CHAPTER XV
West of the Pecos River Texas extended a vast wild region, barren in thenorth where the Llano Estacado spread its shifting sands, fertile inthe south along the Rio Grande. A railroad marked an undeviating courseacross five hundred miles of this country, and the only villages andtowns lay on or near this line of steel. Unsettled as was this westernTexas, and despite the acknowledged dominance of the outlaw bands, thepioneers pushed steadily into it. First had come the lone rancher; thenhis neighbors in near and far valleys; then the hamlets; at last therailroad and the towns. And still the pioneers came, spreadingdeeper into the valleys, farther and wider over the plains. It wasmesquite-dotted, cactus-covered desert, but rich soil upon which wateracted like magic. There was little grass to an acre, but there weremillions of acres. The climate was wonderful. Cattle flourished andranchers prospered.
The Rio Grande flowed almost due south along the western boundary for athousand miles, and then, weary of its course, turned abruptly north,to make what was called the Big Bend. The railroad, running west, cutacross this bend, and all that country bounded on the north by therailroad and on the south by the river was as wild as the Staked Plains.It contained not one settlement. Across the face of this Big Bend, asif to isolate it, stretched the Ord mountain range, of which MountOrd, Cathedral Mount, and Elephant Mount raised bleak peaks above theirfellows. In the valleys of the foothills and out across the plains wereranches, and farther north villages, and the towns of Alpine and Marfa.
Like other parts of the great Lone Star State, this section of Texaswas a world in itself--a world where the riches of the rancher wereever enriching the outlaw. The village closest to the gateway of thisoutlaw-infested region was a little place called Ord, named after thedark peak that loomed some miles to the south. It had been settledoriginally by Mexicans--there were still the ruins of adobemissions--but with the advent of the rustler and outlaw many inhabitantswere shot or driven away, so that at the height of Ord's prosperity andevil sway there were but few Mexicans living there, and these had theirchoice between holding hand-and-glove with the outlaws or furnishingtarget practice for that wild element.
Toward the close of a day in September a stranger rode into Ord, and ina community where all men were remarkable for one reason or anotherhe excited interest. His horse, perhaps, received the first andmost engaging attention--horses in that region being apparently moreimportant than men. This particular horse did not attract with beauty.At first glance he seemed ugly. But he was a giant, black as coal, roughdespite the care manifestly bestowed upon him, long of body, ponderousof limb, huge in every way. A bystander remarked that he had a grandhead. True, if only his head had been seen he would have been abeautiful horse. Like men, horses show what they are in the shape, thesize, the line, the character of the head. This one denoted fire, speed,blood, loyalty, and his eyes were as soft and dark as a woman's. Hisface was solid black, except in the middle of his forehead, where therewas a round spot of white.
"Say mister, mind tellin' me his name?" asked a ragged urchin, with bornlove of a horse in his eyes.
"Bullet," replied the rider.
"Thet there's fer the white mark, ain't it?" whispered the youngster toanother. "Say, ain't he a whopper? Biggest hoss I ever seen."
Bullet carried a huge black silver-ornamented saddle of Mexican make, alariat and canteen, and a small pack rolled into a tarpaulin.
This rider apparently put all care of appearances upon his horse. Hisapparel was the ordinary jeans of the cowboy without vanity, and itwas torn and travel-stained. His boots showed evidence of an intimateacquaintance with cactus. Like his horse, this man was a giant instature, but rangier, not so heavily built. Otherwise the only strikingthing about him was his somber face with its piercing eyes, and hairwhite over the temples. He packed two guns, both low down--but that wastoo common a thing to attract notice in the Big Bend. A close observer,however, would have noted a singular fact--this rider's right hand wasmore bronzed, more weather-beaten than his left. He never wore a gloveon that right hand!
He had dismounted before a ramshackle structure that bore upon its wide,high-boarded front the sign, "Hotel." There were horsemen coming andgoing down the wide street between its rows of old stores, saloons,and houses. Ord certainly did not look enterprising. Americans hadmanifestly assimilated much of the leisure of the Mexicans. The hotelhad a wide platform in front, and this did duty as porch and sidewalk.Upon it, and leaning against a hitching-rail, were men of varying ages,most of them slovenly in old jeans and slouched sombreros. Some werebooted, belted, and spurred. No man there wore a coat, but all worevests. The guns in that group would have outnumbered the men.
It was a crowd seemingly too lazy to be curious. Good nature did notappear to be wanting, but it was not the frank and boisterous kindnatural to the cowboy or rancher in town for a day. These men wereidlers; what else, perhaps, was easy to conjecture. Certainly to thisarriving stranger, who flashed a keen eye over them, they wore anatmosphere never associated with work.
Presently a tall man, with a drooping, sandy mustache, leisurelydetached himself from the crowd.
"Howdy, stranger," he said.
The stranger had bent over to loosen the cinches; he straightened up andnodded. Then: "I'm thirsty!"
That brought a broad smile to faces. It was characteristic greeting.One and all trooped after the stranger into the hotel. It was a dark,ill-smelling barn of a place, with a bar as high as a short man's head.A bartender with a scarred face was serving drinks.
"Line up, gents," said the stranger.
They piled over one another to get to the bar, with coarse jests andoaths and laughter. None of them noted that the stranger did not appearso thirsty as he had claimed to be. In fact, though he went through themotions, he did not drink at all.
