by Jon E. Lewis
“Um – m! What do you call a reasonable show?”
“Waal; say a quarter down and three years’ time.”
Butler looked at the huge stacks of wheat which filled the yard, over which the chickens were fluttering and crawling, catching grasshoppers, and out of which the crickets were singing innumerably. He smiled in a peculiar way as he said, “Oh, I won’t be hard on yer. But what did you expect to pay f’r the place?”
“Why, about what you offered it for before, two thousand five hundred, or possibly three thousand dollars,” he added quickly, as he saw the owner shake his head.
“This farm is worth five thousand and five hundred dollars,” said Butler, in a careless and decided voice.
“What!” almost shrieked the astounded Haskins. “What’s that? Five thousand? Why, that’s double what you offered it for three years ago.”
“Of course, and it’s worth it. It was all run down then; now it’s in good shape. You’ve laid out fifteen hundred dollars in improvements, according to your own story.”
“But you had nothin’ t’ do about that. It’s my work an’ my money.”
“You bet it was; but it’s my land.” “But what’s to pay me for all my—”
“Ain’t you had the use of ’em?” replied Butler, smiling calmly into his face.
Haskins was like a man struck on the head with a sand-bag; he couldn’t think; he stammered as he tried to say: “But – I never’d git the use – You’d rob me! Moren that: you agreed – you promised that I could buy or rent at the end of three years at—”
“That’s all right. But I didn’t say I’d let you carry off the improvements, nor that I’d go on renting the farm at two-fifty. The land is doubled in value, it don’t matter how; it don’t enter into the question; an’ now you can pay me five hundred dollars a year rent, or take it on your own terms at fifty-five hundred, or – git out.”
He was turning away when Haskins, the sweat pouring from his face, fronted him, saying again:
“But you’ve done nothing to make it so. You hain’t added a cent. I put it all there myself, expectin’ to buy. I worked an’ sweat to improve it. I was workin’ for myself an’ babes—”
“Well, why didn’t you buy when I offered to sell? What y’ kickin’ about?”
“I’m kickin’ about payin’ you twice f’r my own things, – my own fences, my own kitchen, my own garden.”
Butler laughed. “You’re too green t’ eat, young feller. Your improvements! The law will sing another tune.”
“But I trusted your word.”
“Never trust anybody, my friend. Besides, I didn’t promise not to do this thing. Why, man, don’t look at me like that. Don’t take me for a thief. It’s the law. The reg’lar thing. Everybody does it.”
“I don’t care if they do. It’s stealin’ jest the same. You take three thousand dollars of my money. The work o’ my hands and my wife’s.” He broke down at this point. He was not a strong man mentally. He could face hardship, ceaseless toil, but he could not face the cold and sneering face of Butler.
“But I don’t take it,” said Butler, coolly. “All you’ve got to do is to go on jest as you’ve been a-doin’, or give me a thousand dollars down, and a mortgage at ten per cent on the rest.”
Haskins sat down blindly on a bundle of oats near by, and with staring eyes and drooping head went over the situation. He was under the lion’s paw. He felt a horrible numbness in his heart and limbs. He was hid in a mist, and there was no path out.
Butler walked about, looking at the huge stacks of grain, and pulling now and again a few handfuls out, shelling the heads in his hands and blowing the chaff away. He hummed a little tune as he did so. He had an accommodating air of waiting.
Haskins was in the midst of the terrible toil of the last year. He was walking again in the rain and the mud behind his plough; he felt the dust and dirt of the threshing. The ferocious husking-time, with its cutting wind and biting, clinging snows, lay hard upon him. Then he thought of his wife, how she had cheerfully cooked and baked, without holiday and without rest.
“Well, what do you think of it?” inquired the cool, mocking, insinuating voice of Butler.
“I think you’re a thief and a liar!” shouted Haskins, leaping up. “A black-hearted houn’?” Butler’s smile maddened him; with a sudden leap he caught a fork in his hands, and whirled it in the air. “You’ll never rob another man, damn ye!” he grated through his teeth, a look of pitiless ferocity in his accusing eyes.
