Duane, aware of how cramped he had become from long inaction, began to move his legs and uninjured arm and body, and at length overcame a paralyzing stiffness. Then, digging his hand in the sand and holding the plank with his knees, he edged it out into the river. Inch by inch he advanced until clear of the willows. Looking upward, he saw the shadowy figures of the men on the bluff. He realized they ought to see him, feared that they would. But he kept on, cautiously, noiselessly, with a heart-numbing slowness. From time to time his elbow made a little gurgle and splash in the water. Try as he might, he could not prevent this. It got to be like the hollow roar of a rapid filling his ears with mocking sound. There was a perceptible current out in the river, and it hindered straight advancement. Inch by inch he crept on, expecting to hear the bang of rifles, the spattering of bullets. He tried not to look backward, but failed. The fire appeared a little dimmer, the moving shadows a little darker.
Once the plank stuck in the sand and felt as if it were settling. Bringing feet to aid his hand, he shoved it over the treacherous place. This way he made faster progress. The obscurity of the river seemed to be enveloping him. When he looked back again the figures of the men were coalescing with the surrounding gloom, the fires were streaky, blurred patches of light. But the sky above was brighter. Dawn was not far off.
To the west all was dark. With infinite care and implacable spirit and waning strength Duane shoved the plank along, and when at last he discerned the black border of bank it came in time, he thought, to save him. He crawled out, rested till the gray dawn broke, and then headed north through the willows.
How long Duane was traveling out of that region he never knew. But he reached familiar country and found a rancher who had before befriended him. Here his arm was attended to; he had food and sleep; and in a couple of weeks he was himself again.
When the time came for Duane to ride away on his endless trail his friend reluctantly imparted the information that some thirty miles south, near the village of Shirley, there was posted at a certain cross-road a reward for Buck Duane dead or alive. Duane had heard of such notices, but he had never seen one. His friend's reluctance and refusal to state for what particular deed this reward was offered roused Duane's curiosity. He had never been any closer to Shirley than this rancher's home. Doubtless some post-office burglary, some gun-shooting scrape had been attributed to him. And he had been accused of worse deeds. Abruptly Duane decided to ride over there and find out who wanted him dead or alive, and why.
As he started south on the road he reflected that this was the first time he had ever deliberately hunted trouble. Introspection awarded him this knowledge; during that last terrible flight on the lower Nueces and while he lay abed recuperating he had changed. A fixed, immutable, hopeless bitterness abided with him. He had reached the end of his rope. All the power of his mind and soul were unavailable to turn him back from his fate.
That fate was to become an outlaw in every sense of the term, to be what he was credited with being—that is to say, to embrace evil. He had never committed a crime. He wondered now was crime close to him? He reasoned finally that the desperation of crime had been forced upon him, if not its motive; and that if driven, there was no limit to his possibilities. He understood now many of the hitherto inexplicable actions of certain noted outlaws—why they had returned to the scene of the crime that had outlawed them; why they took such strangely fatal chances; why life was no more to them than a breath of wind; why they rode straight into the jaws of death to confront wronged men or hunting rangers, vigilantes, to laugh in their very faces. It was such bitterness as this that drove these men.
Toward afternoon, from the top of a long hill, Duane saw the green fields and trees and shining roofs of a town he considered must be Shirley. And at the bottom of the hill he came upon an intersecting road. There was a placard nailed on the crossroad sign-post. Duane drew rein near it and leaned close to read the faded print. $1000 REWARD FOR BUCK DUANE DEAD OR ALIVE. Peering closer to read the finer, more faded print, Duane learned that he was wanted for the murder of Mrs. Jeff Aiken at her ranch near Shirley. The month September was named, but the date was illegible. The reward was offered by the woman's husband, whose name appeared with that of a sheriff's at the bottom of the placard.
Duane read the thing twice. When he straightened he was sick with the horror of his fate, wild with passion at those misguided fools who could believe that he had harmed a woman. Then he remembered Kate Bland, and, as always when she returned to him, he quaked inwardly. Years before word had gone abroad that he had killed her, and so it was easy for men wanting to fix a crime to name him. Perhaps it had been done often. Probably he bore on his shoulders a burden of numberless crimes.
A dark, passionate fury possessed him. It shook him like a storm shakes the oak. When it passed, leaving him cold, with clouded brow and piercing eye, his mind was set. Spurring his horse, he rode straight toward the village.
Shirley appeared to be a large, pretentious country town. A branch of some railroad terminated there. The main street was wide, bordered by trees and commodious houses, and many of the stores were of brick. A large plaza shaded by giant cottonwood trees occupied a central location.
