The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

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

  “Come in and have a chair,” said MacNelly, motioning for the one other occupant of the room to rise. “Leave us, Russell, and close the door. I’ll be through these reports right off.”

  MacNelly sat at a table upon which was a lamp and various papers. Seen in the light he was a fine-looking, soldierly man of about forty years, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a bronzed face, shrewd, stern, strong, yet not wanting in kindliness. He scanned hastily over some papers, fussed with them, and finally put them in envelopes. Without looking up he pushed a cigar-case toward Duane, and upon Duane’s refusal to smoke he took a cigar, rose to light it at the lamp-chimney, and then, settling back in his chair, he faced Duane, making a vain attempt to hide what must have been the fulfilment of a long-nourished curiosity.

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

  Duane smiled a little—a smile that felt strange on his face. He had never been much of a talker. And speech here seemed more than ordinarily difficult.

  MacNelly must have felt that.

  He looked long and earnestly at Duane, and his quick, nervous manner changed to grave thoughtfulness.

  “I’ve lots to say, but where to begin,” he mused. “Duane, you’ve had a hard life since you went on the dodge. I never met you before, don’t know what you looked like as a boy. But I can see what—well, even ranger life isn’t all roses.”

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

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

  “No.”

  “Never a word?”

  “Not one,” replied Duane, sadly.

  “That’s tough. I’m glad to be able to tell you that up to just lately your mother, sister, uncle—all your folks, I believe—were well. I’ve kept posted. But haven’t heard lately.”

  Duane averted his face a moment, hesitated till the swelling left his throat, and then said, “It’s worth what I went through today to hear that.”

  “I can imagine how you feel about it. When I was in the war—but let’s get down to the business of this meeting.”

  He pulled his chair close to Duane’s.

  “You’ve had word more than once in the last two years that I wanted to see you?”

  “Three times, I remember,” replied Duane.

  “Why didn’t you hunt me up?”

  “I supposed you imagined me one of those gun-fighters who couldn’t take a dare and expected me to ride up to your camp and be arrested.”

  “That was natural, I suppose,” went on MacNelly. “You didn’t know me, otherwise you would have come. I’ve been a long time getting to you. But the nature of my job, as far as you’re concerned, made me cautious. Duane, you’re aware of the hard name you bear all over the Southwest?”

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

  “It’s the hardest, barring Murrell and Cheseldine, on the Texas border. But there’s this difference. Murrell in his day was known to deserve his infamous name. Cheseldine in his day also. But I’ve found hundreds of men in southwest Texas who’re your friends, who swear you never committed a crime. The farther south I get the clearer this becomes. What I want to know is the truth. Have you ever done anything criminal? Tell me the truth, Duane. It won’t make any difference in my plan. And when I say crime I mean what I would call crime, or any reasonable Texan.”

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

  “You never held up a man, robbed a store for grub, stole a horse when you needed him bad—never anything like that?”

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

  “Duane, I’m damn glad!” MacNelly exclaimed, gripping Duane’s hand. “Glad for you mother’s sakel But, all the same, in spite of this, you are a Texas outlaw accountable to the state. You’re perfectly aware that under existing circumstances, if you fell into the hands of the law, you’d probably hang, at least go to jail for a long term.”

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

  “Certainly.” MacNelly removed his cigar. His eyes narrowed and glittered. The muscles along his brown cheeks set hard and tense. He leaned closer to Duane, laid sinewy, pressing fingers upon Duane’s knee.

  “Listen to this,” he whispered, hoarsely. “If I place a pardon in your hand—make you a free, honest citizen once more, clear your name of infamy, make your mother, your sister proud of you—will you swear yourself to a service, any service I demand of you?”

  Duane sat stock still, stunned.

  Slowly, more persuasively, with show of earnest agitation, Captain MacNelly reiterated his startling query.

  “My God!” burst from Duane. “What’s this? MacNelly, you can’t be in earnest!”

  “Never more so in my life. I’ve a deep game. I’m playing it square. What do you say?”

  He rose to his feet. Duane, as if impelled, rose with him. Ranger and outlaw then locked eyes that searched each other’s souls. In MacNelly’s Duane read truth, strong, fiery purpose, hope, even gladness, and a fugitive mounting assurance of victory.

  Twice Duane endeavored to speak, failed of all save a hoarse, incoherent sound, until, forcing back a flood of speech, he found a voice.

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

  A light played over MacNelly’s face, warming out all the grim darkness. He held out his hand. Duane met it with his in a clasp that men unconsciously give in moments of stress.

  When they unclasped and Duane stepped back to drop into a chair MacNelly fumbled for another cigar—he had bitten the other into shreds—and, lighting it as before, he turned to his visitor, now calm and cool. He had the look of a man who had justly won something at considerable cost. His next move was to take a long leather case from his pocket and extract from it several folded papers.

  “Here’s your pardon from the Governor,” he said, quietly. “You’ll see, when you look it over, that it’s conditional. When you sign this paper I have here the condition will be met.”

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

  Duane’s hand was shaky. Years had passed since he had held a pen. It was with difficulty that he achieved his signature. Buckley Duane—how strange the name looked!

