Duane followed the stage through the town, out into the open, on to a wide, hard-packed road showing years of travel. It headed northwest. To the left rose a range of low, bleak mountains he had noted yesterday, and to the right sloped the mesquite-patched sweep of ridge and flat. The driver pushed his team to a fast trot, which gait surely covered ground rapidly.
The stage made three stops in the forenoon, one at a place where the horses could be watered, the second at a chuck-wagon belonging to cowboys who were riding after stock, and the third at a small cluster of adobe and stone houses constituting a hamlet the driver called Longstreth, named after the Colonel. From that point on to Fairdale there were only a few ranches, each one controlling great acreage.
Early in the afternoon from a ridge-top Duane sighted Fairdale, a green patch in the mass of gray. For the barrens of Texas it was indeed a fair sight. But he was more concerned with its remoteness from civilization than its beauty. At that time, in the early seventies, when the vast western third of Texas was a wilderness, the pioneer had done wonders to settle there and establish places like Fairdale.
It needed only a glance for Duane to pick out Colonel Longstreth's ranch. The house was situated on the only elevation around Fairdale, and it was not high, nor more than a few minutes' walk from the edge of the town. It was a low, flat-roofed structure made of red adobe bricks, and covered what appeared to be fully an acre of ground. All was green about it, except where the fenced corrals and numerous barns or sheds showed gray and red.
Duane soon reached the shady outskirts of Fairdale, and entered the town with mingled feelings of curiosity, eagerness, and expectation. The street he rode down was a main one, and on both sides of the street was a solid row of saloons, resorts, hotels. Saddled horses stood hitched all along the sidewalk in two long lines, with a buckboard and team here and there breaking the continuity. This block was busy and noisy.
From all outside appearances Fairdale was no different from other frontier towns, and Duane's expectations were scarcely realized. As the afternoon was waning he halted at a little inn. A boy took charge of his horse. Duane questioned the lad about Fairdale and gradually drew to the subject most in mind.
“Colonel Longstreth has a big outfit, eh?”
“Reckon he has,” replied the lad. “Doan know how many cowboys. They're always comin' and goin'. I ain't acquainted with half of them.”
“Much movement of stock these days?”
“Stock's always movin',” he replied, with a queer look.
“Rustlers?”
But he did not follow up that look with the affirmative Duane expected.
“Lively place, I hear—Fairdale is?”
“Ain't so lively as Sanderson, but it's bigger.”
“Yes, I heard it was. Fellow down there was talking about two cowboys who were arrested.”
“Sure. I heered all about that. Joe Bean an' Brick Higgins—they belong heah, but they ain't heah much. Longstreth's boys.”
Duane did not want to appear over-inquisitive, so he turned the talk into other channels.
After getting supper Duane strolled up and down the main street. When darkness set in he went into a hotel, bought cigars, sat around, and watched. Then he passed out and went into the next place. This was of rough crude exterior, but the inside was comparatively pretentious and ablaze with lights. It was full of men coming and going—a dusty-booted crowd that smelled of horses and smoke. Duane sat down for a while, with wide eyes and open ears. Then he hunted up the bar, where most of the guests had been or were going. He found a great square room lighted by six huge lamps, a bar at one side, and all the floor-space taken up by tables and chairs. This was the only gambling place of any size in southern Texas in which he had noted the absence of Mexicans. There was some card-playing going on at this moment. Duane stayed in there for a while, and knew that strangers were too common in Fairdale to be conspicuous. Then he returned to the inn where he had engaged a room.
Duane sat down on the steps of the dingy little restaurant. Two men were conversing inside, and they had not noticed Duane.
“Laramie, what's the stranger's name?” asked one.
“He didn't say,” replied the other.
“Sure was a strappin' big man. Struck me a little odd, he did. No cattleman, him. How'd you size him?”
“Well, like one of them cool, easy, quiet Texans who's been lookin' for a man for years—to kill him when he found him.”
“Right you are, Laramie; and, between you an' me, I hope he's lookin' for Long—”
“'S—sh!” interrupted Laramie. “You must be half drunk, to go talkie' that way.”
Thereafter they conversed in too low a tone for Duane to hear, and presently Laramie's visitor left. Duane went inside, and, making himself agreeable, began to ask casual questions about Fairdale. Laramie was not communicative.
