Strangers rode into Fairdale; and other hard-looking customers, new to Duane if not to Fairdale, helped to create a charged and waiting atmosphere. The saloons did unusual business and were never closed. Respectable citizens of the town were awakened in the early dawn by rowdies carousing in the streets.
Duane kept pretty close under cover during the day. He did not entertain the opinion that the first time he walked down-street he would be a target for guns. Things seldom happened that way; and when they did happen so, it was more accident than design. But at night he was not idle. He met Laramie, Morton, Zimmer, and others of like character; a secret club had been formed; and all the members were ready for action. Duane spent hours at night watching the house where Floyd Lawson stayed when he was not up at Longstreth's. At night he was visited, or at least the house was, by strange men who were swift, stealthy, mysterious—all that kindly disposed friends or neighbors would not have been. Duane had not been able to recognize any of these night visitors; and he did not think the time was ripe for a bold holding-up of one of them. Nevertheless, he was sure such an event would discover Lawson, or some one in that house, to be in touch with crooked men.
Laramie was right. Not twenty-four hours after his last talk with Duane, in which he advised quick action, he was found behind the little bar of his restaurant with a bullet-hole in his breast, dead. No one could be found who had heard a shot. It had been deliberate murder, for upon the bar had been left a piece of paper rudely scrawled with a pencil: “All friends of rangers look for the same.”
This roused Duane. His first move, however, was to bury Laramie. None of Laramie's neighbors evinced any interest in the dead man or the unfortunate family he had left. Duane saw that these neighbors were held in check by fear. Mrs. Laramie was ill; the shock of her husband's death was hard on her; and she had been left almost destitute with five children. Duane rented a small adobe house on the outskirts of town and moved the family into it. Then he played the part of provider and nurse and friend.
After several days Duane went boldly into town and showed that he meant business. It was his opinion that there were men in Fairdale secretly glad of a ranger's presence. What he intended to do was food for great speculation. A company of militia could not have had the effect upon the wild element of Fairdale that Duane's presence had. It got out that he was a gunman lightning swift on the draw. It was death to face him. He had killed thirty men—wildest rumor of all—it was actually said of him he had the gun-skill of Buck Duane or of Poggin.
At first there had not only been great conjecture among the vicious element, but also a very decided checking of all kinds of action calculated to be conspicuous to a keen-eyed ranger. At the tables, at the bars and lounging-places Duane heard the remarks: “Who's thet ranger after? What'll he do fust off? Is he waitin' fer somebody? Who's goin' to draw on him fust—an' go to hell? Jest about how soon will he be found somewheres full of lead?”
When it came out somewhere that Duane was openly cultivating the honest stay-at-home citizens to array them in time against the other element, then Fairdale showed its wolf-teeth. Several times Duane was shot at in the dark and once slightly injured. Rumor had it that Poggin, the gunman, was coming to meet him. But the lawless element did not rise up in a mass to slay Duane on sight. It was not so much that the enemies of the law awaited his next move, but just a slowness peculiar to the frontier. The ranger was in their midst. He was interesting, if formidable. He would have been welcomed at card-tables, at the bars, to play and drink with the men who knew they were under suspicion. There was a rude kind of good humor even in their open hostility.
Besides, one ranger or a company of rangers could not have held the undivided attention of these men from their games and drinks and quarrels except by some decided move. Excitement, greed, appetite were rife in them. Duane marked, however, a striking exception to the usual run of strangers he had been in the habit of seeing. Snecker had gone or was under cover. Again Duane caught a vague rumor of the coming of Poggin, yet he never seemed to arrive. Moreover, the goings-on among the habitues of the resorts and the cowboys who came in to drink and gamble were unusually mild in comparison with former conduct. This lull, however, did not deceive Duane. It could not last. The wonder was that it had lasted so long.
Duane went often to see Mrs. Laramie and her children. One afternoon while he was there he saw Miss Longstreth and Ruth ride up to the door. They carried a basket. Evidently they had heard of Mrs. Laramie's trouble. Duane felt strangely glad, but he went into an adjoining room rather than meet them.