Duane pulled his running horse and halted him, plunging and snorting, before a group of idle men who lounged on benches in the shade of a spreading cottonwood. How many times had Duane seen just that kind of lazy shirt-sleeved Texas group! Not often, however, had he seen such placid, lolling, good-natured men change their expression, their attitude so swiftly. His advent apparently was momentous. They evidently took him for an unusual visitor. So far as Duane could tell, not one of them recognized him, had a hint of his identity.
He slid off his horse and threw the bridle.
“I'm Buck Duane,” he said. “I saw that placard—out there on a sign-post. It's a damn lie! Somebody find this man Jeff Aiken. I want to see him.”
His announcement was taken in absolute silence. That was the only effect he noted, for he avoided looking at these villagers. The reason was simple enough; Duane felt himself overcome with emotion. There were tears in his eyes. He sat down on a bench, put his elbows on his knees and his hands to his face. For once he had absolutely no concern for his fate. This ignominy was the last straw.
Presently, however, he became aware of some kind of commotion among these villagers. He heard whisperings, low, hoarse voices, then the shuffle of rapid feet moving away. All at once a violent hand jerked his gun from its holster. When Duane rose a gaunt man, livid of face, shaking like a leaf, confronted him with his own gun.
“Hands up, thar, you Buck Duane!” he roared, waving the gun.
That appeared to be the cue for pandemonium to break loose. Duane opened his lips to speak, but if he had yelled at the top of his lungs he could not have made himself heard. In weary disgust he looked at the gaunt man, and then at the others, who were working themselves into a frenzy. He made no move, however, to hold up his hands. The villagers surrounded him, emboldened by finding him now unarmed. Then several men lay hold of his arms and pinioned them behind his back. Resistance was useless even if Duane had had the spirit. Some one of them fetched his halter from his saddle, and with this they bound him helpless.
People were running now from the street, the stores, the houses. Old men, cowboys, clerks, boys, ranchers came on the trot. The crowd grew. The increasing clamor began to attract women as well as men. A group of girls ran up, then hung back in fright and pity.
The presence of cowboys made a difference. They split up the crowd, got to Duane, and lay hold of him with rough, businesslike hands. One of them lifted his fists and roared at the frenzied mob to fall back, to stop the racket. He beat them back into a circle; but it was some little time before the hubbub quieted down so a voice could be heard.
“Shut up, will you-all?” he was yelling. “Give us a chance to hear somethin'. Easy now—soho. There ain't nobody goin' to be hurt. Thet's right; everybody quiet now. Let's see what's come off.”
This cowboy, evidently one of authority, or at least one of strong personality, turned to the gaunt man, who still waved Duane's gun.
“Abe, put the gun down,” he said. “It might go off. Here, give it to me. Now, what's wrong? Who's this roped gent, an' what's he done?”
The gaunt fellow, who appeared now about to collapse, lifted a shaking hand and pointed.
“Thet thar feller—he's Buck Duane!” he panted.
An angry murmur ran through the surrounding crowd.
“The rope! The rope! Throw it over a branch! String him up!” cried an excited villager.
“Buck Duane! Buck Duane!”
“Hang him!”
The cowboy silenced these cries.
“Abe, how do you know this fellow is Buck Duane?” he asked, sharply.
“Why—he said so,” replied the man called Abe.
“What!” came the exclamation, incredulously.
“It's a tarnal fact,” panted Abe, waving his hands importantly. He was an old man and appeared to be carried away with the significance of his deed. “He like to rid' his hoss right over us-all. Then he jumped off, says he was Buck Duane, an' he wanted to see Jeff Aiken bad.”
This speech caused a second commotion as noisy though not so enduring as the first. When the cowboy, assisted by a couple of his mates, had restored order again some one had slipped the noose-end of Duane's rope over his head.
“Up with him!” screeched a wild-eyed youth.
The mob surged closer was shoved back by the cowboys.
“Abe, if you ain't drunk or crazy tell thet over,” ordered Abe's interlocutor.
With some show of resentment and more of dignity Abe reiterated his former statement.
“If he's Buck Duane how'n hell did you get hold of his gun?” bluntly queried the cowboy.
“Why—he set down thar—an' he kind of hid his face on his hand. An' I grabbed his gun an' got the drop on him.”
What the cowboy thought of this was expressed in a laugh. His mates likewise grinned broadly. Then the leader turned to Duane.
“Stranger, I reckon you'd better speak up for yourself,” he said.
That stilled the crowd as no command had done.
