great outlaws are of each other.”

“Yes, indeed, all about them is singular,” replied Duane. “Has

Cheseldine's gang been busy lately?”

“No. This section has been free of rustling for months, though there's

unexplained movements of stock. Probably all the stock that's being

shipped now was rustled long ago. Cheseldine works over a wide section,

too wide for news to travel inside of weeks. Then sometimes he's not

heard of at all for a spell. These lulls are pretty surely indicative of

a big storm sooner or later. And Cheseldine's deals, as they grow fewer

and farther between, certainly get bigger, more daring. There are some

people who think Cheseldine had nothing to do with the bank-robberies

and train-holdups during the last few years in this country. But that's

poor reasoning. The jobs have been too well done, too surely covered, to

be the work of greasers or ordinary outlaws.”

“What's your view of the outlook? How's all this going to wind up? Will

the outlaw ever be driven out?” asked Duane.

“Never. There will always be outlaws along the Rio Grande. All the

armies in the world couldn't comb the wild brakes of that fifteen

hundred miles of river. But the sway of the outlaw, such as is enjoyed

by these great leaders, will sooner or later be past. The criminal

element flock to the Southwest. But not so thick and fast as the

pioneers. Besides, the outlaws kill themselves, and the ranchers are

slowly rising in wrath, if not in action. That will come soon. If they

only had a leader to start the fight! But that will come. There's talk

of Vigilantes, the same hat were organized in California and are now in

force in Idaho. So far it's only talk. But the time will come. And the

days of Cheseldine and Poggin are numbered.”

Duane went to bed that night exceedingly thoughtful. The long trail was

growing hot. This voluble colonel had given him new ideas. It came

to Duane in surprise that he was famous along the upper Rio Grande.

Assuredly he would not long be able to conceal his identity. He had

no doubt that he would soon meet the chiefs of this clever and bold

rustling gang. He could not decide whether he would be safer unknown or

known. In the latter case his one chance lay in the fatality connected

with his name, in his power to look it and act it. Duane had never

dreamed of any sleuth-hound tendency in his nature, but now he felt

something like one. Above all others his mind fixed on Poggin--Poggin

the brute, the executor of Cheseldine's will, but mostly upon Poggin the

gunman. This in itself was a warning to Duane. He felt terrible forces

at work within him. There was the stern and indomitable resolve to

make MacNelly's boast good to the governor of the state--to break up

Cheseldine's gang. Yet this was not in Duane's mind before a strange

grim and deadly instinct--which he had to drive away for fear he would

find in it a passion to kill Poggin, not for the state, nor for his word

to MacNelly, but for himself. Had his father's blood and the hard years

made Duane the kind of man who instinctively wanted to meet Poggin? He

was sworn to MacNelly's service, and he fought himself to keep that, and

that only, in his mind.

Duane ascertained that Fairdale was situated two days' ride from

Bradford toward the north. There was a stage which made the journey

twice a week.

Next morning Duane mounted his horse and headed for Fairdale. He rode

leisurely, as he wanted to learn all he could about the country.

There were few ranches. The farther he traveled the better grazing he

encountered, and, strange to note, the fewer herds of cattle.

It was just sunset when he made out a cluster of adobe houses that

marked the half-way point between Bradford and Fairdale. Here, Duane had

learned, was stationed a comfortable inn for wayfarers.

When he drew up before the inn the landlord and his family and a number

of loungers greeted him laconically.

“Beat the stage in, hey?” remarked one.

“There she comes now,” said another. “Joel shore is drivin' to-night.”

Far down the road Duane saw a cloud of dust and horses and a lumbering

coach. When he had looked after the needs of his horse he returned to

the group before the inn. They awaited the stage with that

interest common to isolated people. Presently it rolled up, a large

mud-bespattered and dusty vehicle, littered with baggage on top and

tied on behind. A number of passengers alighted, three of whom excited

Duane's interest. One was a tall, dark, striking-looking man, and the

other two were ladies, wearing long gray ulsters and veils. Duane heard

the proprietor of the inn address the man as Colonel Longstreth, and as

the party entered the inn Duane's quick ears caught a few words which

acquainted him with the fact that Longstreth was the Mayor of Fairdale.

Duane passed inside himself to learn that supper would soon be ready.

At table he found himself opposite the three who had attracted his

attention.

“Ruth, I envy the lucky cowboys,” Longstreth was saying.

Ruth was a curly-headed girl with gray or hazel eyes.