  “Right here ends the career of Buck Duane, outlaw and gunfighter,” said MacNelly; and, seating himself, he took the pen from Duane’s fingers and wrote several lines in several places upon the paper. Then with a smile he handed it to Duane.

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

  “So that’s it!” burst out Duane, a light breaking in upon his bewilderment. “You want me for ranger service?”

  “Sure. That’s it,” replied the Captain, dryly. “Now to hear what that service is to be. I’ve been a busy man since I took this job, and, as you may have heard, I’ve done a few things. I don’t mind telling you that political influence put me in here and that up Austin way there’s a good deal of friction in the Department of State in regard to whether or not the ranger service is any good—whether it should be discontinued or not. I’m on the party side who’s defending the ranger service. I contend that it’s made Texas habitable. Well, it’s been up to me to produce results. So far I have been successful. My great ambition is to break up the outlaw gangs along the river. I have never ventured in there yet because I’ve been waiting to get the lieutenant I needed. You, of course, are the man I had in mind. It’s my idea to start way up the Rio Grande and begin with Cheseldine. He’s the strongest, the worst outlaw of the times. He’s more than rustler. It’s Cheseldine and his gang who are operating on the banks. They’re doing bank-robbing. That’s my private opinion, but it’s not been backed up by any evidence. Cheseldine doesn’t leave evidences. He’s intelligent, cunning. No one seems to have seen him—to know what he lo
oks like. I assume, of course, that you are a stranger to the country he dominates. It’s five hundred miles west of your ground. There’s a little town over there called Fairdale. It’s the nest of a rustler gang. They rustle and murder at will. Nobody knows who the leader is. I want you to find out. Well, whatever way you decide is best you will proceed to act upon. You are your own boss. You know such men and how they can be approached. You will take all the time needed, if it’s months. It will be necessary for you to communicate with me, and that will be a difficult matter. For Cheseldine dominates several whole counties. You must find some way to let me know when I and my rangers are needed. The plan is to break up Cheseldine’s gang. It’s the toughest job on the border. Arresting him alone isn’t to be heard of. He couldn’t be brought out. Killing him isn’t much better, for his select men, the ones he operates with, are as dangerous to the community as he is. We want to kill or jail this choice selection of robbers and break up the rest of the gang. To find them, to get among them somehow, to learn their movements, to lay your trap for us rangers to spring—that, Duane, is your service to me, and God knows it’s a great one!”

  “I have accepted it,” replied Duane.

  “Your work will be secret. You are now a ranger in my service. But no one except the few I choose to tell will know of it until we pull off the job. You will simply be Buck Duane till it suits our purpose to acquaint Texas with the fact that you’re a ranger. You’ll see there’s no date on that paper. No one will ever know just when you entered the service. Perhaps we can make it appear that all or most of your outlawry has really been good service to the state. At that, I’ll believe it’ll turn out so.”

  MacNelly paused a moment in his rapid talk, chewed his cigar, drew his brows together in a dark frown, and went on. “No man on the border knows so well as you the deadly nature of this service. It’s a thousand to one that you’ll be killed. I’d say there was no chance at all for any other man beside you. Your reputation will go far among the outlaws. Maybe that and your nerve and your gun-play will pull you through. I’m hoping so. But it’s a long, long chance against your ever coming back.”

  “That’s not the point,” said Duane. “But in case I get killed out there—what—”

  “Leave that to me,” interrupted Captain MacNelly. “Your folks will know at once of your pardon and your ranger duty. If you lose your life out there I’ll see your name cleared—the service you render known. You can rest assured of that.”

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

  “Well, it’s settled, then. I’ll give you money for expenses. You’ll start as soon as you like—the sooner the better. I hope to think of other suggestions, especially about communicating with me.”

  Long after the lights were out and the low hum of voices had ceased round the camp-fire Duane lay wide awake, eyes staring into the blackness, marveling over the strange events of the day. He was humble, grateful to the depths of his soul. A huge and crushing burden had been lifted from his heart. He welcomed this hazardous service to the man who had saved him. Thought of his mother and sister and Uncle Jim, of his home, of old friends came rushing over him the first time in years that he had happiness in the memory. The disgrace he had put upon them would now be removed; and in the light of that, his wasted life of the past, and its probable tragic end in future service as atonement changed their aspects. And as he lay there, with the approach of sleep finally dimming the vividness of his thought, so full of mystery, shadowy faces floated in the blackness around him, haunting him as he had always been haunted.

  It was broad daylight when he awakened. MacNelly was calling him to breakfast. Outside sounded voices of men, crackling of fires, snorting and stamping of horses, the barking of dogs. Duane rolled out of his blankets and made good use of the soap and towel and razor and brush near by on a bench—things of rare luxury to an outlaw on the ride. The face he saw in the mirror was as strange as the past he had tried so hard to recall. Then he stepped to the door and went out.

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

  “Fellows,” said MacNelly, “shake hands with Buck Duane. He’s on secret ranger service for me. Service that’ll likely make you all hump soon! Mind you, keep mum about it.”