“I'm Buck Duane, all right.” said Duane, quietly. “It was this way—”
The big cowboy seemed to vibrate with a shock. All the ruddy warmth left his face; his jaw began to bulge; the corded veins in his neck stood out in knots. In an instant he had a hard, stern, strange look. He shot out a powerful hand that fastened in the front of Duane's blouse.
“Somethin' queer here. But if you're Duane you're sure in bad. Any fool ought to know that. You mean it, then?”
“Yes.”
“Rode in to shoot up the town, eh? Same old stunt of you gunfighters? Meant to kill the man who offered a reward? Wanted to see Jeff Aiken bad, huh?”
“No,” replied Duane. “Your citizen here misrepresented things. He seems a little off his head.”
“Reckon he is. Somebody is, that's sure. You claim Buck Duane, then, an' all his doings?”
“I'm Duane; yes. But I won't stand for the blame of things I never did. That's why I'm here. I saw that placard out there offering the reward. Until now I never was within half a day's ride of this town. I'm blamed for what I never did. I rode in here, told who I was, asked somebody to send for Jeff Aiken.”
“An' then you set down an' let this old guy throw your own gun on you?” queried the cowboy in amazement.
“I guess that's it,” replied Duane.
“Well, it's powerful strange, if you're really Buck Duane.”
A man elbowed his way into the circle.
“It's Duane. I recognize him. I seen him in more'n one place,” he said. “Sibert, you can rely on what I tell you. I don't know if he's locoed or what. But I do know he's the genuine Buck Duane. Any one who'd ever seen him onct would never forget him.”
“What do you want to see Aiken for?” asked the cowboy Sibert.
“I want to face him, and tell him I never harmed his wife.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm innocent, that's all.”
“Suppose we send for Aiken an' he hears you an' doesn't believe you; what then?”
“If he won't believe me—why, then my case's so bad—I'd be better off dead.”
A momentary silence was broken by Sibert.
“If this isn't a queer deal! Boys, reckon we'd better send for Jeff.”
“Somebody went fer him. He'll be comin' soon,” replied a man.
Duane stood a head taller than that circle of curious faces. He gazed out above and beyond them. It was in this way that he chanced to see a number of women on the outskirts of the crowd. Some were old, with hard faces, like the men. Some were young and comely, and most of these seemed agitated by excitement or distress. They cast fearful, pitying glances upon Duane as he stood there with that noose round his neck. Women were more human than men, Duane thought. He met eyes that dilated, seemed fascinated at his gaze, but were not averted. It was the old women who were voluble, loud in expression of their feelings.
Near the trunk of the cottonwood stood a slender woman in white. Duane's wandering glance rested upon her. Her eyes were riveted upon him. A soft-hearted woman, probably, who did not want to see him hanged!
“Thar comes Jeff Aiken now,” called a man, loudly.
The crowd shifted and trampled in eagerness.
Duane saw two men coming fast, one of whom, in the lead, was of stalwart build. He had a gun in his hand, and his manner was that of fierce energy.
The cowboy Sibert thrust open the jostling circle of men.
“Hold on, Jeff,” he called, and he blocked the man with the gun. He spoke so low Duane could not hear what he said, and his form hid Aiken's face. At that juncture the crowd spread out, closed in, and Aiken and Sibert were caught in the circle. There was a pushing forward, a pressing of many bodies, hoarse cries and flinging hands—again the insane tumult was about to break out—the demand for an outlaw's blood, the call for a wild justice executed a thousand times before on Texas's bloody soil.
Sibert bellowed at the dark encroaching mass. The cowboys with him beat and cuffed in vain.
“Jeff, will you listen?” broke in Sibert, hurriedly, his hand on the other man's arm.
Aiken nodded coolly. Duane, who had seen many men in perfect control of themselves under circumstances like these, recognized the spirit that dominated Aiken. He was white, cold, passionless. There were lines of bitter grief deep round his lips. If Duane ever felt the meaning of death he felt it then.
“Sure this 's your game, Aiken,” said Sibert. “But hear me a minute. Reckon there's no doubt about this man bein' Buck Duane. He seen the placard out at the cross-roads. He rides in to Shirley. He says he's Buck Duane an' he's lookin' for Jeff Aiken. That's all clear enough. You know how these gunfighters go lookin' for trouble. But here's what stumps me. Duane sits down there on the bench and lets old Abe Strickland grab his gun ant get the drop on him. More'n that, he gives me some strange talk about how, if he couldn't make you believe he's innocent, he'd better be dead. You see for yourself Duane ain't drunk or crazy or locoed. He doesn't strike me as a man who rode in here huntin' blood. So I reckon you'd better hold on till you hear what he has to say.”
