the Lone Star Ranger (1993)

by Grey, Zane

  "Sounds like a rattlesnake to me," said Lawson.

  Longstreth got up from the table and peered round the room.

  Just at that instant Duane felt an almost inappreciable movement of the adobe wall which supported him. He could scarcely credit his senses. But the rattle inside Longstreth's room was mingling with little dull thuds of falling dirt. The adobe wall, merely dried mud, was crumbling. Duane distinctly felt a tremor pass through it. Then the blood gushed back to his heart.

  "What in the hell!" exclaimed Longstreth.

  "I smell dust," said Lawson, sharply.

  That was the signal for Duane to drop down from his perch, yet despite his care he made a noise.

  "Did you hear a step?" queried Longstreth.

  No one answered. But a heavy piece of the adobe wall fell with a thud. Duane heard it crack, felt it shake.

  "There's somebody between the walls!" thundered Longstreth.

  Then a section of the wall fell inward with a crash. Duane began to squeeze his body through the narrow passage toward the patio.

  "Hear him!" yelled Lawson. "This side!"

  "No, he's going that way," yelled Longstreth.

  The tramp of heavy boots lent Duane the strength of desperation. He was not shirking a fight, but to be cornered like a trapped coyote was another matter. He almost tore his clothes off in that passage. The dust nearly stifled him. When he burst into the patio it was not a single instant too soon. But one deep gasp of breath revived him and he was up, gun in hand, running for the outlet into the court. Thumping footsteps turned him back. While there was a chance to get away he did not want to fight. He thought he heard someone running into the patio from the other end. He stole along, and coming to a door, without any idea of where it might lead, he softly pushed it open a little way and slipped in.

  Chapter XX

  A low cry greeted Duane. The room was light. He saw Ray Longstreth sitting on her bed in her dressing-gown. With a warning gesture to her to be silent he turned to close the door. It was a heavy door without bolt or bar, and when Duane had shut it he felt safe only for the moment. Then he gazed around the room. There was one window with blind closely drawn. He listened and seemed to hear footsteps retreating, dying away.

  Then Duane turned to Miss Longstreth. She had slipped off the bed, half to her knees, and was holding out trembling hands. She was as white as the pillow on her bed. She was terribly frightened. Again with warning hand commanding silence, Duane stepped softly forward, meaning to reassure her.

  "Oh!" she whispered, wildly; and Duane thought she was going to faint. When he got close and looked into her eyes he understood the strange, dark expression in them. She was terrified because she believed he meant to kill her, or do worse, probably worse. Duane realized he must have looked pretty hard and fierce bursting into her room with that big gun in hand.

  The way she searched Duane's face with doubtful, fearful eyes hurt him.

  "Listen. I didn't know this was your room. I came here to get away--to save my life. I was pursued. I was spying on--on your father and his men. They heard me, but did not see me. They don't know who was listening. They're after me now."

  Her eyes changed from blank gulfs to dilating, shadowing. quickening windows of thought.

  Then she stood up and faced Duane with the fire and intelligence of a woman in her eyes.

  "Tell me now. You were spying on my father?"

  Briefly Duane told her what had happened before he entered her room, not omitting a terse word as to the character of the men he had watched.

  "My God! So it's that? I knew something was terribly wrong here--with him--with the place--the people. And right off I hated Floyd Lawson. Oh, it'll kill me if--if--It's so much worse than I dreamed. What shall I do?"

  The sound of soft steps somewhere near distracted Duane's attention, reminded him of her peril, and now, what counted more with him, made clear the probability of being discovered in her room.

  "I'll have to get out of here," whispered Duane.

  "Wait," she replied. "Didn't you say they were hunting for you?"

  "They sure are," he returned, grimly.

  "Oh, then you mustn't go. They might shoot you before you got away. Stay. If we hear them you can hide. I'll turn out the light. I'll meet them at the door. You can trust me. Wait till all quiets down, if we have to wait till morning. Then you can slip out."

  "I oughtn't to stay. I don't want to--I won't," Duane replied, perplexed and stubborn.

  "But you must. It's the only safe way. They won't come here."

