“Isn't this the court? Aren't you the Mayor of Fairdale?” interrogated

Duane. His voice was clear and loud, almost piercing.

“Yes,” replied Longstreth. Like flint he seemed, yet Duane felt his

intense interest.

“I've arrested a criminal,” said Duane.

“Arrested a criminal!” ejaculated Longstreth. “You? Who're you?”

“I'm a ranger,” replied Duane.

A significant silence ensued.

“I charge Snecker with assault on Laramie and attempted robbery--if not

murder. He's had a shady past here, as this court will know if it keeps

a record.”

“What's this I hear about you, Bo? Get up and speak for yourself,” said

Longstreth, gruffly.

Snecker got up, not without a furtive glance at Duane, and he had

shuffled forward a few steps toward the Mayor. He had an evil front, but

not the boldness even of a rustler.

“It ain't so, Longstreth,” he began, loudly. “I went in Laramie's place

fer grub. Some feller I never seen before come in from the hall an' hit

Laramie an' wrestled him on the floor. I went out. Then this big ranger

chased me an' fetched me here. I didn't do nothin'. This ranger's

hankerin' to arrest somebody. Thet's my hunch, Longstreth.”

Longstreth said something in an undertone to Judge Owens, and that

worthy nodded his great bushy head.

“Bo, you're discharged,” said Longstreth, bluntly. “Now the rest of you

clear out of here.”

He absolutely ignored the ranger. That was his rebuff to Duane--his slap

in the face to an interfering ranger service. If Longstreth was crooked

he certainly had magnificent nerve. Duane almost decided he was above

suspicion. But his nonchalance, his air of finality, his authoritative

assurance--these to Duane's keen and practiced eyes were in significant

contrast to a certain tenseness of line about his mouth and a slow

paling of his olive skin. In that momentary lull Duane's scrutiny of

Longstreth gathered an impression of the man's intense curiosity.

Then the prisoner, Snecker, with a cough that broke the spell of

silence, shuffled a couple of steps toward the door.

“Hold on!” called Duane. The call halted Snecker, as if it had been a

bullet.

“Longstreth, I saw Snecker attack Laramie,” said Duane, his voice still

ringing. “What has the court to say to that?”

“The court has this to say. West of the Pecos we'll not aid any ranger

service. We don't want you out here. Fairdale doesn't need you.”

“That's a lie, Longstreth,” retorted Duane. “I've letters from Fairdale

citizens all begging for ranger service.”

Longstreth turned white. The veins corded at his temples. He appeared

about to burst into rage. He was at a loss for quick reply.

Floyd Lawson rushed in and up to the table. The blood showed black and

thick in his face; his utterance was incoherent, his uncontrollable

outbreak of temper seemed out of all proportion to any cause he should

reasonably have had for anger. Longstreth shoved him back with a curse

and a warning glare.

“Where's your warrant to arrest Snecker?” shouted Longstreth.

“I don't need warrants to make arrests. Longstreth, you're ignorant of

the power of Texas Rangers.”

“You'll come none of your damned ranger stunts out here. I'll block

you.”

That passionate reply of Longstreth's was the signal Duane had

been waiting for. He had helped on the crisis. He wanted to force

Longstreth's hand and show the town his stand.

Duane backed clear of everybody.

“Men! I call on you all!” cried Duane, piercingly. “I call on you to

witness the arrest of a criminal prevented by Longstreth, Mayor of

Fairdale. It will be recorded in the report to the Adjutant-General at

Austin. Longstreth, you'll never prevent another arrest.”

Longstreth sat white with working jaw.

“Longstreth, you've shown your hand,” said Duane, in a voice that

carried far and held those who heard. “Any honest citizen of Fairdale

can now see what's plain--yours is a damn poor hand! You're going to

hear me call a spade a spade. In the two years you've been Mayor

you've never arrested one rustler. Strange, when Fairdale's a nest for

rustlers! You've never sent a prisoner to Del Rio, let alone to

Austin. You have no jail. There have been nine murders during your

office--innumerable street-fights and holdups. Not one arrest! But you

have ordered arrests for trivial offenses, and have punished these out

of all proportion. There have been lawsuits in your court-suits over

water-rights, cattle deals, property lines. Strange how in these

lawsuits you or Lawson or other men close to you were always involved!

Strange how it seems the law was stretched to favor your interest!”

Duane paused in his cold, ringing speech. In the silence, both outside

and inside the hall, could be heard the deep breathing of agitated men.

Longstreth was indeed a study. Yet did he betray anything but rage at

this interloper?

“Longstreth, here's plain talk for you and Fairdale,” went on Duane. “I

don't accuse you and your court of dishonesty. I say STRANGE! Law here

has been a farce. The motive behind all this laxity isn't plain to

me--yet. But I call your hand!”

CHAPTER XVII

Duane left the hall, elbowed his way through the crowd, and went down

the street. He was certain that on the faces of some men he had seen

ill-concealed wonder and satisfaction. He had struck some kind of a hot

trait, and he meant to see where it led. It was by no means unlikely

that Cheseldine might be at the other end. Duane controlled a mounting

eagerness. But ever and anon it was shot through with a remembrance of

Ray Longstreth. He suspected her father of being not what he pretended.

He might, very probably would, bring sorrow and shame to this young

woman. The thought made him smart with pain. She began to haunt him,

and then he was thinking more of her beauty and sweetness than of the

disgrace he might bring upon her. Some strange emotion, long locked

inside Duane's heart, knocked to be heard, to be let out. He was

troubled.

Upon returning to the inn he found Laramie there, apparently none the

worse for his injury.

“How are you, Laramie?” he asked.

“Reckon I'm feelin' as well as could be expected,” replied Laramie. His

head was circled by a bandage that did not conceal the lump where he had

been struck. He looked pale, but was bright enough.

“That was a good crack Snecker gave you,” remarked Duane.

“I ain't accusin' Bo,” remonstrated Laramie, with eyes that made Duane

thoughtful.

“Well, I accuse him. I caught him--took him to Longstreth's court. But

they let him go.”

Laramie appeared to be agitated by this intimation of friendship.

“See here, Laramie,” went on Duane, “in some parts of Texas it's policy

to be close-mouthed. Policy and health-preserving! Between ourselves, I

want you to know I lean on your side of the fence.”

Laramie gave a quick start. Presently Duane turned and frankly met his

gaze. He had startled Laramie out of his habitual set taciturnity; but

even as he looked the light that might have been amaze and joy faded out

of his face, leaving it the same old mask. Still Duane had seen enough.

Like a bloodhound he had a scent.

“Talking about work, Laramie, who'd you say Snecker worked for?”

“I didn't say.”

“Well, say so now, can't you? Laramie, you're powerful peevish to-day.

It's that bump on your head. Who does Snecker work for?”

“When he works at all, which sure ain't often, he rides for Longstreth.”

“Humph! Seems to me that Longstreth's the whole circus round Fairdale.

I was some sore the other day to find I was losing good money at

Longstreth's faro game. Sure if I'd won I wouldn't have been sore--ha,

ha! But I was surprised to hear some one say Longstreth owned the Hope

So joint.”

“He owns considerable property hereabouts,” replied Laramie,

constrainedly.

“Humph again! Laramie, like every other fellow I meet in this town,

you're afraid to open your trap about Longstreth. Get me straight,

Laramie. I don't care a damn for Colonel Mayor Longstreth. And for cause

I'd throw a gun on him just as quick as on any rustler in Pecos.”

“Talk's cheap,” replied Laramie, making light of his bluster, but the

red was deeper in his face.

“Sure. I know that,” Duane said. “And usually I don't talk. Then it's

not well known that Longstreth owns the Hope So?”

“Reckon it's known in Pecos, all right. But Longstreth's name isn't

connected with the Hope So. Blandy runs the place.”

“That Blandy. His faro game's crooked, or I'm a locoed bronch. Not that

we don't have lots of crooked faro-dealers. A fellow can stand for them.

But Blandy's mean, back-handed, never looks you in the eyes. That Hope

So place ought to be run by a good fellow like you, Laramie.”

“Thanks,” replied he; and Duane imagined his voice a little husky.

“Didn't you hear I used to run it?”

“No. Did you?” Duane said, quickly.

“I reckon. I built the place, made additions twice, owned it for eleven

years.”

“Well, I'll be doggoned.” It was indeed Duane's turn to be surprised,

and with the surprise came a glimmering. “I'm sorry you're not there

now. Did you sell out?”

“No. Just lost the place.”

Laramie was bursting for relief now--to talk, to tell. Sympathy had made

him soft.

“It was two years ago-two years last March,” he went on. “I was in a big

cattle deal with Longstreth. We got the stock--an' my share, eighteen

hundred head, was rustled off. I owed Longstreth. He pressed me. It come

to a lawsuit--an' I--was ruined.”

It hurt Duane to look at Laramie. He was white, and tears rolled down

his cheeks. Duane saw the bitterness, the defeat, the agony of the

man. He had failed to meet his obligations; nevertheless, he had been

swindled. All that he suppressed, all that would have been passion had

the man's spirit not been broken, lay bare for Duane to see. He had now

the secret of his bitterness. But the reason he did not openly accuse

Longstreth, the secret of his reticence and fear--these Duane thought

best to try to learn at some later time.