"My name's Jim Fletcher," said the tall man with the drooping, sandymustache. He spoke laconically, nevertheless there was a tone thatshowed he expected to be known. Something went with that name. Thestranger did not appear to be impressed.
"My name might be Blazes, but it ain't," he replied. "What do you callthis burg?"
"Stranger, this heah me-tropoles bears the handle Ord. Is thet new toyou?"
He leaned back against the bar, and now his little yellow eyes, clear ascrystal, flawless as a hawk's, fixed on the stranger. Other men crowdedclose, forming a circle, curious, ready to be friendly or otherwise,according to how the tall interrogator marked the new-comer.
"Sure, Ord's a little strange to me. Off the railroad some, ain't it?Funny trails hereabouts."
"How fur was you goin'?"
"I reckon I was goin' as far as I could," replied the stranger, with ahard laugh.
His reply had subtle reaction on that listening circle. Some of themen exchanged glances. Fletcher stroked his drooping mustache, seemedthoughtful, but lost something of that piercing scrutiny.
"Wal, Ord's the jumpin'-off place," he said, presently. "Sure you'veheerd of the Big Bend country?"
"I sure have, an' was makin' tracks fer it," replied the stranger.
Fletcher turned toward a man in the outer edge of the group. "Knell,come in heah."
This individual elbowed his way in and was seen to be scarcely more thana boy, almost pale beside those bronzed men, with a long, expressionlessface, thin and sharp.
"Knell, this heah's--" Fletcher wheeled to the stranger. "What'd youcall yourself?"
"I'd hate to mention what I've been callin' myself lately."
This sally fetched another laugh. The stranger appeared cool, careless,indifferent. Perhaps he knew, as the others present knew, that this showof Fletcher's, this pretense of introduction, was merely talk while hewas looked over.
Knell stepped up, and it was easy to see, from the way Fletcherrelinquished his part in the situation, that a man greater than he hadappeared upon the scene.
"Any business here?" he queried, curtly. When he spoke hisexpressionless face was in strange contrast with the ring, the quality,the crue
lty of his voice. This voice betrayed an absence of humor, offriendliness, of heart.
"Nope," replied the stranger.
"Know anybody hereabouts?"
"Nary one."
"Jest ridin' through?"
"Yep."
"Slopin' fer back country, eh?"
There came a pause. The stranger appeared to grow a little resentful anddrew himself up disdainfully.
"Wal, considerin' you-all seem so damn friendly an' oncurious downhere in this Big Bend country, I don't mind sayin' yes--I am in on thedodge," he replied, with deliberate sarcasm.
"From west of Ord--out El Paso way, mebbe?"
"Sure."
"A-huh! Thet so?" Knell's words cut the air, stilled the room. "You'refrom way down the river. Thet's what they say down there--'on thedodge.'... Stranger, you're a liar!"
With swift clink of spur and thump of boot the crowd split, leavingKnell and the stranger in the center.
Wild breed of that ilk never made a mistake in judging a man's nerve.Knell had cut out with the trenchant call, and stood ready. The strangersuddenly lost his every semblance to the rough and easy character beforemanifest in him. He became bronze. That situation seemed familiarto him. His eyes held a singular piercing light that danced like acompass-needle.
"Sure I lied," he said; "so I ain't takin' offense at the way you calledme. I'm lookin' to make friends, not enemies. You don't strike me as oneof them four-flushes, achin' to kill somebody. But if you are--go aheadan' open the ball.... You see, I never throw a gun on them fellers tillthey go fer theirs."
Knell coolly eyed his antagonist, his strange face not changing in theleast. Yet somehow it was evident in his look that here was metal whichrang differently from what he had expected. Invited to start a fightor withdraw, as he chose, Knell proved himself big in the mannercharacteristic of only the genuine gunman.
"Stranger, I pass," he said, and, turning to the bar, he ordered liquor.
The tension relaxed, the silence broke, the men filled up the gap; theincident seemed closed. Jim Fletcher attached himself to the stranger,and now both respect and friendliness tempered his asperity.
"Wal, fer want of a better handle I'll call you Dodge," he said.
"Dodge's as good as any.... Gents, line up again--an' if you can't befriendly, be careful!"
Such was Buck Duane's debut in the little outlaw hamlet of Ord.
Duane had been three months out of the Nueces country. At El Pasohe bought the finest horse he could find, and, armed and otherwiseoutfitted to suit him, he had taken to unknown trails. Leisurely he rodefrom town to town, village to village, ranch to ranch, fitting his talkand his occupation to the impression he wanted to make upon differentpeople whom he met. He was in turn a cowboy, a rancher, a cattleman,a stock-buyer, a boomer, a land-hunter; and long before he reached thewild and inhospitable Ord he had acted the part of an outlaw, driftinginto new territory. He passed on leisurely because he wanted to learnthe lay of the country, the location of villages and ranches, the work,habit, gossip, pleasures, and fears of the people with whom he camein contact. The one subject most impelling to him--outlaws--he nevermentioned; but by talking all around it, sifting the old ranch andcattle story, he acquired a knowledge calculated to aid his plot. Inthis game time was of no moment; if necessary he would take years toaccomplish his task. The stupendous and perilous nature of it showedin the slow, wary preparation. When he heard Fletcher's name and facedKnell he knew he had reached the place he sought. Ord was a hamlet onthe fringe of the grazing country, of doubtful honesty, from which,surely, winding trails led down into that free and never-disturbedparadise of outlaws--the Big Bend.