Duane went to his room in a thoughtful frame of mind. Had Laramie's visitor meant he hoped some one had come to kill Longstreth? Duane inferred just that from the interrupted remark. There was something wrong about the Mayor of Fairdale. Duane felt it. And he felt also, if there was a crooked and dangerous man, it was this Floyd Lawson. The innkeeper Laramie would be worth cultivating. And last in Duane's thoughts that night was Miss Longstreth. He could not help thinking of her—how strangely the meeting with her had affected him. It made him remember that long-past time when girls had been a part of his life. What a sad and dark and endless void lay between that past and the present! He had no right even to dream of a beautiful woman like Ray Longstreth. That conviction, however, did not dispel her; indeed, it seemed perversely to make her grow more fascinating. Duane grew conscious of a strange, unaccountable hunger, a something that was like a pang in his breast.
Next day he lounged about the inn. He did not make any overtures to the taciturn proprietor. Duane had no need of hurry now. He contented himself with watching and listening. And at the close of that day he decided Fairdale was what MacNelly had claimed it to be, and that he was on the track of an unusual adventure. The following day he spent in much the same way, though on one occasion he told Laramie he was looking for a man. The innkeeper grew a little less furtive and reticent after that. He would answer casual queries, and it did not take Duane long to learn that Laramie had seen better days—that he was now broken, bitter, and hard. Some one had wronged him.
Several days passed. Duane did not succeed in getting any closer to Laramie, but he found the idlers on the corners and in front of the stores unsuspicious and willing to talk. It did not take him long to find out that Fairdale stood parallel with Huntsville for gambling, drinking, and fighting. The street was always lined with dusty, saddled horses, the town full of strangers. Money appeared more abundant than in any place Duane had ever visited; and it was spent with the abandon that spoke forcibly of easy and crooked acquirement. Duane decided that Sanderson, Bradford, and Ord were but notorious outposts to this Fairdale, which was a secret center of rustlers and outlaws. And what struck Duane strangest of all was the fact that Longstreth was mayor here and held court daily. Duane knew intuitively, before a chance remark gave him proof, that this court was a sham, a farce. And he wondered if it were not a blind. This wonder of his was equivalent to suspicion of Colonel Longstreth, and Duane reproached himself. Then he realized that the reproach was because of the daughter. Inquiry had brought him the fact that Ray Longstreth had just come to live with her father. Longstreth had originally been a planter in Louisiana, where his family had remained after his advent in the West. He was a rich rancher; he owned half of Fairdale; he was a cattle-buyer on a large scale. Floyd Lawson was his lieutenant and associate in deals.
On the afternoon of the fifth day of Duane's stay in Fairdale he returned to the inn from his usual stroll, and upon entering was amazed to have a rough-looking young fellow rush by him out of the door. Inside Laramie was lying on the floor, with a bloody bruise on his face. He did not appear to be dangerously hurt.
“Bo Snecker! He hit me and went after the cash-drawer,” said Laramie, laboring to his feet.
“Are you hurt much?” queried Duane.
“I guess not. But Bo needn't to have soaked me. I've been robbed before without that.”
“Well, I'll take a look after Bo,” replied Duane.
He went out and glanced down the street toward the center of the town. He did not see any one he could take for the innkeeper's assailant. Then he looked up the street, and he saw the young fellow about a block away, hurrying along and gazing back.
Duane yelled for him to stop and started to go after him. Snecker broke into a run. Then Duane set out to overhaul him. There were two motives in Duane's action—one of anger, and the other a desire to make a friend of this man Laramie, whom Duane believed could tell him much.
Duane was light on his feet, and he had a giant stride. He gained rapidly upon Snecker, who, turning this way and that, could not get out of sight. Then he took to the open country and ran straight for the green hill where Longstreth's house stood. Duane had almost caught Snecker when he reached the shrubbery and trees and there eluded him. But Duane kept him in sight, in the shade, on the paths, and up the road into the courtyard, and he saw Snecker go straight for Longstreth's house.
Duane was not to be turned back by that, singular as it was. He did not stop to consider. It seemed enough to know that fate had directed him to the path of this rancher Longstreth. Duane entered the first open door on that side of the court. It opened into a corridor which led into a plaza. It had wide, smooth stone porches, and flowers and shrubbery in the center. Duane hurried through to burst into the presence of Miss Longstreth and a number of young people. Evidently she was giving a little party.
Lawson stood leaning against one of the pillars that supported the porch roof; at sight of Duane his face changed remarkably, expressing amazement, consternation, then fear.
In the quick ensuing silence Miss Longstreth rose white as her dress. The young women present stared in astonishment, if they were not equally perturbed. There were cowboys present who suddenly grew intent and still. By these things Duane gathered that his appearance must be disconcerting. He was panting. He wore no hat or coat. His big gun-sheath showed plainly at his hip.
Sight of Miss Longstreth had an unaccountable effect upon Duane. He was plunged into confusion. For the moment he saw no one but her.
“Miss Longstreth—I came—to search—your house,” panted Duane.
