by Zane Grey
“Cheseldine is a name, a terrible name,” said Colonel Webb. “Sometimes I wonder if he’s not only a name. In that case where does the brains of this gang come from? No; there must be a master craftsman behind this border pillage; a master capable of handling those terrors Poggin and Knell. Of all the thousands of outlaws developed by western Texas in the last twenty years these three are the greatest. In southern Texas, down between the Pecos and the Nueces, there have been and are still many bad men. But I doubt if any outlaw there, possibly excepting Buck Duane, ever equaled Poggin. You’ve heard of this Duane?”
“Yes, a little,” replied Duane, quietly. “I’m from southern Texas. Buck Duane then is known out here?”
“Why, man, where isn’t his name known?” returned Colonel Webb. “I’ve kept track of his record as I have all the others. Of course, Duane, being a lone outlaw, is somewhat of a mystery also, but not like Cheseldine. Out here there have drifted many stories of Duane, horrible some of them. But despite them a sort of romance clings to that Nueces outlaw. He’s killed three great outlaw leaders, I believe—Bland, Hardin, and the other I forgot. Hardin was known in the Big Bend, had friends there. Bland had a hard name at Del Rio.”
“Then this man Duane enjoys rather an unusual repute west of the Pecos?” inquired Duane.
“He’s considered more of an enemy to his kind than to honest men. I understand Duane had many friends, that whole counties swear by him—secretly, of course, for he’s a hunted outlaw with rewards on his head. His fame in this country appears to hang on his matchless gun-play and his enmity toward outlaw chiefs. I’ve heard many a rancher say: ‘I wish to God that Buck Duane would drift out here! I’d give a hundred pesos to see him and Poggin meet.’ It’s a singular thing, stranger, how jealous these great outlaws are of each other.”
“Yes, indeed, all about them is singular,” replied Duane. “Has Cheseldine’s gang been busy lately?”
“No. This section has been free of rustling for months, though there’s unexplained movements of stock. Probably all the stock that’s being shipped now was rustled long ago. Cheseldine works over a wide section, too wide for news to travel inside of weeks. Then sometimes he’s not heard of at all for a spell. These lulls are pretty surely indicative of a big storm sooner or later. And Cheseldine’s deals, as they grow fewer and farther between, certainly get bigger, more daring. There are some people who think Cheseldine had nothing to do with the bank-robberies and train-holdups during the last few years in this country. But that’s poor reasoning. The jobs have been too well done, too surely covered, to be the work of greasers or ordinary outlaws.”
“What’s your view of the outlook? How’s all this going to wind up? Will the outlaw ever be driven out?” asked Duane.
“Never. There will always be outlaws along the Rio Grande. All the armies in the world couldn’t comb the wild brakes of that fifteen hundred miles of river. But the sway of the outlaw, such as is enjoyed by these great leaders, will sooner or later be past. The criminal element flock to the Southwest. But not so thick and fast as the pioneers. Besides, the outlaws kill themselves, and the ranchers are slowly rising in wrath, if not in action. That will come soon. If they only had a leader to start the fight! But that will come. There’s talk of Vigilantes, the same hat were organized in California and are now in force in Idaho. So far it’s only talk. But the time will come. And the days of Cheseldine and Poggin are numbered.”
Duane went to bed that night exceedingly thoughtful. The long trail was growing hot. This voluble colonel had given him new ideas. It came to Duane in surprise that he was famous along the upper Rio Grande. Assuredly he would not long be able to conceal his identity. He had no doubt that he would soon meet the chiefs of this clever and bold rustling gang. He could not decide whether he would be safer unknown or known. In the latter case his one chance lay in the fatality connected with his name, in his power to look it and act it. Duane had never dreamed of any sleuth-hound tendency in his nature, but now he felt something like one. Above all others his mind fixed on Poggin—Poggin the brute, the executor of Cheseldine’s will, but mostly upon Poggin the gunman. This in itself was a warning to Duane. He felt terrible forces at work within him. There was the stern and indomitable resolve to make MacNelly’s boast good to the governor of the state—to break up Cheseldine’s gang. Yet this was not in Duane’s mind before a strange grim and deadly instinct—which he had to drive away for fear he would find in it a passion to kill Poggin, not for the state, nor for his word to MacNelly, but for himself. Had his father’s blood and the hard years made Duane the kind of man who instinctively wanted to meet Poggin? He was sworn to MacNelly’s service, and he fought himself to keep that, and that only, in his mind.