Duane made himself agreeable, yet not too much so, to Fletcher andseveral other men disposed to talk and drink and eat; and then, afterhaving a care for his horse, he rode out of town a couple of miles toa grove he had marked, and there, well hidden, he prepared to spend thenight. This proceeding served a double purpose--he was safer, and thehabit would look well in the eyes of outlaws, who would be more inclinedto see in him the lone-wolf fugitive.
Long since Duane had fought out a battle with himself, won a hard-earnedvictory. His outer life, the action, was much the same as it had been;but the inner life had tremendously changed. He could never become ahappy man, he could never shake utterly those haunting phantoms that hadonce been his despair and madness; but he had assumed a task impossiblefor any man save one like him, he had felt the meaning of it growstrangely and wonderfully, and through that flourished up consciousnessof how passionately he now clung to this thing which would blot out hisformer infamy. The iron fetters no more threatened his hands; the irondoor no more haunted his dreams. He never forgot that he was free.Strangely, too, along with this feeling of new manhood there gatheredthe force of imperious desire to run these chief outlaws to their dooms.He never called them outlaws--but rustlers, thieves, robbers, murderers,criminals. He sensed the growth of a relentless driving passion, andsometimes he feared that, more than the newly acquired zeal and pride inthis ranger service, it was the old, terrible inherited killing instinctlifting its hydra-head in new guise. But of that he could not be sure.He dreaded the thought. He could only wait.
Another aspect of the change in Duane, neither passionate nor driving,yet not improbably even more potent of new significance to life, wasthe imperceptible return of an old love of nature dead during his outlawdays.
For years a horse had been only a machine of locomotion, to carry himfrom place to place, to beat and spur and goad mercilessly in flight;now this giant black, with his splendid head, was a companion, a friend,a brother, a loved thing, guarded jealously, fed and trained and riddenwith an intense appreciation of his great speed and endurance. For yearsthe daytime, with its birth of sunrise on through long hours to theruddy close, had been used for sleep or rest in some rocky hole orwillow brake or deserted hut, had been hated because it augmented dangerof pursuit, because it drove the fugitive to lonely, wretched hiding;now the dawn was a greeting, a promise of another day to ride, to plan,to remember, and sun, wind, cloud, rain, sky--all were joys to him,somehow speaking his freedom. For years the night had been a blackspace, during which he had to ride unseen along the endless trails, topeer with cat-eyes through gloom for the moving shape that ever pursuedhim; now the twilight and the dusk and the shadows of grove and canondarkened into night with its train of stars, and brought him calmreflection of the day's happenings, of the morrow's possibilities,perhaps a sad, brief procession of the old phantoms, then sleep. Foryears canons and valleys and mountains had been looked at as retreatsthat might be dark and wild enough to hide even an outlaw; now he sawthese features of the great desert with something of the eyes of the boywho had once burned for adventure and life among them.
This night a wonderful afterglow lingered long in the west, and againstthe golden-red of clear sky the bold, black head of Mount Ord reareditself aloft, beautiful but aloof, sinister yet calling. Small wonderthat Duane gazed in fascination upon the peak! Somewhere deep inits corrugated sides or lost in a rugged canon was hidden the secretstronghold of the master outlaw Cheseldine. All down along the ride fromEl Paso Duane had heard of Cheseldine, of his band, his fearful deeds,his cunning, his widely separated raids, of his flitting here and therelike a Jack-o'-lantern; but never a word of his den, never a word of hisappearance.
Next morning Duane did not return to Ord. He struck off to the north,riding down a rough, slow-descending road that appeared to have beenused occasionally for cattle-driving. As he had ridden in from the west,this northern direction led him into totally unfamiliar country. Whilehe passed on, however, he exercised such keen observation that in thefuture he would know whatever might be of service to him if he chancedthat way again.
The rough, wild, brush-covered slope down from the foothills graduallyleveled out into plain, a magnificent grazing country, upon which tillnoon of that day Duane did not see a herd of cattle or a ranch. Aboutthat time he made out smoke from the railroad, and after a couple ofh
ours' riding he entered a town which inquiry discovered to be Bradford.It was the largest town he had visited since Marfa, and he calculatedmust have a thousand or fifteen hundred inhabitants, not includingMexicans. He decided this would be a good place for him to hold up fora while, being the nearest town to Ord, only forty miles away. So hehitched his horse in front of a store and leisurely set about studyingBradford.
It was after dark, however, that Duane verified his suspicionsconcerning Bradford. The town was awake after dark, and there was onelong row of saloons, dance-halls, gambling-resorts in full blast. Duanevisited them all, and was surprised to see wildness and license equal tothat of the old river camp of Bland's in its palmiest days. Here it wasforced upon him that the farther west one traveled along the riverthe sparser the respectable settlements, the more numerous the hardcharacters, and in consequence the greater the element of lawlessness.Duane returned to his lodging-house with the conviction that MacNelly'stask of cleaning up the Big Bend country was a stupendous one. Yet, hereflected, a company of intrepid and quick-shooting rangers could havesoon cleaned up this Bradford.