“I'm crazy to ride bronchos,” she said.

Duane gathered she was on a visit to western Texas. The other girl's

deep voice, sweet like a bell, made Duane regard her closer. She had

beauty as he had never seen it in another woman. She was slender, but

the development of her figure gave Duane the impression she was twenty

years old or more. She had the most exquisite hands Duane had ever seen.

She did not resemble the Colonel, who was evidently her father. She

looked tired, quiet, even melancholy. A finely chiseled oval face;

clear, olive-tinted skin, long eyes set wide apart and black as coal,

beautiful to look into; a slender, straight nose that had something

nervous and delicate about it which made Duane think of a thoroughbred;

and a mouth by no means small, but perfectly curved; and hair like

jet--all these features proclaimed her beauty to Duane. Duane believed

her a descendant of one of the old French families of eastern Texas. He

was sure of it when she looked at him, drawn by his rather persistent

gaze. There were pride, fire, and passion in her eyes. Duane felt

himself blushing in confusion. His stare at her had been rude, perhaps,

but unconscious. How many years had passed since he had seen a girl like

her! Thereafter he kept his eyes upon his plate, yet he seemed to be

aware that he had aroused the interest of both girls.

After supper the guests assembled in a big sitting-room where an open

fire place with blazing mesquite sticks gave out warmth and cheery glow.

Duane took a seat by a table in the corner, and, finding a paper,

began to read. Presently when he glanced up he saw two dark-faced

men, strangers who had not appeared before, and were peering in from a

doorway. When they saw Duane had observed them they stepped back out of

sight.

It flashed over Duane that the strangers acted suspiciously. In Texas

in the seventies it was always bad policy to let strangers go unheeded.

Duane pondered a moment. Then he went out to look over these two men.

The doorway opened into a patio, and across that was a little dingy,

dim-lighted bar-room. Here Duane found the innkeeper dispensing drinks

to the two strangers. They glanced up when he entered, and one of them

whispered. He imagined he had seen one of them before. In Texas, where

outdoor men were so rough, bronzed, bold, and sometimes grim of aspect,

it was no easy task to pick out the crooked ones. But Duane's years on

the border had augmented a natural instinct or gift to read character,

or at least to sense the evil in men; and he knew at once that these

strangers were dishonest.

“Hey somethin'?” one of them asked, leering. Both looked Duane up and

down.

“No thanks, I don't drink,” Duane replied, and returned their scrutiny

with interest. “How's tricks in the Big Bend?”

Both men stared. It had taken only a close glance for Duane to recognize

a type of ruffian most frequently met along the river. These strangers

had that stamp, and their surprise proved he was right. Here the

innkeeper showed signs of uneasiness, and seconded the surprise of his

customers. No more was said at the instant, and the two rather hurriedly

went out.

“Say, boss, do you know those fellows?” Duane asked the innkeeper.

“Nope.”

“Which way did they come?”

“Now I think of it, them fellers rid in from both corners today,” he

replied, and he put both hands on the bar and looked at Duane. “They

nooned heah, comin' from Bradford, they said, an' trailed in after the

stage.”

When Duane returned to the sitting-room Colonel Longstreth was absent,

also several of the other passengers. Miss Ruth sat in the chair he had

vacated, and across the table from her sat Miss Longstreth. Duane went

directly to them.

“Excuse me,” said Duane, addressing them. “I want to tell you there are

a couple of rough-looking men here. I've just seen them. They mean

evil. Tell your father to be careful. Lock your doors--bar your windows

to-night.”

“Oh!” cried Ruth, very low. “Ray, do you hear?”

“Thank you; we'll be careful,” said Miss Longstreth, gracefully. The

rich color had faded in her cheek. “I saw those men watching you

from that door. They had such bright black eyes. Is there really

danger--here?”

“I think so,” was Duane's reply.

Soft swift steps behind him preceded a harsh voice: “Hands up!”

No man quicker than Duane to recognize the intent in those words! His

hands shot up. Miss Ruth uttered a little frightened cry and sank into

her chair. Miss Longstreth turned white, her eyes dilated. Both girls

were staring at some one behind Duane.

“Turn around!” ordered the harsh voice.

The big, dark stranger, the bearded one who had whispered to his comrade

in the bar-room and asked Duane to drink, had him covered with a cocked

gun. He strode forward, his eyes gleaming, pressed the gun against him,

and with his other hand dove into his inside coat pocket and tore out

his roll of bills. Then he reached low at Duane's hip, felt his gun, and

took it. Then he slapped the other hip, evidently in search of another

weapon. That done, he backed away, wearing an expression of fiendish

satisfaction that made Duane think he was only a common thief, a novice

at this kind of game.