“Mrs. Laramie, I've come to see you,” said Miss Longstreth, cheerfully.
The little room was not very light, there being only one window and the doors, but Duane could see plainly enough. Mrs. Laramie lay, hollow-checked and haggard, on a bed. Once she had evidently been a woman of some comeliness. The ravages of trouble and grief were there to read in her worn face; it had not, however, any of the hard and bitter lines that had characterized her husband's.
Duane wondered, considering that Longstreth had ruined Laramie, how Mrs. Laramie was going to regard the daughter of an enemy.
“So you're Granger Longstreth's girl?” queried the woman, with her bright, black eyes fixed on her visitor.
“Yes,” replied Miss Longstreth, simply. “This is my cousin, Ruth Herbert. We've come to nurse you, take care of the children, help you in any way you'll let us.”
There was a long silence.
“Well, you look a little like Longstreth,” finally said Mrs. Laramie, “but you're not at ALL like him. You must take after your mother. Miss Longstreth, I don't know if I can—if I ought accept anything from you. Your father ruined my husband.”
“Yes, I know,” replied the girl, sadly. “That's all the more reason you should let me help you. Pray don't refuse. It will—mean so much to me.”
If this poor, stricken woman had any resentment it speedily melted in the warmth and sweetness of Miss Longstreth's manner. Duane's idea was that the impression of Ray Longstreth's beauty was always swiftly succeeded by that of her generosity and nobility. At any rate, she had started well with Mrs. Laramie, and no sooner had she begun to talk to the children than both they and the mother were won. The opening of that big basket was an event. Poor, starved little beggars! Duane's feelings seemed too easily roused. Hard indeed would it have gone with Jim Laramie's slayer if he could have laid eyes on him then. However, Miss Longstreth and Ruth, after the nature of tender and practical girls, did not appear to take the sad situation to heart. The havoc was wrought in that household.
The needs now were cheerfulness, kindness, help, action—and these the girls furnished with a spirit that did Duane good.
“Mrs. Laramie, who dressed this baby?” presently asked Miss Longstreth. Duane peeped in to see a dilapidated youngster on her knee. That sight, if any other was needed, completed his full and splendid estimate of Ray Longstreth and wrought strangely upon his heart.
“The ranger,” replied Mrs. Laramie.
“The ranger!” exclaimed Miss Longstreth.
“Yes, he's taken care of us all since—since—” Mrs. Laramie choked.
“Oh! So you've had no help but his,” replied Miss Longstreth, hastily. “No women. Too bad! I'll send some one, Mrs. Laramie, and I'll come myself.”
“It'll be good of you,” went on the older woman. “You see, Jim had few friends—that is, right in town. And they've been afraid to help us—afraid they'd get what poor Jim—”
“That's awful!” burst out Miss Longstreth, passionately. “A brave lot of friends! Mrs. Laramie, don't you worry any more. We'll take care of you. Here, Ruth, help me. Whatever is the matter with baby's dress?”
Manifestly Miss Longstreth had some difficulty in subduing her emotion.
“Why, it's on hind side before,” declared Ruth. “I guess Mr. Ranger hasn't dressed many babies.”
“He did the best he could,” said Mrs. Laramie. “Lord only knows what would have become of us!”
“Then he is—is something more than a ranger?” queried Miss Longstreth, with a little break in her voice.
“He's more than I can tell,” replied Mrs. Laramie. “He buried Jim. He paid our debts. He fetched us here. He bought food for us. He cooked for us and fed us. He washed and dressed the baby. He sat with me the first two nights after Jim's death, when I thought I'd die myself. He's so kind, so gentle, so patient. He has kept me up just by being near. Sometimes I'd wake from a doze, an', seeing him there, I'd know how false were all these tales Jim heard about him and believed at first. Why, he plays with the children just—just like any good man might. When he has the baby up I just can't believe he's a bloody gunman, as they say. He's good, but he isn't happy. He has such sad eyes. He looks far off sometimes when the children climb round him. They love him. His life is sad. Nobody need tell me—he sees the good in things. Once he said somebody had to be a ranger. Well, I say, 'Thank God for a ranger like him!'”