He hardly knew what he was saying, yet the instant he spoke he realized that that should have been the last thing for him to say. He had blundered. But he was not used to women, and this dark-eyed girl made him thrill and his heart beat thickly and his wits go scattering.
“Search my house!” exclaimed Miss Longstreth; and red succeeded the white in her cheeks. She appeared astonished and angry. “What for? Why, how dare you! This is unwarrantable!”
“A man—Bo Snecker—assaulted and robbed Jim Laramie,” replied Duane, hurriedly. “I chased Snecker here—saw him run into the house.”
“Here? Oh, sir, you must be mistaken. We have seen no one. In the absence of my father I'm mistress here. I'll not permit you to search.”
Lawson appeared to come out of his astonishment. He stepped forward.
“Ray, don't be bothered now,” he said, to his cousin. “This fellow's making a bluff. I'll settle him. See here, Mister, you clear out!”
“I want Snecker. He's here, and I'm going to get him,” replied Duane, quietly.
“Bah! That's all a bluff,” sneered Lawson. “I'm on to your game. You just wanted an excuse to break in here—to see my cousin again. When you saw the company you invented that excuse. Now, be off, or it'll be the worse for you.”
Duane felt his face burn with a tide of hot blood. Almost he felt that he was guilty of such motive. Had he not been unable to put this Ray Longstreth out of his mind? There seemed to be scorn in her eyes now. And somehow that checked his embarrassment.
“Miss Longstreth, will you let me search the house?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then—I regret to say—I'll do so without your permission.”
“You'll not dare!” she flashed. She stood erect, her bosom swelling.
“Pardon me, yes, I will.”
“Who are you?” she demanded, suddenly.
“I'm a Texas Ranger,” replied Duane.
“A TEXAS RANGER!” she echoed.
Floyd Lawson's dark face turned pale.
“Miss Longstreth, I don't need warrants to search houses,” said Duane. “I'm sorry to annoy you. I'd prefer to have your permission. A ruffian has taken refuge here—in your father's house. He's hidden somewhere. May I look for him?”
“If you are indeed a ranger.”
Duane produced his papers. Miss Longstreth haughtily refused to look at them.
“Miss Longstreth, I've come to make Fairdale a safer, cleaner, better place for women and children. I don't wonder at your resentment. But to doubt me—insult me. Some day you may be sorry.”
Floyd Lawson made a violent motion with his hands.
“All stuff! Cousin, go on with your party. I'll take a couple of cowboys and go with this—this Texas Ranger.”
“Thanks,” said Duane, coolly, as he eyed Lawson. “Perhaps you'll be able to find Snecker quicker than I could.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Lawson, and now he grew livid. Evidently he was a man of fierce quick passions.
“Don't quarrel,” said Miss Longstreth. “Floyd, you go with him. Please hurry. I'll be nervous till—the man's found or you're sure there's not one.”
They started with several cowboys to search the house. They went through the rooms searching, calling out, peering into dark places. It struck Duane more than forcibly that Lawson did all the calling. He was hurried, too, tried to keep in the lead. Duane wondered if he knew his voice would be recognized by the hiding man. Be that as it might, it was Duane who peered into a dark corner and then, with a gun leveled, said “Come out!”
He came forth into the flare—a tall, slim, dark-faced youth, wearing sombrero, blouse and trousers. Duane collared him before any of the others could move and held the gun close enough to make him shrink. But he did not impress Duane as being frightened just then; nevertheless, he had a clammy face, the pallid look of a man who had just gotten over a shock. He peered into Duane's face, then into that of the cowboy next to him, then into Lawson's, and if ever in Duane's life he beheld relief it was then. That was all Duane needed to know, but he meant to find out more if he could.
“Who're you?” asked Duane, quietly.
“Bo Snecker,” he said.
“What'd you hide here for?”
He appeared to grow sullen.
“Reckoned I'd be as safe in Longstreth's as anywheres.”
“Ranger, what'll you do with him?” Lawson queried, as if uncertain, now the capture was made.
“I'll see to that,” replied Duane, and he pushed Snecker in front of him out into the court.
Duane had suddenly conceived the idea of taking Snecker before Mayor Longstreth in the court.
When Duane arrived at the hall where court was held there were other men there, a dozen or more, and all seemed excited; evidently, news of Duane had preceded him. Longstreth sat at a table up on a platform. Near him sat a thick-set grizzled man, with deep eyes, and this was Hanford Owens, county judge. To the right stood a tall, angular, yellow-faced fellow with a drooping sandy mustache. Conspicuous on his vest was a huge silver shield. This was Gorsech, one of Longstreth's sheriffs. There were four other men whom Duane knew by sight, several whose faces were familiar, and half a dozen strangers, all dusty horsemen.
