The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  This speech caused a second commotion as noisy though not so enduring as the first. When the cowboy, assisted by a couple of his mates, had restored order again someone had slipped the noose-end of Duane’s rope over his head.

  “Up with him!” screeched a wild-eyed youth.

  The mob surged closer was shoved back by the cowboys.

  “Abe, if you ain’t drunk or crazy tell thet over,” ordered Abe’s interlocutor.

  With some show of resentment and more of dignity Abe reiterated his former statement.

  “If he’s Buck Duane how’n hell did you get hold of his gun?” bluntly queried the cowboy.

  “Why—he set down thar—an’ he kind of hid his face on his hand. An’ I grabbed his gun an’ got the drop on him.”

  What the cowboy thought of this was expressed in a laugh. His mates likewise grinned broadly. Then the leader turned to Duane.

  “Stranger, I reckon you’d better speak up for yourself,” he said.

  That stilled the crowd as no command had done.

  “I’m Buck Duane, all right.” said Duane, quietly. “It was this way—”

  The big cowboy seemed to vibrate with a shock. All the ruddy warmth left his face; his jaw began to bulge; the corded veins in his neck stood out in knots. In an instant he had a hard, stern, strange look. He shot out a powerful hand that fastened in the front of Duane’s blouse.

  “Somethin’ queer here. But if you’re Duane you’re sure in bad. Any fool ought to know that. You mean it, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Rode in to shoot up the town, eh? Same old stunt of you gunfighters? Meant to kill the man who offered a reward? Wanted to see Jeff Aiken bad, huh?”

  “No,” replied Duane. “Your citizen here misrepresented things. He seems a little off his head.”

  “Reckon he is. Somebody is, that’s sure. You claim Buck Duane, then, an’ all his doings?”

  “I’m Duane; yes. But I won’t stand for the blame of things I never did. That’s why I’m here. I saw that placard out there offering the reward. Until now I never was within half a day’s ride of this town. I’m blamed for what I never did. I rode in here, told who I was, asked somebody to send for Jeff Aiken.”

  “An’ then you set down an’ let this old guy throw your own gun on you?” queried the cowboy in amazement.

  “I guess that’s it,” replied Duane.

  “Well, it’s powerful strange, if you’re really Buck Duane.”

  A man elbowed his way into the circle.

  “It’s Duane. I recognize him. I seen him in more’n one place,” he said. “Sibert, you can rely on what I tell you. I don’t know if he’s locoed or what. But I do know he’s the genuine Buck Duane. Any one who’d ever seen him onct would never forget him.”

  “What do you want to see Aiken for?” asked the cowboy Sibert.

  “I want to face him, and tell him I never harmed his wife.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m innocent, that’s all.”

  “Suppose we send for Aiken an’ he hears you an’ doesn’t believe you; what then?”

  “If he won’t believe me—why, then my case’s so bad—I’d be better off dead.”

  A momentary silence was broken by Sibert.

  “If this isn’t a queer deal! Boys, reckon we’d better send for Jeff.”

  “Somebody went fer him. He’ll be comin’ soon,” replied a man.

  Duane stood a head taller than that circle of curious faces. He gazed out above and beyond them. It was in this way that he chanced to see a number of women on the outskirts of the crowd. Some were old, with hard faces, like the men. Some were young and comely, and most of these seemed agitated by excitement or distress. They cast fearful, pitying glances upon Duane as he stood there with that noose round his neck. Women were more human than men, Duane thought. He met eyes that dilated, seemed fascinated at his gaze, but were not averted. It was the old women who were voluble, loud in expression of their feelings.

  Near the trunk of the cottonwood stood a slender woman in white. Duane’s wandering glance rested upon her. Her eyes were riveted upon him. A soft-hearted woman, probably, who did not want to see him hanged!

  “Thar comes Jeff Aiken now,” called a man, loudly.

  The crowd shifted and trampled in eagerness.

  Duane saw two men coming fast, one of whom, in the lead, was of stalwart build. He had a gun in his hand, and his manner was that of fierce energy.