  "Suppose they should? It's an even chance Longstreth'll search every room and corner in this old house. If they found me here I couldn't start a fight. You might be hurt. Then--the fact of my being here--"

  Duane did not finish what he meant, but instead made a step toward the door. White of face and dark of eye, she took hold of him to detain him. She was as strong and supple as a panther. But she need not have been either resolute or strong, for the clasp of her hand was enough to make Duane weak.

  "Up yet, Ray?" came Longstreth's clear voice, too strained, too eager to be natural.

  "No. I'm in bed reading. Good night," instantly replied Miss Longstreth, so calmly and naturally that Duane marveled at the difference between man and woman. Then she motioned for Duane to hide in the closet. He slipped in, but the door would not close altogether.

  "Are you alone?" went on Longstreth's penetrating voice.

  "Yes," she replied. "Ruth went to bed."

  The door swung inward with a swift scrape and jar. Longstreth half entered, haggard, flaming-eyed. Behind him Duane saw Lawson, and indistinctly another man.

  Longstreth barred Lawson from entering, which action showed control as well as distrust. He wanted to see into the room. When he had glanced around he went out and closed the door.

  Then what seemed a long interval ensued. The house grew silent once more. Duane could not see Miss Longstreth, but he heard her quick breathing. How long did she mean to let him stay hidden there? Hard and perilous as his life had been, this was a new kind of adventure. He had divined the strange softness of his feeling as something due to the magnetism of this beautiful woman. It hardly seemed possible that he, who had been outside the pale for so many years, could have fallen in love. Yet that must be the secret of his agitation.

  Presently he pushed open the closet door and stepped forth. Miss Longstreth had her head lowered upon her arms and appeared to be in distress. At his touch she raised a quivering face.

  "I think I can go now--safely," he whispered.

  "Go then, if you must, but you may stay till you're safe," she replied.

  "I--I couldn't thank you enough. It's been hard on me--this finding out--and you his daughter. I feel strange. I don't understand myself well. But I want you to know--if I were not an outlaw--a ranger--I'd lay my life at your feet."

  "Oh! You have seen so--so little of me," she faltered.

  "All the same it's true. And that makes me feel more the trouble my coming caused you."

  "You will not fight my father?"

  "Not if I can help it. I'm trying to get out of his way.'

  "But you spied upon him."

  "I am a ranger, Miss Longstreth."

  "And oh! I am a rustler's daughter," she cried. "That's so much more terrible than I'd suspected. It was tricky cattle deals I imagined he was engaged in. But only to-night I had strong suspicions aroused."

  "How? Tell me."

  "I overheard Floyd say that men were coming to-night to arrange a meeting for my father at a rendezvous near Ord. Father did not want to go. Floyd taunted him with a name."

  "What name?" queried Duane.

  "It was Cheseldine."

  "CHESELDINE! My God! Miss Longstreth, why did you tell me that?"

  "What difference does that make?"

  "Your father and Cheseldine are one and the same," whispered Duane, hoarsely.

  "I gathered so much myself," she replied, miserably. "But Longstre
th is father's real name."

  Duane felt so stunned he could not speak at once. It was the girl's part in this tragedy that weakened him. The instant she betrayed the secret Duane realized perfectly that he did love her. The emotion was like a great flood.

  "Miss Longstreth, all this seems so unbelievable," he whispered. "Cheseldine is the rustler chief I've come out here to get. He's only a name. Your father is the real man. I've sworn to get him. I'm bound by more than law or oaths. I can't break what binds me. And I must disgrace you--wreck your lifer Why, Miss Longstreth, I believe I--I love you. It's all come in a rush. I'd die for you if I could. How fatal--terrible--this is! How things work out!"

  She slipped to her knees, with her hands on his.

  "You won't kill him?" she implored. "If you care for me--you won't kill him?"

  "No. That I promise you."

  With a low moan she dropped her head upon the bed.

  Duane opened the door and stealthily stole out through the corridor to the court.

  When Duane got out into the dark, where his hot face cooled in the wind, his relief equaled his other feelings.

  The night was dark, windy, stormy, yet there was no rain. Duane hoped as soon as he got clear of the ranch to lose something of the pain he felt. But long after he had tramped out into the open there was a lump in his throat and an ache in his breast. All his thought centered around Ray Longstreth. What a woman she had turned out to be! He seemed to have a vague, hopeless hope that there might be, there must be, some way he could save her.