Longstreth pounded hard on the table to be heard. Mayor or not, he was unable at once to quell the excitement. Gradually, however, it subsided, and from the last few utterances before quiet was restored Duane gathered that he had intruded upon some kind of a meeting in the hall.
“What'd you break in here for,” demanded Longstreth.
“Isn't this the court? Aren't you the Mayor of Fairdale?” interrogated Duane. His voice was clear and loud, almost piercing.
“Yes,” replied Longstreth. Like flint he seemed, yet Duane felt his intense interest.
“I've arrested a criminal,” said Duane.
“Arrested a criminal!” ejaculated Longstreth. “You? Who're you?”
“I'm a ranger,” replied Duane.
A significant silence ensued.
“I charge Snecker with assault on Laramie and attempted robbery—if not murder. He's had a shady past here, as this court will know if it keeps a record.”
“What's this I hear about you, Bo? Get up and speak for yourself,” said Longstreth, gruffly.
Snecker got up, not without a furtive glance at Duane, and he had shuffled forward a few steps toward the Mayor. He had an evil front, but not the boldness even of a rustler.
“It ain't so, Longstreth,” he began, loudly. “I went in Laramie's place fer grub. Some feller I never seen before come in from the hall an' hit Laramie an' wrestled him on the floor. I went out. Then this big ranger chased me an' fetched me here. I didn't do nothin'. This ranger's hankerin' to arrest somebody. Thet's my hunch, Longstreth.”
Longstreth said something in an undertone to Judge Owens, and that worthy nodded his great bushy head.
“Bo, you're discharged,” said Longstreth, bluntly. “Now the rest of you clear out of here.”
He absolutely ignored the ranger. That was his rebuff to Duane—his slap in the face to an interfering ranger service. If Longstreth was crooked he certainly had magnificent nerve. Duane almost decided he was above suspicion. But his nonchalance, his air of finality, his authoritative assurance—these to Duane's keen and practiced eyes were in significant contrast to a certain tenseness of line about his mouth and a slow paling of his olive skin. In that momentary lull Duane's scrutiny of Longstreth gathered an impression of the man's intense curiosity.
Then the prisoner, Snecker, with a cough that broke the spell of silence, shuffled a couple of steps toward the door.
“Hold on!” called Duane. The call halted Snecker, as if it had been a bullet.
“Longstreth, I saw Snecker attack Laramie,” said Duane, his voice still ringing. “What has the court to say to that?”
“The court has this to say. West of the Pecos we'll not aid any ranger service. We don't want you out here. Fairdale doesn't need you.”
“That's a lie, Longstreth,” retorted Duane. “I've letters from Fairdale citizens all begging for ranger service.”
Longstreth turned white. The veins corded at his temples. He appeared about to burst into rage. He was at a loss for quick reply.
Floyd Lawson rushed in and up to the table. The blood showed black and thick in his face; his utterance was incoherent, his uncontrollable outbreak of temper seemed out of all proportion to any cause he should reasonably have had for anger. Longstreth shoved him back with a curse and a warning glare.
“Where's your warrant to arrest Snecker?” shouted Longstreth.
“I don't need warrants to make arrests. Longstreth, you're ignorant of the power of Texas Rangers.”
“You'll come none of your damned ranger stunts out here. I'll block you.”
That passionate reply of Longstreth's was the signal Duane had been waiting for. He had helped on the crisis. He wanted to force Longstreth's hand and show the town his stand.
Duane backed clear of everybody.
“Men! I call on you all!” cried Duane, piercingly. “I call on you to witness the arrest of a criminal prevented by Longstreth, Mayor of Fairdale. It will be recorded in the report to the Adjutant-General at Austin. Longstreth, you'll never prevent another arrest.”
Longstreth sat white with working jaw.
“Longstreth, you've shown your hand,” said Duane, in a voice that carried far and held those who heard. “Any honest citizen of Fairdale can now see what's plain—yours is a damn poor hand! You're going to hear me call a spade a spade. In the two years you've been Mayor you've never arrested one rustler. Strange, when Fairdale's a nest for rustlers! You've never sent a prisoner to Del Rio, let alone to Austin. You have no jail. There have been nine murders during your office—innumerable street-fights and holdups. Not one arrest! But you have ordered arrests for trivial offenses, and have punished these out of all proportion. There have been lawsuits in your court-suits over water-rights, cattle deals, property lines. Strange how in these lawsuits you or Lawson or other men close to you were always involved! Strange how it seems the law was stretched to favor your interest!”
Duane paused in his cold, ringing speech. In the silence, both outside and inside the hall, could be heard the deep breathing of agitated men. Longstreth was indeed a study. Yet did he betray anything but rage at this interloper?