Duane did not want to hear more, so he walked into the room.
“It was thoughtful of you,” Duane said. “Womankind are needed here. I could do so little. Mrs. Laramie, you look better already. I'm glad. And here's baby, all clean and white. Baby, what a time I had trying to puzzle out the way your clothes went on! Well, Mrs. Laramie, didn't I tell you—friends would come? So will the brighter side.”
“Yes, I've more faith than I had,” replied Mrs. Laramie. “Granger Longstreth's daughter has come to me. There for a while after Jim's death I thought I'd sink. We have nothing. How could I ever take care of my little ones? But I'm gaining courage to—”
“Mrs. Laramie, do not distress yourself any more,” said Miss Longstreth. “I shall see you are well cared for. I promise you.”
“Miss Longstreth, that's fine!” exclaimed Duane. “It's what I'd have—expected of you.”
It must have been sweet praise to her, for the whiteness of her face burned out in a beautiful blush.
“And it's good of you, too, Miss Herbert, to come,” added Duane. “Let me thank you both. I'm glad I have you girls as allies in part of my lonely task here. More than glad for the sake of this good woman and the little ones. But both of you be careful about coming here alone. There's risk. And now I'll be going. Good-by, Mrs. Laramie. I'll drop in again to-night. Good-by.”
“Mr. Ranger, wait!” called Miss Longstreth, as he went out. She was white and wonderful. She stepped out of the door close to him.
“I have wronged you,” she said, impulsively.
“Miss Longstreth! How can you say that?” he returned.
“I believed what my father and Floyd Lawson said about you. Now I see—I wronged you.”
“You make me very glad. But, Miss Longstreth, please don't speak of wronging me. I have been a—a gunman, I am a ranger—and much said of me is true. My duty is hard on others—sometimes on those who are innocent, alas! But God knows that duty is hard, too, on me.”
“I did wrong you. If you entered my home again I would think it an honor. I—”
“Please—please don't, Miss Longstreth,” interrupted Duane.
“But, sir, my conscience flays me,” she went on. There was no other sound like her voice. “Will you take my hand? Will you forgive me?”
She gave it royally, while the other was there pressing at her breast. Duane took the proffered hand. He did not know what else to do.
Then it seemed to dawn upon him that there was more behind this white, sweet, noble intensity of her than just the making amends for a fancied or real wrong. Duane thought the man did not live on earth who could have resisted her then.
“I honor you for your goodness to this unfortunate woman,” she said, and now her speech came swiftly. “When she was all alone and helpless you were her friend. It was the deed of a man. But Mrs. Laramie isn't the only unfortunate woman in the world. I, too, am unfortunate. Ah, how I may soon need a friend! Will you be my friend? I'm so alone. I'm terribly worried. I fear—I fear—Oh, surely I'll need a friend soon—soon. Oh, I'm afraid of what you'll find out sooner or later. I want to help you. Let us save life if not honor. Must I stand alone—all alone? Will you—will you be—” Her voice failed.
It seemed to Duane that she must have discovered what he had begun to suspect—that her father and Lawson were not the honest ranchers they pretended to be. Perhaps she knew more! Her appeal to Duane shook him deeply. He wanted to help her more than he had ever wanted anything. And with the meaning of the tumultuous sweetness she stirred in him there came realization of a dangerous situation.
“I must be true to my duty,” he said, hoarsely.
“If you knew me you'd know I could never ask you to be false to it.”
“Well, then—I'll do anything for you.”
“Oh, thank you! I'm ashamed that I believed my cousin Floyd! He lied—he lied. I'm all in the dark, strangely distressed. My father wants me to go back home. Floyd is trying to keep me here. They've quarreled. Oh, I know something dreadful will happen. I know I'll need you if—if—Will you help me?”
“Yes,” replied Duane, and his look brought the blood to her face.
After supper Duane stole out for his usual evening's spying. The night was dark, without starlight, and a stiff wind rustled the leaves. Duane bent his steps toward the Longstreth's ranchhouse. He had so much to think about that he never knew where the time went. This night when he reached the edge of the shrubbery he heard Lawson's well-known footsteps and saw Longstreth's door open, flashing a broad bar of light in the darkness. Lawson crossed the threshold, the door closed, and all was dark again outside. Not a ray of light escaped from the window.