Then for the first time the drawn-faced, hungry-eyed giant turned his gaze upon Duane. He had intelligence which was not yet subservient to passion. Moreover, he seemed the kind of man Duane would care to have judge him in a critical moment like this.
“Listen,” said Duane, gravely, with his eyes steady on Aiken's, “I'm Buck Duane. I never lied to any man in my life. I was forced into outlawry. I've never had a chance to leave the country. I've killed men to save my own life. I never intentionally harmed any woman. I rode thirty miles to-day—deliberately to see what this reward was, who made it, what for. When I read the placard I went sick to the bottom of my soul. So I rode in here to find you—to tell you this: I never saw Shirley before to-day. It was impossible for me to have—killed your wife. Last September I was two hundred miles north of here on the upper Nueces. I can prove that. Men who know me will tell you I couldn't murder a woman. I haven't any idea why such a deed should be laid at my hands. It's just that wild border gossip. I have no idea what reasons you have for holding me responsible. I only know—you're wrong. You've been deceived. And see here, Aiken. You understand I'm a miserable man. I'm about broken, I guess. I don't care any more for life, for anything. If you can't look me in the eyes, man to man, and believe what I say—why, by God! you can kill me!”
Aiken heaved a great breath.
“Buck Duane, whether I'm impressed or not by what you say needn't matter. You've had accusers, justly or unjustly, as will soon appear. The thing is we can prove you innocent or guilty. My girl Lucy saw my wife's assailant.”
He motioned for the crowd of men to open up.
“Somebody—you, Sibert—go for Lucy. That'll settle this thing.”
Duane heard as a man in an ugly dream. The faces around him, the hum of voices, all seemed far off. His life hung by the merest thread. Yet he did not think of that so much as of the brand of a woman-murderer which might be soon sealed upon him by a frightened, imaginative child.
The crowd trooped apart and closed again. Duane caught a blurred image of a slight girl clinging to Sibert's hand. He could not see distinctly. Aiken lifted the child, whispered soothingly to her not to be afraid. Then he fetched her closer to Duane.
“Lucy, tell me. Did you ever see this man before?” asked Aiken, huskily and low. “Is he the one—who came in the house that day—struck you down—and dragged mama—?”
Aiken's voice failed.
A lightning flash seemed to clear Duane's blurred sight. He saw a pale, sad face and violet eyes fixed in gloom and horror upon his. No terrible moment in Duane's life ever equaled this one of silence—of suspense.
“It's ain't him!” cried the child.
Then Sibert was flinging the noose off Duane's neck and unwinding the bonds round his arms. The spellbound crowd awoke to hoarse exclamations.
“See there, my locoed gents, how easy you'd hang the wrong man,” burst out the cowboy, as he made the rope-end hiss. “You-all are a lot of wise rangers. Haw! haw!”
He freed Duane and thrust the bone-handled gun back in Duane's holster.
“You Abe, there. Reckon you pulled a stunt! But don't try the like again. And, men, I'll gamble there's a hell of a lot of bad work Buck Duane's named for—which all he never done. Clear away there. Where's his hoss? Duane, the road's open out of Shirley.”
Sibert swept the gaping watchers aside and pressed Duane toward the horse, which another cowboy held. Mechanically Duane mounted, felt a lift as he went up. Then the cowboy's hard face softened in a smile.
“I reckon it ain't uncivil of me to say—hit that road quick!” he said, frankly.
He led the horse out of the crowd. Aiken joined him, and between them they escorted Duane across the plaza. The crowd appeared irresistibly drawn to follow.
Aiken paused with his big hand on Duane's knee. In it, unconsciously probably, he still held the gun.
“Duane, a word with you,” he said. “I believe you're not so black as you've been painted. I wish there was time to say more. Tell me this, anyway. Do you know the Ranger Captain MacNelly?”
“I do not,” replied Duane, in surprise.
“I met him only a week ago over in Fairfield,” went on Aiken, hurriedly. “He declared you never killed my wife. I didn't believe him—argued with him. We almost had hard words over it. Now—I'm sorry. The last thing he said was: 'If you ever see Duane don't kill him. Send him into my camp after dark!' He meant something strange. What—I can't say. But he was right, and I was wrong. If Lucy had batted an eye I'd have killed you. Still, I wouldn't advise you to hunt up MacNelly's camp. He's clever. Maybe he believes there's no treachery in his new ideas of ranger tactics. I tell you for all it's worth. Good-by. May God help you further as he did this day!”