“Hard luck! It certainly was tough,” Duane said. “But you're a good

loser. And the wheel turns! Now, Laramie, here's what. I need your

advice. I've got a little money. But before I lose it I want to invest

some. Buy some stock, or buy an interest in some rancher's herd. What I

want you to steer me on is a good square rancher. Or maybe a couple of

ranchers, if there happen to be two honest ones. Ha, ha! No deals with

ranchers who ride in the dark with rustlers! I've a hunch Fairdale is

full of them. Now, Laramie, you've been here for years. Sure you must

know a couple of men above suspicion.”

“Thank God I do,” he replied, feelingly. “Frank Morton an' Si Zimmer, my

friends an' neighbors all my prosperous days, an' friends still. You

can gamble on Frank and Si. But if you want advice from me--don't invest

money in stock now.”

“Why?”

“Because any new feller buyin' stock these days will be rustled quicker

'n he can say Jack Robinson. The pioneers, the new cattlemen--these

are easy pickin' for the rustlers. Lord knows all the ranchers are easy

enough pickin'. But the new fellers have to learn the ropes. They don't

know anythin' or anybody. An' the old ranchers are wise an' sore. They'd

fight if they--”

“What?” Duane put in, as he paused. “If they knew who was rustling the

stock?”

“Nope.”

“If they had the nerve?”

“Not thet so much.”

“What then? What'd make them fight?”

“A leader!”

“Howdy thar, Jim,” boomed a big voice.

A man of great bulk, with a ruddy, merry face, entered the room.

“Hello, Morton,” replied Laramie. “I'd introduce you to my guest here,

but I don't know his name.”

“Haw! Haw! Thet's all right. Few men out hyar go by their right names.”

“Say, Morton,” put in Duane, “Laramie gave me a hunch you'd be a good

man to tie to. Now, I've a little money and before I lose it I'd like to

invest it in stock.”

Morton smiled broadly.

“I'm on the square,” Duane said, bluntly. “If you fellows never size up

your neighbors any better than you have sized me--well, you won't get

any richer.”

It was enjoyment for Duane to make his remarks to these men pregnant

with meaning. Morton showed his pleasure, his interest, but his faith

held aloof.

“I've got some money. Will you let me in on some kind of deal? Will you

start me up as a stockman with a little herd all my own?”

“Wal, stranger, to come out flat-footed, you'd be foolish to buy cattle

now. I don't want to take your money an' see you lose out. Better go

back across the Pecos where the rustlers ain't so strong. I haven't had

more'n twenty-five hundred herd of stock for ten years. The rustlers let

me hang on to a breedin' herd. Kind of them, ain't it?”

“Sort of kind. All I hear is rustlers, Morton,” replied Duane, with

impatience. “You see, I haven't ever lived long in a rustler-run county.

Who heads the gang, anyway?”

Morton looked at Duane with a curiously amused smile, then snapped his

big jaw as if to shut in impulsive words.

“Look here, Morton. It stands to reason, no matter how strong these

rustlers are, how hidden their work, however involved with supposedly

honest men--they CAN'T last.”

“They come with the pioneers, an' they'll last till thar's a single

steer left,” he declared.

“Well, if you take that view of circumstances I just figure you as one

of the rustlers.”

Morton looked as if he were about to brain Duane with the butt of his

whip. His anger flashed by then, evidently as unworthy of him, and,

something striking him as funny, he boomed out a laugh.

“It's not so funny,” Duane went on. “If you're going to pretend a yellow

streak, what else will I think?”

“Pretend?” he repeated.

“Sure. I know men of nerve. And here they're not any different from

those in other places. I say if you show anything like a lack of sand

it's all bluff. By nature you've got nerve. There are a lot of men

around Fairdale who're afraid of their shadows--afraid to be out after

dark--afraid to open their mouths. But you're not one. So I say if you

claim these rustlers will last you're pretending lack of nerve just to

help the popular idea along. For they CAN'T last. What you need out here

is some new blood. Savvy what I mean?”

“Wal, I reckon I do,” he replied, looking as if a storm had blown over

him. “Stranger, I'll look you up the next time I come to town.”

Then he went out.

Laramie had eyes like flint striking fire.

He breathed a deep breath and looked around the room before his gaze

fixed again on Duane.

“Wal,” he replied, speaking low. “You've picked the right men. Now, who

in the hell are you?”

Reaching into the inside pocket of his buckskin vest, Duane turned the

lining out. A star-shaped bright silver object flashed as he shoved it,

pocket and all, under Jim's hard eyes.

“RANGER!” he whispered, cracking the table with his fist. “You sure rung

true to me.”

“Laramie, do you know who's boss of this secret gang of rustlers

hereabouts?” asked Duane, bluntly. It was characteristic of him to

come sharp to the point. His voice--something deep, easy, cool about

him--seemed to steady Laramie.

“No,” replied Laramie.

“Does anybody know?” went on Duane.

“Wal, I reckon there's not one honest native who KNOWS.”

“But you have your suspicions?”

“We have.”

“Give me your idea about this crowd that hangs round the saloons--the

regulars.”

“Jest a bad lot,” replied Laramie, with the quick assurance of

knowledge. “Most of them have been here years. Others have drifted in.

Some of them work, odd times. They rustle a few steers, steal, rob,

anythin' for a little money to drink an' gamble. Jest a bad lot!”

“Have you any idea whether Cheseldine and his gang are associated with

this gang here?”

“Lord knows. I've always suspected them the same gang. None of us ever

seen Cheseldine--an' thet's strange, when Knell, Poggin, Panhandle

Smith, Blossom Kane, and Fletcher, they all ride here often. No, Poggin

doesn't come often. But the others do. For thet matter, they're around

all over west of the Pecos.”

“Now I'm puzzled over this,” said Duane. “Why do men--apparently honest

men--seem to be so close-mouthed here? Is that a fact, or only my

impression?”

“It's a sure fact,” replied Laramie, darkly. “Men have lost cattle an'

property in Fairdale--lost them honestly or otherwise, as hasn't been

proved. An' in some cases when they talked--hinted a little--they was

found dead. Apparently held up an robbed. But dead. Dead men don't talk!

Thet's why we're close mouthed.”

Duane felt a dark, somber sternness. Rustling cattle was not

intolerable. Western Texas had gone on prospering, growing in spite of

the hordes of rustlers ranging its vast stretches; but a cold, secret,

murderous hold on a little struggling community was something too

strange, too terrible for men to stand long.

The ranger was about to speak again when the clatter of hoofs

interrupted him. Horses halted out in front, and one rider got down.

Floyd Lawson entered. He called for tobacco.

If his visit surprised Laramie he did not show any evidence. But Lawson

showed rage as he saw the ranger, and then a dark glint flitted from

the eyes that shifted from Duane to Laramie and back again. Duane leaned

easily against the counter.

“Say, that was a bad break of yours,” Lawson said. “If you come fooling

round the ranch again there'll be hell.”

It seemed strange that a man who had lived west of the Pecos for ten

years could not see in Duane something which forbade that kind of talk.

It certainly was not nerve Lawson showed; men of courage were seldom

intolerant. With the matchless nerve that characterized the great gunmen

of the day there was a cool, unobtrusive manner, a speech brief, almost

gentle, certainly courteous. Lawson was a hot-headed Louisianian of

French extraction; a man, evidently, who had never been crossed in

anything, and who was strong, brutal, passionate, which qualities in the

face of a situation like this made him simply a fool.

“I'm saying again, you used your ranger bluff just to get near Ray

Longstreth,” Lawson sneered. “Mind you, if you come up there again

there'll be hell.”

“You're right. But not the kind you think,” Duane retorted, his voice

sharp and cold.

“Ray Longstreth wouldn't stoop to know a dirty blood-tracker like you,”

said Lawson, hotly. He did not seem to have a deliberate intention

to rouse Duane; the man was simply rancorous, jealous. “I'll call

you right. You cheap bluffer! You four-flush! You damned interfering,

conceited ranger!”

“Lawson, I'll not take offense, because you seem to be championing your

beautiful cousin,” replied Duane, in slow speech. “But let me return

your compliment. You're a fine Southerner! Why, you're only a cheap

four-flush--damned, bull-headed RUSTLER!”

Duane hissed the last word. Then for him there was the truth in Lawson's

working passion-blackened face.

Lawson jerked, moved, meant to draw. But how slow! Duane lunged forward.

His long arm swept up. And Lawson staggered backward, knocking table and

chairs, to fall hard, in a half-sitting posture against the wall.

“Don't draw!” warned Duane.

“Lawson, git away from your gun!” yelled Laramie.

But Lawson was crazed with fury. He tugged at his hip, his face corded

with purple welts, malignant, murderous. Duane kicked the gun out of his

hand. Lawson got up, raging, and rushed out.

Laramie lifted his shaking hands.

“What'd you wing him for?” he wailed. “He was drawin' on you. Kickin'

men like him won't do out here.”

“That bull-headed fool will roar and butt himself with all his gang

right into our hands. He's just the man I've needed to meet. Besides,

shooting him would have been murder.”

“Murder!” exclaimed Laramie.

“Yes, for me,” replied Duane.