Butler shrank and quivered, expecting the blow; stood, held hypnotized by the eyes of the man he had a moment before despised – a man transformed into an avenging demon. But in the deadly hush between the lift of the weapon and its fall there came a gush of faint, childish laughter and then across the range of his vision, far away and dim, he saw the sun-bright head of his baby girl, as, with the pretty, tottering run of a two-year-old, she moved across the grass of the dooryard. His hands relaxed; the fork fell to the ground; his head lowered.
“Make out y’r deed an’ morgige, an’ git off’n my land, an’ don’t ye never cross my line agin; if y’ do, I’ll kill ye.”
Butler backed away from the man in the wild haste, and climbing into his buggy with trembling limbs, drove off down the road, leaving Haskins seated dumbly on the sunny pile of sheaves, his head sunk into his hands.
ZANE GREY
The Ranger
ZANE GREY (1872–1939) was born Pearl Zane Grey in Zanesville, an Ohio town named after his great-greatgrandfather. He won a baseball scholarship to the University of Pennsylvania, from which he graduated with a degree in dentistry. In 1905 he married Lina Elise Roth. Dolly – as Lina was known – was to be instrumental in Grey’s success as a writer: not only did she pay for the trip West that enabled Grey to gather material for his first successful novel, The Heritage of the Desert (1910), but throughout his career she corrected his manuscripts and managed his finances. The Heritage of the Desert was followed by seventy-seven other Western novels, including the most famous novel of the American West, Riders of the Purple Sage (1912), and such classics as The U.P. Trail (1918), and The Vanishing American (1925). These books made Grey the second best-selling Western writer of all time (only Louis L’Amour has sold more), and his name synonymous with the Western genre. Grey’s fiction was often formulaic and sentimental, but he was also capable of the richest fantasy.
The novelette “The Ranger” is from 1929. Unlike the majority of Grey’s tales, which have an Arizona setting, this tale is set in Texas.
PERIODICALLY OF LATE, especially after some bloody affray or other, Vaughn Medill, ranger of Texas, suffered from spells of depression and longing for a ranch and wife and children. The fact that few rangers ever attained these cherished possessions did not detract from their appeal. At such times the long service to his great state, which owed so much to the rangers, was apt to lose its importance.
Vaughn sat in the shade of the adobe house, on the bank of the slow-eddying, muddy Rio Grande, outside the town of Brownsville. He was alone at this ranger headquarters for the very good reason that his chief, Captain Allerton, and two comrades were laid up in the hospital. Vaughn, with his usual notorious luck, had come out of the Cutter rustling fight without a scratch.
He had needed a few days off, to go alone into the mountains and there get rid of the sickness killing always engendered in him. No wonder he got red in the face and swore when some admiring tourist asked him how many men he had killed.Vaughn had been long in the service. Like other Texas youths he had enlisted in this famous and unique state constabulary before he was twenty, and he refused to count the years he had served. He had the stature of the born Texan. And the lined, weathered face, the resolute lips, grim except when he smiled, and the narrowed eyes of cool gray, and the tinge of white over his temples did not begin to tell the truth about his age.
Vaughn watched the yellow river that separated his state from Mexico. He had reason to hate that strip of dirty water and the hot mo
squito and cactus land beyond. Like as not, this very day or tomorrow he would have to go across and arrest some renegade native or fetch back a stolen calf or shoot it out with Quinola and his band, who were known to be on American soil again. Vaughn shared in common with all Texans a supreme contempt for people who were so unfortunate as to live south of the border. His father had been a soldier in both Texas wars, and Vaughn had inherited his conviction that all Mexicans were his natural enemies. He knew this was not really true. Villa was an old acquaintance, and he had listed among men to whom he owed his life, Martiniano, one of the greatest of the Texas vaqueros.
Brooding never got Vaughn anywhere, except into deeper melancholy. This drowsy summer day he got in very deep indeed, so deep that he began to mourn over the several girls he might – at least he believed he might – have married. It all seemed so long ago, when he was on fire with the ranger spirit and would not have sacrificed any girl to the agony of waiting for her ranger to come home – knowing that some day he would never come again. Since then sentimental affairs of the heart had been few and far between; and the very latest, dating to this very hour, concerned Roseta, daughter of Uvaldo, foreman for the big Glover ranch just down the river.