The innkeeper had one other guest that night, a long black-coated andwide-sombreroed Texan who reminded Duane of his grandfather. This manhad penetrating eyes, a courtly manner, and an unmistakable leaningtoward companionship and mint-juleps. The gentleman introduced himselfas Colonel Webb, of Marfa, and took it as a matter of course that Duanemade no comment about himself.
"Sir, it's all one to me," he said, blandly, waving his hand. "I havetraveled. Texas is free, and this frontier is one where it's healthierand just as friendly for a man to have no curiosity about his companion.You might be Cheseldine, of the Big Bend, or you might be Judge Little,of El Paso-it's all one to me. I enjoy drinking with you anyway."
Duane thanked him, conscious of a reserve and dignity that he could nothave felt or pretended three months before. And then, as always, he wasa good listener. Colonel Webb told, among other things, that he had comeout to the Big Bend to look over the affairs of a deceased brother whohad been a rancher and a sheriff of one of the towns, Fairdale by name.
"Found no affairs, no ranch, not even his grave," said Colonel Webb."And I tell you, sir, if hell's any tougher than this Fairdale I don'twant to expiate my sins there."
"Fairdale.... I imagine sheriffs have a hard row to hoe out here,"replied Duane, trying not to appear curious.
The Colonel swore lustily.
"My brother was the only honest sheriff Fairdale ever had. It waswonderful how long he lasted. But he had nerve, he could throw a gun,and he was on the square. Then he was wise enough to confine his workto offenders of his own town and neighborhood. He let the riding outlawsalone, else he wouldn't have lasted at all.... What this frontier needs,sir, is about six companies of Texas Rangers."
Duane was aware of the Colonel's close scrutiny.
"Do you know anything about the service?" he asked.
"I used to. Ten years ago when I lived in San Antonio. A fine body ofmen, sir, and the salvation of Texas."
"Governor Stone doesn't entertain that opinion," said Duane.
Here Colonel Webb exploded. Manifestly the governor was not his choicefor a chief executive of the great state. He talked politics for awhile, and of the vast territory west of the Pecos that seemed never toget a benefit from Austin. He talked enough for Duane to realize thathere was just the kind of intelligent, well-informed, honest citizenthat he had been trying to meet. He exerted himself thereafter tobe agreeable and interesting; and he saw presently that here was anopportunity to make a valuable acquaintance, if not a friend.
"I'm a stranger in these parts," said Duane, finally. "What is thisoutlaw situation you speak of?"
"It's damnable, sir, and unbelievable. Not rustling any more, but justwholesale herd-stealing, in which some big cattlemen, supposed to behonest, are equally guilty with the outlaws. On this border, you know,the rustler has always been able to steal cattle in any numbers. But toget rid of big bunches--that's the hard job. The gang operating betweenhere and Valentine evidently have not this trouble. Nobody knows wherethe stolen stock goes. But I'm not alone in my opinion that most ofit goes to several big stockmen. They ship to San Antonio, Austin, NewOrleans, also to El Paso. If you travel the stock-road between here andMarfa and Valentine you'll see dead cattle all along the line and straycattle out in the scrub. The herds have been driven fast and far, andstragglers are not rounded up."
"Wholesale business, eh?" remarked Duane. "Who are these--er--bigstock-buyers?"
Colonel Webb seemed a little startled at the abrupt query. He bent hispenetrating gaze upon Duane and thoughtfully stroked his pointed beard.
"Names, of course, I'll not mention. Opinions are one thing, directaccusation another. This is not a healthy country for the informer."
When it came to the outlaws themselves Colonel Webb was disposed to talkfreely. Duane could not judge whether the Colonel had a hobby of thatsubject or the outlaws were so striking in personality and deed thatany man would know all about them. The great name along the river wasCheseldine, but it seemed to be a name detached from an individual. Noperson of veracity known to Colonel Webb had ever seen Cheseldine,and those who claimed that doubtful honor varied so diversely indescriptions of the chief that they confused the reality and lent tothe outlaw only further mystery. Strange to say of an outlaw leader, asthere was no one who could identify him, so there was no one who couldprove he had actually killed a man. Blood flowed like water over theBig Bend country, and it was Cheseldine who spilled it. Yet the factremained there were no eye-witnesses to connect any individual calledCheseldine with these deeds of violence. But in striking contrast tothis mystery was the person, character, and cold-blooded action ofPoggin and Knell, the chief's lieutenants. They were familiar figures inall the towns within two hundred miles of Bradford. Knell had a record,but as gunman with an incredible list of victims Poggin was supreme.If Poggin had a friend no one ever heard of him. There were a hundredstories of his nerve, his wonderful speed with a gun, his passion forgambling, his love of a horse--his cold, implacable, inhuman wiping outof his path any man that crossed it.
"Cheseldine is a name, a terrible name," said Colonel Webb. "SometimesI wonder if he's not only a name. In that case where does the brains ofthis gang come from? No; there must be a master craftsman behind thisborder pillage; a master capable of handling those terrors Poggin andKnell. Of all the thousands of outlaws developed by western Texas in thelast twenty years these three are the greatest. In southern Texas, downbetween the Pecos and the Nueces, there have been and are still manybad men. But I doubt if any outlaw there, possibly excepting Buck Duane,ever equaled Poggin. You've heard of this Duane?"
"Yes, a little," replied Duane, quietly. "I'm from southern Texas. BuckDuane then is known out here?"
