The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “I want Snecker. He’s here, and I’m going to get him,” replied Duane, quietly.

  “Bah! That’s all a bluff,” sneered Lawson. “I’m on to your game. You just wanted an excuse to break in here—to see my cousin again. When you saw the company you invented that excuse. Now, be off, or it’ll be the worse for you.”

  Duane felt his face burn with a tide of hot blood. Almost he felt that he was guilty of such motive. Had he not been unable to put this Ray Longstreth out of his mind? There seemed to be scorn in her eyes now. And somehow that checked his embarrassment.

  “Miss Longstreth, will you let me search the house?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Then—I regret to say—I’ll do so without your permission.”

  “You’ll not dare!” she flashed. She stood erect, her bosom swelling.

  “Pardon me, yes, I will.”

  “Who are you?” she demanded, suddenly.

  “I’m a Texas Ranger,” replied Duane.

  “A texas ranger!” she echoed.

  Floyd Lawson’s dark face turned pale.

  “Miss Longstreth, I don’t need warrants to search houses,” said Duane. “I’m sorry to annoy you. I’d prefer to have your permission. A ruffian has taken refuge here—in your father’s house. He’s hidden somewhere. May I look for him?”

  “If you are indeed a ranger.”

  Duane produced his papers. Miss Longstreth haughtily refused to look at them.

  “Miss Longstreth, I’ve come to make Fairdale a safer, cleaner, better place for women and children. I don’t wonder at your resentment. But to doubt me—insult me. Some day you may be sorry.”

  Floyd Lawson made a violent motion with his hands.

  “All stuff! Cousin, go on with your party. I’ll take a couple of cowboys and go with this—this Texas Ranger.”

  “Thanks,” said Duane, coolly, as he eyed Lawson. “Perhaps you’ll be able to find Snecker quicker than I could.”

  “What do you mean?” demanded Lawson, and now he grew livid. Evidently he was a man of fierce quick passions.

  “Don’t quarrel,” said Miss Longstreth. “Floyd, you go with him. Please hurry. I’ll be nervous till—the man’s found or you’re sure there’s not one.”

  They started with several cowboys to search the house. They went through the rooms searching, calling out, peering into dark places. It struck Duane more than forcibly that Lawson did all the calling. He was hurried, too, tried to keep in the lead. Duane wondered if he knew his voice would be recognized by the hiding man. Be that as it might, it was Duane who peered into a dark corner and then, with a gun leveled, said “Come out!”

  He came forth into the flare—a tall, slim, dark-faced youth, wearing sombrero, blouse and trousers. Duane collared him before any of the others could move and held the gun close enough to make him shrink. But he did not impress Duane as being frightened just then; nevertheless, he had a clammy face, the pallid look of a man who had just gotten over a shock. He peered into Duane’s face, then into that of the cowboy next to him, then into Lawson’s, and if ever in Duane’s life he beheld relief it was then. That was all Duane needed to know, but he meant to find out more if he could.

  “Who’re you?” asked Duane, quietly.

  “Bo Snecker,” he said.

  “What’d you hide here for?”

  He appeared to grow sullen.

  “Reckoned I’d be as safe in Longstreth’s as anywheres.”

  “Ranger, what’ll you do with him?” Lawson queried, as if uncertain, now the capture was made.

  “I’ll see to that,” replied Duane, and he pushed Snecker in front of him out into the court.

  Duane had suddenly conceived the idea of taking Snecker before Mayor Longstreth in the court.

  When Duane arrived at the hall where court was held there were other men there, a dozen or more, and all seemed excited; evidently, news of Duane had preceded him. Longstreth sat at a table up on a platform. Near him sat a thick-set grizzled man, with deep eyes, and this was Hanford Owens, county judge. To the right stood a tall, angular, yellow-faced fellow with a drooping sandy mustache. Conspicuous on his vest was a huge silver shield. This was Gorsech, one of Longstreth’s sheriffs. There were four other men whom Duane knew by sight, several whose faces were familiar, and half a dozen strangers, all dusty horsemen.

  Longstreth pounded hard on the table to be heard. Mayor or not, he was unable at once to quell the excitement. Gradually, however, it subsided, and from the last few utterances before quiet was restored Duane gathered that he had intruded upon some kind of a meeting in the hall.

  “What’d you break in here for,” demanded Longstreth.

  “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 today. 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 someone 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.