Duane ascertained that Fairdale was situated two days’ ride from Bradford toward the north. There was a stage which made the journey twice a week.
Next morning Duane mounted his horse and headed for Fairdale. He rode leisurely, as he wanted to learn all he could about the country. There were few ranches. The farther he traveled the better grazing he encountered, and, strange to note, the fewer herds of cattle.
It was just sunset when he made out a cluster of adobe houses that marked the half-way point between Bradford and Fairdale. Here, Duane had learned, was stationed a comfortable inn for wayfarers.
When he drew up before the inn the landlord and his family and a number of loungers greeted him laconically.
“Beat the stage in, hey?” remarked one.
“There she comes now,” said another. “Joel shore is drivin’ tonight.”
Far down the road Duane saw a cloud of dust and horses and a lumbering coach. When he had looked after the needs of his horse he returned to the group before the inn. They awaited the stage with that interest common to isolated people. Presently it rolled up, a large mud-bespattered and dusty vehicle, littered with baggage on top and tied on behind. A number of passengers alighted, three of whom excited Duane’s interest. One was a tall, dark, striking-looking man, and the other two were ladies, wearing long gray ulsters and veils. Duane heard the proprietor of the inn address the man as Colonel Longstreth, and as the party entered the inn Duane’s quick ears caught a few words which acquainted him with the fact that Longstreth was the Mayor of Fairdale.
Duane passed inside himself to learn that supper would soon be ready. At table he found himself opposite the three who had attracted his attention.
“Ruth, I envy the lucky cowboys,” Longstreth was saying.
Ruth was a curly-headed girl with gray or hazel eyes.
“I’m crazy to ride bronchos,” she said.
Duane gathered she was on a visit to western Texas. The other girl’s deep voice, sweet like a bell, made Duane regard her closer. She had beauty as he had never seen it in another woman. She was slender, but the development of her figure gave Duane the impression she was twenty years old or more. She had the most exquisite hands Duane had ever seen. She did not resemble the Colonel, who was evidently her father. She looked tired, quiet, even melancholy. A finely chiseled oval face; clear, olive-tinted skin, long eyes set wide apart and black as coal, beautiful to look into; a slender, straight nose that had something nervous and delicate about it which made Duane think of a thoroughbred; and a mouth by no means small, but perfectly curved; and hair like jet—all these features proclaimed her beauty to Duane. Duane believed her a descendant of one of the old French families of eastern Texas. He was sure of it when she looked at him, drawn by his rather persistent gaze. There were pride, fire, and passion in her eyes. Duane felt himself blushing in confusion. His stare at her had been rude, perhaps, but unconscious. How many years had passed since he had seen a girl like her! Thereafter he kept his eyes upon his plate, yet he seemed to be aware that he had aroused the interest of both girls.
After supper the guests assembled in a big sitting-room where an open fire place with blazing mesquite sticks gave out warmth and cheery glow. Duane took a seat by a table in the corner, and, findi
ng a paper, began to read. Presently when he glanced up he saw two dark-faced men, strangers who had not appeared before, and were peering in from a doorway. When they saw Duane had observed them they stepped back out of sight.
It flashed over Duane that the strangers acted suspiciously. In Texas in the seventies it was always bad policy to let strangers go unheeded. Duane pondered a moment. Then he went out to look over these two men. The doorway opened into a patio, and across that was a little dingy, dim-lighted bar-room. Here Duane found the innkeeper dispensing drinks to the two strangers. They glanced up when he entered, and one of them whispered. He imagined he had seen one of them before. In Texas, where outdoor men were so rough, bronzed, bold, and sometimes grim of aspect, it was no easy task to pick out the crooked ones. But Duane’s years on the border had augmented a natural instinct or gift to read character, or at least to sense the evil in men; and he knew at once that these strangers were dishonest.