Little doubt there was that his talk with Longstreth would be interesting to Duane. He tiptoed to the door and listened, but could hear only a murmur of voices. Besides, that position was too risky. He went round the corner of the house.
This side of the big adobe house was of much older construction than the back and larger part. There was a narrow passage between the houses, leading from the outside through to the patio.
This passage now afforded Duane an opportunity, and he decided to avail himself of it in spite of the very great danger. Crawling on very stealthily, he got under the shrubbery to the entrance of the passage. In the blackness a faint streak of light showed the location of a crack in the wall. He had to slip in sidewise. It was a tight squeeze, but he entered without the slightest noise. As he progressed the passage grew a very little wider in that direction, and that fact gave rise to the thought that in case of a necessary and hurried exit he would do best by working toward the patio. It seemed a good deal of time was consumed in reaching a vantage-point. When he did get there the crack he had marked was a foot over his head. There was nothing to do but find toe-holes in the crumbling walls, and by bracing knees on one side, back against the other, hold himself up Once with his eye there he did not care what risk he ran. Longstreth appeared disturbed; he sat stroking his mustache; his brow was clouded. Lawson's face seemed darker, more sullen, yet lighted by some indomitable resolve.
“We'll settle both deals to-night,” Lawson was saying. “That's what I came for.”
“But suppose I don't choose to talk here?” protested Longstreth, impatiently. “I never before made my house a place to—”
“We've waited long enough. This place's as good as any. You've lost your nerve since that ranger hit the town. First now, will you give Ray to me?”
“Floyd; you talk like a spoiled boy. Give Ray to you! Why, she's a woman, and I'm finding out that she's got a mind of her own. I told you I was willing for her to marry you. I tried to persuade her. But Ray hasn't any use for you now. She liked you at first. But now she doesn't. So what can I do?”
“You can make her marry me,” replied Lawson.
“Make that girl do what she doesn't want to? It couldn't be done even if I tried. And I don't believe I'll try. I haven't the highest opinion of you as a prospective son-in-law, Floyd. But if Ray loved you I would consent. We'd all go away together before this damned miserable business is out. Then she'd never know. And maybe you might be more like you used to be before the West ruined you. But as matters stand, you fight your own game with her. And I'll tell you now you'll lose.”
“What'd you want to let her come out here for?” demanded Lawson, hotly. “It was a dead mistake. I've lost my head over her. I'll have her or die. Don't you think if she was my wife I'd soon pull myself together? Since she came we've none of us been right. And the gang has put up a holler. No, Longstreth, we've got to settle things to-night.”
“Well, we can settle what Ray's concerned in, right now,” replied Longstreth, rising. “Come on; we'll ask her. See where you stand.”
They went out, leaving the door open. Duane dropped down to rest himself and to wait. He would have liked to hear Miss Longstreth's answer. But he could guess what it would be. Lawson appeared to be all Duane had thought him, and he believed he was going to find out presently that he was worse.
The men seemed to be absent a good while, though that feeling might have been occasioned by Duane's thrilling interest and anxiety. Finally he heard heavy steps. Lawson came in alone. He was leaden-faced, humiliated. Then something abject in him gave place to rage. He strode the room; he cursed. Then Longstreth returned, now appreciably calmer. Duane could not but decide that he felt relief at the evident rejection of Lawson's proposal.
“Don't fuss about it, Floyd,” he said. “You see I can't help it. We're pretty wild out here, but I can't rope my daughter and give her to you as I would an unruly steer.”
“Longstreth, I can MAKE her marry me,” declared Lawson, thickly.
“How?”
“You know the hold I got on you—the deal that made you boss of this rustler gang?”
“It isn't likely I'd forget,” replied Longstreth, grimly.
“I can go to Ray, tell her that, make her believe I'd tell it broadcast—tell this ranger—unless she'd marry me.”