Duane said good-by and touched the horse with his spurs.
“So long, Buck!” called Sibert, with that frank smile breaking warm over his brown face; and he held his sombrero high.
When Duane reached the crossing of the roads the name Fairfield on the sign-post seemed to be the thing that tipped the oscillating balance of decision in favor of that direction.
He answered here to unfathomable impulse. If he had been driven to hunt up Jeff Aiken, now he was called to find this unknown ranger captain. In Duane's state of mind clear reasoning, common sense, or keenness were out of the question. He went because he felt he was compelled.
Dusk had fallen when he rode into a town which inquiry discovered to be Fairfield. Captain MacNelly's camp was stationed just out of the village limits on the other side.
No one except the boy Duane questioned appeared to notice his arrival. Like Shirley, the town of Fairfield was large and prosperous, compared to the innumerable hamlets dotting the vast extent of southwestern Texas. As Duane rode through, being careful to get off the main street, he heard the tolling of a church-bell that was a melancholy reminder of his old home.
There did not appear to be any camp on the outskirts of the town. But as Duane sat his horse, peering around and undecided what further move to make, he caught the glint of flickering lights through the darkness. Heading toward them, he rode perhaps a quarter of a mile to come upon a grove of mesquite. The brightness of several fires made the surrounding darkness all the blacker. Duane saw the moving forms of men and heard horses. He advanced naturally, expecting any moment to be halted.
“Who goes there?” came the sharp call out of the gloom.
Duane pulled his horse. The gloom was impenetrable.
“One man—alone,” replied Duane.
“A stranger?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want?”
“I'm trying to find the ranger camp.”
“You've struck it. What's your errand?”
“I want to see Captain MacNelly.”
“Get down and advance. Slow. Don't move your hands. It's dark, but I can see.”
Duane dismounted, and, leading his horse, slowly advanced a few paces. He saw a dully bright object—a gun—before he discovered the man who held it. A few more steps showed a dark figure blocking the trail. Here Duane halted.
“Come closer, stranger. Let's have a look at you,” the guard ordered, curtly.
Duane advanced again until he stood before the man. Here the rays of light from the fires flickered upon Duane's face.
“Reckon you're a stranger, all right. What's your name and your business with the Captain?”
Duane hesitated, pondering what best to say.
“Tell Captain MacNelly I'm the man he's been asking to ride into his camp—after dark,” finally said Duane.
The ranger bent forward to peer hard at this night visitor. His manner had been alert, and now it became tense.
“Come here, one of you men, quick,” he called, without turning in the least toward the camp-fire.
“Hello! What's up, Pickens?” came the swift reply. It was followed by a rapid thud of boots on soft ground. A dark form crossed the gleams from the fire-light. Then a ranger loomed up to reach the side of the guard. Duane heard whispering, the purport of which he could not catch. The second ranger swore under his breath. Then he turned away and started back.
“Here, ranger, before you go, understand this. My visit is peaceful—friendly if you'll let it be. Mind, I was asked to come here—after dark.”
Duane's clear, penetrating voice carried far. The listening rangers at the camp-fire heard what he said.
“Ho, Pickens! Tell that fellow to wait,” replied an authoritative voice. Then a slim figure detached itself from the dark, moving group at the camp-fire and hurried out.
“Better be foxy, Cap,” shouted a ranger, in warning.
“Shut up—all of you,” was the reply.
This officer, obviously Captain MacNelly, soon joined the two rangers who were confronting Duane. He had no fear. He strode straight up to Duane.
“I'm MacNelly,” he said. “If you're my man, don't mention your name—yet.”
All this seemed so strange to Duane, in keeping with much that had happened lately.
“I met Jeff Aiken to-day,” said Duane. “He sent me—”
“You've met Aiken!” exclaimed MacNelly, sharp, eager, low. “By all that's bully!” Then he appeared to catch himself, to grow restrained.
“Men, fall back, leave us alone a moment.”
The rangers slowly withdrew.
“Buck Duane! It's you?” he whispered, eagerly.
“Yes.”
“If I give my word you'll not be arrested—you'll be treated fairly—will you come into camp and consult with me?”
“Certainly.”
“Duane, I'm sure glad to meet you,” went on MacNelly; and he extended his hand.
Amazed and touched, scarcely realizing this actuality, Duane gave his hand and felt no unmistakable grip of warmth.
“It doesn't seem natural, Captain MacNelly, but I believe I'm glad to meet you,” said Duane, soberly.
“You will be. Now we'll go back to camp. Keep your identity mum for the present.”
