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THE LONE STAR RANGER

 

To CAPTAIN JOHN HUGHES and his Texas Rangers

 

It may seem strange to you that out of all the stories I heard on the Rio Grande I should choose as first that of Buck Duaneā€”outlaw and gunman.

But, indeed, Ranger Coffeeā€™s story of the last of the Duanes has haunted me, and I have given full rein to imagination and have retold it in my own way. It deals with the old lawā€”the old border daysā€”therefore it is better first. Soon, perchance, I shall have the pleasure of writing of the border of to-day, which in Joe Sitterā€™s laconic speech, ā€œShore is ā€˜most as bad anā€™ wild as ever!ā€

In the North and East there is a popular idea that the frontier of the West is a thing long past, and remembered now only in stories. As I think of this I remember Ranger Sitter when he made that remark, while he grimly stroked an unhealed bullet wound. And I remember the giant Vaughn, that typical son of stalwart Texas, sitting there quietly with bandaged head, his thoughtful eye boding ill to the outlaw who had ambushed him. Only a few months have passed since thenā€”when I had my memorable sojourn with youā€”and yet, in that short time, Russell and Moore have crossed the Divide, like Rangers.

Gentlemen,ā€”I have the honor to dedicate this book to you, and the hope that it shall fall to my lot to tell the world the truth about a strange, unique, and misunderstood body of menā€”the Texas Rangersā€”who made the great Lone Star State habitable, who never know peaceful rest and sleep, who are passing, who surely will not be forgotten and will some day come into their own.

ZANE GREY

BOOK 1 THE OUTLAW CHAPTER I

So it was in him, thenā€”an inherited fighting instinct, a driving intensity to kill. He was the last of the Duanes, that old fighting stock of Texas. But not the memory of his dead father, nor the pleading of his soft-voiced mother, nor the warning of this uncle who stood before him now, had brought to Buck Duane so much realization of the dark passionate strain in his blood. It was the recurrence, a hundred-fold increased in power, of a strange emotion that for the last three years had arisen in him.

ā€œYes, Cal Bainā€™s in town, full of bad whisky anā€™ huntinā€™ for you,ā€ repeated the elder man, gravely.

ā€œItā€™s the second time,ā€ muttered Duane, as if to himself.

ā€œSon, you canā€™t avoid a meetinā€™. Leave town till Cal sobers up. He ainā€™t got it in for you when heā€™s not drinkinā€™.ā€

ā€œBut whatā€™s he want me for?ā€ demanded Duane. ā€œTo insult me again? I wonā€™t stand that twice.ā€

ā€œHeā€™s got a fever thatā€™s rampant in Texas these days, my boy. He wants gunplay. If he meets you heā€™ll try to kill you.ā€

Here it stirred in Duane again, that bursting gush of blood, like a wind of flame shaking all his inner being, and subsiding to leave him strangely chilled.

ā€œKill me! What for?ā€ he asked.

ā€œLord knows there ainā€™t any reason. But whatā€™s that to do with most of the shootinā€™ these days? Didnā€™t five cowboys over to Everallā€™s kill one another dead all because they got to jerkinā€™ at a quirt among themselves? Anā€™ Cal has no reason to love you. His girl was sweet on you.ā€

ā€œI quit when I found out she was his girl.ā€

ā€œI reckon she ainā€™t quit. But never mind her or reasons. Calā€™s here, just drunk enough to be ugly. Heā€™s achinā€™ to kill somebody. Heā€™s one of them fourflush gunfighters. Heā€™d like to be thought bad. Thereā€™s a lot of wild cowboys whoā€™re ambitious for a reputation. They talk about how quick they are on the draw. T hey ape Bland anā€™ King Fisher anā€™ Hardin anā€™ all the big outlaws. They make threats about joininā€™ the gangs along the Rio Grande. They laugh at the sheriffs anā€™ brag about how theyā€™d fix the rangers. Calā€™s sure not much for you to bother with, if you only keep out of his way.ā€

ā€œYou mean for me to run?ā€ asked Duane, in scorn.

ā€œI reckon I wouldnā€™t put it that way. Just avoid him. Buck, Iā€™m not afraid Cal would get you if you met down there in town. Youā€™ve your fatherā€™s eye anā€™ his slick hand with a gun. What Iā€™m most afraid of is that youā€™ll kill Bain.ā€

Duane was silent, letting his uncleā€™s earnest words sink in, trying to realize their significance.

ā€œIf Texas ever recovers from that fool war anā€™ kills off these outlaws, why, a young man will have a lookout,ā€ went on the uncle. ā€œYouā€™re twenty-three now, anā€™ a powerful sight of a fine fellow, barrinā€™ your temper. Youā€™ve a chance in life. But if you go gun-fightinā€™, if you kill a man, youā€™re ruined. Then youā€™ll kill another. Itā€™ll be the same old story. Anā€™ the rangers would make you an outlaw. The rangers mean law anā€™ order for Texas. This even-break business doesnā€™t work with them. If you resist arrest theyā€™ll kill you. If you submit to arrest, then you go to jail, anā€™ mebbe you hang.ā€

ā€œIā€™d never hang,ā€ muttered Duane, darkly.