Lawson spoke breathlessly, with haggard face and shadowed eyes. He had no shame. He was simply in the grip of passion. Longstreth gazed with dark, controlled fury at this relative. In that look Duane saw a strong, unscrupulous man fallen into evil ways, but still a man. It betrayed Lawson to be the wild and passionate weakling. Duane seemed to see also how during all the years of association this strong man had upheld the weak one. But that time had gone for ever, both in intent on Longstreth's part and in possibility. Lawson, like the great majority of evil and unrestrained men on the border, had reached a point where influence was futile. Reason had degenerated. He saw only himself.
“But, Floyd, Ray's the one person on earth who must never know I'm a rustler, a thief, a red-handed ruler of the worst gang on the border,” replied Longstreth, impressively.
Floyd bowed his head at that, as if the significance had just occurred to him. But he was not long at a loss.
“She's going to find it out sooner or later. I tell you she knows now there's something wrong out here. She's got eyes. Mark what I say.”
“Ray has changed, I know. But she hasn't any idea yet that her daddy's a boss rustler. Ray's concerned about what she calls my duty as mayor. Also I think she's not satisfied with my explanations in regard to certain property.”
Lawson halted in his restless walk and leaned against the stone mantelpiece. He had his hands in his pockets. He squared himself as if this was his last stand. He looked desperate, but on the moment showed an absence of his usual nervous excitement.
“Longstreth, that may well be true,” he said. “No doubt all you say is true. But it doesn't help me. I want the girl. If I don't get her—I reckon we'll all go to hell!”
He might have meant anything, probably meant the worst. He certainly had something more in mind. Longstreth gave a slight start, barely perceptible, like the switch of an awakening tiger. He sat there, head down, stroking his mustache. Almost Duane saw his thought. He had long experience in reading men under stress of such emotion. He had no means to vindicate his judgment, but his conviction was that Longstreth right then and there decided that the thing to do was to kill Lawson. For Duane's part he wondered that Longstreth had not come to such a conclusion before. Not improbably the advent of his daughter had put Longstreth in conflict with himself.
Suddenly he threw off a somber cast of countenance, and he began to talk. He talked swiftly, persuasively, yet Duane imagined he was talking to smooth Lawson's passion for the moment. Lawson no more caught the fateful significance of a line crossed, a limit reached, a decree decided than if he had not been present. He was obsessed with himself. How, Duane wondered, had a man of his mind ever lived so long and gone so far among the exacting conditions of the Southwest? The answer was, perhaps, that Longstreth had guided him, upheld him, protected him. The coming of Ray Longstreth had been the entering-wedge of dissension.
“You're too impatient,” concluded Longstreth. “You'll ruin any chance of happiness if you rush Ray. She might be won. If you told her who I am she'd hate you for ever. She might marry you to save me, but she'd hate you. That isn't the way. Wait. Play for time. Be different with her. Cut out your drinking. She despises that. Let's plan to sell out here—stock, ranch, property—and leave the country. Then you'd have a show with her.”
“I told you we've got to stick,” growled Lawson. “The gang won't stand for our going. It can't be done unless you want to sacrifice everything.”
“You mean double-cross the men? Go without their knowing? Leave them here to face whatever comes?”
“I mean just that.”
“I'm bad enough, but not that bad,” returned Longstreth. “If I can't get the gang to let me off, I'll stay and face the music. All the same, Lawson, did it ever strike you that most of the deals the last few years have been YOURS?”
“Yes. If I hadn't rung them in there wouldn't have been any. You've had cold feet, and especially since this ranger has been here.”
“Well, call it cold feet if you like. But I call it sense. We reached our limit long ago. We began by rustling a few cattle—at a time when rustling was laughed at. But as our greed grew so did our boldness. Then came the gang, the regular trips, the one thing and another till, before we knew it—before I knew it—we had shady deals, holdups, and MURDERS on our record. Then we HAD to go on. Too late to turn back!”
“I reckon we've all said that. None of the gang wants to quit. They all think, and I think, we can't be touched. We may be blamed, but nothing can be proved. We're too strong.”