“That may be true--whoever you are--but if Lawson's the man you think he

is he'll begin thet secret underground bizness. Why, Lawson won't sleep

of nights now. He an' Longstreth have always been after me.”

“Laramie, what are your eyes for?” demanded Duane. “Watch out. And now

here. See your friend Morton. Tell him this game grows hot. Together you

approach four or five men you know well and can absolutely trust. I may

need your help.”

Then Duane went from place to place, corner to corner, bar to bar,

watching, listening, recording. The excitement had preceded him, and

speculation was rife. He thought best to keep out of it. After dark he

stole up to Longstreth's ranch. The evening was warm; the doors were

open; and in the twilight the only lamps that had been lit were in

Longstreth's big sitting-room, at the far end of the house. When a

buckboard drove up and Longstreth and Lawson alighted, Duane was well

hidden in the bushes, so well screened that he could get but a fleeting

glimpse of Longstreth as he went in. For all Duane could see, he

appeared to be a calm and quiet man, intense beneath the surface, with

an air of dignity under insult. Duane's chance to observe Lawson was

lost. They went into the house without speaking and closed the door.

At the other end of the porch, close under a window, was an offset

between step and wall, and there in the shadow Duane hid. So Duane

waited there in the darkness with patience born of many hours of hiding.

Presently a lamp was lit; and Duane heard the swish of skirts.

“Something's happened surely, Ruth,” he heard Miss Longstreth say,

anxiously. “Papa just met me in the hall and didn't speak. He seemed

pale, worried.”

“Cousin Floyd looked like a thunder-cloud,” said Ruth. “For once he

didn't try to kiss me. Something's happened. Well, Ray, this had been a

bad day.”

“Oh, dear! Ruth, what can we do? These are wild men. Floyd makes life

miserable for me. And he teases you unmer--”

“I don't call it teasing. Floyd wants to spoon,” declared Ruth,

emphatically. “He'd run after any woman.”

“A fine compliment to me, Cousin Ruth,” laughed Ray.

“I don't care,” replied Ruth, stubbornly, “it's so. He's mushy. And when

he's been drinking and tries to kiss me--I hate him!”

There were steps on the hall floor.

“Hello, girls!” sounded out Lawson's voice, minus its usual gaiety.

“Floyd, what's the matter?” asked Ray, presently. “I never saw papa as

he is to-night, nor you so--so worried. Tell me, what has happened?”

“Well, Ray, we had a jar to-day,” replied Lawson, with a blunt,

expressive laugh.

“Jar?” echoed both the girls, curiously.

“We had to submit to a damnable outrage,” added Lawson, passionately,

as if the sound of his voice augmented his feeling. “Listen, girls; I'll

tell you-all about it.” He coughed, cleared his throat in a way that

betrayed he had been drinking.

Duane sunk deeper into the shadow of his covert, and, stiffening his

muscles for a protected spell of rigidity, prepared to listen with all

acuteness and intensity. Just one word from this Lawson, inadvertently

uttered in a moment of passion, might be the word Duane needed for his

clue.

“It happened at the town hall,” began Lawson, rapidly. “Your father and

Judge Owens and I were there in consultation with three ranchers from

out of town. Then that damned ranger stalked in dragging Snecker, the

fellow who hid here in the house. He had arrested Snecker for alleged

assault on a restaurant-keeper named Laramie. Snecker being obviously

innocent, he was discharged. Then this ranger began shouting his

insults. Law was a farce in Fairdale. The court was a farce. There

was no law. Your father's office as mayor should be impeached. He

made arrests only for petty offenses. He was afraid of the rustlers,

highwaymen, murderers. He was afraid or--he just let them alone. He used

his office to cheat ranchers and cattlemen in lawsuits. All this the

ranger yelled for every one to hear. A damnable outrage. Your father,

Ray, insulted in his own court by a rowdy ranger!”

“Oh!” cried Ray Longstreth, in mingled distress and anger.

“The ranger service wants to rule western Texas,” went on Lawson. “These

rangers are all a low set, many of them worse than the outlaws they

hunt. Some of them were outlaws and gun-fighters before they became

rangers. This is one of the worst of the lot. He's keen, intelligent,

smooth, and that makes him more to be feared. For he is to be feared. He

wanted to kill. He would kill. If your father had made the least move he

would have shot him. He's a cold-nerved devil--the born gunman. My God,

any instant I expected to see your father fall dead at my feet!”

“Oh, Floyd! The unspeakable ruffian!” cried Ray Longstreth,

passionately.

“You see, Ray, this fellow, like all rangers, seeks notoriety. He made

that play with Snecker just for a chance to rant against your father. He

tried to inflame all Fairdale against him. That about the lawsuits was

the worst! Damn him! He'll make us enemies.”

“What do you care for the insinuations of such a man?” said Ray

Longstreth, her voice now deep and rich with feeling. “After a moment's

thought no one will be influenced by them. Do not worry, Floyd. Tell

papa not to worry. Surely after all these years he can't be injured in

reputation by--by an adventurer.”

“Yes, he can be injured,” replied Floyd, quickly. “The frontier is a

queer place. There are many bitter men here--men who have failed at

ranching. And your father has been wonderfully successful. The ranger

has dropped poison, and it'll spread.”

CHAPTER XVIII

Strangers rode into Fairdale; and other hard-looking customers, new

to Duane if not to Fairdale, helped to create a charged and waiting

atmosphere. The saloons did unusual business and were never closed.

Respectable citizens of the town were awakened in the early dawn by

rowdies carousing in the streets.

Duane kept pretty close under cover during the day. He did not entertain

the opinion that the first time he walked down-street he would be a

target for guns. Things seldom happened that way; and when they did

happen so, it was more accident than design. But at night he was not

idle. He met Laramie, Morton, Zimmer, and others of like character; a

secret club had been formed; and all the members were ready for action.

Duane spent hours at night watching the house where Floyd Lawson stayed

when he was not up at Longstreth's. At night he was visited, or at least

the house was, by strange men who were swift, stealthy, mysterious--all

that kindly disposed friends or neighbors would not have been. Duane had

not been able to recognize any of these night visitors; and he did

not think the time was ripe for a bold holding-up of one of them.

Nevertheless, he was sure such an event would discover Lawson, or some

one in that house, to be in touch with crooked men.

Laramie was right. Not twenty-four hours after his last talk with Duane,

in which he advised quick action, he was found behind the little bar of

his restaurant with a bullet-hole in his breast, dead. No one could be

found who had heard a shot. It had been deliberate murder, for upon the

bar had been left a piece of paper rudely scrawled with a pencil: “All

friends of rangers look for the same.”

This roused Duane. His first move, however, was to bury Laramie. None

of Laramie's neighbors evinced any interest in the dead man or the

unfortunate family he had left. Duane saw that these neighbors were held

in check by fear. Mrs. Laramie was ill; the shock of her husband's

death was hard on her; and she had been left almost destitute with five

children. Duane rented a small adobe house on the outskirts of town and

moved the family into it. Then he played the part of provider and nurse

and friend.

After several days Duane went boldly into town and showed that he meant

business. It was his opinion that there were men in Fairdale secretly

glad of a ranger's presence. What he intended to do was food for great

speculation. A company of militia could not have had the effect upon the

wild element of Fairdale that Duane's presence had. It got out that he

was a gunman lightning swift on the draw. It was death to face him. He

had killed thirty men--wildest rumor of all--it was actually said of him

he had the gun-skill of Buck Duane or of Poggin.

At first there had not only been great conjecture among the vicious

element, but also a very decided checking of all kinds of action

calculated to be conspicuous to a keen-eyed ranger. At the tables, at

the bars and lounging-places Duane heard the remarks: “Who's thet ranger

after? What'll he do fust off? Is he waitin' fer somebody? Who's goin'

to draw on him fust--an' go to hell? Jest about how soon will he be

found somewheres full of lead?”

When it came out somewhere that Duane was openly cultivating the honest

stay-at-home citizens to array them in time against the other element,

then Fairdale showed its wolf-teeth. Several times Duane was shot at

in the dark and once slightly injured. Rumor had it that Poggin, the

gunman, was coming to meet him. But the lawless element did not rise up

in a mass to slay Duane on sight. It was not so much that the enemies

of the law awaited his next move, but just a slowness peculiar to

the frontier. The ranger was in their midst. He was interesting, if

formidable. He would have been welcomed at card-tables, at the bars, to

play and drink with the men who knew they were under suspicion. There

was a rude kind of good humor even in their open hostility.

Besides, one ranger or a company of rangers could not have held the

undivided attention of these men from their games and drinks and

quarrels except by some decided move. Excitement, greed, appetite were

rife in them. Duane marked, however, a striking exception to the usual

run of strangers he had been in the habit of seeing. Snecker had gone

or was under cover. Again Duane caught a vague rumor of the coming of

Poggin, yet he never seemed to arrive. Moreover, the goings-on among the

habitues of the resorts and the cowboys who came in to drink and gamble

were unusually mild in comparison with former conduct. This lull,

however, did not deceive Duane. It could not last. The wonder was that

it had lasted so long.