"Why, man, where isn't his name known?" returned Colonel Webb. "I'vekept track of his record as I have all the others. Of course, Duane,being a lone outlaw, is somewhat of a mystery also, but not likeCheseldine. Out here there have drifted many stories of Duane, horriblesome of them. But despite them a sort of romance clings to that Nuecesoutlaw. He's killed three great outlaw leaders, I believe--Bland,Hardin, and the other I forgot. Hardin was known in the Big Bend, hadfriends there. Bland had a hard name at Del Rio."
"Then this man Duane enjoys rather an unusual repute west of the Pecos?"inquired Duane.
"He's considered more of an enemy to his kind than to honest men.I understand Duane had many friends, that whole counties swear byhim--secretly, of course, for he's a hunted outlaw with rewards on hishead. His fame in this country appears to hang on his matchless gun-playand his enmity toward outlaw chiefs. I've heard many a rancher say: 'Iwish to God that Buck Duane would drift out here! I'd give a hundredpesos to see him and Poggin meet.' It's a singular thing, stranger, howjealous these great outlaws are of each other."
"Yes, indeed, all about them is singular," replied Duane. "HasCheseldine's gang been busy lately?"
"No. T
his section has been free of rustling for months, though there'sunexplained movements of stock. Probably all the stock that's beingshipped now was rustled long ago. Cheseldine works over a wide section,too wide for news to travel inside of weeks. Then sometimes he's notheard of at all for a spell. These lulls are pretty surely indicative ofa big storm sooner or later. And Cheseldine's deals, as they grow fewerand farther between, certainly get bigger, more daring. There are somepeople who think Cheseldine had nothing to do with the bank-robberiesand train-holdups during the last few years in this country. But that'spoor reasoning. The jobs have been too well done, too surely covered, tobe the work of greasers or ordinary outlaws."
"What's your view of the outlook? How's all this going to wind up? Willthe outlaw ever be driven out?" asked Duane.
"Never. There will always be outlaws along the Rio Grande. All thearmies in the world couldn't comb the wild brakes of that fifteenhundred miles of river. But the sway of the outlaw, such as is enjoyedby these great leaders, will sooner or later be past. The criminalelement flock to the Southwest. But not so thick and fast as thepioneers. Besides, the outlaws kill themselves, and the ranchers areslowly rising in wrath, if not in action. That will come soon. If theyonly had a leader to start the fight! But that will come. There's talkof Vigilantes, the same hat were organized in California and are now inforce in Idaho. So far it's only talk. But the time will come. And thedays of Cheseldine and Poggin are numbered."
Duane went to bed that night exceedingly thoughtful. The long trail wasgrowing hot. This voluble colonel had given him new ideas. It cameto Duane in surprise that he was famous along the upper Rio Grande.Assuredly he would not long be able to conceal his identity. He hadno doubt that he would soon meet the chiefs of this clever and boldrustling gang. He could not decide whether he would be safer unknown orknown. In the latter case his one chance lay in the fatality connectedwith his name, in his power to look it and act it. Duane had neverdreamed of any sleuth-hound tendency in his nature, but now he feltsomething like one. Above all others his mind fixed on Poggin--Pogginthe brute, the executor of Cheseldine's will, but mostly upon Poggin thegunman. This in itself was a warning to Duane. He felt terrible forcesat work within him. There was the stern and indomitable resolve tomake MacNelly's boast good to the governor of the state--to break upCheseldine's gang. Yet this was not in Duane's mind before a strangegrim and deadly instinct--which he had to drive away for fear he wouldfind in it a passion to kill Poggin, not for the state, nor for his wordto MacNelly, but for himself. Had his father's blood and the hard yearsmade Duane the kind of man who instinctively wanted to meet Poggin? Hewas sworn to MacNelly's service, and he fought himself to keep that, andthat only, in his mind.
Duane ascertained that Fairdale was situated two days' ride fromBradford toward the north. There was a stage which made the journeytwice a week.
Next morning Duane mounted his horse and headed for Fairdale. He rodeleisurely, as he wanted to learn all he could about the country.There were few ranches. The farther he traveled the better grazing heencountered, and, strange to note, the fewer herds of cattle.
It was just sunset when he made out a cluster of adobe houses thatmarked the half-way point between Bradford and Fairdale. Here, Duane hadlearned, was stationed a comfortable inn for wayfarers.
When he drew up before the inn the landlord and his family and a numberof loungers greeted him laconically.
"Beat the stage in, hey?" remarked one.
"There she comes now," said another. "Joel shore is drivin' to-night."
Far down the road Duane saw a cloud of dust and horses and a lumberingcoach. When he had looked after the needs of his horse he returned tothe group before the inn. They awaited the stage with thatinterest common to isolated people. Presently it rolled up, a largemud-bespattered and dusty vehicle, littered with baggage on top andtied on behind. A number of passengers alighted, three of whom excitedDuane's interest. One was a tall, dark, striking-looking man, and theother two were ladies, wearing long gray ulsters and veils. Duane heardthe proprietor of the inn address the man as Colonel Longstreth, and asthe party entered the inn Duane's quick ears caught a few words whichacquainted him with the fact that Longstreth was the Mayor of Fairdale.
Duane passed inside himself to learn that supper would soon be ready.At table he found himself opposite the three who had attracted hisattention.
"Ruth, I envy the lucky cowboys," Longstreth was saying.