His comrade stood in the door with a gun leveled at two other men, who

stood there frightened, speechless.

“Git a move on, Bill,” called this fellow; and he took a hasty glance

backward. A stamp of hoofs came from outside. Of course the robbers had

horses waiting. The one called Bill strode across the room, and with

brutal, careless haste began to prod the two men with his weapon and to

search them. The robber in the doorway called “Rustle!” and disappeared.

Duane wondered where the innkeeper was, and Colonel Longstreth and the

other two passengers. The bearded robber quickly got through with his

searching, and from his growls Duane gathered he had not been well

remunerated. Then he wheeled once more. Duane had not moved a muscle,

stood perfectly calm with his arms high. The robber strode back with his

bloodshot eyes fastened upon the girls. Miss Longstreth never flinched,

but the little girl appeared about to faint.

“Don't yap, there!” he said, low and hard. He thrust the gun close to

Ruth. Then Duane knew for sure that he was no knight of the road, but a

plain cutthroat robber. Danger always made Duane exult in a kind of cold

glow. But now something hot worked within him. He had a little gun in

his pocket. The robber had missed it. And he began to calculate chances.

“Any money, jewelry, diamonds!” ordered the ruffian, fiercely.

Miss Ruth collapsed. Then he made at Miss Longstreth. She stood with

her hands at her breast. Evidently the robber took this position to

mean that she had valuables concealed there. But Duane fancied she had

instinctively pressed her hands against a throbbing heart.

“Come out with it!” he said, harshly, reaching for her.

“Don't dare touch me!” she cried, her eyes ablaze. She did not move. She

had nerve.

It made Duane thrill. He saw he was going to get a chance. Waiting had

been a science with him. But here it was hard. Miss Ruth had fainted,

and that was well. Miss Longstreth had fight in her, which fact helped

Duane, yet made injury possible to her. She eluded two lunges the man

made at her. Then his rough hand caught her waist, and with one pull

ripped it asunder, exposing her beautiful shoulder, white as snow.

She cried out. The prospect of being robbed or even killed had not

shaken Miss Longstreth's nerve as had this brutal tearing off of half

her waist.

The ruffian was only turned partially away from Duane. For himself

he could have waited no longer. But for her! That gun was still held

dangerously upward close to her. Duane watched only that. Then a bellow

made him jerk his head. Colonel Longstreth stood in the doorway in a

magnificent rage. He had no weapon. Strange how he showed no fear! He

bellowed something again.

Duane's shifting glance caught the robber's sudden movement. It was

a kind of start. He seemed stricken. Duane expected him to shoot

Longstreth. Instead the hand that clutched Miss Longstreth's torn waist

loosened its hold. The other hand with its cocked weapon slowly dropped

till it pointed to the floor. That was Duane's chance.

Swift as a flash he drew his gun and fired. Thud! went his bullet, and

he could not tell on the instant whether it hit the robber or went into

the ceiling. Then the robber's gun boomed harmlessly. He fell with blood

spurting over his face. Duane realized he had hit him, but the small

bullet had glanced.

Miss Longstreth reeled and might have fallen had Duane not supported

her. It was only a few steps to a couch, to which he half led, half

carried her. Then he rushed out of the room, across the patio, through

the bar to the yard. Nevertheless, he was cautious. In the gloom stood a

saddled horse, probably the one belonging to the fellow he had shot.

His comrade had escaped. Returning to the sitting-room, Duane found a

condition approaching pandemonium.

The innkeeper rushed in, pitchfork in hands. Evidently he had been out

at the barn. He was now shouting to find out what had happened. Joel,

the stage-driver, was trying to quiet the men who had been robbed. The

woman, wife of one of the men, had come in, and she had hysterics. The

girls were still and white. The robber Bill lay where he had fallen, and

Duane guessed he had made a fair shot, after all. And, lastly, the thing

that struck Duane most of all was Longstreth's rage. He never saw such

passion. Like a caged lion Longstreth stalked and roared. There came a

quieter moment in which the innkeeper shrilly protested:

“Man, what're you ravin' aboot? Nobody's hurt, an' thet's lucky. I swear

to God I hadn't nothin' to do with them fellers!”