Duane went often to see Mrs. Laramie and her children. One afternoon

while he was there he saw Miss Longstreth and Ruth ride up to the

door. They carried a basket. Evidently they had heard of Mrs. Laramie's

trouble. Duane felt strangely glad, but he went into an adjoining room

rather than meet them.

“Mrs. Laramie, I've come to see you,” said Miss Longstreth, cheerfully.

The little room was not very light, there being only one window and

the doors, but Duane could see plainly enough. Mrs. Laramie lay,

hollow-checked and haggard, on a bed. Once she had evidently been a

woman of some comeliness. The ravages of trouble and grief were there to

read in her worn face; it had not, however, any of the hard and bitter

lines that had characterized her husband's.

Duane wondered, considering that Longstreth had ruined Laramie, how Mrs.

Laramie was going to regard the daughter of an enemy.

“So you're Granger Longstreth's girl?” queried the woman, with her

bright, black eyes fixed on her visitor.

“Yes,” replied Miss Longstreth, simply. “This is my cousin, Ruth

Herbert. We've come to nurse you, take care of the children, help you in

any way you'll let us.”

There was a long silence.

“Well, you look a little like Longstreth,” finally said Mrs. Laramie,

“but you're not at ALL like him. You must take after your mother. Miss

Longstreth, I don't know if I can--if I ought accept anything from you.

Your father ruined my husband.”

“Yes, I know,” replied the girl, sadly. “That's all the more reason you

should let me help you. Pray don't refuse. It will--mean so much to me.”

If this poor, stricken woman had any resentment it speedily melted in

the warmth and sweetness of Miss Longstreth's manner. Duane's idea

was that the impression of Ray Longstreth's beauty was always swiftly

succeeded by that of her generosity and nobility. At any rate, she had

started well with Mrs. Laramie, and no sooner had she begun to talk to

the children than both they and the mother were won. The opening of that

big basket was an event. Poor, starved little beggars! Duane's feelings

seemed too easily roused. Hard indeed would it have gone with Jim

Laramie's slayer if he could have laid eyes on him then. However, Miss

Longstreth and Ruth, after the nature of tender and practical girls, did

not appear to take the sad situation to heart. The havoc was wrought in

that household.

The needs now were cheerfulness, kindness, help, action--and these the

girls furnished with a spirit that did Duane good.

“Mrs. Laramie, who dressed this baby?” presently asked Miss Longstreth.

Duane peeped in to see a dilapidated youngster on her knee. That sight,

if any other was needed, completed his full and splendid estimate of Ray

Longstreth and wrought strangely upon his heart.

“The ranger,” replied Mrs. Laramie.

“The ranger!” exclaimed Miss Longstreth.

“Yes, he's taken care of us all since--since--” Mrs. Laramie choked.

“Oh! So you've had no help but his,” replied Miss Longstreth, hastily.

“No women. Too bad! I'll send some one, Mrs. Laramie, and I'll come

myself.”

“It'll be good of you,” went on the older woman. “You see, Jim had

few friends--that is, right in town. And they've been afraid to help

us--afraid they'd get what poor Jim--”

“That's awful!” burst out Miss Longstreth, passionately. “A brave lot of

friends! Mrs. Laramie, don't you worry any more. We'll take care of you.

Here, Ruth, help me. Whatever is the matter with baby's dress?”

Manifestly Miss Longstreth had some difficulty in subduing her emotion.

“Why, it's on hind side before,” declared Ruth. “I guess Mr. Ranger

hasn't dressed many babies.”

“He did the best he could,” said Mrs. Laramie. “Lord only knows what

would have become of us!”

“Then he is--is something more than a ranger?” queried Miss Longstreth,

with a little break in her voice.

“He's more than I can tell,” replied Mrs. Laramie. “He buried Jim. He

paid our debts. He fetched us here. He bought food for us. He cooked for

us and fed us. He washed and dressed the baby. He sat with me the first

two nights after Jim's death, when I thought I'd die myself. He's so

kind, so gentle, so patient. He has kept me up just by being near.

Sometimes I'd wake from a doze, an', seeing him there, I'd know how

false were all these tales Jim heard about him and believed at first.

Why, he plays with the children just--just like any good man might. When

he has the baby up I just can't believe he's a bloody gunman, as they

say. He's good, but he isn't happy. He has such sad eyes. He looks far

off sometimes when the children climb round him. They love him. His life

is sad. Nobody need tell me--he sees the good in things. Once he said

somebody had to be a ranger. Well, I say, 'Thank God for a ranger like

him!'”

Duane did not want to hear more, so he walked into the room.

“It was thoughtful of you,” Duane said. “Womankind are needed here. I

could do so little. Mrs. Laramie, you look better already. I'm glad.

And here's baby, all clean and white. Baby, what a time I had trying to

puzzle out the way your clothes went on! Well, Mrs. Laramie, didn't I

tell you--friends would come? So will the brighter side.”

“Yes, I've more faith than I had,” replied Mrs. Laramie. “Granger

Longstreth's daughter has come to me. There for a while after Jim's

death I thought I'd sink. We have nothing. How could I ever take care of

my little ones? But I'm gaining courage to--”

“Mrs. Laramie, do not distress yourself any more,” said Miss Longstreth.

“I shall see you are well cared for. I promise you.”

“Miss Longstreth, that's fine!” exclaimed Duane. “It's what I'd

have--expected of you.”

It must have been sweet praise to her, for the whiteness of her face

burned out in a beautiful blush.

“And it's good of you, too, Miss Herbert, to come,” added Duane. “Let me

thank you both. I'm glad I have you girls as allies in part of my lonely

task here. More than glad for the sake of this good woman and the little

ones. But both of you be careful about coming here alone. There's

risk. And now I'll be going. Good-by, Mrs. Laramie. I'll drop in again

to-night. Good-by.”

“Mr. Ranger, wait!” called Miss Longstreth, as he went out. She was

white and wonderful. She stepped out of the door close to him.

“I have wronged you,” she said, impulsively.

“Miss Longstreth! How can you say that?” he returned.

“I believed what my father and Floyd Lawson said about you. Now I see--I

wronged you.”

“You make me very glad. But, Miss Longstreth, please don't speak of

wronging me. I have been a--a gunman, I am a ranger--and much said of me

is true. My duty is hard on others--sometimes on those who are innocent,

alas! But God knows that duty is hard, too, on me.”

“I did wrong you. If you entered my home again I would think it an

honor. I--”

“Please--please don't, Miss Longstreth,” interrupted Duane.

“But, sir, my conscience flays me,” she went on. There was no other

sound like her voice. “Will you take my hand? Will you forgive me?”

She gave it royally, while the other was there pressing at her breast.

Duane took the proffered hand. He did not know what else to do.

Then it seemed to dawn upon him that there was more behind this white,

sweet, noble intensity of her than just the making amends for a fancied

or real wrong. Duane thought the man did not live on earth who could

have resisted her then.

“I honor you for your goodness to this unfortunate woman,” she said, and

now her speech came swiftly. “When she was all alone and helpless you

were her friend. It was the deed of a man. But Mrs. Laramie isn't the

only unfortunate woman in the world. I, too, am unfortunate. Ah, how

I may soon need a friend! Will you be my friend? I'm so alone. I'm

terribly worried. I fear--I fear--Oh, surely I'll need a friend

soon--soon. Oh, I'm afraid of what you'll find out sooner or later. I

want to help you. Let us save life if not honor. Must I stand alone--all

alone? Will you--will you be--” Her voice failed.

It seemed to Duane that she must have discovered what he had begun to

suspect--that her father and Lawson were not the honest ranchers they

pretended to be. Perhaps she knew more! Her appeal to Duane shook him

deeply. He wanted to help her more than he had ever wanted anything. And

with the meaning of the tumultuous sweetness she stirred in him there

came realization of a dangerous situation.

“I must be true to my duty,” he said, hoarsely.

“If you knew me you'd know I could never ask you to be false to it.”

“Well, then--I'll do anything for you.”

“Oh, thank you! I'm ashamed that I believed my cousin Floyd! He lied--he

lied. I'm all in the dark, strangely distressed. My father wants me to

go back home. Floyd is trying to keep me here. They've quarreled. Oh, I

know something dreadful will happen. I know I'll need you if--if--Will

you help me?”

“Yes,” replied Duane, and his look brought the blood to her face.

CHAPTER XIX

After supper Duane stole out for his usual evening's spying. The night

was dark, without starlight, and a stiff wind rustled the leaves. Duane

bent his steps toward the Longstreth's ranchhouse. He had so much to

think about that he never knew where the time went. This night when he

reached the edge of the shrubbery he heard Lawson's well-known footsteps

and saw Longstreth's door open, flashing a broad bar of light in the

darkness. Lawson crossed the threshold, the door closed, and all was

dark again outside. Not a ray of light escaped from the window.

Little doubt there was that his talk with Longstreth would be

interesting to Duane. He tiptoed to the door and listened, but could

hear only a murmur of voices. Besides, that position was too risky. He

went round the corner of the house.

This side of the big adobe house was of much older construction than

the back and larger part. There was a narrow passage between the houses,

leading from the outside through to the patio.

This passage now afforded Duane an opportunity, and he decided to

avail himself of it in spite of the very great danger. Crawling on very

stealthily, he got under the shrubbery to the entrance of the passage.