Uvaldo was a Mexican of quality, claiming descent from the Spanish soldier of that name. He had an American wife, owned many head of stock, and in fact was partner with Glover in several cattle deals. The black-eyed Roseta, his daughter, had been born on the American side of the river, and had shared advantages of school and contact, seldom the lot of most señoritas.
Vaughn ruminated over these few facts as the excuse for his infatuation. For a Texas ranger to fall in love with an ordinary Mexican girl was unthinkable. To be sure, it had happened, but it was something not to think about. Roseta, however, was extraordinary. She was pretty, and slight of stature – so slight that Vaughn felt ludicrous, despite his bliss, while dancing with her. If he had stretched out his long arm and she had walked under it, he would have had to lower his hand considerably to touch her glossy black head. She was roguish and coquettish, yet had the pride of her Spanish forebearers. Lastly she was young, rich, the belle of Las Animas, and the despair of cowboy and vaquero alike.
When Vaughn had descended to the depths of his brooding he discovered, as he had many times before, that there were but slight grounds for any hopes which he may have had of winning the beautiful Roseta. The sweetness of a haunting dream was all that could be his. Only this time it seemed to hurt more. He should not have let himself in for such a catastrophe. But as he groaned in spirit and bewailed his lonely state, he could not help recalling Roseta’s smiles, her favors of dances when scores of admirers were thronging after her, and the way she would single him out on those occasions. “Un señor grande,” she had called him, and likewise “handsome gringo,” and once, with mystery and fire in her sloe-black eyes, “You Texas ranger – you bloody gunman – killer of Mexicans!”
Flirt Roseta was, of course, and doubly dangerous by reason of her mixed blood, her Spanish lineage, and her American upbringing. Uvaldo had been quoted as saying he would never let his daughter marry across the Rio Grande. Some rich rancher’s son would have her hand bestowed upon him; maybe young Glover would be the lucky one. It was madness for Vaughn even to have dreamed of winning her. Yet there still abided that much youth in him.
Sounds of wheels and hoofs interrupted the ranger’s reverie. He listened. A buggy had stopped out in front. Vaughn got up and looked round the corner of the house. It was significant that he instinctively stepped out sideways, his right hand low where the heavy gun sheath hung. A ranger never presented his full front to possible bullets; it was a trick of old hands in the service.
Someone was helping a man out of the buggy. Presently Vaughn recognized Colville, a ranger comrade, who came in assisted, limping, and with his arm in a sling.
“How are you, Bill?” asked Vaughn solicitously, as he helped the driver lead Colville into the large whitewashed room.
“All right – fine, in fact, only a – little light-headed,” panted the other. “Lost a sight of blood.”
“You look it. Reckon you’d have done better to stay at the hospital.”
“Medill, there ain’t half enough rangers to go – round,” replied Colville. “Cap Allerton is hurt bad – but he’ll recover. An’ he thought so long as I could wag I’d better come back to headquarters.”
“Ahuh. What’s up, Bill?” asked the ranger quietly. He really did not need to ask.
“Shore I don’t know. Somethin’ to do with Quinela,” replied Colville. “Help me out of my coat. It’s hot an’ dusty . . . Fetch me a cold drink.”
“Bill, you should have stayed in town if it’s ice you want,” said Vaughn as he filled a dipper from the water bucket. “Haven’t I run this shebang many a time?”
“Medill, you’re slated for a run across the Rio – if I don’t miss my guess.”
“Hell you say! Alone?”
“How else, unless the rest of our outfit rides in from the Brazos . . . Anyway, don’t they call you the ‘lone star ranger’? Haw! Haw!”
“Shore you don’t have a hunch what’s up?” inquired Vaughn again.
“Honest I don’t. Allerton had to wait for more information. Then he’ll send instructions. But we know Quinela was hangin’ round, with some deviltry afoot.”
“Bill, that bandit outfit is plumb bold these days,” said Vaughn reflectively. “I wonder now.”
“We’re all guessin’. But Allerton swears Quinela is daid set on revenge. Lopez was some relation, we heah from Mexicans on this side. An’ when we busted up Lopez’ gang, we riled Quinela. He’s laid that to you, Vaughn.”
