The Lone Star Ranger and the Mysterious Rider

by Zane Grey

  The valley was much larger than it had appeared from the high elevation. Well watered, green with grass and tree, and farmed evidently by good hands, it gave Duane a considerable surprise. Horses and cattle were everywhere. Every clump of cottonwoods surrounded a small adobe house. Duane saw Mexicans working in the fields and horsemen going to and fro. Presently he passed a house bigger than the others with a porch attached. A woman, young and pretty he thought, watched him from a door. No one else appeared to notice him.

  Presently the trail widened into a road, and that into a kind of square lined by a number of adobe and log buildings of rudest structure. Within sight were horses, dogs, a couple of steers, Mexican women with children, and white men, all of whom appeared to be doing nothing. His advent created no interest until he rode up to the white men, who were lolling in the shade of a house. This place evidently was a store and saloon, and from the inside came a lazy hum of voices.

  As Duane reined to a halt one of the loungers in the shade rose with a loud exclamation:

  “Bust me if thet ain’t Luke’s hoss!”

  The others accorded their interest, if not assent, by rising to advance toward Duane.

  “How about it, Euchre? Ain’t thet Luke’s baby?” queried the first man.

  “Plain as your nose,” replied the fellow called Euchre.

  “There ain’t no doubt about thet, then,” laughed another, “fer Bosomer’s nose is shore plain on the landscape.”

  These men lined up before Duane, and as he coolly regarded them he thought they could have been recognized anywhere as desperadoes. The man called Bosomer, who had stepped forward, had a forbidding face which showed yellow eyes, an enormous nose, and a skin the color of dust, with a thatch of sandy hair.

  “Stranger, who are you an’ where in the hell did you git thet bay hoss?” he demanded. His yellow eyes took in Stevens’s horse, then the weapons hung on the saddle, and finally turned their glinting, hard light upward to Duane.

  Duane did not like the tone in which he had been addressed, and he remained silent. At least half his mind seemed busy with curious interest in regard to something that leaped inside him and made his breast feel tight. He recognized it as that strange emotion which had shot through him often of late, and which had decided him to go out to the meeting with Bain. Only now it was different, more powerful.

  “Stranger, who are you?” asked another man, somewhat more civilly.

  “My name’s Duane,” replied Duane, curtly.

  “An’ how’d you come by the hoss?”

  Duane answered briefly, and his words were followed by a short silence, during which the men looked at him. Bosomer began to twist the ends of his beard.

  “Reckon he’s dead, all right, or nobody’d hev his hoss an’ guns,” presently said Euchre.

  “Mister Duane,” began Bosomer, in low, stinging tones, “I happen to be Luke Stevens’s side-pardner.”

  Duane looked him over, from dusty, worn-out boots to his slouchy sombrero. That look seemed to inflame Bosomer.

  “An’ I want the hoss an’ them guns,” he shouted.

  “You or anybody else can have them, for all I care. I just fetched them in. But the pack is mine,” replied Duane. “And say, I befriended your pard. If you can’t use a civil tongue you’d better cinch it.”

  “Civil? Haw, haw!” rejoined the outlaw. “I don’t know you. How do we know you didn’t plug Stevens, an’ stole his hoss, an’ jest happened to stumble down here?”

  “You’ll have to take my word, that’s all,” replied Duane sharply.

  “God damn! I ain’t takin’ your word! Savvy thet? An’ I was Luke’s pard!”

  With that Bosomer wheeled and, pushing his companions aside, he stamped into the saloon, where his voice broke out in a roar.

  Duane dismounted and threw his bridle.

  “Stranger, Bosomer is shore hot-headed,” said the man Euchre. He did not appear unfriendly, nor were the others hostile.

  At this juncture several more outlaws crowded out of the door, and the one in the lead was a tall man of stalwart physique. His manner proclaimed him a leader. He had a long face, a flaming red beard, and clear, cold blue eyes that fixed in close scrutiny upon Duane. He was not a Texan; in truth, Duane did not recognize one of these outlaws as native to his state.

  “I’m Bland,” said the tall man, authoritatively. “Who ’re you and what ’re you doing here?”