In the blackness a faint streak of light showed the location of a crack

in the wall. He had to slip in sidewise. It was a tight squeeze, but he

entered without the slightest noise. As he progressed the passage grew

a very little wider in that direction, and that fact gave rise to the

thought that in case of a necessary and hurried exit he would do best by

working toward the patio. It seemed a good deal of time was consumed in

reaching a vantage-point. When he did get there the crack he had marked

was a foot over his head. There was nothing to do but find toe-holes in

the crumbling walls, and by bracing knees on one side, back against the

other, hold himself up Once with his eye there he did not care what risk

he ran. Longstreth appeared disturbed; he sat stroking his mustache; his

brow was clouded. Lawson's face seemed darker, more sullen, yet lighted

by some indomitable resolve.

“We'll settle both deals to-night,” Lawson was saying. “That's what I

came for.”

“But suppose I don't choose to talk here?” protested Longstreth,

impatiently. “I never before made my house a place to--”

“We've waited long enough. This place's as good as any. You've lost your

nerve since that ranger hit the town. First now, will you give Ray to

me?”

“Floyd; you talk like a spoiled boy. Give Ray to you! Why, she's a

woman, and I'm finding out that she's got a mind of her own. I told you

I was willing for her to marry you. I tried to persuade her. But Ray

hasn't any use for you now. She liked you at first. But now she doesn't.

So what can I do?”

“You can make her marry me,” replied Lawson.

“Make that girl do what she doesn't want to? It couldn't be done even if

I tried. And I don't believe I'll try. I haven't the highest opinion

of you as a prospective son-in-law, Floyd. But if Ray loved you I would

consent. We'd all go away together before this damned miserable business

is out. Then she'd never know. And maybe you might be more like you used

to be before the West ruined you. But as matters stand, you fight your

own game with her. And I'll tell you now you'll lose.”

“What'd you want to let her come out here for?” demanded Lawson, hotly.

“It was a dead mistake. I've lost my head over her. I'll have her or

die. Don't you think if she was my wife I'd soon pull myself together?

Since she came we've none of us been right. And the gang has put up a

holler. No, Longstreth, we've got to settle things to-night.”

“Well, we can settle what Ray's concerned in, right now,” replied

Longstreth, rising. “Come on; we'll ask her. See where you stand.”

They went out, leaving the door open. Duane dropped down to rest himself

and to wait. He would have liked to hear Miss Longstreth's answer. But

he could guess what it would be. Lawson appeared to be all Duane had

thought him, and he believed he was going to find out presently that he

was worse.

The men seemed to be absent a good while, though that feeling might have

been occasioned by Duane's thrilling interest and anxiety. Finally

he heard heavy steps. Lawson came in alone. He was leaden-faced,

humiliated. Then something abject in him gave place to rage. He strode

the room; he cursed. Then Longstreth returned, now appreciably calmer.

Duane could not but decide that he felt relief at the evident rejection

of Lawson's proposal.

“Don't fuss about it, Floyd,” he said. “You see I can't help it. We're

pretty wild out here, but I can't rope my daughter and give her to you

as I would an unruly steer.”

“Longstreth, I can MAKE her marry me,” declared Lawson, thickly.

“How?”

“You know the hold I got on you--the deal that made you boss of this

rustler gang?”

“It isn't likely I'd forget,” replied Longstreth, grimly.

“I can go to Ray, tell her that, make her believe I'd tell it

broadcast--tell this ranger--unless she'd marry me.”

Lawson spoke breathlessly, with haggard face and shadowed eyes. He had

no shame. He was simply in the grip of passion. Longstreth gazed with

dark, controlled fury at this relative. In that look Duane saw a strong,

unscrupulous man fallen into evil ways, but still a man. It betrayed

Lawson to be the wild and passionate weakling. Duane seemed to see also

how during all the years of association this strong man had upheld

the weak one. But that time had gone for ever, both in intent on

Longstreth's part and in possibility. Lawson, like the great majority

of evil and unrestrained men on the border, had reached a point where

influence was futile. Reason had degenerated. He saw only himself.

“But, Floyd, Ray's the one person on earth who must never know I'm a

rustler, a thief, a red-handed ruler of the worst gang on the border,”

replied Longstreth, impressively.

Floyd bowed his head at that, as if the significance had just occurred

to him. But he was not long at a loss.

“She's going to find it out sooner or later. I tell you she knows now

there's something wrong out here. She's got eyes. Mark what I say.”

“Ray has changed, I know. But she hasn't any idea yet that her daddy's

a boss rustler. Ray's concerned about what she calls my duty as mayor.

Also I think she's not satisfied with my explanations in regard to

certain property.”

Lawson halted in his restless walk and leaned against the stone

mantelpiece. He had his hands in his pockets. He squared himself as if

this was his last stand. He looked desperate, but on the moment showed

an absence of his usual nervous excitement.

“Longstreth, that may well be true,” he said. “No doubt all you say is

true. But it doesn't help me. I want the girl. If I don't get her--I

reckon we'll all go to hell!”

He might have meant anything, probably meant the worst. He certainly

had something more in mind. Longstreth gave a slight start, barely

perceptible, like the switch of an awakening tiger. He sat there, head

down, stroking his mustache. Almost Duane saw his thought. He had long

experience in reading men under stress of such emotion. He had no means

to vindicate his judgment, but his conviction was that Longstreth right

then and there decided that the thing to do was to kill Lawson.

For Duane's part he wondered that Longstreth had not come to such a

conclusion before. Not improbably the advent of his daughter had put

Longstreth in conflict with himself.

Suddenly he threw off a somber cast of countenance, and he began to

talk. He talked swiftly, persuasively, yet Duane imagined he was talking

to smooth Lawson's passion for the moment. Lawson no more caught the

fateful significance of a line crossed, a limit reached, a decree

decided than if he had not been present. He was obsessed with himself.

How, Duane wondered, had a man of his mind ever lived so long and gone

so far among the exacting conditions of the Southwest? The answer was,

perhaps, that Longstreth had guided him, upheld him, protected him. The

coming of Ray Longstreth had been the entering-wedge of dissension.

“You're too impatient,” concluded Longstreth. “You'll ruin any chance

of happiness if you rush Ray. She might be won. If you told her who I am

she'd hate you for ever. She might marry you to save me, but she'd hate

you. That isn't the way. Wait. Play for time. Be different with her.

Cut out your drinking. She despises that. Let's plan to sell out

here--stock, ranch, property--and leave the country. Then you'd have a

show with her.”

“I told you we've got to stick,” growled Lawson. “The gang won't

stand for our going. It can't be done unless you want to sacrifice

everything.”

“You mean double-cross the men? Go without their knowing? Leave them

here to face whatever comes?”

“I mean just that.”

“I'm bad enough, but not that bad,” returned Longstreth. “If I can't

get the gang to let me off, I'll stay and face the music. All the same,

Lawson, did it ever strike you that most of the deals the last few years

have been YOURS?”

“Yes. If I hadn't rung them in there wouldn't have been any. You've had

cold feet, and especially since this ranger has been here.”

“Well, call it cold feet if you like. But I call it sense. We reached

our limit long ago. We began by rustling a few cattle--at a time when

rustling was laughed at. But as our greed grew so did our boldness. Then

came the gang, the regular trips, the one thing and another till, before

we knew it--before I knew it--we had shady deals, holdups, and MURDERS

on our record. Then we HAD to go on. Too late to turn back!”

“I reckon we've all said that. None of the gang wants to quit. They all

think, and I think, we can't be touched. We may be blamed, but nothing

can be proved. We're too strong.”

“There's where you're dead wrong,” rejoined Longstreth, emphatically.

“I imagined that once, not long ago. I was bullheaded. Who would ever

connect Granger Longstreth with a rustler gang? I've changed my mind.

I've begun to think. I've reasoned out things. We're crooked, and we

can't last. It's the nature of life, even here, for conditions to grow

better. The wise deal for us would be to divide equally and leave the

country, all of us.”

“But you and I have all the stock--all the gain,” protested Lawson.

“I'll split mine.”

“I won't--that settles that,” added Lawson, instantly.

Longstreth spread wide his hands as if it was useless to try to convince

this man. Talking had not increased his calmness, and he now showed more

than impatience. A dull glint gleamed deep in his eyes.

“Your stock and property will last a long time--do you lots of good when

this ranger--”

“Bah!” hoarsely croaked Lawson. The ranger's name was a match applied to

powder. “Haven't I told you he'd be dead soon--any time--same as Laramie

is?”

“Yes, you mentioned the--the supposition,” replied Longstreth,

sarcastically. “I inquired, too, just how that very desired event was to

be brought about.”

“The gang will lay him out.”

“Bah!” retorted Longstreth, in turn. He laughed contemptuously.

“Floyd, don't be a fool. You've been on the border for ten years. You've

packed a gun and you've used it. You've been with rustlers when they

killed their men. You've been present at many fights. But you never in

all that time saw a man like this ranger. You haven't got sense enough

to see him right if you had a chance. Neither have any of you. The only

way to get rid of him is for the gang to draw on him, all at once. Then

he's going to drop some of them.”

“Longstreth, you say that like a man who wouldn't care much if he did

drop some of them,” declared Lawson; and now he was sarcastic.