“Longstreth, here's plain talk for you and Fairdale,” went on Duane. “I don't accuse you and your court of dishonesty. I say STRANGE! Law here has been a farce. The motive behind all this laxity isn't plain to me—yet. But I call your hand!”
Duane left the hall, elbowed his way through the crowd, and went down the street. He was certain that on the faces of some men he had seen ill-concealed wonder and satisfaction. He had struck some kind of a hot trait, and he meant to see where it led. It was by no means unlikely that Cheseldine might be at the other end. Duane controlled a mounting eagerness. But ever and anon it was shot through with a remembrance of Ray Longstreth. He suspected her father of being not what he pretended. He might, very probably would, bring sorrow and shame to this young woman. The thought made him smart with pain. She began to haunt him, and then he was thinking more of her beauty and sweetness than of the disgrace he might bring upon her. Some strange emotion, long locked inside Duane's heart, knocked to be heard, to be let out. He was troubled.
Upon returning to the inn he found Laramie there, apparently none the worse for his injury.
“How are you, Laramie?” he asked.
“Reckon I'm feelin' as well as could be expected,” replied Laramie. His head was circled by a bandage that did not conceal the lump where he had been struck. He looked pale, but was bright enough.
“That was a good crack Snecker gave you,” remarked Duane.
“I ain't accusin' Bo,” remonstrated Laramie, with eyes that made Duane thoughtful.
“Well, I accuse him. I caught him—took him to Longstreth's court. But they let him go.”
Laramie appeared to be agitated by this intimation of friendship.
“See here, Laramie,” went on Duane, “in some parts of Texas it's policy to be close-mouthed. Policy and health-preserving! Between ourselves, I want you to know I lean on your side of the fence.”
Laramie gave a quick start. Presently Duane turned and frankly met his gaze. He had startled Laramie out of his habitual set taciturnity; but even as he looked the light that might have been amaze and joy faded out of his face, leaving it the same old mask. Still Duane had seen enough. Like a bloodhound he had a scent.
“Talking about work, Laramie, who'd you say Snecker worked for?”
“I didn't say.”
“Well, say so now, can't you? Laramie, you're powerful peevish to-day. It's that bump on your head. Who does Snecker work for?”
“When he works at all, which sure ain't often, he rides for Longstreth.”
“Humph! Seems to me that Longstreth's the whole circus round Fairdale. I was some sore the other day to find I was losing good money at Longstreth's faro game. Sure if I'd won I wouldn't have been sore—ha, ha! But I was surprised to hear some one say Longstreth owned the Hope So joint.”
“He owns considerable property hereabouts,” replied Laramie, constrainedly.
“Humph again! Laramie, like every other fellow I meet in this town, you're afraid to open your trap about Longstreth. Get me straight, Laramie. I don't care a damn for Colonel Mayor Longstreth. And for cause I'd throw a gun on him just as quick as on any rustler in Pecos.”
“Talk's cheap,” replied Laramie, making light of his bluster, but the red was deeper in his face.
“Sure. I know that,” Duane said. “And usually I don't talk. Then it's not well known that Longstreth owns the Hope So?”
“Reckon it's known in Pecos, all right. But Longstreth's name isn't connected with the Hope So. Blandy runs the place.”
“That Blandy. His faro game's crooked, or I'm a locoed bronch. Not that we don't have lots of crooked faro-dealers. A fellow can stand for them. But Blandy's mean, back-handed, never looks you in the eyes. That Hope So place ought to be run by a good fellow like you, Laramie.”
“Thanks,” replied he; and Duane imagined his voice a little husky. “Didn't you hear I used to run it?”
“No. Did you?” Duane said, quickly.
“I reckon. I built the place, made additions twice, owned it for eleven years.”
“Well, I'll be doggoned.” It was indeed Duane's turn to be surprised, and with the surprise came a glimmering. “I'm sorry you're not there now. Did you sell out?”
“No. Just lost the place.”
Laramie was bursting for relief now—to talk, to tell. Sympathy had made him soft.
“It was two years ago-two years last March,” he went on. “I was in a big cattle deal with Longstreth. We got the stock—an' my share, eighteen hundred head, was rustled off. I owed Longstreth. He pressed me. It come to a lawsuit—an' I—was ruined.”
It hurt Duane to look at Laramie. He was white, and tears rolled down his cheeks. Duane saw the bitterness, the defeat, the agony of the man. He had failed to meet his obligations; nevertheless, he had been swindled. All that he suppressed, all that would have been passion had the man's spirit not been broken, lay bare for Duane to see. He had now the secret of his bitterness. But the reason he did not openly accuse Longstreth, the secret of his reticence and fear—these Duane thought best to try to learn at some later time.