“I ought to kill you anyhow!” replied Longstreth. And his voice now

astounded Duane, it was so full of power.

Upon examination Duane found that his bullet had furrowed the robber's

temple, torn a great piece out of his scalp, and, as Duane had guessed,

had glanced. He was not seriously injured, and already showed signs of

returning consciousness.

“Drag him out of here!” ordered Longstreth; and he turned to his

daughter.

Before the innkeeper reached the robber Duane had secured the money and

gun taken from him; and presently recovered the property of the other

men. Joel helped the innkeeper carry the injured man somewhere outside.

Miss Longstreth was sitting white but composed upon the couch, where lay

Miss Ruth, who evidently had been carried there by the Colonel. Duane

did not think she had wholly lost consciousness, and now she lay very

still, with eyes dark and shadowy, her face pallid and wet. The Colonel,

now that he finally remembered his women-folk, seemed to be gentle and

kind. He talked soothingly to Miss Ruth, made light of the adventure,

said she must learn to have nerve out here where things happened.

“Can I be of any service?” asked Duane, solicitously.

“Thanks; I guess there's nothing you can do. Talk to these frightened

girls while I go see what's to be done with that thick-skulled robber,”

he replied, and, telling the girls that there was no more danger, he

went out.

Miss Longstreth sat with one hand holding her torn waist in place; the

other she extended to Duane. He took it awkwardly, and he felt a strange

thrill.

“You saved my life,” she said, in grave, sweet seriousness.

“No, no!” Duane exclaimed. “He might have struck you, hurt you, but no

more.”

“I saw murder in his eyes. He thought I had jewels under my dress. I

couldn't bear his touch. The beast! I'd have fought. Surely my life was

in peril.”

“Did you kill him?” asked Miss Ruth, who lay listening.

“Oh no. He's not badly hurt.”

“I'm very glad he's alive,” said Miss Longstreth, shuddering.

“My intention was bad enough,” Duane went on. “It was a ticklish place

for me. You see, he was half drunk, and I was afraid his gun might go

off. Fool careless he was!”

“Yet you say you didn't save me,” Miss Longstreth returned, quickly.

“Well, let it go at that,” Duane responded. “I saved you something.”

“Tell me all about it?” asked Miss Ruth, who was fast recovering.

Rather embarrassed, Duane briefly told the incident from his point of

view.

“Then you stood there all the time with your hands up thinking of

nothing--watching for nothing except a little moment when you might draw

your gun?” asked Miss Ruth.

“I guess that's about it,” he replied.

“Cousin,” said Miss Longstreth, thoughtfully, “it was fortunate for us

that this gentleman happened to be here. Papa scouts--laughs at danger.

He seemed to think there was no danger. Yet he raved after it came.”

“Go with us all the way to Fairdale--please?” asked Miss Ruth, sweetly

offering her hand. “I am Ruth Herbert. And this is my cousin, Ray

Longstreth.”

“I'm traveling that way,” replied Duane, in great confusion. He did not

know how to meet the situation.

Colonel Longstreth returned then, and after bidding Duane a good night,

which seemed rather curt by contrast to the graciousness of the girls,

he led them away.

Before going to bed Duane went outside to take a look at the injured

robber and perhaps to ask him a few questions. To Duane's surprise, he

was gone, and so was his horse. The innkeeper was dumfounded. He said

that he left the fellow on the floor in the bar-room.

“Had he come to?” inquired Duane.

“Sure. He asked for whisky.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“Not to me. I heard him talkin' to the father of them girls.”

“You mean Colonel Longstreth?”

“I reckon. He sure was some riled, wasn't he? Jest as if I was to blame

fer that two-bit of a hold-up!”

“What did you make of the old gent's rage?” asked Duane, watching the

innkeeper. He scratched his head dubiously. He was sincere, and Duane

believed in his honesty.

“Wal, I'm doggoned if I know what to make of it. But I reckon he's

either crazy or got more nerve than most Texans.”

“More nerve, maybe,” Duane replied. “Show me a bed now, innkeeper.”