“There's where you're dead wrong,” rejoined Longstreth, emphatically. “I imagined that once, not long ago. I was bullheaded. Who would ever connect Granger Longstreth with a rustler gang? I've changed my mind. I've begun to think. I've reasoned out things. We're crooked, and we can't last. It's the nature of life, even here, for conditions to grow better. The wise deal for us would be to divide equally and leave the country, all of us.”
“But you and I have all the stock—all the gain,” protested Lawson.
“I'll split mine.”
“I won't—that settles that,” added Lawson, instantly.
Longstreth spread wide his hands as if it was useless to try to convince this man. Talking had not increased his calmness, and he now showed more than impatience. A dull glint gleamed deep in his eyes.
“Your stock and property will last a long time—do you lots of good when this ranger—”
“Bah!” hoarsely croaked Lawson. The ranger's name was a match applied to powder. “Haven't I told you he'd be dead soon—any time—same as Laramie is?”
“Yes, you mentioned the—the supposition,” replied Longstreth, sarcastically. “I inquired, too, just how that very desired event was to be brought about.”
“The gang will lay him out.”
“Bah!” retorted Longstreth, in turn. He laughed contemptuously.
“Floyd, don't be a fool. You've been on the border for ten years. You've packed a gun and you've used it. You've been with rustlers when they killed their men. You've been present at many fights. But you never in all that time saw a man like this ranger. You haven't got sense enough to see him right if you had a chance. Neither have any of you. The only way to get rid of him is for the gang to draw on him, all at once. Then he's going to drop some of them.”
“Longstreth, you say that like a man who wouldn't care much if he did drop some of them,” declared Lawson; and now he was sarcastic.
“To tell you the truth, I wouldn't,” returned the other, bluntly. “I'm pretty sick of this mess.”
Lawson cursed in amazement. His emotions were all out of proportion to his intelligence. He was not at all quick-witted. Duane had never seen a vainer or more arrogant man.
“Longstreth, I don't like your talk,” he said.
“If you don't like the way I talk you know what you can do,” replied Longstreth, quickly. He stood up then, cool and quiet, with flash of eyes and set of lips that told Duane he was dangerous.
“Well, after all, that's neither here nor there,” went on Lawson, unconsciously cowed by the other. “The thing is, do I get the girl?”
“Not by any means except her consent.”
“You'll not make her marry me?”
“No. No,” replied Longstreth, his voice still cold, low-pitched.
“All right. Then I'll make her.”
Evidently Longstreth understood the man before him so well that he wasted no more words. Duane knew what Lawson never dreamed of, and that was that Longstreth had a gun somewhere within reach and meant to use it. Then heavy footsteps sounded outside tramping upon the porch. Duane might have been mistaken, but he believed those footsteps saved Lawson's life.
“There they are,” said Lawson, and he opened the door.
Five masked men entered. They all wore coats hiding any weapons. A big man with burly shoulders shook hands with Longstreth, and the others stood back.
The atmosphere of that room had changed. Lawson might have been a nonentity for all he counted. Longstreth was another man—a stranger to Duane. If he had entertained a hope of freeing himself from this band, of getting away to a safer country, he abandoned it at the very sight of these men. There was power here, and he was bound.
The big man spoke in low, hoarse whispers, and at this all the others gathered around him close to the table. There were evidently some signs of membership not plain to Duane. Then all the heads were bent over the table. Low voices spoke, queried, answered, argued. By straining his ears Duane caught a word here and there. They were planning, and they were brief. Duane gathered they were to have a rendezvous at or near Ord.
Then the big man, who evidently was the leader of the present convention, got up to depart. He went as swiftly as he had come, and was followed by his comrades. Longstreth prepared for a quiet smoke. Lawson seemed uncommunicative and unsociable. He smoked fiercely and drank continually. All at once he straightened up as if listening.
“What's that?” he called, suddenly.
Duane's strained ears were pervaded by a slight rustling sound.
“Must be a rat,” replied Longstreth.
The rustle became a rattle.
“Sounds like a rattlesnake to me,” said Lawson.
Longstreth got up from the table and peered round the room.