  Chapter XXI

  Before going to sleep that night Duane had decided to go to Ord and try to find the rendezvous where Longstreth was to meet his men. These men Duane wanted even more than their leader. If Longstreth, or Cheseldine, was the brains of that gang, Poggin was the executor. It was Poggin who needed to be found and stopped. Poggin and his right-hand men! Duane experienced a strange, tigerish thrill. It was thought of Poggin more than thought of success for MacNelly's plan. Duane felt dubious over this emotion.

  Next day he set out for Bradford. He was glad to get away from Fairdale for a while. But the hours and the miles in no wise changed the new pain in his heart. The only way he could forget Miss Longstreth was to let his mind dwell upon Poggin, and even this was not always effective.

  He avoided Sanderson, and at the end of the day and a half he arrived at Bradford.

  The night of the day before he reached Bradford, No. 6, the mail and express train going east, was held up by train-robbers, the Wells-Fargo messenger killed over his safe, the mail-clerk wounded, the bags carried away. The engine of No. 6 came into town minus even a tender, and engineer and fireman told conflicting stories. A posse of railroad men and citizens, led by a sheriff Duane suspected was crooked, was made up before the engine steamed back to pick up the rest of the train. Duane had the sudden inspiration that he had been cudgeling his mind to find; and, acting upon it, he mounted his horse again and left Bradford unobserved. As he rode out into the night, over a dark trail in the direction of Ord, he uttered a short, grim, sardonic laugh at the hope that he might be taken for a train-robber.

  He rode at an easy trot most of the night, and when the black peak of Ord Mountain loomed up against the stars he halted, tied his horse, and slept until dawn. He had brought a small pack, and now he took his time cooking breakfast. When the sun was well up he saddled Bullet, and, leaving the trail where his tracks showed plain in the ground, he put his horse to the rocks and brush. He selected an exceedingly rough, roundabout, and difficult course to Ord, hid his tracks with the skill of a long-hunted fugitive, and arrived there with his horse winded and covered with lather. It added considerable to his arrival that the man Duane remembered as Fletcher and several others saw him come in the back way through the lots and jump a fence into the road.

  Duane led Bullet up to the porch where Fletcher stood wiping his beard. He was hatless, vestless, and evidently had just enjoyed a morning drink.

  "Howdy, Dodge," said Fletcher, laconically.

  Duane replied, and the other man returned the greeting with interest.

  "Jim, my hoss 's done up. I want to hide him from any chance tourists as might happen to ride up curious-like."

  "Haw! haw! haw!"

  Duane gathered encouragement from that chorus of coarse laughter.

  "Wal, if them tourists ain't too durned snooky the hoss'll be safe in the 'dobe shack back of Bill's here. Feed thar, too, but you'll hev to rustle water."

  Duane led Bullet to the place indicated, had care of his welfare, and left him there. Upon returning to the tavern porch Duane saw the group of men had been added to by others, some of whom he had seen before. Without comment Duane walked along the edge of the road, and wherever one of the tracks of his horse showed he carefully obliterated it. This procedure was attentively watched by Fletcher and his companions.

  "Wal, Dodge," remarked Fletcher, as Duane returned, "thet's safer 'n prayin' fer rain."

  Duanes reply was a remark as loquacious as Fletcher's, to the effect that a long, slow, monotonous ride was conducive to thirst. They all joined him, unmistakably friendly. But Knell was not there, and most assuredly not Poggin. Fletcher was no common outlaw, but, whatever his ability, it probably lay in execution of orders. Apparently at that time these men had nothing to do but drink and lounge around the tavern. Evidently they were poorly supplied with money, though Duane observed they could borrow a peso occasionally from the bartender. Duane set out to make himself agreeable and succeeded. There was card-playing for small stakes, idle jests of coarse nature, much bantering among the younger fellows, and occasionally a mild quarrel. All morning men came and went, until, all told, Duane calculated he had seen at least fifty. Toward the middle of the afternoon a young fellow burst into the saloon and yelled one word:

  "Posse!"

