The Lone Star Ranger by Zane Grey (read e book .TXT) 📕

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 sourdough, 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, greaser 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 settle meet. 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.

“Wal, glad to see you ain’t so pale about the gills as you was,” he said, by way of greeting. “Pitch in an’ we’ll soon have grub ready. There’s shore one consolin’ fact round this here camp.”

“What’s that?” asked Duane.

“Plenty of good juicy beef to eat. An’ it doesn’t cost a short bit.”

“But it costs hard rides and trouble, bad conscience, and life, too, doesn’t it?”

“I ain’t shore about the bad conscience. Mine never bothered me none. An’ as for life, why, thet’s cheap in Texas.”

“Who is Bland?” asked Duane, quickly changing the subject. “What do you know about him?”

“We don’t know who he is or where he hails from,” replied Euchre. “Thet’s always been somethin’ to interest the gang. He must have been a young man when he struck Texas. Now he’s middle-aged. I remember how years ago he was soft-spoken an’ not rough in talk or act like he is now. Bland ain’t likely his right name. He knows a lot. He can doctor you, an’ he’s shore a knowin’ feller with tools. He’s the kind thet rules men. Outlaws are always ridin’ in here to join his gang, an’ if it hadn’t been fer the gamblin’ an’ gunplay he’d have a thousand men around him.”

“How many in his gang now?”

“I reckon there’s short of a hundred now. The number varies. Then Bland has several small camps up an’ down the river. Also he has men back on the cattle-ranges.”

“How does he control such a big force?” asked Duane. “Especially when his band’s composed of bad men. Luke Stevens said he had no use for Bland. And I heard once somewhere that Bland was a devil.”

“Thet’s it. He is a devil. He’s as hard as flint, violent in temper, never made any friends except his right-hand men, Dave Rugg an’ Chess Alloway. Bland’ll shoot at a wink. He’s killed a lot of fellers, an’ some fer nothin’. The reason thet outlaws gather round him an’ stick is because he’s a safe refuge, an’ then he’s well heeled. Bland is rich. They say he has a hundred thousand pesos hid somewhere, an’ lots of gold. But he’s free with money. He gambles when he’s not off with a shipment of cattle. He throws money around. An’ the fact is there’s always plenty of money where he is. Thet’s what holds the gang. Dirty, bloody money!”

“It’s a wonder he hasn’t been killed. All these years on the border!” exclaimed Duane.

“Wal,” replied Euchre, dryly, “he’s been quicker on the draw than the other fellers who hankered to kill him, thet’s all.”

Euchre’s reply rather chilled Duane’s interest for the moment. Such remarks always made his mind revolve round facts pertaining to himself.

“Speakin’ of this here swift wrist game,” went on Euchre, “there’s been considerable talk in camp about your throwin’ of a gun. You know, Buck, thet among us fellers—us hunted men—there ain’t anythin’ calculated to rouse respect like a slick hand with a gun. I heard Bland say this afternoon—an’ he said it serious-like an’ speculative—thet he’d never seen your equal. He was watchin’ of you close, he said, an’ just couldn’t follow your hand when you drawed. All the fellers who seen you meet Bosomer had somethin’ to say. Bo was about as handy with a gun as any man in this camp, barrin’ Chess Alloway an’ mebbe Bland himself. Chess is the captain with a Colt—or he was. An’ he shore didn’t like the references made about your speed. Bland was honest in acknowledgin’ it, but he didn’t like it, neither. Some of the fellers allowed your draw might have been just accident. But most of them figgered different. An’ they all shut up when Bland told who an’ what your Dad was. ‘Pears to me I once seen your Dad in a gunscrape over at Santone, years ago. Wal, I put my oar in to-day among the fellers, an’ I says: ‘What ails you locoed gents? Did young Duane budge an inch when Bo came roarin’ out, blood in his eye? Wasn’t he cool an’ quiet, steady of lips, an’ weren’t his eyes readin’ Bo’s mind? An’ thet lightnin’ draw—can’t you-all see thet’s a family gift?’ “

Euchre’s narrow eyes twinkled, and he gave the dough he was rolling a slap with his flour-whitened hand. Manifestly he had proclaimed himself a champion and partner of Duane’s, with all the pride an old man could feel in a young one whom he admired.

“Wal,” he resumed, presently, “thet’s your introduction to the border, Buck. An’ your card was a high trump. You’ll be let severely alone by real gunfighters an’ men like Bland, Alloway, Rugg, an’ the bosses of the other gangs. After all, these real men are men, you know, an’ onless you cross them they’re no more likely to interfere with you than you are with them. But there’s a sight of fellers like Bosomer in the river country. They’ll all want your game. An’ every town you ride into will scare up some cowpuncher full of booze or a long-haired fourflush gunman or a sheriff—an’ these men will be playin’ to the crowd an’ yellin’ for your blood. Thet’s the Texas of it. You’ll have to hide fer ever in the brakes or you’ll have to KILL such men. Buck, I reckon this ain’t cheerful news to a decent chap like you. I’m only tellin’ you because I’ve