Once in bed in the dark, Duane composed himself to think over the

several events of the evening. He called up the details of the holdup

and carefully revolved them in mind. The Colonel's wrath, under

circumstances where almost any Texan would have been cool, nonplussed

Duane, and he put it down to a choleric temperament. He pondered long on

the action of the robber when Longstreth's bellow of rage burst in

upon him. This ruffian, as bold and mean a type as Duane had ever

encountered, had, from some cause or other, been startled. From whatever

point Duane viewed the man's strange indecision he could come to

only one conclusion--his start, his check, his fear had been that of

recognition. Duane compared this effect with the suddenly acquired sense

he had gotten of Colonel Longstreth's powerful personality. Why had that

desperate robber lowered his gun and stood paralyzed at sight and sound

of the Mayor of Fairdale? This was not answerable. There might have been

a number of reasons, all to Colonel Longstreth's credit, but Duane

could not understand. Longstreth had not appeared to see danger for his

daughter, even though she had been roughly handled, and had advanced in

front of a cocked gun. Duane probed deep into this singular fact, and he

brought to bear on the thing all his knowledge and experience of

violent Texas life. And he found that the instant Colonel Longstreth

had appeared on the scene there was no further danger threatening his

daughter. Why? That likewise Duane could not answer. Then his rage,

Duane concluded, had been solely at the idea of HIS daughter being

assaulted by a robber. This deduction was indeed a thought-disturber,

but Duane put it aside to crystallize and for more careful

consideration.

Next morning Duane found that the little town was called Sanderson. It

was larger than he had at first supposed. He walked up the main street

and back again. Just as he arrived some horsemen rode up to the inn and

dismounted. And at this juncture the Longstreth party came out. Duane

heard Colonel Longstreth utter an exclamation. Then he saw him shake

hands with a tall man. Longstreth looked surprised and angry, and he

spoke with force; but Duane could not hear what it was he said. The

fellow laughed, yet somehow he struck Duane as sullen, until suddenly

he espied Miss Longstreth. Then his face changed, and he removed his

sombrero. Duane went closer.

“Floyd, did you come with the teams?” asked Longstreth, sharply.

“Not me. I rode a horse, good and hard,” was the reply.

“Humph! I'll have a word to say to you later.” Then Longstreth turned to

his daughter. “Ray, here's the cousin I've told you about. You used to

play with him ten years ago--Floyd Lawson. Floyd, my daughter--and my

niece, Ruth Herbert.”

Duane always scrutinized every one he met, and now with a dangerous game

to play, with a consciousness of Longstreth's unusual and significant

personality, he bent a keen and searching glance upon this Floyd Lawson.

He was under thirty, yet gray at his temples--dark, smooth-shaven, with

lines left by wildness, dissipation, shadows under dark eyes, a mouth

strong and bitter, and a square chin--a reckless, careless, handsome,

sinister face strangely losing the hardness when he smiled. The grace

of a gentleman clung round him, seemed like an echo in his mellow voice.

Duane doubted not that he, like many a young man, had drifted out to

the frontier, where rough and wild life had wrought sternly but had not

quite effaced the mark of good family.

Colonel Longstreth apparently did not share the pleasure of his daughter

and his niece in the advent of this cousin. Something hinged on this

meeting. Duane grew intensely curious, but, as the stage appeared ready

for the journey, he had no further opportunity to gratify it.

CHAPTER XVI

Duane followed the stage through the town, out into the open, on to a

wide, hard-packed road showing years of travel. It headed northwest. To

the left rose a range of low, bleak mountains he had noted yesterday,

and to the right sloped the mesquite-patched sweep of ridge and flat.

The driver pushed his team to a fast trot, which gait surely covered

ground rapidly.

The stage made three stops in the forenoon, one at a place where the

horses could be watered, the second at a chuck-wagon belonging to

cowboys who were riding after stock, and the third at a small cluster

of adobe and stone houses constituting a hamlet the driver called

Longstreth, named after the Colonel. From that point on to Fairdale

there were only a few ranches, each one controlling great acreage.

Early in the afternoon from a ridge-top Duane sighted Fairdale, a green

patch in the mass of gray. For the barrens of Texas it was indeed a fair

sight. But he was more concerned with its remoteness from civilization

than its beauty. At that time, in the early seventies, when the vast

western third of Texas was a wilderness, the pioneer had done wonders to

settle there and establish places like Fairdale.

It needed only a glance for Duane to pick out Colonel Longstreth's

ranch. The house was situated on the only elevation around Fairdale, and

it was not high, nor more than a few minutes' walk from the edge of the

town. It was a low, flat-roofed structure made of red adobe bricks, and

covered what appeared to be fully an acre of ground. All was green about

it, except where the fenced corrals and numerous barns or sheds showed

gray and red.