He led Duane in the direction of the camp-fire.
“Pickers, go back on duty,” he ordered, “and, Beeson, you look after this horse.”
When Duane got beyond the line of mesquite, which had hid a good view of the camp-site, he saw a group of perhaps fifteen rangers sitting around the fires, near a long low shed where horses were feeding, and a small adobe house at one side.
“We've just had grub, but I'll see you get some. Then we'll talk,” said MacNelly. “I've taken up temporary quarters here. Have a rustler job on hand. Now, when you've eaten, come right into the house.”
Duane was hungry, but he hurried through the ample supper that was set before him, urged on by curiosity and astonishment. The only way he could account for his presence there in a ranger's camp was that MacNelly hoped to get useful information out of him. Still that would hardly have made this captain so eager. There was a mystery here, and Duane could scarcely wait for it to be solved. While eating he had bent keen eyes around him. After a first quiet scrutiny the rangers apparently paid no more attention to him. They were all veterans in service—Duane saw that—and rugged, powerful men of iron constitution. Despite the occasional joke and sally of the more youthful members, and a general conversation of camp-fire nature, Duane was not deceived about the fact that his advent had been an unusual and striking one, which had caused an undercurrent of conjecture and even consternation among them. These rangers were too well trained to appear openly curious about their captain's guest. If they had not deliberately attempted to be oblivious of his presence Duane would have concluded they thought him an ordinary visitor, somehow of use to MacNelly. As it was, Duane felt a suspense that must have been due to a hint of his identity.
He was not long in presenting himself at the door of the house.
“Come in and have a chair,” said MacNelly, motioning for the one other occupant of the room to rise. “Leave us, Russell, and close the door. I'll be through these reports right off.”
MacNelly sat at a table upon which was a lamp and various papers. Seen in the light he was a fine-looking, soldierly man of about forty years, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a bronzed face, shrewd, stern, strong, yet not wanting in kindliness. He scanned hastily over some papers, fussed with them, and finally put them in envelopes. Without looking up he pushed a cigar-case toward Duane, and upon Duane's refusal to smoke he took a cigar, rose to light it at the lamp-chimney, and then, settling back in his chair, he faced Duane, making a vain attempt to hide what must have been the fulfilment of a long-nourished curiosity.
“Duane, I've been hoping for this for two years,” he began.
Duane smiled a little—a smile that felt strange on his face. He had never been much of a talker. And speech here seemed more than ordinarily difficult.
MacNelly must have felt that.
He looked long and earnestly at Duane, and his quick, nervous manner changed to grave thoughtfulness.
“I've lots to say, but where to begin,” he mused. “Duane, you've had a hard life since you went on the dodge. I never met you before, don't know what you looked like as a boy. But I can see what—well, even ranger life isn't all roses.”
He rolled his cigar between his lips and puffed clouds of smoke.
“Ever hear from home since you left Wellston?” he asked, abruptly.
“No.”
“Never a word?”
“Not one,” replied Duane, sadly.
“That's tough. I'm glad to be able to tell you that up to just lately your mother, sister, uncle—all your folks, I believe—were well. I've kept posted. But haven't heard lately.”
Duane averted his face a moment, hesitated till the swelling left his throat, and then said, “It's worth what I went through to-day to hear that.”
“I can imagine how you feel about it. When I was in the war—but let's get down to the business of this meeting.”
He pulled his chair close to Duane's.
“You've had word more than once in the last two years that I wanted to see you?”
“Three times, I remember,” replied Duane.
“Why didn't you hunt me up?”
“I supposed you imagined me one of those gun-fighters who couldn't take a dare and expected me to ride up to your camp and be arrested.”
“That was natural, I suppose,” went on MacNelly. “You didn't know me, otherwise you would have come. I've been a long time getting to you. But the nature of my job, as far as you're concerned, made me cautious. Duane, you're aware of the hard name you bear all over the Southwest?”
“Once in a while I'm jarred into realizing,” replied Duane.
“It's the hardest, barring Murrell and Cheseldine, on the Texas border. But there's this difference. Murrell in his day was known to deserve his infamous name. Cheseldine in his day also. But I've found hundreds of men in southwest Texas who're your friends, who swear you never committed a crime. The farther south I get the clearer this becomes. What I want to know is the truth. Have you ever done anything criminal? Tell me the truth, Duane. It won't make any difference in my plan. And when I say crime I mean what I would call crime, or any reasonable Texan.”
“That way my hands are clean,” replied Duane.
“You never held up a man, robbed a store for grub, stole a horse when you needed him bad—never anything like that?”