  Duane looked at Bland as he had at the others. This outlaw chief appeared to be reasonable, if he was not courteous. Duane told his story again, this time a little more in detail.

  “I believe you,” replied Bland, at once. “Think I know when a fellow is lying.”

  “I reckon you’re on the right trail,” put in Euchre. “Thet about Luke wantin’ his boots took off—thet satisfies me. Luke hed a mortal dread of dyin’ with his boots on.”

  At this sally the chief and his men laughed.

  “You said Duane—Buck Duane?” queried Bland. “Are you a son of that Duane who was a gun-fighter some years back?”

  “Yes,” replied Duane.

  “Never met him, and glad I didn’t,” said Bland, with a grim humor. “So you got in trouble and had to go on the dodge? What kind of trouble?”

  “Had a fight.”

  “Fight? Do you mean gun-play?” questioned Bland. He seemed eager, curious, speculative.

  “Yes. It ended in gun-play, I’m sorry to say,” answered Duane.

  “Guess I needn’t ask the son of Duane if he killed his man,” went on Bland, ironically. “Well, I’m sorry you bucked against trouble in my camp. But as it is, I guess you’d be wise to make yourself scarce.”

  “Do you mean I’m politely told to move on?” asked Duane, quietly.

  “Not exactly that,” said Bland, as if irritated. “If this isn’t a free place there isn’t one on earth. Every man is equal here. Do you want to join my band?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, even if you did I imagine that wouldn’t stop Bosomer. He’s an ugly fellow. He’s one of the few gunmen I’ve met who wants to kill somebody all the time. Most men like that are four-flushes. But Bosomer is all one color, and that’s red. Merely for your own sake I advise you to hit the trail.”

  “Thanks. But if that’s all I’ll stay,” returned Duane. Even as he spoke he felt that he did not know himself.

  Bosomer appeared at the door, pushing men who tried to detain him, and as he jumped clear of a last reaching hand he uttered a snarl like an angry dog. Manifestly the short while he had spent inside the saloon had been devoted to drinking and talking himself into a frenzy. Bland and the other outlaws quickly moved aside, letting Duane stand alone. When Bosomer saw Duane standing motionless and watchful a strange change passed quickly in him. He halted in his tracks, and as he did that the men who had followed him out piled over one another in their hurry to get to one side.

  Duane saw all the swift action, felt intuitively the meaning of it, and in Bosomer’s sudden change of front. The outlaw was keen, and he had expected a shrinking, or at least a frightened antagonist. Duane knew he was neither. He felt like iron, and yet thrill after thrill ran through him. It was almost as if this situation had been one long familiar to him. Somehow he understood this yellow-eyed Bosomer. The outlaw had come out to kill him. And now, though somewhat checked by the stand of a stranger, he still meant to kill. Like so many desperadoes of his ilk, he was victim of a passion to kill for the sake of killing. Duane divined that no sudden animosity was driving Bosomer. It was just his chance. In that moment murder would have been joy to him. Very likely he had forgotten his pretext for a quarrel. Very probably his faculties were absorbed in conjecture as to Duane’s possibilities.

  But he did not speak a word. He remained motionless for a long moment, his eyes pale and steady, his right hand like a claw.

  That instant gave Duane a power to read in his enemy’s eyes the thought that preceded action. But Duane did not want to kill another man.
Still he would have to fight, and he decided to cripple Bosomer. When Bosomer’s hand moved Duane’s gun was spouting fire. Two shots only—both from Duane’s gun—and the outlaw fell with his right arm shattered. Bosomer cursed harshly and floundered in the dust, trying to reach the gun with his left hand. His comrades, however, seeing that Duane would not kill unless forced, closed in upon Bosomer and prevented any further madness on his part.

  CHAPTER 5

  Of the outlaws present Euchre appeared to be the one most inclined to lend friendliness to curiosity; and he led Duane and the horses away to a small adobe shack. He tied the horses in an open shed and removed their saddles. Then, gathering up Stevens’s weapons, he invited his visitor to enter the house.

  It had two rooms—windows without coverings—bare floors. One room contained blankets, weapons, saddles, and bridles; the other a stone fireplace, rude table and bench, two bunks, a box cupboard, and various blackened utensils.