Duane soon reached the shady outskirts of Fairdale, and entered the

town with mingled feelings of curiosity, eagerness, and expectation. The

street he rode down was a main one, and on both sides of the street was

a solid row of saloons, resorts, hotels. Saddled horses stood hitched

all along the sidewalk in two long lines, with a buckboard and team here

and there breaking the continuity. This block was busy and noisy.

From all outside appearances Fairdale was no different from other

frontier towns, and Duane's expectations were scarcely realized. As the

afternoon was waning he halted at a little inn. A boy took charge of his

horse. Duane questioned the lad about Fairdale and gradually drew to the

subject most in mind.

“Colonel Longstreth has a big outfit, eh?”

“Reckon he has,” replied the lad. “Doan know how many cowboys. They're

always comin' and goin'. I ain't acquainted with half of them.”

“Much movement of stock these days?”

“Stock's always movin',” he replied, with a queer look.

“Rustlers?”

But he did not follow up that look with the affirmative Duane expected.

“Lively place, I hear--Fairdale is?”

“Ain't so lively as Sanderson, but it's bigger.”

“Yes, I heard it was. Fellow down there was talking about two cowboys

who were arrested.”

“Sure. I heered all about that. Joe Bean an' Brick Higgins--they belong

heah, but they ain't heah much. Longstreth's boys.”

Duane did not want to appear over-inquisitive, so he turned the talk

into other channels.

After getting supper Duane strolled up and down the main street. When

darkness set in he went into a hotel, bought cigars, sat around, and

watched. Then he passed out and went into the next place. This was of

rough crude exterior, but the inside was comparatively pretentious and

ablaze with lights. It was full of men coming and going--a dusty-booted

crowd that smelled of horses and smoke. Duane sat down for a while, with

wide eyes and open ears. Then he hunted up the bar, where most of the

guests had been or were going. He found a great square room lighted by

six huge lamps, a bar at one side, and all the floor-space taken up

by tables and chairs. This was the only gambling place of any size in

southern Texas in which he had noted the absence of Mexicans. There was

some card-playing going on at this moment. Duane stayed in there for

a while, and knew that strangers were too common in Fairdale to be

conspicuous. Then he returned to the inn where he had engaged a room.

Duane sat down on the steps of the dingy little restaurant. Two men were

conversing inside, and they had not noticed Duane.

“Laramie, what's the stranger's name?” asked one.

“He didn't say,” replied the other.

“Sure was a strappin' big man. Struck me a little odd, he did. No

cattleman, him. How'd you size him?”

“Well, like one of them cool, easy, quiet Texans who's been lookin' for

a man for years--to kill him when he found him.”

“Right you are, Laramie; and, between you an' me, I hope he's lookin'

for Long--”

“'S--sh!” interrupted Laramie. “You must be half drunk, to go talkie'

that way.”

Thereafter they conversed in too low a tone for Duane to hear, and

presently Laramie's visitor left. Duane went inside, and, making himself

agreeable, began to ask casual questions about Fairdale. Laramie was not

communicative.

Duane went to his room in a thoughtful frame of mind. Had Laramie's

visitor meant he hoped some one had come to kill Longstreth? Duane

inferred just that from the interrupted remark. There was something

wrong about the Mayor of Fairdale. Duane felt it. And he felt also, if

there was a crooked and dangerous man, it was this Floyd Lawson. The

innkeeper Laramie would be worth cultivating. And last in Duane's

thoughts that night was Miss Longstreth. He could not help thinking of

her--how strangely the meeting with her had affected him. It made him

remember that long-past time when girls had been a part of his life.

What a sad and dark and endless void lay between that past and the

present! He had no right even to dream of a beautiful woman like Ray

Longstreth. That conviction, however, did not dispel her; indeed,

it seemed perversely to make her grow more fascinating. Duane grew

conscious of a strange, unaccountable hunger, a something that was like

a pang in his breast.

Next day he lounged about the inn. He did not make any overtures to

the taciturn proprietor. Duane had no need of hurry now. He contented

himself with watching and listening. And at the close of that day he

decided Fairdale was what MacNelly had claimed it to be, and that he was

on the track of an unusual adventure. The following day he spent in much

the same way, though on one occasion he told Laramie he was looking for

a man. The innkeeper grew a little less furtive and reticent after that.

He would answer casual queries, and it did not take Duane long to learn

that Laramie had seen better days--that he was now broken, bitter, and

hard. Some one had wronged him.