“Somehow I always kept out of that, just when pressed the hardest.”
“Duane, I'm damn glad!” MacNelly exclaimed, gripping Duane's hand. “Glad for you mother's sakel But, all the same, in spite of this, you are a Texas outlaw accountable to the state. You're perfectly aware that under existing circumstances, if you fell into the hands of the law, you'd probably hang, at least go to jail for a long term.”
“That's what kept me on the dodge all these years,” replied Duane.
“Certainly.” MacNelly removed his cigar. His eyes narrowed and glittered. The muscles along his brown cheeks set hard and tense. He leaned closer to Duane, laid sinewy, pressing fingers upon Duane's knee.
“Listen to this,” he whispered, hoarsely. “If I place a pardon in your hand—make you a free, honest citizen once more, clear your name of infamy, make your mother, your sister proud of you—will you swear yourself to a service, ANY service I demand of you?”
Duane sat stock still, stunned.
Slowly, more persuasively, with show of earnest agitation, Captain MacNelly reiterated his startling query.
“My God!” burst from Duane. “What's this? MacNelly, you CAN'T be in earnest!”
“Never more so in my life. I've a deep game. I'm playing it square. What do you say?”
He rose to his feet. Duane, as if impelled, rose with him. Ranger and outlaw then locked eyes that searched each other's souls. In MacNelly's Duane read truth, strong, fiery purpose, hope, even gladness, and a fugitive mounting assurance of victory.
Twice Duane endeavored to speak, failed of all save a hoarse, incoherent sound, until, forcing back a flood of speech, he found a voice.
“Any service? Every service! MacNelly, I give my word,” said Duane.
A light played over MacNelly's face, warming out all the grim darkness. He held out his hand. Duane met it with his in a clasp that men unconsciously give in moments of stress.
When they unclasped and Duane stepped back to drop into a chair MacNelly fumbled for another cigar—he had bitten the other into shreds—and, lighting it as before, he turned to his visitor, now calm and cool. He had the look of a man who had justly won something at considerable cost. His next move was to take a long leather case from his pocket and extract from it several folded papers.
“Here's your pardon from the Governor,” he said, quietly. “You'll see, when you look it over, that it's conditional. When you sign this paper I have here the condition will be met.”
He smoothed out the paper, handed Duane a pen, ran his forefinger along a dotted line.
Duane's hand was shaky. Years had passed since he had held a pen. It was with difficulty that he achieved his signature. Buckley Duane—how strange the name looked!
“Right here ends the career of Buck Duane, outlaw and gunfighter,” said MacNelly; and, seating himself, he took the pen from Duane's fingers and wrote several lines in several places upon the paper. Then with a smile he handed it to Duane.
“That makes you a member of Company A, Texas Rangers.”
“So that's it!” burst out Duane, a light breaking in upon his bewilderment. “You want me for ranger service?”
“Sure. That's it,” replied the Captain, dryly. “Now to hear what that service is to be. I've been a busy man since I took this job, and, as you may have heard, I've done a few things. I don't mind telling you that political influence put me in here and that up Austin way there's a good deal of friction in the Department of State in regard to whether or not the ranger service is any good—whether it should be discontinued or not. I'm on the party side who's defending the ranger service. I contend that it's made Texas habitable. Well, it's been up to me to produce results. So far I have been successful. My great ambition is to break up the outlaw gangs along the river. I have never ventured in there yet because I've been waiting to get the lieutenant I needed. You, of course, are the man I had in mind. It's my idea to start way up the Rio Grande and begin with Cheseldine. He's the strongest, the worst outlaw of the times. He's more than rustler. It's Cheseldine and his gang who are operating on the banks. They're doing bank-robbing. That's my private opinion, but it's not been backed up by any evidence. Cheseldine doesn't leave evidences. He's intelligent, cunning. No one seems to have seen him—to know what he looks like. I assume, of course, that you are a stranger to the country he dominates. It's five hundred miles west of your ground. There's a little town over there called Fairdale. It's the nest of a rustler gang. They rustle and murder at will. Nobody knows who the leader is. I want you to find out. Well, whatever way you decide is best you will proceed to act upon. You are your own boss. You know such men and how they can be approached. You will take all the time needed, if it's months. It will be necessary for you to communicate with me, and that will be a difficult matter. For Cheseldine dominates several whole counties. You must find some way to let me know when I and my rangers are needed. The plan is to break up Cheseldine's gang. It's the toughest job on the border. Arresting him alone isn't to be heard of. He couldn't be brought out. Killing him isn't much better, for his select men, the ones he operates with, are as dangerous to the community as he is. We want to kill or jail this choice selection of robbers and break up the rest of the gang. To find them, to get among them somehow, to learn their movements, to lay your trap for us rangers to spring—that, Duane, is your service to me, and God knows it's a great one!”