  The rangers surprised Duane with a roaring greeting, the warmth of which he soon divined was divided between pride of his acquisition to their ranks and eagerness to meet that violent service of which their captain hinted. They were jolly, wild fellows, with just enough gravity in their welcome to show Duane their respect and appreciation, while not forgetting his lone-wolf record. When he had seated himself in that circle, now one of them, a feeling subtle and uplifting pervaded him.

  After the meal Captain MacNelly drew Duane aside.

  “Here’s the money. Make it go as far as you can. Better strike straight for El Paso, snook around there and hear things. Then go to Valentine. That’s near the river and within fifty miles or so of the edge of the Rim Rock. Somewhere up there Cheseldine holds fort. Somewhere to the north is the town Fairdale. But he doesn’t hide all the time in the rocks. Only after some daring raid or hold-up. Cheseldine’s got border towns on his staff, or scared of him, and these places we want to know about, especially Fairdale. Write me care of the adjutant at Austin. I don’t have to warn you to be careful where you mail letters. Ride a hundred, two hundred miles, if necessary, or go clear to El Paso.”

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

  “I’ll start at once,” he said, extending his hand to the Captain. “I wish—I’d like to thank you.”

  “Hell, man! Don’t thank me!” replied MacNelly, crushing the proffered hand. “I’ve sent a lot of good men to their deaths, and maybe you’re another. But, as I’ve said, you’ve one chance in a thousand. And, by Heaven! I’d hate to be Cheseldine or any other man you were trailing. No, not good-by—Adios, Duane! May we meet again!”

  BOOK II

  THE RANGER

  CHAPTER XV

  West of the Pecos River Texas extended a vast wild region, barren in the north where the Llano Estacado spread its shifting sands, fertile in the south along the Rio Grande. A railroad marked an undeviating course across five hundred miles of this country, and the only villages and towns lay on or near this line of steel. Unsettled as was this western Texas, and despite the acknowledged dominance of the outlaw bands, the pioneers pushed steadily into it. First had come the lone rancher; then his neighbors in near and far valleys; then the hamlets; at last the railroad and the towns. And still the pioneers came, spreading deeper into the valleys, farther and wider over the plains. It was mesquite-dotted, cactus-covered desert, but rich soil upon which water acted like magic. There was little grass to an acre, but there were millions of acres. The climate was wonderful. Cattle flourished and ranchers prospered.

  The Rio Grande flowed almost due south along the western boundary for a thousand miles, and then, weary of its course, turned abruptly north, to make what was called the Big Bend. The railroad, running west, cut across this bend, and all that country bounded on the north by the railroad and on the south by the river was as wild as the Staked Plains. It contained not one settlement. Across the face of this Big Bend, as if to isolate it, stretched the Ord mountain range, of which Mount Ord, Cathedral Mount, and Elephant Mount raised bleak peaks above their fellows. In the valleys of the foothills and out across the plains were ranches, and farther north villages, and the towns of Alpine and Marfa.

  Like other parts of the great Lone Star State, this section of Texas was a world in itself—a world where the riches of the rancher were ever enriching the outlaw. The village closest to the gateway of this outlaw-infested region was a little place called Ord, named after the dark peak that loomed some miles to the south. It had been settled originally by Mexicans—there were still the ruins of adobe missions—but with the advent of the rustler and outlaw many inhabita
nts were shot or driven away, so that at the height of Ord’s prosperity and evil sway there were but few Mexicans living there, and these had their choice between holding hand-and-glove with the outlaws or furnishing target practice for that wild element.

  Toward the close of a day in September a stranger rode into Ord, and in a community where all men were remarkable for one reason or another he excited interest. His horse, perhaps, received the first and most engaging attention—horses in that region being apparently more important than men. This particular horse did not attract with beauty. At first glance he seemed ugly. But he was a giant, black as coal, rough despite the care manifestly bestowed upon him, long of body, ponderous of limb, huge in every way. A bystander remarked that he had a grand head. True, if only his head had been seen he would have been a beautiful horse. Like men, horses show what they are in the shape, the size, the line, the character of the head. This one denoted fire, speed, blood, loyalty, and his eyes were as soft and dark as a woman’s. His face was solid black, except in the middle of his forehead, where there was a round spot of white.

  “Say mister, mind tellin’ me his name?” asked a ragged urchin, with born love of a horse in his eyes.

  “Bullet,” replied the rider.

  “Thet there’s fer the white mark, ain’t it?” whispered the youngster to another. “Say, ain’t he a whopper? Biggest hoss I ever seen.”

  Bullet carried a huge black silver-ornamented saddle of Mexican make, a lariat and canteen, and a small pack rolled into a tarpaulin.

  This rider apparently put all care of appearances upon his horse. His apparel was the ordinary jeans of the cowboy without vanity, and it was torn and travel-stained. His boots showed evidence of an intimate acquaintance with cactus. Like his horse, this man was a giant in stature, but rangier, not so heavily built. Otherwise the only striking thing about him was his somber face with its piercing eyes, and hair white over the temples. He packed two guns, both low down—but that was too common a thing to attract notice in the Big Bend. A close observer, however, would have noted a singular fact—this rider’s right hand was more bronzed, more weather-beaten than his left. He never wore a glove on that right hand!