“To tell you the truth, I wouldn't,” returned the other, bluntly. “I'm

pretty sick of this mess.”

Lawson cursed in amazement. His emotions were all out of proportion to

his intelligence. He was not at all quick-witted. Duane had never seen a

vainer or more arrogant man.

“Longstreth, I don't like your talk,” he said.

“If you don't like the way I talk you know what you can do,” replied

Longstreth, quickly. He stood up then, cool and quiet, with flash of

eyes and set of lips that told Duane he was dangerous.

“Well, after all, that's neither here nor there,” went on Lawson,

unconsciously cowed by the other. “The thing is, do I get the girl?”

“Not by any means except her consent.”

“You'll not make her marry me?”

“No. No,” replied Longstreth, his voice still cold, low-pitched.

“All right. Then I'll make her.”

Evidently Longstreth understood the man before him so well that he

wasted no more words. Duane knew what Lawson never dreamed of, and that

was that Longstreth had a gun somewhere within reach and meant to use

it. Then heavy footsteps sounded outside tramping upon the porch. Duane

might have been mistaken, but he believed those footsteps saved Lawson's

life.

“There they are,” said Lawson, and he opened the door.

Five masked men entered. They all wore coats hiding any weapons. A big

man with burly shoulders shook hands with Longstreth, and the others

stood back.

The atmosphere of that room had changed. Lawson might have been a

nonentity for all he counted. Longstreth was another man--a stranger to

Duane. If he had entertained a hope of freeing himself from this band,

of getting away to a safer country, he abandoned it at the very sight of

these men. There was power here, and he was bound.

The big man spoke in low, hoarse whispers, and at this all the others

gathered around him close to the table. There were evidently some signs

of membership not plain to Duane. Then all the heads were bent over the

table. Low voices spoke, queried, answered, argued. By straining his

ears Duane caught a word here and there. They were planning, and they

were brief. Duane gathered they were to have a rendezvous at or near

Ord.

Then the big man, who evidently was the leader of the present

convention, got up to depart. He went as swiftly as he had come, and was

followed by his comrades. Longstreth prepared for a quiet smoke. Lawson

seemed uncommunicative and unsociable. He smoked fiercely and drank

continually. All at once he straightened up as if listening.

“What's that?” he called, suddenly.

Duane's strained ears were pervaded by a slight rustling sound.

“Must be a rat,” replied Longstreth.

The rustle became a rattle.

“Sounds like a rattlesnake to me,” said Lawson.

Longstreth got up from the table and peered round the room.

Just at that instant Duane felt an almost inappreciable movement of the

adobe wall which supported him. He could scarcely credit his senses. But

the rattle inside Longstreth's room was mingling with little dull thuds

of falling dirt. The adobe wall, merely dried mud, was crumbling. Duane

distinctly felt a tremor pass through it. Then the blood gushed back to

his heart.

“What in the hell!” exclaimed Longstreth.

“I smell dust,” said Lawson, sharply.

That was the signal for Duane to drop down from his perch, yet despite

his care he made a noise.

“Did you hear a step?” queried Longstreth.

No one answered. But a heavy piece of the adobe wall fell with a thud.

Duane heard it crack, felt it shake.

“There's somebody between the walls!” thundered Longstreth.

Then a section of the wall fell inward with a crash. Duane began to

squeeze his body through the narrow passage toward the patio.

“Hear him!” yelled Lawson. “This side!”

“No, he's going that way,” yelled Longstreth.

The tramp of heavy boots lent Duane the strength of desperation. He

was not shirking a fight, but to be cornered like a trapped coyote was

another matter. He almost tore his clothes off in that passage. The dust

nearly stifled him. When he burst into the patio it was not a single

instant too soon. But one deep gasp of breath revived him and he was up,

gun in hand, running for the outlet into the court. Thumping footsteps

turned him back. While there was a chance to get away he did not want to

fight. He thought he heard someone running into the patio from the other

end. He stole along, and coming to a door, without any idea of where it

might lead, he softly pushed it open a little way and slipped in.

CHAPTER XX

A low cry greeted Duane. The room was light. He saw Ray Longstreth

sitting on her bed in her dressing-gown. With a warning gesture to her

to be silent he turned to close the door. It was a heavy door without

bolt or bar, and when Duane had shut it he felt safe only for the

moment. Then he gazed around the room. There was one window with blind

closely drawn. He listened and seemed to hear footsteps retreating,

dying away.

Then Duane turned to Miss Longstreth. She had slipped off the bed, half

to her knees, and was holding out trembling hands. She was as white as

the pillow on her bed. She was terribly frightened. Again with warning

hand commanding silence, Duane stepped softly forward, meaning to

reassure her.

“Oh!” she whispered, wildly; and Duane thought she was going to faint.

When he got close and looked into her eyes he understood the strange,

dark expression in them. She was terrified because she believed he meant

to kill her, or do worse, probably worse. Duane realized he must have

looked pretty hard and fierce bursting into her room with that big gun

in hand.

The way she searched Duane's face with doubtful, fearful eyes hurt him.

“Listen. I didn't know this was your room. I came here to get away--to

save my life. I was pursued. I was spying on--on your father and

his men. They heard me, but did not see me. They don't know who was

listening. They're after me now.”

Her eyes changed from blank gulfs to dilating, shadowing, quickening

windows of thought.

Then she stood up and faced Duane with the fire and intelligence of a

woman in her eyes.

“Tell me now. You were spying on my father?”

Briefly Duane told her what had happened before he entered her room, not

omitting a terse word as to the character of the men he had watched.

“My God! So it's that? I knew something was terribly wrong here--with

him--with the place--the people. And right off I hated Floyd Lawson. Oh,

it'll kill me if--if--It's so much worse than I dreamed. What shall I

do?”

The sound of soft steps somewhere near distracted Duane's attention,

reminded him of her peril, and now, what counted more with him, made

clear the probability of being discovered in her room.

“I'll have to get out of here,” whispered Duane.

“Wait,” she replied. “Didn't you say they were hunting for you?”

“They sure are,” he returned, grimly.

“Oh, then you mustn't go. They might shoot you before you got away.

Stay. If we hear them you can hide. I'll turn out the light. I'll meet

them at the door. You can trust me. Wait till all quiets down, if we

have to wait till morning. Then you can slip out.”

“I oughtn't to stay. I don't want to--I won't,” Duane replied, perplexed

and stubborn.

“But you must. It's the only safe way. They won't come here.”

“Suppose they should? It's an even chance Longstreth'll search every

room and corner in this old house. If they found me here I couldn't

start a fight. You might be hurt. Then--the fact of my being here--”

Duane did not finish what he meant, but instead made a step toward the

door. White of face and dark of eye, she took hold of him to detain him.

She was as strong and supple as a panther. But she need not have been

either resolute or strong, for the clasp of her hand was enough to make

Duane weak.

“Up yet, Ray?” came Longstreth's clear voice, too strained, too eager to

be natural.

“No. I'm in bed reading. Good night,” instantly replied Miss Longstreth,

so calmly and naturally that Duane marveled at the difference between

man and woman. Then she motioned for Duane to hide in the closet. He

slipped in, but the door would not close altogether.

“Are you alone?” went on Longstreth's penetrating voice.

“Yes,” she replied. “Ruth went to bed.”

The door swung inward with a swift scrape and jar. Longstreth half

entered, haggard, flaming-eyed. Behind him Duane saw Lawson, and

indistinctly another man.

Longstreth barred Lawson from entering, which action showed control as

well as distrust. He wanted to see into the room. When he had glanced

around he went out and closed the door.

Then what seemed a long interval ensued. The house grew silent once

more. Duane could not see Miss Longstreth, but he heard her quick

breathing. How long did she mean to let him stay hidden there? Hard and

perilous as his life had been, this was a new kind of adventure. He

had divined the strange softness of his feeling as something due to the

magnetism of this beautiful woman. It hardly seemed possible that he,

who had been outside the pale for so many years, could have fallen in

love. Yet that must be the secret of his agitation.

Presently he pushed open the closet door and stepped forth. Miss

Longstreth had her head lowered upon her arms and appeared to be in

distress. At his touch she raised a quivering face.

“I think I can go now--safely,” he whispered.

“Go then, if you must, but you may stay till you're safe,” she replied.

“I--I couldn't thank you enough. It's been hard on me--this finding

out--and you his daughter. I feel strange. I don't understand myself

well. But I want you to know--if I were not an outlaw--a ranger--I'd lay

my life at your feet.”

“Oh! You have seen so--so little of me,” she faltered.

“All the same it's true. And that makes me feel more the trouble my

coming caused you.”

“You will not fight my father?”

“Not if I can help it. I'm trying to get out of his way.'

“But you spied upon him.”

“I am a ranger, Miss Longstreth.”

“And oh! I am a rustler's daughter,” she cried. “That's so much more

terrible than I'd suspected. It was tricky cattle deals I imagined he

was engaged in. But only to-night I had strong suspicions aroused.”

“How? Tell me.”

“I overheard Floyd say that men were coming to-night to arrange a

meeting for my father at a rendezvous near Ord. Father did not want to

go. Floyd taunted him with a name.”

“What name?” queried Duane.