Several days passed. Duane did not succeed in getting any closer to

Laramie, but he found the idlers on the corners and in front of the

stores unsuspicious and willing to talk. It did not take him long to

find out that Fairdale stood parallel with Huntsville for gambling,

drinking, and fighting. The street was always lined with dusty, saddled

horses, the town full of strangers. Money appeared more abundant than in

any place Duane had ever visited; and it was spent with the abandon

that spoke forcibly of easy and crooked acquirement. Duane decided

that Sanderson, Bradford, and Ord were but notorious outposts to this

Fairdale, which was a secret center of rustlers and outlaws. And what

struck Duane strangest of all was the fact that Longstreth was mayor

here and held court daily. Duane knew intuitively, before a chance

remark gave him proof, that this court was a sham, a farce. And he

wondered if it were not a blind. This wonder of his was equivalent to

suspicion of Colonel Longstreth, and Duane reproached himself. Then

he realized that the reproach was because of the daughter. Inquiry had

brought him the fact that Ray Longstreth had just come to live with her

father. Longstreth had originally been a planter in Louisiana, where his

family had remained after his advent in the West. He was a rich rancher;

he owned half of Fairdale; he was a cattle-buyer on a large scale. Floyd

Lawson was his lieutenant and associate in deals.

On the afternoon of the fifth day of Duane's stay in Fairdale he

returned to the inn from his usual stroll, and upon entering was amazed

to have a rough-looking young fellow rush by him out of the door. Inside

Laramie was lying on the floor, with a bloody bruise on his face. He did

not appear to be dangerously hurt.

“Bo Snecker! He hit me and went after the cash-drawer,” said Laramie,

laboring to his feet.

“Are you hurt much?” queried Duane.

“I guess not. But Bo needn't to have soaked me. I've been robbed before

without that.”

“Well, I'll take a look after Bo,” replied Duane.

He went out and glanced down the street toward the center of the town.

He did not see any one he could take for the innkeeper's assailant. Then

he looked up the street, and he saw the young fellow about a block away,

hurrying along and gazing back.

Duane yelled for him to stop and started to go after him. Snecker broke

into a run. Then Duane set out to overhaul him. There were two motives

in Duane's action--one of anger, and the other a desire to make a friend

of this man Laramie, whom Duane believed could tell him much.

Duane was light on his feet, and he had a giant stride. He gained

rapidly upon Snecker, who, turning this way and that, could not get

out of sight. Then he took to the open country and ran straight for

the green hill where Longstreth's house stood. Duane had almost caught

Snecker when he reached the shrubbery and trees and there eluded him.

But Duane kept him in sight, in the shade, on the paths, and up the

road into the courtyard, and he saw Snecker go straight for Longstreth's

house.

Duane was not to be turned back by that, singular as it was. He did not

stop to consider. It seemed enough to know that fate had directed him to

the path of this rancher Longstreth. Duane entered the first open door

on that side of the court. It opened into a corridor which led into a

plaza. It had wide, smooth stone porches, and flowers and shrubbery in

the center. Duane hurried through to burst into the presence of Miss

Longstreth and a number of young people. Evidently she was giving a

little party.

Lawson stood leaning against one of the pillars that supported the

porch roof; at sight of Duane his face changed remarkably, expressing

amazement, consternation, then fear.

In the quick ensuing silence Miss Longstreth rose white as her dress.

The young women present stared in astonishment, if they were not equally

perturbed. There were cowboys present who suddenly grew intent and

still. By these things Duane gathered that his appearance must

be disconcerting. He was panting. He wore no hat or coat. His big

gun-sheath showed plainly at his hip.

Sight of Miss Longstreth had an unaccountable effect upon Duane. He was

plunged into confusion. For the moment he saw no one but her.

“Miss Longstreth--I came--to search--your house,” panted Duane.

He hardly knew what he was saying, yet the instant he spoke he realized

that that should have been the last thing for him to say. He had

blundered. But he was not used to women, and this dark-eyed girl made

him thrill and his heart beat thickly and his wits go scattering.

“Search my house!” exclaimed Miss Longstreth; and red succeeded the

white in her cheeks. She appeared astonished and angry. “What for? Why,

how dare you! This is unwarrantable!”

“A man--Bo Snecker--assaulted and robbed Jim Laramie,” replied Duane,

hurriedly. “I chased Snecker here--saw him run into the house.”

“Here? Oh, sir, you must be mistaken. We have seen no one. In the

absence of my father I'm mistress here. I'll not permit you to search.”