  “Make yourself to home as long as you want to stay,” said Euchre. “I ain’t rich in this world’s goods, but I own what’s here, an’ you’re welcome.”

  “Thanks. I’ll stay awhile and rest. I’m pretty well played out,” replied Duane.

  Euchre gave him a keen glance.

  “Go ahead an’ rest. I’ll take your horses to grass.”

  Euchre left Duane alone in the house. Duane relaxed then, and mechanically he wiped the sweat from his face. He was laboring under some kind of a spell or shock which did not pass off quickly. When it had worn away he took off his coat and belt and made himself comfortable on the blankets. And he had a thought that if he rested or slept what difference would it make on the morrow? No rest, no sleep could change the gray outlook of the future. He felt glad when Euchre came bustling in, and for the first time he took notice of the outlaw.

  Euchre was old in years. What little hair he had was gray, his face clean-shaven and full of wrinkles; his eyes were half shut from long gazing through the sun and dust. He stooped. But his thin frame denoted strength and endurance still unimpaired.

  “Hev a drink or a smoke?” he asked.

  Duane shook his head. He had not been unfamiliar with whisky, and he had used tobacco moderately since he was sixteen. But now, strangely, he felt a disgust at the idea of stimulants. He did not understand clearly what he felt. There was that vague idea of something wild in his blood, something that made him fear himself.

  Euchre wagged his old head sympathetically. “Reckon you feel a little sick. When it comes to shootin’ I run. What’s your age?”

  “I’m twenty-three,” replied Duane.

  Euchre showed surprise. “You’re only a boy! I thought you thirty anyways. Buck, I heard what you told Bland, an’ puttin’ thet with my own figgerin’, I reckon you’re no criminal yet. Throwin’ a gun in self-defense—thet ain’t no crime!”

  Duane, finding relief in talking, told more about himself.

  “Huh,” replied the old man. “I’ve been on this river fer years, an’ I’ve seen hundreds of boys come in on the dodge. Most of them, though, was no good. An’ thet kind don’t last long. This river country has been an’ is the refuge fer criminals from all over the states. I’ve bunked with bank cashiers, forgers, plain thieves, an’ out-an’-out murderers, all of which had no bizness on the Texas border. Fellers like Bland are exceptions. He’s no Texan—you seen thet. The gang he rules here come from all over, an’ they’re tough cusses, you can bet on thet. They live fat an’ easy. If it wasn’t fer the fightin’ among themselves they’d shore grow populous. The Rim Rock is no place for a peaceable, decent feller. I heard you tell Bland you wouldn’t join his gang. Thet ’ll not make him take a likin’ to you. Have you any money?”

  “Not much,” replied Duane.

  “Could you live by gamblin’? Are you any good at cards?”

  “No.”

  “You wouldn’t steal hosses or rustle cattle?”

  “No.”

  “When your money’s gone how ’n hell will you live? There ain’t any work a decent feller could do. You can’t herd with Mexicans. Why, Bland’s men would shoot at you in the fields. What ’ll you do, son?”

  “God knows,” replied Duane, hopelessly. “I’ll make my money last as long as possible—then starve.”

  “Wal, I’m pretty pore, but you’ll never starve while I got anythin’.”

  Here it struck Duane again—that something human and kind and eager which he had seen in Stevens. Duane’s estimate of outlaws had lacked this quality. He had not accorded them any virtues. To him, as to the outside world, they had been merely vicious men without one redeeming feature.

  “I’m much obliged to you, Euchre,” replied Duane. “But of course I won’t live with any one unless I can pay my share.”

  “Have it any way you like, my son,” said Euchre, good-humoredly. “You make a fire, an’ I’ll set about gettin’ grub. I’m a sour-dough, Buck. Thet man doesn’t live who can beat my bread.”

  “How do you ever pack supplies in here?” asked Duane, thinking of the almost inaccessible nature of the valley.

  “Some comes across from Mexico, an’ the rest down the river. Thet river trip is a bird. It’s more’n five hundred miles to any supply point. Bland has mozos, Mexican boatmen. Sometimes, too, he gets supplies in from down-river. You see Bland sells thousands of cattle in Cuba. An’ all this stock has to go down by boat to meet the ships.”