Ruth was a curly-headed girl with gray or hazel eyes.
"I'm crazy to ride bronchos," she said.
Duane gathered she was on a visit to western Texas. The other girl'sdeep voice, sweet like a bell, made Duane regard her closer. She hadbeauty as he had never seen it in another woman. She was slender, butthe development of her figure gave Duane the impression she was twentyyears old or more. She had the most exquisite hands Duane had ever seen.She did not resemble the Colonel, who was evidently her father. Shelooked tired, quiet, even melancholy. A finely chiseled oval face;clear, olive-tinted skin, long eyes set wide apart and black as coal,beautiful to look into; a slender, straight nose that had somethingnervous and delicate about it which made Duane think of a thoroughbred;and a mouth by no means small, but perfectly curved; and hair likejet--all these features proclaimed her beauty to Duane. Duane believedher a descendant of one of the old French families of eastern Texas. Hewas sure of it when she looked at him, drawn by his rather persistentgaze. There were pride, fire, and passion in her eyes. Duane felthimself blushing in confusion. His stare at her had been rude, perhaps,but unconscious. How many years had passed since he had seen a girl likeher! Thereafter he kept his eyes upon his plate, yet he seemed to beaware that he had aroused the interest of both girls.
After supper the guests assembled in a big sitting-room where an openfire place with blazing mesquite sticks gave out warmth and cheery glow.Duane took a seat by a table in the corner, and, finding a paper,began to read. Presently when he glanced up he saw two dark-facedmen, strangers who had not appeared before, and were peering in from adoorway. When they saw Duane had observed them they stepped back out ofsight.
It flashed over Duane that the strangers acted suspiciously. In Texasin the seventies it was always bad policy to let strangers go unheeded.Duane pondered a moment. Then he went out to look over these two men.The doorway opened into a patio, and across that was a little dingy,dim-lighted bar-room. Here Duane found the innkeeper dispensing drinksto the two strangers. They glanced up when he entered, and one of themwhispered. He imagined he had seen one of them before. In Texas, whereoutdoor men were so rough, bronzed, bold, and sometimes grim of aspect,it was no easy task to pick out the crooked ones. But Duane's years onthe border had augmented a natural instinct or gift to read character,or at least to sense the evil in men; and he knew at once that thesestrangers were dishonest.
"Hey somethin'?" one of them asked, leering. Both looked Duane up anddown.
"No thanks, I don't drink," Duane replied, and returned their scrutinywith interest. "How's tricks in the Big Bend?"
Both men stared. It had taken only a close glance for Duane to recognizea type of ruffian most frequently met along the river. These strangershad that stamp, and their surprise proved he was right. Here theinnkeeper showed signs of uneasiness, and seconded the surprise of hiscustomers. No more was said at the instant, and the two rather hurriedlywent out.
"Say, boss, do you know those fellows?" Duane asked the innkeeper.
"Nope."
"Which way did they come?"
"Now I think of it, them fellers rid in from both corners today," hereplied, and he put both hands on the bar and looked at Duane. "Theynooned heah, comin' from Bradford, they said, an' trailed in after thestage."
When Duane returned to the sitting-room Colonel Longstreth was absent,also several of the other passengers. Miss Ruth sat in the chair he hadvacated, and across the table from her sat Miss Longstreth. Duane wentdirectly to them.
"Excuse me," said Duane, addressing them. "I want
to tell you there area couple of rough-looking men here. I've just seen them. They meanevil. Tell your father to be careful. Lock your doors--bar your windowsto-night."
"Oh!" cried Ruth, very low. "Ray, do you hear?"
"Thank you; we'll be careful," said Miss Longstreth, gracefully. Therich color had faded in her cheek. "I saw those men watching youfrom that door. They had such bright black eyes. Is there reallydanger--here?"
"I think so," was Duane's reply.
Soft swift steps behind him preceded a harsh voice: "Hands up!"
No man quicker than Duane to recognize the intent in those words! Hishands shot up. Miss Ruth uttered a little frightened cry and sank intoher chair. Miss Longstreth turned white, her eyes dilated. Both girlswere staring at some one behind Duane.
"Turn around!" ordered the harsh voice.
The big, dark stranger, the bearded one who had whispered to his comradein the bar-room and asked Duane to drink, had him covered with a cockedgun. He strode forward, his eyes gleaming, pressed the gun against him,and with his other hand dove into his inside coat pocket and tore outhis roll of bills. Then he reached low at Duane's hip, felt his gun, andtook it. Then he slapped the other hip, evidently in search of anotherweapon. That done, he backed away, wearing an expression of fiendishsatisfaction that made Duane think he was only a common thief, a noviceat this kind of game.
His comrade stood in the door with a gun leveled at two other men, whostood there frightened, speechless.
"Git a move on, Bill," called this fellow; and he took a hasty glancebackward. A stamp of hoofs came from outside. Of course the robbers hadhorses waiting. The one called Bill strode across the room, and withbrutal, careless haste began to prod the two men with his weapon and tosearch them. The robber in the doorway called "Rustle!" and disappeared.
Duane wondered where the innkeeper was, and Colonel Longstreth and theother two passengers. The bearded robber quickly got through with hissearching, and from his growls Duane gathered he had not been wellremunerated. Then he wheeled once more. Duane had not moved a muscle,stood perfectly calm with his arms high. The robber strode back with hisbloodshot eyes fastened upon the girls. Miss Longstreth never flinched,but the little girl appeared about to faint.