Lawson appeared to come out of his astonishment. He stepped forward.

“Ray, don't be bothered now,” he said, to his cousin. “This fellow's

making a bluff. I'll settle him. See here, Mister, you clear out!”

“I want Snecker. He's here, and I'm going to get him,” replied Duane,

quietly.

“Bah! That's all a bluff,” sneered Lawson. “I'm on to your game. You

just wanted an excuse to break in here--to see my cousin again. When you

saw the company you invented that excuse. Now, be off, or it'll be the

worse for you.”

Duane felt his face burn with a tide of hot blood. Almost he felt that

he was guilty of such motive. Had he not been unable to put this Ray

Longstreth out of his mind? There seemed to be scorn in her eyes now.

And somehow that checked his embarrassment.

“Miss Longstreth, will you let me search the house?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then--I regret to say--I'll do so without your permission.”

“You'll not dare!” she flashed. She stood erect, her bosom swelling.

“Pardon me, yes, I will.”

“Who are you?” she demanded, suddenly.

“I'm a Texas Ranger,” replied Duane.

“A TEXAS RANGER!” she echoed.

Floyd Lawson's dark face turned pale.

“Miss Longstreth, I don't need warrants to search houses,” said Duane.

“I'm sorry to annoy you. I'd prefer to have your permission. A ruffian

has taken refuge here--in your father's house. He's hidden somewhere.

May I look for him?”

“If you are indeed a ranger.”

Duane produced his papers. Miss Longstreth haughtily refused to look at

them.

“Miss Longstreth, I've come to make Fairdale a safer, cleaner, better

place for women and children. I don't wonder at your resentment. But to

doubt me--insult me. Some day you may be sorry.”

Floyd Lawson made a violent motion with his hands.

“All stuff! Cousin, go on with your party. I'll take a couple of cowboys

and go with this--this Texas Ranger.”

“Thanks,” said Duane, coolly, as he eyed Lawson. “Perhaps you'll be able

to find Snecker quicker than I could.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Lawson, and now he grew livid. Evidently he

was a man of fierce quick passions.

“Don't quarrel,” said Miss Longstreth. “Floyd, you go with him. Please

hurry. I'll be nervous till--the man's found or you're sure there's not

one.”

They started with several cowboys to search the house. They went through

the rooms searching, calling out, peering into dark places. It struck

Duane more than forcibly that Lawson did all the calling. He was

hurried, too, tried to keep in the lead. Duane wondered if he knew his

voice would be recognized by the hiding man. Be that as it might, it was

Duane who peered into a dark corner and then, with a gun leveled, said

“Come out!”

He came forth into the flare--a tall, slim, dark-faced youth, wearing

sombrero, blouse and trousers. Duane collared him before any of the

others could move and held the gun close enough to make him shrink. But

he did not impress Duane as being frightened just then; nevertheless, he

had a clammy face, the pallid look of a man who had just gotten over a

shock. He peered into Duane's face, then into that of the cowboy next to

him, then into Lawson's, and if ever in Duane's life he beheld relief

it was then. That was all Duane needed to know, but he meant to find out

more if he could.

“Who're you?” asked Duane, quietly.

“Bo Snecker,” he said.

“What'd you hide here for?”

He appeared to grow sullen.

“Reckoned I'd be as safe in Longstreth's as anywheres.”

“Ranger, what'll you do with him?” Lawson queried, as if uncertain, now

the capture was made.

“I'll see to that,” replied Duane, and he pushed Snecker in front of him

out into the court.

Duane had suddenly conceived the idea of taking Snecker before Mayor

Longstreth in the court.

When Duane arrived at the hall where court was held there were other men

there, a dozen or more, and all seemed excited; evidently, news of Duane

had preceded him. Longstreth sat at a table up on a platform. Near

him sat a thick-set grizzled man, with deep eyes, and this was Hanford

Owens, county judge. To the right stood a tall, angular, yellow-faced

fellow with a drooping sandy mustache. Conspicuous on his vest was a

huge silver shield. This was Gorsech, one of Longstreth's sheriffs.

There were four other men whom Duane knew by sight, several whose faces

were familiar, and half a dozen strangers, all dusty horsemen.

Longstreth pounded hard on the table to be heard. Mayor or not, he was

unable at once to quell the excitement. Gradually, however, it subsided,

and from the last few utterances before quiet was restored Duane

gathered that he had intruded upon some kind of a meeting in the hall.

“What'd you break in here for,” demanded Longstreth.