  The cowboy Sibert thrust open the jostling circle of men.

  “Hold on, Jeff,” he called, and he blocked the man with the gun. He spoke so low Duane could not hear what he said, and his form hid Aiken’s face. At that juncture the crowd spread out, closed in, and Aiken and Sibert were caught in the circle. There was a pushing forward, a pressing of many bodies, hoarse cries and flinging hands—again the insane tumult was about to break out—the demand for an outlaw’s blood, the call for a wild justice executed a thousand times before on Texas’s bloody soil.

  Sibert bellowed at the dark encroaching mass. The cowboys with him beat and cuffed in vain.

  “Jeff, will you listen?” broke in Sibert, hurriedly, his hand on the other man’s arm.

  Aiken nodded coolly. Duane, who had seen many men in perfect control of themselves under circumstances like these, recognized the spirit that dominated Aiken. He was white, cold, passionless. There were lines of bitter grief deep round his lips. If Duane ever felt the meaning of death he felt it then.

  “Sure this’s your game, Aiken,” said Sibert. “But hear me a minute. Reckon there’s no doubt about this man bein’ Buck Duane. He seen the placard out at the cross-roads. He rides in to Shirley. He says he’s Buck Duane an’ he’s lookin’ for Jeff Aiken. That’s all clear enough. You know how these gunfighters go lookin’ for trouble. But here’s what stumps me. Duane sits down there on the bench and lets old Abe Strickland grab his gun ant get the drop on him. More’n that, he gives me some strange talk about how, if he couldn’t make you believe he’s innocent, he’d better be dead. You see for yourself Duane ain’t drunk or crazy or locoed. He doesn’t strike me as a man who rode in here huntin’ blood. So I reckon you’d better hold on till you hear what he has to say.”

  Then for the first time the drawn-faced, hungry-eyed giant turned his gaze upon Duane. He had intelligence which was not yet subservient to passion. Moreover, he seemed the kind of man Duane would care to have judge him in a critical moment like this.

  “Listen,” said Duane, gravely, with his eyes steady on Aiken’s, “I’m Buck Duane. I never lied to any man in my life. I was forced into outlawry. I’ve never had a chance to leave the country. I’ve killed men to save my own life. I never intentionally harmed any woman. I rode thirty miles today—deliberately to see what this reward was, who made it, what for. When I read the placard I went sick to the bottom of my soul. So I rode in here to find you—to tell you this: I never saw Shirley before today. It was impossible for me to have—killed your wife. Last September I was two hundred miles north of here on the upper Nueces. I can prove that. Men who know me will tell you I couldn’t murder a woman. I haven’t any idea why such a deed should be laid at my hands. It’s just that wild border gossip. I have no idea what reasons you have for holding me responsible. I only know—you’re wrong. You’ve been deceived. And see here, Aiken. You understand I’m a miserable man. I’m about broken, I guess. I don’t care any more for life, for anything. If you can’t look me in the eyes, man to man, and believe what I say—why, by God! you can kill me!”

  Aiken heaved a great breath.

  “Buck Duane, whether I’m impressed or not by what you say needn’t matter. You’ve had accusers, justly or unjustly, as will soon appear. The thing is we can prove you innocent or guilty. My girl Lucy saw my wife’s assailant.”

  He motioned for the crowd of men to open up.

  “Somebody—you, Sibert—go for Lucy. That’ll settle this thing.”

  Duane heard as a man in an ugly dream
. The faces around him, the hum of voices, all seemed far off. His life hung by the merest thread. Yet he did not think of that so much as of the brand of a woman-murderer which might be soon sealed upon him by a frightened, imaginative child.

  The crowd trooped apart and closed again. Duane caught a blurred image of a slight girl clinging to Sibert’s hand. He could not see distinctly. Aiken lifted the child, whispered soothingly to her not to be afraid. Then he fetched her closer to Duane.

  “Lucy, tell me. Did you ever see this man before?” asked Aiken, huskily and low. “Is he the one—who came in the house that day—struck you down—and dragged mama—?”