"Don't yap, there!" he said, low and hard. He thrust the gun close toRuth. Then Duane knew for sure that he was no knight of the road, but aplain cutthroat robber. Danger always made Duane exult in a kind of coldglow. But now something hot worked within him. He had a little gun inhis pocket. The robber had missed it. And he began to calculate chances.
"Any money, jewelry, diamonds!" ordered the ruffian, fiercely.
Miss Ruth collapsed. Then he made at Miss Longstreth. She stood withher hands at her breast. Evidently the robber took this position tomean that she had valuables concealed there. But Duane fancied she hadinstinctively pressed her hands against a throbbing heart.
"Come out with it!" he said, harshly, reaching for her.
"Don't dare touch me!" she cried, her eyes ablaze. She did not move. Shehad nerve.
It made Duane thrill. He saw he was going to get a chance. Waiting hadbeen a science with him. But here it was hard. Miss Ruth had fainted,and that was well. Miss Longstreth had fight in her, which fact helpedDuane, yet made injury possible to her. She eluded two lunges the manmade at her. Then his rough hand caught her waist, and with one pullripped it asunder, exposing her beautiful shoulder, white as snow.
She cried out. The prospect of being robbed or even killed had notshaken Miss Longstreth's nerve as had this brutal tearing off of halfher waist.
The ruffian was only turned partially away from Duane. For himselfhe could have waited no longer. But for her! That gun was still helddangerously upward close to her. Duane watched only that. Then a bellowmade him jerk his head. Colonel Longstreth stood in the doorway in amagnificent rage. He had no weapon. Strange how he showed no fear! Hebellowed something again.
Duane's shifting glance caught the robber's sudden movement. It wasa kind of start. He seemed stricken. Duane expected him to shootLongstreth. Instead the hand that clutched Miss Longstreth's torn waistloosened its hold. The other hand with its cocked weapon slowly droppedtill it pointed to the floor. That was Duane's chance.
Swift as a flash he drew his gun and fired. Thud! went his bullet, andhe could not tell on the instant whether it hit the robber or went intothe ceiling. Then the robber's gun boomed harmlessly. He fell with bloodspurting over his face. Duane realized he had hit him, but the smallbullet had glanced.
Miss Longstreth reeled and might have fallen had Duane not supportedher. It was only a few steps to a couch, to which he half led, halfcarried her. Then he rushed out of the room, across the patio, throughthe bar to the yard. Nevertheless, he was cautious. In the gloom stood asaddled horse, probably the one belonging to the fellow he had shot.His comrade had escaped. Returning to the sitting-room, Duane found acondition approaching pandemonium.
The innkeeper rushed in, pitchfork in hands. Evidently he had been outat the barn. He was now shouting to find out what had happened. Joel,the stage-driver, was trying to quiet the men who had been robbed. Thewoman, wife of one of the men, had come in, and she had hysterics. Thegirls were still and white. The robber Bill lay where he had fallen, andDuane guessed he had made a fair shot, after all. And, lastly, the thingthat struck Duane most of all was Longstreth's rage. He never saw suchpassion. Like a caged lion Longstreth stalked and roared. There came aquieter moment in which the innkeeper shrilly protested:
"Man, what're you ravin' aboot? Nobody's hurt, an' thet's lucky. I swearto God I hadn't nothin' to do with them fellers!"
"I ought to kill you anyhow!" replied Longstreth. And his voice nowastounded Duane, it was so full of power.
Upon examination Duane found that his bullet had furrowed the robber'stemple, torn a great piece out of his scalp, and, as Duane had guessed,had glanced. He was not seriously injured, and already showed signs ofreturning consciousness.
"Drag him out of here!" ordered Longstreth; and he turned to hisdaughter.
Before the innkeeper reached the robber Duane had secured the money andgun taken from him; and presently recovered the property of the othermen. Joel helped the innkeeper carry the injured man somewhere outside.
Miss Longstreth was sitting white but composed upon the couch, where layMiss Ruth, who evidently had been carried there by the Colonel. Duanedid not think she had wholly lost consciousness, and now she lay verystill, with eyes dark and shadowy, her face pallid and wet. The Colonel,now that he finally remembered his women-folk, seemed to be gentle andkind. He talked soothingly to Miss Ruth, made light of the adventure,said she must learn to have nerve out here where things happened.
"Can I be of any service?" asked Duane, solicitously.
"Thanks; I guess there's nothing you can do. Talk to these frightenedgirls while I go see what's to be done with that thick-skulled robber,"he replied, and, telling the girls that there was no more danger, hewent out.
Miss Longstreth sat with one hand holding her torn waist in place; theother she extended to Duane. He took it awkwardly, and he felt a strangethrill.
"You saved my life," she said, in grave, sweet seriousness.
"No, no!" Duane exclaimed. "He might have struck you, hurt you, but nomore."
"I saw murder in his eyes. He thought I had jewels under my dress. Icouldn't bear his touch. The beast! I'd have fought. Surely my life wasin peril."
"Did you kill him?" asked Miss Ruth, who lay listening.
"Oh no. He's not badly hurt."
"I'm very glad he's alive," said Miss Longstreth, shuddering.
"My intention was bad enough," Duane went on. "It was a ticklish placefor me. You see, he was half drunk, and I was afraid his gun might gooff. Fool careless he was!"