“Hard luck! It certainly was tough,” Duane said. “But you're a good loser. And the wheel turns! Now, Laramie, here's what. I need your advice. I've got a little money. But before I lose it I want to invest some. Buy some stock, or buy an interest in some rancher's herd. What I want you to steer me on is a good square rancher. Or maybe a couple of ranchers, if there happen to be two honest ones. Ha, ha! No deals with ranchers who ride in the dark with rustlers! I've a hunch Fairdale is full of them. Now, Laramie, you've been here for years. Sure you must know a couple of men above suspicion.”
“Thank God I do,” he replied, feelingly. “Frank Morton an' Si Zimmer, my friends an' neighbors all my prosperous days, an' friends still. You can gamble on Frank and Si. But if you want advice from me—don't invest money in stock now.”
“Why?”
“Because any new feller buyin' stock these days will be rustled quicker 'n he can say Jack Robinson. The pioneers, the new cattlemen—these are easy pickin' for the rustlers. Lord knows all the ranchers are easy enough pickin'. But the new fellers have to learn the ropes. They don't know anythin' or anybody. An' the old ranchers are wise an' sore. They'd fight if they—”
“What?” Duane put in, as he paused. “If they knew who was rustling the stock?”
“Nope.”
“If they had the nerve?”
“Not thet so much.”
“What then? What'd make them fight?”
“A leader!”
“Howdy thar, Jim,” boomed a big voice.
A man of great bulk, with a ruddy, merry face, entered the room.
“Hello, Morton,” replied Laramie. “I'd introduce you to my guest here, but I don't know his name.”
“Haw! Haw! Thet's all right. Few men out hyar go by their right names.”
“Say, Morton,” put in Duane, “Laramie gave me a hunch you'd be a good man to tie to. Now, I've a little money and before I lose it I'd like to invest it in stock.”
Morton smiled broadly.
“I'm on the square,” Duane said, bluntly. “If you fellows never size up your neighbors any better than you have sized me—well, you won't get any richer.”
It was enjoyment for Duane to make his remarks to these men pregnant with meaning. Morton showed his pleasure, his interest, but his faith held aloof.
“I've got some money. Will you let me in on some kind of deal? Will you start me up as a stockman with a little herd all my own?”
“Wal, stranger, to come out flat-footed, you'd be foolish to buy cattle now. I don't want to take your money an' see you lose out. Better go back across the Pecos where the rustlers ain't so strong. I haven't had more'n twenty-five hundred herd of stock for ten years. The rustlers let me hang on to a breedin' herd. Kind of them, ain't it?”
“Sort of kind. All I hear is rustlers, Morton,” replied Duane, with impatience. “You see, I haven't ever lived long in a rustler-run county. Who heads the gang, anyway?”
Morton looked at Duane with a curiously amused smile, then snapped his big jaw as if to shut in impulsive words.
“Look here, Morton. It stands to reason, no matter how strong these rustlers are, how hidden their work, however involved with supposedly honest men—they CAN'T last.”
“They come with the pioneers, an' they'll last till thar's a single steer left,” he declared.
“Well, if you take that view of circumstances I just figure you as one of the rustlers.”
Morton looked as if he were about to brain Duane with the butt of his whip. His anger flashed by then, evidently as unworthy of him, and, something striking him as funny, he boomed out a laugh.
“It's not so funny,” Duane went on. “If you're going to pretend a yellow streak, what else will I think?”
“Pretend?” he repeated.
“Sure. I know men of nerve. And here they're not any different from those in other places. I say if you show anything like a lack of sand it's all bluff. By nature you've got nerve. There are a lot of men around Fairdale who're afraid of their shadows—afraid to be out after dark—afraid to open their mouths. But you're not one. So I say if you claim these rustlers will last you're pretending lack of nerve just to help the popular idea along. For they CAN'T last. What you need out here is some new blood. Savvy what I mean?”
“Wal, I reckon I do,” he replied, looking as if a storm had blown over him. “Stranger, I'll look you up the next time I come to town.”
Then he went out.
Laramie had eyes like flint striking fire.
He breathed a deep breath and looked around the room before his gaze fixed again on Duane.
“Wal,” he replied, speaking low. “You've picked the right men. Now, who in the hell are you?”
Reaching into the inside pocket of his buckskin vest, Duane turned the lining out. A star-shaped bright silver object flashed as he shoved it, pocket and all, under Jim's hard eyes.
“RANGER!” he whispered, cracking the table with his fist. “You sure rung true to me.”
“Laramie, do you know who's boss of this secret gang of rustlers hereabouts?” asked Duane, bluntly. It was characteristic of him to come sharp to the point. His voice—something deep, easy, cool about him—seemed to steady Laramie.