  Aiken’s voice failed.

  A lightning flash seemed to clear Duane’s blurred sight. He saw a pale, sad face and violet eyes fixed in gloom and horror upon his. No terrible moment in Duane’s life ever equaled this one of silence—of suspense.

  “It’s ain’t him!” cried the child.

  Then Sibert was flinging the noose off Duane’s neck and unwinding the bonds round his arms. The spellbound crowd awoke to hoarse exclamations.

  “See there, my locoed gents, how easy you’d hang the wrong man,” burst out the cowboy, as he made the rope-end hiss. “You-all are a lot of wise rangers. Haw! haw!”

  He freed Duane and thrust the bone-handled gun back in Duane’s holster.

  “You Abe, there. Reckon you pulled a stunt! But don’t try the like again. And, men, I’ll gamble there’s a hell of a lot of bad work Buck Duane’s named for—which all he never done. Clear away there. Where’s his hoss? Duane, the road’s open out of Shirley.”

  Sibert swept the gaping watchers aside and pressed Duane toward the horse, which another cowboy held. Mechanically Duane mounted, felt a lift as he went up. Then the cowboy’s hard face softened in a smile.

  “I reckon it ain’t uncivil of me to say—hit that road quick!” he said, frankly.

  He led the horse out of the crowd. Aiken joined him, and between them they escorted Duane across the plaza. The crowd appeared irresistibly drawn to follow.

  Aiken paused with his big hand on Duane’s knee. In it, unconsciously probably, he still held the gun.

  “Duane, a word with you,” he said. “I believe you’re not so black as you’ve been painted. I wish there was time to say more. Tell me this, anyway. Do you know the Ranger Captain MacNelly?”

  “I do not,” replied Duane, in surprise.

  “I met him only a week ago over in Fairfield,” went on Aiken, hurriedly. “He declared you never killed my wife. I didn’t believe him—argued with him. We almost had hard words over it. Now—I’m sorry. The last thing he said was: ‘If you ever see Duane don’t kill him. Send him into my camp after dark!’ He meant something strange. What—I can’t say. But he was right, and I was wrong. If Lucy had batted an eye I’d have killed you. Still, I wouldn’t advise you to hunt up MacNelly’s camp. He’s clever. Maybe he believes there’s no treachery in his new ideas of ranger tactics. I tell you for all it’s worth. Good-by. May God help you further as he did this day!”

  Duane said good-by and touched the horse with his spurs.

  “So long, Buck!” called Sibert, with that frank smile breaking warm over his brown face; and he held his sombrero high.

  CHAPTER XIV

  When Duane reached the crossing of the roads the name Fairfield on the sign-post seemed to be the thing that tipped the oscillating balance of decision in favor of that direction.

  He answered here to unfathomable impulse. If he had been driven to hunt up Jeff Aiken, now he was called to find this unknown ranger captain. In Duane’s state of mind clear reasoning, common sense, or keenness were out of the question. He went because he felt he was compelled.

  Dusk had fallen when he rode into a town which inquiry discovered to be Fairfield. Captain MacNelly’s camp was stationed just out of the village limits on the other side.

  No one except the boy Duane questioned appeared to notice his arrival. Like Shirley, the town of Fairfield was large and prosperous, compared to the innumerable hamlets dotting the vast extent of southwestern Texas. As Duane rode through, being careful to get off the main street, he heard the tolling of a church-bell that was a melancholy reminder of his old home.

  There did not appear to be any camp on the outskirts of the town. But as Duane sat his horse, peering around and undecided what further move to make, he caught the glint of flickering lights through the darkness. Heading toward them, he rode perhaps a quarter of a mile to come upon a grove of mesquite. The brightness of several fires made the surrounding darkness all the blacker. Duane saw the moving forms of men and heard horses. He advanced naturally, expecting any moment to be halted.

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

  Duane pulled his horse. The gloom was impenetrable.

  “One man—alone,” replied Duane.