"Yet you say you didn't save me," Miss Longstreth returned, quickly.
"Well, let it go at that," Duane responded. "I saved you something."
"Tell me all about it?" asked Miss Ruth, who was fast r
ecovering.
Rather embarrassed, Duane briefly told the incident from his point ofview.
"Then you stood there all the time with your hands up thinking ofnothing--watching for nothing except a little moment when you might drawyour gun?" asked Miss Ruth.
"I guess that's about it," he replied.
"Cousin," said Miss Longstreth, thoughtfully, "it was fortunate for usthat this gentleman happened to be here. Papa scouts--laughs at danger.He seemed to think there was no danger. Yet he raved after it came."
"Go with us all the way to Fairdale--please?" asked Miss Ruth, sweetlyoffering her hand. "I am Ruth Herbert. And this is my cousin, RayLongstreth."
"I'm traveling that way," replied Duane, in great confusion. He did notknow how to meet the situation.
Colonel Longstreth returned then, and after bidding Duane a good night,which seemed rather curt by contrast to the graciousness of the girls,he led them away.
Before going to bed Duane went outside to take a look at the injuredrobber and perhaps to ask him a few questions. To Duane's surprise, hewas gone, and so was his horse. The innkeeper was dumfounded. He saidthat he left the fellow on the floor in the bar-room.
"Had he come to?" inquired Duane.
"Sure. He asked for whisky."
"Did he say anything else?"
"Not to me. I heard him talkin' to the father of them girls."
"You mean Colonel Longstreth?"
"I reckon. He sure was some riled, wasn't he? Jest as if I was to blamefer that two-bit of a hold-up!"
"What did you make of the old gent's rage?" asked Duane, watching theinnkeeper. He scratched his head dubiously. He was sincere, and Duanebelieved in his honesty.
"Wal, I'm doggoned if I know what to make of it. But I reckon he'seither crazy or got more nerve than most Texans."
"More nerve, maybe," Duane replied. "Show me a bed now, innkeeper."
Once in bed in the dark, Duane composed himself to think over theseveral events of the evening. He called up the details of the holdupand carefully revolved them in mind. The Colonel's wrath, undercircumstances where almost any Texan would have been cool, nonplussedDuane, and he put it down to a choleric temperament. He pondered long onthe action of the robber when Longstreth's bellow of rage burst inupon him. This ruffian, as bold and mean a type as Duane had everencountered, had, from some cause or other, been startled. From whateverpoint Duane viewed the man's strange indecision he could come toonly one conclusion--his start, his check, his fear had been that ofrecognition. Duane compared this effect with the suddenly acquired sensehe had gotten of Colonel Longstreth's powerful personality. Why had thatdesperate robber lowered his gun and stood paralyzed at sight and soundof the Mayor of Fairdale? This was not answerable. There might have beena number of reasons, all to Colonel Longstreth's credit, but Duanecould not understand. Longstreth had not appeared to see danger for hisdaughter, even though she had been roughly handled, and had advanced infront of a cocked gun. Duane probed deep into this singular fact, and hebrought to bear on the thing all his knowledge and experience ofviolent Texas life. And he found that the instant Colonel Longstrethhad appeared on the scene there was no further danger threatening hisdaughter. Why? That likewise Duane could not answer. Then his rage,Duane concluded, had been solely at the idea of HIS daughter beingassaulted by a robber. This deduction was indeed a thought-disturber,but Duane put it aside to crystallize and for more carefulconsideration.
Next morning Duane found that the little town was called Sanderson. Itwas larger than he had at first supposed. He walked up the main streetand back again. Just as he arrived some horsemen rode up to the inn anddismounted. And at this juncture the Longstreth party came out. Duaneheard Colonel Longstreth utter an exclamation. Then he saw him shakehands with a tall man. Longstreth looked surprised and angry, and hespoke with force; but Duane could not hear what it was he said. Thefellow laughed, yet somehow he struck Duane as sullen, until suddenlyhe espied Miss Longstreth. Then his face changed, and he removed hissombrero. Duane went closer.
"Floyd, did you come with the teams?" asked Longstreth, sharply.
"Not me. I rode a horse, good and hard," was the reply.
"Humph! I'll have a word to say to you later." Then Longstreth turned tohis daughter. "Ray, here's the cousin I've told you about. You used toplay with him ten years ago--Floyd Lawson. Floyd, my daughter--and myniece, Ruth Herbert."
Duane always scrutinized every one he met, and now with a dangerous gameto play, with a consciousness of Longstreth's unusual and significantpersonality, he bent a keen and searching glance upon this Floyd Lawson.
He was under thirty, yet gray at his temples--dark, smooth-shaven, withlines left by wildness, dissipation, shadows under dark eyes, a mouthstrong and bitter, and a square chin--a reckless, careless, handsome,sinister face strangely losing the hardness when he smiled. The graceof a gentleman clung round him, seemed like an echo in his mellow voice.Duane doubted not that he, like many a young man, had drifted out tothe frontier, where rough and wild life had wrought sternly but had notquite effaced the mark of good family.
Colonel Longstreth apparently did not share the pleasure of his daughterand his niece in the advent of this cousin. Something hinged on thismeeting. Duane grew intensely curious, but, as the stage appeared readyfor the journey, he had no further opportunity to gratify it.