“Hey somethin’?” one of them asked, leering. Both looked Duane up and down.
“No thanks, I don’t drink,” Duane replied, and returned their scrutiny with interest. “How’s tricks in the Big Bend?”
Both men stared. It had taken only a close glance for Duane to recognize a type of ruffian most frequently met along the river. These strangers had that stamp, and their surprise proved he was right. Here the innkeeper showed signs of uneasiness, and seconded the surprise of his customers. No more was said at the instant, and the two rather hurriedly went out.
“Say, boss, do you know those fellows?” Duane asked the innkeeper.
“Nope.”
“Which way did they come?”
“Now I think of it, them fellers rid in from both corners today,” he replied, and he put both hands on the bar and looked at Duane. “They nooned heah, comin’ from Bradford, they said, an’ trailed in after the stage.”
When Duane returned to the sitting-room Colonel Longstreth was absent, also several of the other passengers. Miss Ruth sat in the chair he had vacated, and across the table from her sat Miss Longstreth. Duane went directly to them.
“Excuse me,” said Duane, addressing them. “I want to tell you there are a couple of rough-looking men here. I’ve just seen them. They mean evil. Tell your father to be careful. Lock your doors—bar your windows tonight.”
“Oh!” cried Ruth, very low. “Ray, do you hear?”
“Thank you; we’ll be careful,” said Miss Longstreth, gracefully. The rich color had faded in her cheek. “I saw those men watching you from that door. They had such bright black eyes. Is there really danger—here?”
“I think so,” was Duane’s reply.
Soft swift steps behind him preceded a harsh voice: “Hands up!”
No man quicker than Duane to recognize the intent in those words! His hands shot up. Miss Ruth uttered a little frightened cry and sank into her chair. Miss Longstreth turned white, her eyes dilated. Both girls were staring at someone behind Duane.
“Turn around!” ordered the harsh voice.
The big, dark stranger, the bearded one who had whispered to his comrade in the bar-room and asked Duane to drink, had him covered with a cocked gun. He strode forward, his eyes gleaming, pressed the gun against him, and with his other hand dove into his inside coat pocket and tore out his roll of bills. Then he reached low at Duane’s hip, felt his gun, and took it. Then he slapped the other hip, evidently in search of another weapon. That done, he backed away, wearing an expression of fiendish satisfaction that made Duane think he was only a common thief, a novice at this kind of game.
His comrade stood in the door with a gun leveled at two other men, who stood there frightened, speechless.
“Git a move on, Bill,” called this fellow; and he took a hasty glance backward. A stamp of hoofs came from outside. Of course the robbers had horses waiting. The one called Bill strode across the room, and with brutal, careless haste began to prod the two men with his weapon and to search them. The robber in the doorway called “Rustle!” and disappeared.
Duane wondered where the innkeeper was, and Colonel Longstreth and the other two passengers. The bearded robber quickly got through with his searching, and from his growls Duane gathered he had not been well remunerated. Then he wheeled once more. Duane had not moved a muscle, stood perfectly calm with his arms high. The robber strode back with his bloodshot eyes fastened upon the girls. Miss Longstreth never flinched, but the little girl appeared about to faint.
“Don’t yap, there!” he said, low and hard. He thrust the gun close to Ruth. Then Duane knew for sure that he was no knight of the road, but a plain cutthroat robber. Danger always made Duane exult in a kind of cold glow. But now something hot worked within him. He had a little gun in his pocket. The robber had missed it. And he began to calculate chances.
“Any money, jewelry, diamonds!” ordered the ruffian, fiercely.
Miss Ruth collapsed. Then he made at Miss Longstreth. She stood with her hands at her breast. Evidently the robber took this position to mean that she had valuables concealed there. But Duane fancied she had instinctively pressed her hands against a throbbing heart.