Just at that instant Duane felt an almost inappreciable movement of the adobe wall which supported him. He could scarcely credit his senses. But the rattle inside Longstreth's room was mingling with little dull thuds of falling dirt. The adobe wall, merely dried mud, was crumbling. Duane distinctly felt a tremor pass through it. Then the blood gushed back to his heart.
“What in the hell!” exclaimed Longstreth.
“I smell dust,” said Lawson, sharply.
That was the signal for Duane to drop down from his perch, yet despite his care he made a noise.
“Did you hear a step?” queried Longstreth.
No one answered. But a heavy piece of the adobe wall fell with a thud. Duane heard it crack, felt it shake.
“There's somebody between the walls!” thundered Longstreth.
Then a section of the wall fell inward with a crash. Duane began to squeeze his body through the narrow passage toward the patio.
“Hear him!” yelled Lawson. “This side!”
“No, he's going that way,” yelled Longstreth.
The tramp of heavy boots lent Duane the strength of desperation. He was not shirking a fight, but to be cornered like a trapped coyote was another matter. He almost tore his clothes off in that passage. The dust nearly stifled him. When he burst into the patio it was not a single instant too soon. But one deep gasp of breath revived him and he was up, gun in hand, running for the outlet into the court. Thumping footsteps turned him back. While there was a chance to get away he did not want to fight. He thought he heard someone running into the patio from the other end. He stole along, and coming to a door, without any idea of where it might lead, he softly pushed it open a little way and slipped in.
A low cry greeted Duane. The room was light. He saw Ray Longstreth sitting on her bed in her dressing-gown. With a warning gesture to her to be silent he turned to close the door. It was a heavy door without bolt or bar, and when Duane had shut it he felt safe only for the moment. Then he gazed around the room. There was one window with blind closely drawn. He listened and seemed to hear footsteps retreating, dying away.
Then Duane turned to Miss Longstreth. She had slipped off the bed, half to her knees, and was holding out trembling hands. She was as white as the pillow on her bed. She was terribly frightened. Again with warning hand commanding silence, Duane stepped softly forward, meaning to reassure her.
“Oh!” she whispered, wildly; and Duane thought she was going to faint. When he got close and looked into her eyes he understood the strange, dark expression in them. She was terrified because she believed he meant to kill her, or do worse, probably worse. Duane realized he must have looked pretty hard and fierce bursting into her room with that big gun in hand.
The way she searched Duane's face with doubtful, fearful eyes hurt him.
“Listen. I didn't know this was your room. I came here to get away—to save my life. I was pursued. I was spying on—on your father and his men. They heard me, but did not see me. They don't know who was listening. They're after me now.”
Her eyes changed from blank gulfs to dilating, shadowing, quickening windows of thought.
Then she stood up and faced Duane with the fire and intelligence of a woman in her eyes.
“Tell me now. You were spying on my father?”
Briefly Duane told her what had happened before he entered her room, not omitting a terse word as to the character of the men he had watched.
“My God! So it's that? I knew something was terribly wrong here—with him—with the place—the people. And right off I hated Floyd Lawson. Oh, it'll kill me if—if—It's so much worse than I dreamed. What shall I do?”
The sound of soft steps somewhere near distracted Duane's attention, reminded him of her peril, and now, what counted more with him, made clear the probability of being discovered in her room.
“I'll have to get out of here,” whispered Duane.
“Wait,” she replied. “Didn't you say they were hunting for you?”
“They sure are,” he returned, grimly.
“Oh, then you mustn't go. They might shoot you before you got away. Stay. If we hear them you can hide. I'll turn out the light. I'll meet them at the door. You can trust me. Wait till all quiets down, if we have to wait till morning. Then you can slip out.”
“I oughtn't to stay. I don't want to—I won't,” Duane replied, perplexed and stubborn.
“But you must. It's the only safe way. They won't come here.”
“Suppose they should? It's an even chance Longstreth'll search every room and corner in this old house. If they found me here I couldn't start a fight. You might be hurt. Then—the fact of my being here—”
Duane did not finish what he meant, but instead made a step toward the door. White of face and dark of eye, she took hold of him to detain him. She was as strong and supple as a panther. But she need not have been either resolute or strong, for the clasp of her hand was enough to make Duane weak.