ā€œI reckon you wouldnā€™t,ā€ replied the old man. ā€œYouā€™d be like your father. He was ever ready to drawā€”too ready. In times like these, with the Texas rangers enforcinā€™ the law, your Dad would have been driven to the river. Anā€™, son, Iā€™m afraid youā€™re a chip off the old block. Canā€™t you hold inā€”keep your temperā€”run away from trouble? Because itā€™ll only result in you gettinā€™ the worst of it in the end. Your father was killed in a street-fight. Anā€™ it was told of him that he shot twice after a bullet had passed through his heart. Think of the terrible nature of a man to be able to do that. If you have any such blood in you, never give it a chance.ā€

ā€œWhat you say is all very well, uncle,ā€ returned Duane, ā€œbut the only way out for me is to run, and I wonā€™t do it. Cal Bain and his outfit have already made me look like a coward. He says Iā€™m afraid to come out and face him. A man simply canā€™t stand that in this country. Besides, Cal would shoot me in the back some day if I didnā€™t face him.ā€

ā€œWell, then, whatā€™re you goinā€™ to do?ā€ inquired the elder man.

ā€œI havenā€™t decidedā€”yet.ā€

ā€œNo, but youā€™re cominā€™ to it mighty fast. That damned spell is workinā€™ in you. Youā€™re different to-day. I remember how you used to be moody anā€™ lose your temper anā€™ talk wild. Never was much afraid of you then. But now youā€™re gettinā€™ cool anā€™ quiet, anā€™ you think deep, anā€™ I donā€™t like the light in your eye. It reminds me of your father.ā€

ā€œI wonder what Dad would say to me to-day if he were alive and here,ā€ said Duane.

ā€œWhat do you think? What could you expect of a man who never wore a glove on his right hand for twenty years?ā€

ā€œWell, heā€™d hardly have said much. Dad never talked. But he would have done a lot. And I guess Iā€™ll go down-town and let Cal Bain find me.ā€

Then followed a long silence, during which Duane sat with downcast eyes, and the uncle appeared lost in sad thought of the future. Presently he turned to Duane with an expression that denoted resignation, and yet a spirit which showed wherein they were of the same blood.

ā€œYouā€™ve got a fast horseā€”the fastest I know of in this country. After you meet Bain hurry back home. Iā€™ll have a saddlebag packed for you and the horse ready.ā€

With that he turned on his heel and went into the house, leaving Duane to revolve in his mind his singular speech. Buck wondered presently if he shared his uncleā€™s opinion of the result of a meeting between himself and Bain. His thoughts were vague. But on the instant of final decision, when he had settled with himself that he would meet Bain, such a storm of passion assailed him that he felt as if he was being shaken with ague. Yet it was all internal, inside his breast, for his hand was like a rock and, for all he could see, not a muscle about him quivered. He had no fear of Bain or of any other man; but a vague fear of himself, of this strange force in him, made him ponder and shake his head. It was as if he had not all to say in this matter. There appeared to have been in him a reluctance to let himself go, and some voice, some spirit from a distance, something he was not accountable for, had compelled him. That hour of Duaneā€™s life was like years of actual living, and in it he became a thoughtful man.

He went into the house and buckled on his belt and gun. The gun was a Colt .45, six-shot, and heavy, with an ivory handle. He had packed it, on and off, for five years. Before that it had been used by his father. There were a number of notches filed in the bulge of the ivory handle. This gun was the one his father had fired twice after being shot through the heart, and his hand had stiffened so tightly upon it in the death-grip that his fingers had to be pried open. It had never been drawn upon any man since it had come into Duaneā€™s possession. But the cold, bright polish of the weapon showed how it had been used. Duane could draw it with inconceivable rapidity, and at twenty feet he could split a card pointing edgewise toward him.

Duane wished to avoid meeting his mother. Fortunately, as he thought, she was away from home. He went out and down the path toward the gate. The air was full of the fragrance of blossoms and the melody of birds. Outside in the road a neighbor woman stood talking to a countryman in a wagon; they spoke to him; and he heard, but did not reply. Then he began to stride down the road toward the town.

Wellston was a small town, but important in that unsettled part of the great state because it was the trading-center of several hundred miles of territory. On the main street there were perhaps fifty buildings, some brick, some frame, mostly adobe, and one-third of the lot, and by far the most prosperous, were saloons. From the road Duane turned into this street. It was a wide thoroughfare lined by hitching-rails and saddled horses and vehicles of various kinds. Duaneā€™s eye ranged down the street, taking in all at a glance, particularly persons moving leisurely up and down. Not a cowboy was in sight. Duane slackened his stride, and by the time he reached Sol Whiteā€™s place, which was the first saloon, he was walking slowly. Several people spoke to him and turned to look back after they had passed. He paused at the door of Whiteā€™s saloon, took a sharp survey of the interior, then stepped inside.

The saloon was large and cool, full of men and noise and smoke. The noise ceased upon his entrance, and the silence ensuing presently broke to the clink of Mexican silver dollars at a monte table. Sol White, who was behind the bar, straightened

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