“It was Cheseldine.”

“CHESELDINE! My God! Miss Longstreth, why did you tell me that?”

“What difference does that make?”

“Your father and Cheseldine are one and the same,” whispered Duane,

hoarsely.

“I gathered so much myself,” she replied, miserably. “But Longstreth is

father's real name.”

Duane felt so stunned he could not speak at once. It was the girl's part

in this tragedy that weakened him. The instant she betrayed the secret

Duane realized perfectly that he did love her. The emotion was like a

great flood.

“Miss Longstreth, all this seems so unbelievable,” he whispered.

“Cheseldine is the rustler chief I've come out here to get. He's only a

name. Your father is the real man. I've sworn to get him. I'm bound by

more than law or oaths. I can't break what binds me. And I must disgrace

you--wreck your lifer Why, Miss Longstreth, I believe I--I love

you. It's all come in a rush. I'd die for you if I could. How

fatal--terrible--this is! How things work out!”

She slipped to her knees, with her hands on his.

“You won't kill him?” she implored. “If you care for me--you won't kill

him?”

“No. That I promise you.”

With a low moan she dropped her head upon the bed.

Duane opened the door and stealthily stole out through the corridor to

the court.

When Duane got out into the dark, where his hot face cooled in the wind,

his relief equaled his other feelings.

The night was dark, windy, stormy, yet there was no rain. Duane hoped as

soon as he got clear of the ranch to lose something of the pain he felt.

But long after he had tramped out into the open there was a lump in his

throat and an ache in his breast. All his thought centered around Ray

Longstreth. What a woman she had turned out to be! He seemed to have

a vague, hopeless hope that there might be, there must be, some way he

could save her.

CHAPTER XXI

Before going to sleep that night Duane had decided to go to Ord and try

to find the rendezvous where Longstreth was to meet his men. These men

Duane wanted even more than their leader. If Longstreth, or Cheseldine,

was the brains of that gang, Poggin was the executor. It was Poggin who

needed to be found and stopped. Poggin and his right-hand men! Duane

experienced a strange, tigerish thrill. It was thought of Poggin more

than thought of success for MacNelly's plan. Duane felt dubious over

this emotion.

Next day he set out for Bradford. He was glad to get away from Fairdale

for a while. But the hours and the miles in no wise changed the new pain

in his heart. The only way he could forget Miss Longstreth was to let

his mind dwell upon Poggin, and even this was not always effective.

He avoided Sanderson, and at the end of the day and a half he arrived at

Bradford.

The night of the day before he reached Bradford, No. 6, the mail and

express train going east, was held up by train-robbers, the Wells-Fargo

messenger killed over his safe, the mail-clerk wounded, the bags carried

away. The engine of No. 6 came into town minus even a tender, and

engineer and fireman told conflicting stories. A posse of railroad men

and citizens, led by a sheriff Duane suspected was crooked, was made up

before the engine steamed back to pick up the rest of the train. Duane

had the sudden inspiration that he had been cudgeling his mind to

find; and, acting upon it, he mounted his horse again and left Bradford

unobserved. As he rode out into the night, over a dark trail in the

direction of Ord, he uttered a short, grim, sardonic laugh at the hope

that he might be taken for a train-robber.

He rode at an easy trot most of the night, and when the black peak of

Ord Mountain loomed up against the stars he halted, tied his horse, and

slept until dawn. He had brought a small pack, and now he took his time

cooking breakfast. When the sun was well up he saddled Bullet, and,

leaving the trail where his tracks showed plain in the ground, he put

his horse to the rocks and brush. He selected an exceedingly rough,

roundabout, and difficult course to Ord, hid his tracks with the skill

of a long-hunted fugitive, and arrived there with his horse winded and

covered with lather. It added considerable to his arrival that the man

Duane remembered as Fletcher and several others saw him come in the back

way through the lots and jump a fence into the road.

Duane led Bullet up to the porch where Fletcher stood wiping his beard.

He was hatless, vestless, and evidently had just enjoyed a morning

drink.

“Howdy, Dodge,” said Fletcher, laconically.

Duane replied, and the other man returned the greeting with interest.

“Jim, my hoss 's done up. I want to hide him from any chance tourists as

might happen to ride up curious-like.”

“Haw! haw! haw!”

Duane gathered encouragement from that chorus of coarse laughter.

“Wal, if them tourists ain't too durned snooky the hoss'll be safe in

the 'dobe shack back of Bill's here. Feed thar, too, but you'll hev to

rustle water.”

Duane led Bullet to the place indicated, had care of his welfare, and

left him there. Upon returning to the tavern porch Duane saw the group

of men had been added to by others, some of whom he had seen before.

Without comment Duane walked along the edge of the road, and wherever

one of the tracks of his horse showed he carefully obliterated it. This

procedure was attentively watched by Fletcher and his companions.

“Wal, Dodge,” remarked Fletcher, as Duane returned, “thet's safer 'n

prayin' fer rain.”

Duanes reply was a remark as loquacious as Fletcher's, to the effect

that a long, slow, monotonous ride was conducive to thirst. They all

joined him, unmistakably friendly. But Knell was not there, and most

assuredly not Poggin. Fletcher was no common outlaw, but, whatever his

ability, it probably lay in execution of orders. Apparently at that

time these men had nothing to do but drink and lounge around the tavern.

Evidently they were poorly supplied with money, though Duane observed

they could borrow a peso occasionally from the bartender. Duane set

out to make himself agreeable and succeeded. There was card-playing

for small stakes, idle jests of coarse nature, much bantering among the

younger fellows, and occasionally a mild quarrel. All morning men came

and went, until, all told, Duane calculated he had seen at least fifty.

Toward the middle of the afternoon a young fellow burst into the saloon

and yelled one word:

“Posse!”

From the scramble to get outdoors Duane judged that word and the ensuing

action was rare in Ord.

“What the hell!” muttered Fletcher, as he gazed down the road at a dark,

compact bunch of horses and riders. “Fust time I ever seen thet in Ord!

We're gettin' popular like them camps out of Valentine. Wish Phil was

here or Poggy. Now all you gents keep quiet. I'll do the talkin'.”

The posse entered the town, trotted up on dusty horses, and halted in

a bunch before the tavern. The party consisted of about twenty men,

all heavily armed, and evidently in charge of a clean-cut, lean-limbed

cowboy. Duane experienced considerable satisfaction at the absence of

the sheriff who he had understood was to lead the posse. Perhaps he was

out in another direction with a different force.

“Hello, Jim Fletcher,” called the cowboy.

“Howdy,” replied Fletcher.

At his short, dry response and the way he strode leisurely out before

the posse Duane found himself modifying his contempt for Fletcher. The

outlaw was different now.

“Fletcher, we've tracked a man to all but three miles of this place.

Tracks as plain as the nose on your face. Found his camp. Then he hit

into the brush, an' we lost the trail. Didn't have no tracker with us.

Think he went into the mountains. But we took a chance an' rid over the

rest of the way, seein' Ord was so close. Anybody come in here late last

night or early this mornin'?”

“Nope,” replied Fletcher.

His response was what Duane had expected from his manner, and evidently

the cowboy took it as a matter of course. He turned to the others of the

posse, entering into a low consultation. Evidently there was difference

of opinion, if not real dissension, in that posse.

“Didn't I tell ye this was a wild-goose chase, comin' way out here?”

protested an old hawk-faced rancher. “Them hoss tracks we follored ain't

like any of them we seen at the water-tank where the train was held up.”

“I'm not so sure of that,” replied the leader.

“Wal, Guthrie, I've follored tracks all my life--'

“But you couldn't keep to the trail this feller made in the brush.”

“Gimme time, an' I could. Thet takes time. An' heah you go hell-bent

fer election! But it's a wrong lead out this way. If you're right this

road-agent, after he killed his pals, would hev rid back right through

town. An' with them mail-bags! Supposin' they was greasers? Some

greasers has sense, an' when it comes to thievin' they're shore cute.”

“But we sent got any reason to believe this robber who murdered the

greasers is a greaser himself. I tell you it was a slick job done by no

ordinary sneak. Didn't you hear the facts? One greaser hopped the engine

an' covered the engineer an' fireman. Another greaser kept flashin' his

gun outside the train. The big man who shoved back the car-door an' did

the killin'--he was the real gent, an' don't you forget it.”

Some of the posse sided with the cowboy leader and some with the old

cattleman. Finally the young leader disgustedly gathered up his bridle.

“Aw, hell! Thet sheriff shoved you off this trail. Mebbe he hed reasons

Savvy thet? If I hed a bunch of cowboys with me--I tell you what--I'd

take a chance an' clean up this hole!”

All the while Jim Fletcher stood quietly with his hands in his pockets.

“Guthrie, I'm shore treasurin' up your friendly talk,” he said. The

menace was in the tone, not the content of his speech.

“You can--an' be damned to you, Fletcher!” called Guthrie, as the horses

started.

Fletcher, standing out alone before the others of his clan, watched the

posse out of sight.

“Luck fer you-all thet Poggy wasn't here,” he said, as they disappeared.

Then with a thoughtful mien he strode up on the porch and led Duane away

from the others into the bar-room. When he looked into Duane's face it

was somehow an entirely changed scrutiny.