  “A stranger?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m trying to find the ranger camp.”

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

  “I want to see Captain MacNelly.”

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

  Duane dismounted, and, leading his horse, slowly advanced a few paces. He saw a dully bright object—a gun—before he discovered the man who held it. A few more steps showed a dark figure blocking the trail. Here Duane halted.

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

  Duane advanced again until he stood before the man. Here the rays of light from the fires flickered upon Duane’s face.

  “Reckon you’re a stranger, all right. What’s your name and your business with the Captain?”

  Duane hesitated, pondering what best to say.

  “Tell Captain MacNelly I’m the man he’s been asking to ride into his camp—after dark,” finally said Duane.

  The ranger bent forward to peer hard at this night visitor. His manner had been alert, and now it became tense.

  “Come here, one of you men, quick,” he called, without turning in the least toward the camp-fire.

  “Hello! What’s up, Pickens?” came the swift reply. It was followed by a rapid thud of boots on soft ground. A dark form crossed the gleams from the fire-light. Then a ranger loomed up to reach the side of the guard. Duane heard whispering, the purport of which he could not catch. The second ranger swore under his breath. Then he turned away and started back.

  “Here, ranger, before you go, understand this. My visit is peaceful—friendly if you’ll let it be. Mind, I was asked to come here—after dark.”

  Duane’s clear, penetrating voice carried far. The listening rangers at the camp-fire heard what he said.

  “Ho, Pickens! Tell that fellow to wait,” replied an authoritative voice. Then a slim figure detached itself from the dark, moving group at the camp-fire and hurried out.

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

  “Shut up—all of you,” was the reply.

  This officer, obviously Captain MacNelly, soon joined the two rangers who were confronting Duane. He had no fear. He strode straight up to Duane.

  “I’m MacNelly,” he said. “If you’re my man, don’t mention your name—yet.”

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

  “I met Jeff Aiken today,” said Duane. “He sent me—”

  “You’ve met Aiken!” exclaimed MacNelly, sharp, eager, low. “By all that’s bully!” Then he appeared to catch himself, to grow restrained.

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

  The rangers slowly withdrew.

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

  “Yes.”

  “If I give my word you’ll not be arrested—you’ll be treated fairly—will you come into camp and consult with me?”

  “Certainly.”

  �
��Duane, I’m sure glad to meet you,” went on MacNelly; and he extended his hand.

  Amazed and touched, scarcely realizing this actuality, Duane gave his hand and felt no unmistakable grip of warmth.

  “It doesn’t seem natural, Captain MacNelly, but I believe I’m glad to meet you,” said Duane, soberly.

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

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

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

  When Duane got beyond the line of mesquite, which had hid a good view of the camp-site, he saw a group of perhaps fifteen rangers sitting around the fires, near a long low shed where horses were feeding, and a small adobe house at one side.

  “We’ve just had grub, but I’ll see you get some. Then we’ll talk,” said MacNelly. “I’ve taken up temporary quarters here. Have a rustler job on hand. Now, when you’ve eaten, come right into the house.”

  Duane was hungry, but he hurried through the ample supper that was set before him, urged on by curiosity and astonishment. The only way he could account for his presence there in a ranger’s camp was that MacNelly hoped to get useful information out of him. Still that would hardly have made this captain so eager. There was a mystery here, and Duane could scarcely wait for it to be solved. While eating he had bent keen eyes around him. After a first quiet scrutiny the rangers apparently paid no more attention to him. They were all veterans in service—Duane saw that—and rugged, powerful men of iron constitution. Despite the occasional joke and sally of the more youthful members, and a general conversation of camp-fire nature, Duane was not deceived about the fact that his advent had been an unusual and striking one, which had caused an undercurrent of conjecture and even consternation among them. These rangers were too well trained to appear openly curious about their captain’s guest. If they had not deliberately attempted to be oblivious of his presence Duane would have concluded they thought him an ordinary visitor, somehow of use to MacNelly. As it was, Duane felt a suspense that must have been due to a hint of his identity.