  From the scramble to get outdoors Duane judged that word and the ensuing action was rare in Ord.

  "What the hell!" muttered Fletcher, as he gazed down the road at a dark, compact bunch of horses and riders. "Fust time I ever seen thet in Ord! We're gettin' popular like them camps out of Valentine. Wish Phil was here or Poggy. Now all you gents keep quiet. I'll do the talkin'."

  The posse entered the town, trotted up on dusty horses, and halted in a bunch before the tavern. The party consisted of about twenty men, all heavily armed, and evidently in charge of a clean-cut, lean-limbed cowboy. Duane experienced considerable satisfaction at the absence of the sheriff who he had understood was to lead the posse. Perhaps he was out in another direction with a different force.

  "Hello, Jim Fletcher," called the cowboy.

  "Howdy," replied Fletcher.

  At his short, dry response and the way he strode leisurely out before the posse Duane found himself modifying his contempt for Fletcher. The outlaw was different now.

  "Fletcher, we've tracked a man to all but three miles of this place. Tracks as plain as the nose on your face. Found his camp. Then he hit into the brush, an' we lost the trail. Didn't have no tracker with us. Think he went into the mountains. But we took a chance an' rid over the rest of the way, seein' Ord was so close. Anybody come in here late last night or early this mornin'?"

  "Nope," replied Fletcher.

  His response was what Duane had expected from his manner, and evidently the cowboy took it as a matter of course. He turned to the others of the posse, entering into a low consultation. Evidently there was difference of opinion, if not real dissension, in that posse.

  "Didn't I tell ye this was a wild-goose chase, comin' way out here?" protested an old hawk-faced rancher. "Them hoss tracks we follored ain't like any of them we seen at the water-tank where the train was held up."

  "I'm not so sure of that," replied the leader.

  "Wal, Guthrie, I've follored tracks all my life--'

  "But you couldn't keep to the trail this feller made in the brush."

  "Gimme time, an' I could. Thet takes time. An' heah you go hell-bent fer election! But it's a w
rong lead out this way. If you're right this road-agent, after he killed his pals, would hev rid back right through town. An' with them mail-bags! Supposin' they was greasers? Some greasers has sense, an' when it comes to thievin' they're shore cute."

  "But we sent got any reason to believe this robber who murdered the greasers is a greaser himself. I tell you it was a slick job done by no ordinary sneak. Didn't you hear the facts? One greaser hopped the engine an' covered the engineer an' fireman. Another greaser kept flashin' his gun outside the train. The big man who shoved back the car-door an' did the killin'--he was the real gent, an' don't you forget it."

  Some of the posse sided with the cowboy leader and some with the old cattleman. Finally the young leader disgustedly gathered up his bridle.

  "Aw, hell! Thet sheriff shoved you off this trail. Mebbe he hed reasons Savvy thet? If I hed a bunch of cowboys with me--I tell you what--I'd take a chance an' clean up this hole!"

  All the while Jim Fletcher stood quietly with his hands in his pockets.

  "Guthrie, I'm shore treasurin' up your friendly talk," he said. The menace was in the tone, not the content of his speech.

  "You can--an' be damned to you, Fletcher!" called Guthrie, as the horses started.

  Fletcher, standing out alone before the others of his clan, watched the posse out of sight.

  "Luck fer you-all thet Poggy wasn't here," he said, as they disappeared. Then with a thoughtful mien he strode up on the porch and led Duane away from the others into the bar-room. When he looked into Duane's face it was somehow an entirely changed scrutiny.

  "Dodge, where'd you hide the stuff? I reckon I git in on this deal, seein' I staved off Guthrie."

  Duane played his part. Here was his a tiger after prey he seized it. First he coolly eyed the outlaw and then disclaimed any knowledge whatever of the train-robbery other than Fletcher had heard himself. Then at Fletcher's persistence and admiration and increasing show of friendliness he laughed occasionally and allowed himself to swell with pride, though still denying. Next he feigned a lack of consistent will-power and seemed to be wavering under Fletcher's persuasion and grew silent, then surly. Fletcher, evidently sure of ultimate victory, desisted for the time being; however, in his solicitous regard and close companionship for the rest of that day he betrayed the bent of his mind.