“No,” replied Laramie.
“Does anybody know?” went on Duane.
“Wal, I reckon there's not one honest native who KNOWS.”
“But you have your suspicions?”
“We have.”
“Give me your idea about this crowd that hangs round the saloons—the regulars.”
“Jest a bad lot,” replied Laramie, with the quick assurance of knowledge. “Most of them have been here years. Others have drifted in. Some of them work, odd times. They rustle a few steers, steal, rob, anythin' for a little money to drink an' gamble. Jest a bad lot!”
“Have you any idea whether Cheseldine and his gang are associated with this gang here?”
“Lord knows. I've always suspected them the same gang. None of us ever seen Cheseldine—an' thet's strange, when Knell, Poggin, Panhandle Smith, Blossom Kane, and Fletcher, they all ride here often. No, Poggin doesn't come often. But the others do. For thet matter, they're around all over west of the Pecos.”
“Now I'm puzzled over this,” said Duane. “Why do men—apparently honest men—seem to be so close-mouthed here? Is that a fact, or only my impression?”
“It's a sure fact,” replied Laramie, darkly. “Men have lost cattle an' property in Fairdale—lost them honestly or otherwise, as hasn't been proved. An' in some cases when they talked—hinted a little—they was found dead. Apparently held up an robbed. But dead. Dead men don't talk! Thet's why we're close mouthed.”
Duane felt a dark, somber sternness. Rustling cattle was not intolerable. Western Texas had gone on prospering, growing in spite of the hordes of rustlers ranging its vast stretches; but a cold, secret, murderous hold on a little struggling community was something too strange, too terrible for men to stand long.
The ranger was about to speak again when the clatter of hoofs interrupted him. Horses halted out in front, and one rider got down. Floyd Lawson entered. He called for tobacco.
If his visit surprised Laramie he did not show any evidence. But Lawson showed rage as he saw the ranger, and then a dark glint flitted from the eyes that shifted from Duane to Laramie and back again. Duane leaned easily against the counter.
“Say, that was a bad break of yours,” Lawson said. “If you come fooling round the ranch again there'll be hell.”
It seemed strange that a man who had lived west of the Pecos for ten years could not see in Duane something which forbade that kind of talk. It certainly was not nerve Lawson showed; men of courage were seldom intolerant. With the matchless nerve that characterized the great gunmen of the day there was a cool, unobtrusive manner, a speech brief, almost gentle, certainly courteous. Lawson was a hot-headed Louisianian of French extraction; a man, evidently, who had never been crossed in anything, and who was strong, brutal, passionate, which qualities in the face of a situation like this made him simply a fool.
“I'm saying again, you used your ranger bluff just to get near Ray Longstreth,” Lawson sneered. “Mind you, if you come up there again there'll be hell.”
“You're right. But not the kind you think,” Duane retorted, his voice sharp and cold.
“Ray Longstreth wouldn't stoop to know a dirty blood-tracker like you,” said Lawson, hotly. He did not seem to have a deliberate intention to rouse Duane; the man was simply rancorous, jealous. “I'll call you right. You cheap bluffer! You four-flush! You damned interfering, conceited ranger!”
“Lawson, I'll not take offense, because you seem to be championing your beautiful cousin,” replied Duane, in slow speech. “But let me return your compliment. You're a fine Southerner! Why, you're only a cheap four-flush—damned, bull-headed RUSTLER!”
Duane hissed the last word. Then for him there was the truth in Lawson's working passion-blackened face.
Lawson jerked, moved, meant to draw. But how slow! Duane lunged forward. His long arm swept up. And Lawson staggered backward, knocking table and chairs, to fall hard, in a half-sitting posture against the wall.
“Don't draw!” warned Duane.
“Lawson, git away from your gun!” yelled Laramie.
But Lawson was crazed with fury. He tugged at his hip, his face corded with purple welts, malignant, murderous. Duane kicked the gun out of his hand. Lawson got up, raging, and rushed out.
Laramie lifted his shaking hands.
“What'd you wing him for?” he wailed. “He was drawin' on you. Kickin' men like him won't do out here.”
“That bull-headed fool will roar and butt himself with all his gang right into our hands. He's just the man I've needed to meet. Besides, shooting him would have been murder.”
“Murder!” exclaimed Laramie.
“Yes, for me,” replied Duane.
“That may be true—whoever you are—but if Lawson's the man you think he is he'll begin thet secret underground bizness. Why, Lawson won't sleep of nights now. He an' Longstreth have always been after me.”
“Laramie, what are your eyes for?” demanded Duane. “Watch out. And now here. See your friend Morton. Tell him this game grows hot. Together you approach four or five men you know well and can absolutely trust. I may need your help.”