“Up yet, Ray?” came Longstreth's clear voice, too strained, too eager to be natural.
“No. I'm in bed reading. Good night,” instantly replied Miss Longstreth, so calmly and naturally that Duane marveled at the difference between man and woman. Then she motioned for Duane to hide in the closet. He slipped in, but the door would not close altogether.
“Are you alone?” went on Longstreth's penetrating voice.
“Yes,” she replied. “Ruth went to bed.”
The door swung inward with a swift scrape and jar. Longstreth half entered, haggard, flaming-eyed. Behind him Duane saw Lawson, and indistinctly another man.
Longstreth barred Lawson from entering, which action showed control as well as distrust. He wanted to see into the room. When he had glanced around he went out and closed the door.
Then what seemed a long interval ensued. The house grew silent once more. Duane could not see Miss Longstreth, but he heard her quick breathing. How long did she mean to let him stay hidden there? Hard and perilous as his life had been, this was a new kind of adventure. He had divined the strange softness of his feeling as something due to the magnetism of this beautiful woman. It hardly seemed possible that he, who had been outside the pale for so many years, could have fallen in love. Yet that must be the secret of his agitation.
Presently he pushed open the closet door and stepped forth. Miss Longstreth had her head lowered upon her arms and appeared to be in distress. At his touch she raised a quivering face.
“I think I can go now—safely,” he whispered.
“Go then, if you must, but you may stay till you're safe,” she replied.
“I—I couldn't thank you enough. It's been hard on me—this finding out—and you his daughter. I feel strange. I don't understand myself well. But I want you to know—if I were not an outlaw—a ranger—I'd lay my life at your feet.”
“Oh! You have seen so—so little of me,” she faltered.
“All the same it's true. And that makes me feel more the trouble my coming caused you.”
“You will not fight my father?”
“Not if I can help it. I'm trying to get out of his way.'
“But you spied upon him.”
“I am a ranger, Miss Longstreth.”
“And oh! I am a rustler's daughter,” she cried. “That's so much more terrible than I'd suspected. It was tricky cattle deals I imagined he was engaged in. But only to-night I had strong suspicions aroused.”
“How? Tell me.”
“I overheard Floyd say that men were coming to-night to arrange a meeting for my father at a rendezvous near Ord. Father did not want to go. Floyd taunted him with a name.”
“What name?” queried Duane.
“It was Cheseldine.”
“CHESELDINE! My God! Miss Longstreth, why did you tell me that?”
“What difference does that make?”
“Your father and Cheseldine are one and the same,” whispered Duane, hoarsely.
“I gathered so much myself,” she replied, miserably. “But Longstreth is father's real name.”
Duane felt so stunned he could not speak at once. It was the girl's part in this tragedy that weakened him. The instant she betrayed the secret Duane realized perfectly that he did love her. The emotion was like a great flood.
“Miss Longstreth, all this seems so unbelievable,” he whispered. “Cheseldine is the rustler chief I've come out here to get. He's only a name. Your father is the real man. I've sworn to get him. I'm bound by more than law or oaths. I can't break what binds me. And I must disgrace you—wreck your lifer Why, Miss Longstreth, I believe I—I love you. It's all come in a rush. I'd die for you if I could. How fatal—terrible—this is! How things work out!”
She slipped to her knees, with her hands on his.
“You won't kill him?” she implored. “If you care for me—you won't kill him?”
“No. That I promise you.”
With a low moan she dropped her head upon the bed.
Duane opened the door and stealthily stole out through the corridor to the court.
When Duane got out into the dark, where his hot face cooled in the wind, his relief equaled his other feelings.
The night was dark, windy, stormy, yet there was no rain. Duane hoped as soon as he got clear of the ranch to lose something of the pain he felt. But long after he had tramped out into the open there was a lump in his throat and an ache in his breast. All his thought centered around Ray Longstreth. What a woman she had turned out to be! He seemed to have a vague, hopeless hope that there might be, there must be, some way he could save her.