“Come out with it!” he said, harshly, reaching for her.
“Don’t dare touch me!” she cried, her eyes ablaze. She did not move. She had nerve.
It made Duane thrill. He saw he was going to get a chance. Waiting had been a science with him. But here it was hard. Miss Ruth had fainted, and that was well. Miss Longstreth had fight in her, which fact helped Duane, yet made injury possible to her. She eluded two lunges the man made at her. Then his rough hand caught her waist, and with one pull ripped it asunder, exposing her beautiful shoulder, white as snow.
She cried out. The prospect of being robbed or even killed had not shaken Miss Longstreth’s nerve as had this brutal tearing off of half her waist.
The ruffian was only turned partially away from Duane. For himself he could have waited no longer. But for her! That gun was still held dangerously upward close to her. Duane watched only that. Then a bellow made him jerk his head. Colonel Longstreth stood in the doorway in a magnificent rage. He had no weapon. Strange how he showed no fear! He bellowed something again.
Duane’s shifting glance caught the robber’s sudden movement. It was a kind of start. He seemed stricken. Duane expected him to shoot Longstreth. Instead the hand that clutched Miss Longstreth’s torn waist loosened its hold. The other hand with its cocked weapon slowly dropped till it pointed to the floor. That was Duane’s chance.
Swift as a flash he drew his gun and fired. Thud! went his bullet, and he could not tell on the instant whether it hit the robber or went into the ceiling. Then the robber’s gun boomed harmlessly. He fell with blood spurting over his face. Duane realized he had hit him, but the small bullet had glanced.
Miss Longstreth reeled and might have fallen had Duane not supported her. It was only a few steps to a couch, to which he half led, half carried her. Then he rushed out of the room, across the patio, through the bar to the yard. Nevertheless, he was cautious. In the gloom stood a saddled horse, probably the one belonging to the fellow he had shot. His comrade had escaped. Returning to the sitting-room, Duane found a condition approaching pandemonium.
The innkeeper rushed in, pitchfork in hands. Evidently he had been out at the barn. He was now shouting to find out what had happened. Joel, the stage-driver, was trying to quiet the men who had been robbed. The woman, wife of one of the men, had come in, and she had hysterics. The girls were still and white. The robber Bill lay where he had fallen, and Duane guessed he had made a fair shot, after all. And, lastly, the thing that struck Duane most of all was Longstreth’s rage. He never saw such passion. Like a caged lion Longstreth stalked and roared. There came a quieter moment in which the innkeeper shrilly protested:
“Man, what’re you ravin’ aboot? Nobody’s hurt, an’ thet’s lucky. I swear to God I hadn’t nothin’ to do with them fellers!”
“I ought to kill you anyhow!” replied Longstreth. And his
voice now astounded Duane, it was so full of power.
Upon examination Duane found that his bullet had furrowed the robber’s temple, torn a great piece out of his scalp, and, as Duane had guessed, had glanced. He was not seriously injured, and already showed signs of returning consciousness.
“Drag him out of here!” ordered Longstreth; and he turned to his daughter.
Before the innkeeper reached the robber Duane had secured the money and gun taken from him; and presently recovered the property of the other men. Joel helped the innkeeper carry the injured man somewhere outside.
Miss Longstreth was sitting white but composed upon the couch, where lay Miss Ruth, who evidently had been carried there by the Colonel. Duane did not think she had wholly lost consciousness, and now she lay very still, with eyes dark and shadowy, her face pallid and wet. The Colonel, now that he finally remembered his women-folk, seemed to be gentle and kind. He talked soothingly to Miss Ruth, made light of the adventure, said she must learn to have nerve out here where things happened.
“Can I be of any service?” asked Duane, solicitously.
“Thanks; I guess there’s nothing you can do. Talk to these frightened girls while I go see what’s to be done with that thick-skulled robber,” he replied, and, telling the girls that there was no more danger, he went out.