“Nonsense,” blurted out Vaughn. “Quinela has another raid on hand, or some other thievery job of his own.”
“But didn’t you kill Lopez?” asked Colville.
“I shore didn’t,” declared Vaughn testily. “Reckon I was there when it happened, but Lord! I wasn’t the only ranger.”
“Wal, you’ve got the name of it an’ that’s jist as bad. Not that it makes much difference. You’re used to bein’ laid for. But I reckon Cap wanted to tip you off.”
“Ahuh . . . Say, Bill,” continued Vaughn, dropping his head. “I’m shore tired of this ranger game.”
“My Gawd, who ain’t! But, Vaughn, you couldn’t lay down on Captain Allerton right now.”
“No. But I’ve a notion to resign when he gets well an’ the boys come back from the Brazos.”
“An’ that’d be all right, Vaughn, although we’d hate to lose you,” returned Colville earnestly. “We all know – in fact everybody who has followed the ranger service knows you should have been a captain long ago. But them pig-headed officials at Houston! Vaughn, your gun record – the very name an’ skill that make you a great ranger – have operated against you there.”
“Reckon so. But I never wanted particularly to be a captain – leastways of late years,” replied Vaughn moodily. “I’m just tired of bein’ eternally on my guard. Lookin’ to be shot at from every corner or bush! Think what an awful thing it was – when I near killed one of my good friends – all because he came suddenlike out of a door, pullin’ at his handkerchief!”
“It’s the price we pay. Texas could never have been settled at all but for the buffalo hunters first, an’ then us rangers. We don’t get much credit, Vaughn. But we know someday our service will be appreciated . . . In your case everythin’ is magnified. Suppose you did quit the service? Wouldn’t you still stand most the same risk? Wouldn’t you need to be on your guard, sleepin’ an’ wakin’?”
“Wal, I suppose so, for a time. But somehow I’d be relieved.”
“Vaughn, the men who are lookin’ for you now will always be lookin’, until they’re daid.”
“Shore. But, Bill, that class of men don’t live long on the Texas border.”
“Hell! Look at Wes Hardin’, Kingfisher, Poggin – gunmen that took a long time to kill. An’ look at Cortina, at Quin
ela – an’ Villa . . . Nope, I reckon it’s the obscure relations an’ friends of men you’ve shot that you have most to fear. An’ you never know who an’ where they are. It’s my belief you’d be shore of longer life by stickin’ to the rangers.”
“Couldn’t I get married an’ go way off somewhere?” asked Vaughn belligerently.
Colville whistled in surprise, and then laughed. “Ahuh? So that’s the lay of the land? A gal! – Wal, if the Texas ranger service is to suffer, let it be for that one cause.” Toward evening a messenger brought a letter from Captain Allerton, with the information that a drove of horses had been driven across the river west of Brownsville, at Rock Ford. They were in charge of Mexicans and presumably had been stolen from some ranch inland. The raid could be laid to Quinela, though there was no proof of it. It bore his brand. Medill’s instructions were to take the rangers and recover the horses.
“Reckon Cap thinks the boys have got back from the Brazos or he’s had word they’re comin’,” commented Colville. “Wish I was able to ride. We wouldn’t wait.”
Vaughn scanned the short letter again and then filed it away among a stack of others.
“Strange business this ranger service,” he said ponderingly. “Horses stolen – fetch them back! Cattle raid – recover stock! Drunken cowboy shootin’ up the town – arrest him! Bandits looted the San Tone stage – fetch them in! Little Tom, Dick, or Harry lost – find him! Farmer murdered – string up the murderer!”
“Wal, come to think about it, you’re right,” replied Colville. “But the rangers have been doin’ it for thirty or forty years. You cain’t help havin’ pride in the service, Medill. Half the job’s done when these hombres find a ranger’s on the trail. That’s reputation. But I’m bound to admit the thing is strange an’ shore couldn’t happen nowhere else but in Texas.”
“Reckon I’d better ride up to Rock Ford an’ have a look at that trail.”
“Wal, I’d wait till mawnin’. Mebbe the boys will come in. An’ there’s no sense in ridin’ it twice.”