  “Where on earth are the cattle driven down to the river?” asked Duane.

  “Thet’s not my secret,” replied Euchre, shortly. “Fact is, I don’t know. I’ve rustled cattle for Bland, but he never sent me through the Rim Rock with them.”

  Duane experienced a sort of pleasure in the realization that interest had been stirred in him. He was curious about Bland and his gang, and glad to have something to think about. For every once in a while he had a sensation that was almost like a pang. He wanted to forget. In the next hour he did forget, and enjoyed helping in the preparation and eating of the meal. Euchre, after washing and hanging up the several utensils, put on his hat and turned to go out.

  “Come along or stay here, as you want,” he said to Duane.

  “I’ll stay,” rejoined Duane, slowly.

  The old outlaw left the room and trudged away, whistling cheerfully.

  Duane looked around him for a book or paper, anything to read; but all the printed matter he could find consisted of a few words on cartridge-boxes and an advertisement on the back of a tobacco-pouch. There seemed to be nothing for him to do. He had rested; he did not want to lie down any more. He began to walk to and fro, from one end of the room to the other. And as he walked he fell into the lately acquired habit of brooding over his misfortune.

  Suddenly he straightened up with a jerk. Unconsciously he had drawn his gun. Standing there with the bright cold weapon in his hand, he looked at it in consternation. How had he come to draw it? With difficulty he traced his thoughts backward, but could not find any that was accountable for his act. He discovered, however, that he had a remarkable tendency to drop his hand to his gun. That might have come from the habit long practice in drawing had given him. Likewise, it might have come from a subtle sense, scarcely thought of at all, of the late, close, and inevitable relation between that weapon and himself. He was amazed to find that, bitter as he had grown at fate, the desire to live burned strong in him. If he had been as unfortunately situated, but with the difference that no man wanted to put him in jail or take his life, he felt that this burning passion to be free, to save himself, might not have been so powerful. Life certainly held no bright prospects for him. Already he had begun to despair of ever getting back to his home. But to give up like a white-hearted coward, to let himself be handcuffed and jailed, to run from a drunken, bragging cowboy, or be shot in cold blood by some border brute who merely wanted to add another notch to his gun—these things were impossible for Duane because there was in him the temper to fight. In that hour he yielded only to fate and the spirit inborn in
him. Hereafter this gun must be a living part of him. Right then and there he returned to a practice he had long discontinued—the draw. It was now a stern, bitter, deadly business with him. He did not need to fire the gun, for accuracy was a gift and had become assured. Swiftness on the draw, however, could be improved, and he set himself to acquire the limit of speed possible to any man. He stood still in his tracks; he paced the room; he sat down, lay down, put himself in awkward positions; and from every position he practiced throwing his gun—practiced it till he was hot and tired and his arm ached and his hand burned. That practice he determined to keep up every day. It was one thing, at least, that would help pass the weary hours.

  Later he went outdoors to the cooler shade of the cottonwoods. From this point he could see a good deal of the valley. Under different circumstances Duane felt that he would have enjoyed such a beautiful spot. Euchre’s shack sat against the first rise of the slope of the wall, and Duane, by climbing a few rods, got a view of the whole valley. Assuredly it was an outlaw settlement. He saw a good many Mexicans, who, of course, were hand and glove with Bland. Also he saw enormous flat-boats, crude of structure, moored along the banks of the river. The Rio Grande rolled away between high bluffs. A cable, sagging deep in the middle, was stretched over the wide yellow stream, and an old scow, evidently used as a ferry, lay anchored on the far shore.

  The valley was an ideal retreat for an outlaw band operating on a big scale. Pursuit scarcely need be feared over the broken trails of the Rim Rock. And the open end of the valley could be defended against almost any number of men coming down the river. Access to Mexico was easy and quick. What puzzled Duane was how Bland got cattle down to the river, and he wondered if the rustler really did get rid of his stolen stock by use of boats.

  Duane must have idled considerable time up on the hill, for when he returned to the shack Euchre was busily engaged around the camp-fire.