“Dodge, where'd you hide the stuff? I reckon I git in on this deal,

seein' I staved off Guthrie.”

Duane played his part. Here was his a tiger after prey he seized it.

First he coolly eyed the outlaw and then disclaimed any knowledge

whatever of the train-robbery other than Fletcher had heard himself.

Then at Fletcher's persistence and admiration and increasing show of

friendliness he laughed occasionally and allowed himself to swell

with pride, though still denying. Next he feigned a lack of consistent

will-power and seemed to be wavering under Fletcher's persuasion and

grew silent, then surly. Fletcher, evidently sure of ultimate victory,

desisted for the time being; however, in his solicitous regard and close

companionship for the rest of that day he betrayed the bent of his mind.

Later, when Duane started up announcing his intention to get his horse

and make for camp out in the brush, Fletcher seemed grievously offended.

“Why don't you stay with me? I've got a comfortable 'dobe over here.

Didn't I stick by you when Guthrie an' his bunch come up? Supposin' I

hedn't showed down a cold hand to him? You'd be swingin' somewheres now.

I tell you, Dodge, it ain't square.”

“I'll square it. I pay my debts,” replied Duane. “But I can't put up

here all night. If I belonged to the gang it 'd be different.”

“What gang?” asked Fletcher, bluntly.

“Why, Cheseldine's.”

Fletcher's beard nodded as his jaw dropped.

Duane laughed. “I run into him the other day. Knowed him on sight. Sure,

he's the king-pin rustler. When he seen me an' asked me what reason I

had for bein' on earth or some such like--why, I up an' told him.”

Fletcher appeared staggered.

“Who in all-fired hell air you talkin' about?”

“Didn't I tell you once? Cheseldine. He calls himself Longstreth over

there.”

All of Fletcher's face not covered by hair turned a dirty white.

“Cheseldine--Longstreth!” he whispered, hoarsely. “Gord Almighty! You

braced the--” Then a remarkable transformation came over the outlaw. He

gulped; he straightened his face; he controlled his agitation. But he

could not send the healthy brown back to his face. Duane, watching this

rude man, marveled at the change in him, the sudden checking movement,

the proof of a wonderful fear and loyalty. It all meant Cheseldine, a

master of men!

“WHO AIR YOU?” queried Fletcher, in a queer, strained voice.

“You gave me a handle, didn't you? Dodge. Thet's as good as any. Shore

it hits me hard. Jim, I've been pretty lonely for years, an' I'm gettin'

in need of pals. Think it over, will you? See you manana.”

The outlaw watched Duane go off after his horse, watched him as he

returned to the tavern, watched him ride out into the darkness--all

without a word.

Duane left the town, threaded a quiet passage through cactus and

mesquite to a spot he had marked before, and made ready for the night.

His mind was so full that he found sleep aloof. Luck at last was playing

his game. He sensed the first slow heave of a mighty crisis. The end,

always haunting, had to be sternly blotted from thought. It was the

approach that needed all his mind.

He passed the night there, and late in the morning, after watching trail

and road from a ridge, he returned to Ord. If Jim Fletcher tried to

disguise his surprise the effort was a failure. Certainly he had not

expected to see Duane again. Duane allowed himself a little freedom with

Fletcher, an attitude hitherto lacking.

That afternoon a horseman rode in from Bradford, an outlaw evidently

well known and liked by his fellows, and Duane heard him say, before he

could possibly have been told the train-robber was in Ord, that the loss

of money in the holdup was slight. Like a flash Duane saw the luck of

this report. He pretended not to have heard.

In the early twilight at an opportune moment he called Fletcher to him,

and, linking his arm within the outlaw's, he drew him off in a stroll to

a log bridge spanning a little gully. Here after gazing around, he took

out a roll of bills, spread it out, split it equally, and without a word

handed one half to Fletcher. With clumsy fingers Fletcher ran through

the roll.

“Five hundred!” he exclaimed. “Dodge, thet's damn handsome of you,

considerin' the job wasn't--”

“Considerin' nothin',” interrupted Duane. “I'm makin' no reference to

a job here or there. You did me a good turn. I split my pile. If

thet doesn't make us pards, good turns an' money ain't no use in this

country.”

Fletcher was won.

The two men spent much time together. Duane made up a short fictitious

history about himself that satisfied the outlaw, only it drew forth a

laughing jest upon Duane's modesty. For Fletcher did not hide his belief

that this new partner was a man of achievements. Knell and Poggin, and

then Cheseldine himself, would be persuaded of this fact, so Fletcher

boasted. He had influence. He would use it. He thought he pulled a

stroke with Knell. But nobody on earth, not even the boss, had any

influence on Poggin. Poggin was concentrated ice part of the time; all

the rest he was bursting hell. But Poggin loved a horse. He never loved

anything else. He could be won with that black horse Bullet. Cheseldine

was already won by Duane's monumental nerve; otherwise he would have

killed Duane.

Little by little the next few days Duane learned the points he longed

to know; and how indelibly they etched themselves in his memory!

Cheseldine's hiding-place was on the far slope of Mount Ord, in a deep,

high-walled valley. He always went there just before a contemplated job,

where he met and planned with his lieutenants. Then while they executed

he basked in the sunshine before one or another of the public places

he owned. He was there in the Ord den now, getting ready to plan the

biggest job yet. It was a bank-robbery; but where, Fletcher had not as

yet been advised.

Then when Duane had pumped the now amenable outlaw of all details

pertaining to the present he gathered data and facts and places covering

a period of ten years Fletcher had been with Cheseldine. And herewith

was unfolded a history so dark in its bloody regime, so incredible in

its brazen daring, so appalling in its proof of the outlaw's sweep and

grasp of the country from Pecos to Rio Grande, that Duane was

stunned. Compared to this Cheseldine of the Big Bend, to this rancher,

stock-buyer, cattle-speculator, property-holder, all the outlaws Duane

had ever known sank into insignificance. The power of the man stunned

Duane; the strange fidelity given him stunned Duane; the intricate

inside working of his great system was equally stunning. But when Duane

recovered from that the old terrible passion to kill consumed him,

and it raged fiercely and it could not be checked. If that red-handed

Poggin, if that cold-eyed, dead-faced Knell had only been at Ord! But

they were not, and Duane with help of time got what he hoped was the

upper hand of himself.

CHAPTER XXII

Again inaction and suspense dragged at Duane's spirit. Like a leashed

hound with a keen scent in his face Duane wanted to leap forth when he

was bound. He almost fretted. Something called to him over the bold,

wild brow of Mount Ord. But while Fletcher stayed in Ord waiting for

Knell and Poggin, or for orders, Duane knew his game was again a waiting

one.

But one day there were signs of the long quiet of Ord being broken. A

messenger strange to Duane rode in on a secret mission that had to do

with Fletcher. When he went away Fletcher became addicted to thoughtful

moods and lonely walks. He seldom drank, and this in itself was a

striking contrast to former behavior. The messenger came again. Whatever

communication he brought, it had a remarkable effect upon the outlaw.

Duane was present in the tavern when the fellow arrived, saw the few

words whispered, but did not hear them. Fletcher turned white with anger

or fear, perhaps both, and he cursed like a madman. The messenger,

a lean, dark-faced, hard-riding fellow reminding Duane of the cowboy

Guthrie, left the tavern without even a drink and rode away off to the

west. This west mystified and fascinated Duane as much as the south

beyond Mount Ord. Where were Knell and Poggin? Apparently they were not

at present with the leader on the mountain. After the messenger left

Fletcher grew silent and surly. He had presented a variety of moods to

Duane's observation, and this latest one was provocative of thought.

Fletcher was dangerous. It became clear now that the other outlaws

of the camp feared him, kept out of his way. Duane let him alone, yet

closely watched him.

Perhaps an hour after the messenger had left, not longer, Fletcher

manifestly arrived at some decision, and he called for his horse. Then

he went to his shack and returned. To Duane the outlaw looked in shape

both to ride and to fight. He gave orders for the men in camp to keep

close until he returned. Then he mounted.

“Come here, Dodge,” he called.

Duane went up and laid a hand on the pommel of the saddle. Fletcher

walked his horse, with Duane beside him, till they reached the log

bridge, when he halted.

“Dodge, I'm in bad with Knell,” he said. “An' it 'pears I'm the cause

of friction between Knell an' Poggy. Knell never had any use fer me, but

Poggy's been square, if not friendly. The boss has a big deal on, an'

here it's been held up because of this scrap. He's waitin' over there on

the mountain to give orders to Knell or Poggy, an' neither one's

showin' up. I've got to stand in the breach, an' I ain't enjoyin' the

prospects.”

“What's the trouble about, Jim?” asked Duane.

“Reckon it's a little about you, Dodge,” said Fletcher, dryly. “Knell

hadn't any use fer you thet day. He ain't got no use fer a man onless he

can rule him. Some of the boys here hev blabbed before I edged in with

my say, an' there's hell to pay. Knell claims to know somethin' about

you that'll make both the boss an' Poggy sick when he springs it. But

he's keepin' quiet. Hard man to figger, thet Knell. Reckon you'd better

go back to Bradford fer a day or so, then camp out near here till I come

back.”

“Why?”