“I have accepted it,” replied Duane.
“Your work will be secret. You are now a ranger in my service. But no one except the few I choose to tell will know of it until we pull off the job. You will simply be Buck Duane till it suits our purpose to acquaint Texas with the fact that you're a ranger. You'll see there's no date on that paper. No one will ever know just when you entered the service. Perhaps we can make it appear that all or most of your outlawry has really been good service to the state. At that, I'll believe it'll turn out so.”
MacNelly paused a moment in his rapid talk, chewed his cigar, drew his brows together in a dark frown, and went on. “No man on the border knows so well as you the deadly nature of this service. It's a thousand to one that you'll be killed. I'd say there was no chance at all for any other man beside you. Your reputation will go far among the outlaws. Maybe that and your nerve and your gun-play will pull you through. I'm hoping so. But it's a long, long chance against your ever coming back.”
“That's not the point,” said Duane. “But in case I get killed out there—what—”
“Leave that to me,” interrupted Captain MacNelly. “Your folks will know at once of your pardon and your ranger duty. If you lose your life out there I'll see your name cleared—the service you render known. You can rest assured of that.”
“I am satisfied,” replied Duane. “That's so much more than I've dared to hope.”
“Well, it's settled, then. I'll give you money for expenses. You'll start as soon as you like—the sooner the better. I hope to think of other suggestions, especially about communicating with me.”
Long after the lights were out and the low hum of voices had ceased round the camp-fire Duane lay wide awake, eyes staring into the blackness, marveling over the strange events of the day. He was humble, grateful to the depths of his soul. A huge and crushing burden had been lifted from his heart. He welcomed this hazardous service to the man who had saved him. Thought of his mother and sister and Uncle Jim, of his home, of old friends came rushing over him the first time in years that he had happiness in the memory. The disgrace he had put upon them would now be removed; and in the light of that, his wasted life of the past, and its probable tragic end in future service as atonement changed their aspects. And as he lay there, with the approach of sleep finally dimming the vividness of his thought, so full of mystery, shadowy faces floated in the blackness around him, haunting him as he had always been haunted.
It was broad daylight when he awakened. MacNelly was calling him to breakfast. Outside sounded voices of men, crackling of fires, snorting and stamping of horses, the barking of dogs. Duane rolled out of his blankets and made good use of the soap and towel and razor and brush near by on a bench—things of rare luxury to an outlaw on the ride. The face he saw in the mirror was as strange as the past he had tried so hard to recall. Then he stepped to the door and went out.
The rangers were eating in a circle round a tarpaulin spread upon the ground.
“Fellows,” said MacNelly, “shake hands with Buck Duane. He's on secret ranger service for me. Service that'll likely make you all hump soon! Mind you, keep mum about it.”
The rangers surprised Duane with a roaring greeting, the warmth of which he soon divined was divided between pride of his acquisition to their ranks and eagerness to meet that violent service of which their captain hinted. They were jolly, wild fellows, with just enough gravity in their welcome to show Duane their respect and appreciation, while not forgetting his lone-wolf record. When he had seated himself in that circle, now one of them, a feeling subtle and uplifting pervaded him.
After the meal Captain MacNelly drew Duane aside.
“Here's the money. Make it go as far as you can. Better strike straight for El Paso, snook around there and hear things. Then go to Valentine. That's near the river and within fifty miles or so of the edge of the Rim Rock. Somewhere up there Cheseldine holds fort. Somewhere to the north is the town Fairdale. But he doesn't hide all the time in the rocks. Only after some daring raid or hold-up. Cheseldine's got border towns on his staff, or scared of him, and these places we want to know about, especially Fairdale. Write me care of the adjutant at Austin. I don't have to warn you to be careful where you mail letters. Ride a hundred, two hundred miles, if necessary, or go clear to El Paso.”
MacNelly stopped with an air of finality, and then Duane slowly rose.
“I'll start at once,” he said, extending his hand to the Captain. “I wish—I'd like to thank you.”
“Hell, man! Don't thank me!” replied MacNelly, crushing the proffered hand. “I've sent a lot of good men to their deaths, and maybe you're another. But, as I've said, you've one chance in a thousand. And, by Heaven! I'd hate to be Cheseldine or any other man you were trailing. No, not good-by—Adios, Duane! May we meet again!”