Then Duane went from place to place, corner to corner, bar to bar, watching, listening, recording. The excitement had preceded him, and speculation was rife. He thought best to keep out of it. After dark he stole up to Longstreth's ranch. The evening was warm; the doors were open; and in the twilight the only lamps that had been lit were in Longstreth's big sitting-room, at the far end of the house. When a buckboard drove up and Longstreth and Lawson alighted, Duane was well hidden in the bushes, so well screened that he could get but a fleeting glimpse of Longstreth as he went in. For all Duane could see, he appeared to be a calm and quiet man, intense beneath the surface, with an air of dignity under insult. Duane's chance to observe Lawson was lost. They went into the house without speaking and closed the door.
At the other end of the porch, close under a window, was an offset between step and wall, and there in the shadow Duane hid. So Duane waited there in the darkness with patience born of many hours of hiding.
Presently a lamp was lit; and Duane heard the swish of skirts.
“Something's happened surely, Ruth,” he heard Miss Longstreth say, anxiously. “Papa just met me in the hall and didn't speak. He seemed pale, worried.”
“Cousin Floyd looked like a thunder-cloud,” said Ruth. “For once he didn't try to kiss me. Something's happened. Well, Ray, this had been a bad day.”
“Oh, dear! Ruth, what can we do? These are wild men. Floyd makes life miserable for me. And he teases you unmer—”
“I don't call it teasing. Floyd wants to spoon,” declared Ruth, emphatically. “He'd run after any woman.”
“A fine compliment to me, Cousin Ruth,” laughed Ray.
“I don't care,” replied Ruth, stubbornly, “it's so. He's mushy. And when he's been drinking and tries to kiss me—I hate him!”
There were steps on the hall floor.
“Hello, girls!” sounded out Lawson's voice, minus its usual gaiety.
“Floyd, what's the matter?” asked Ray, presently. “I never saw papa as he is to-night, nor you so—so worried. Tell me, what has happened?”
“Well, Ray, we had a jar to-day,” replied Lawson, with a blunt, expressive laugh.
“Jar?” echoed both the girls, curiously.
“We had to submit to a damnable outrage,” added Lawson, passionately, as if the sound of his voice augmented his feeling. “Listen, girls; I'll tell you-all about it.” He coughed, cleared his throat in a way that betrayed he had been drinking.
Duane sunk deeper into the shadow of his covert, and, stiffening his muscles for a protected spell of rigidity, prepared to listen with all acuteness and intensity. Just one word from this Lawson, inadvertently uttered in a moment of passion, might be the word Duane needed for his clue.
“It happened at the town hall,” began Lawson, rapidly. “Your father and Judge Owens and I were there in consultation with three ranchers from out of town. Then that damned ranger stalked in dragging Snecker, the fellow who hid here in the house. He had arrested Snecker for alleged assault on a restaurant-keeper named Laramie. Snecker being obviously innocent, he was discharged. Then this ranger began shouting his insults. Law was a farce in Fairdale. The court was a farce. There was no law. Your father's office as mayor should be impeached. He made arrests only for petty offenses. He was afraid of the rustlers, highwaymen, murderers. He was afraid or—he just let them alone. He used his office to cheat ranchers and cattlemen in lawsuits. All this the ranger yelled for every one to hear. A damnable outrage. Your father, Ray, insulted in his own court by a rowdy ranger!”
“Oh!” cried Ray Longstreth, in mingled distress and anger.
“The ranger service wants to rule western Texas,” went on Lawson. “These rangers are all a low set, many of them worse than the outlaws they hunt. Some of them were outlaws and gun-fighters before they became rangers. This is one of the worst of the lot. He's keen, intelligent, smooth, and that makes him more to be feared. For he is to be feared. He wanted to kill. He would kill. If your father had made the least move he would have shot him. He's a cold-nerved devil—the born gunman. My God, any instant I expected to see your father fall dead at my feet!”
“Oh, Floyd! The unspeakable ruffian!” cried Ray Longstreth, passionately.
“You see, Ray, this fellow, like all rangers, seeks notoriety. He made that play with Snecker just for a chance to rant against your father. He tried to inflame all Fairdale against him. That about the lawsuits was the worst! Damn him! He'll make us enemies.”
“What do you care for the insinuations of such a man?” said Ray Longstreth, her voice now deep and rich with feeling. “After a moment's thought no one will be influenced by them. Do not worry, Floyd. Tell papa not to worry. Surely after all these years he can't be injured in reputation by—by an adventurer.”
“Yes, he can be injured,” replied Floyd, quickly. “The frontier is a queer place. There are many bitter men here—men who have failed at ranching. And your father has been wonderfully successful. The ranger has dropped poison, and it'll spread.”