The Lone Star Ranger - Zane Grey (ereader for comics txt) 📗

clip-clop of hoofs caused Duane to raise his head and listen. Horses were coming down the road from the head of the valley. The hour was unusual for riders to come in. Presently the narrow, moonlit lane was crossed at its far end by black moving objects. Two horses Duane discerned.

“It’s Bland!” whispered the woman, grasping Duane with shaking hands. “You must run! No, he’d see you. That ‘d be worse. It’s Bland! I know his horse’s trot.”

“But you said he wouldn’t mind my calling here,” protested Duane. “Euchre’s with me. It’ll be all right.”

“Maybe so,” she replied, with visible effort at self-control. Manifestly she had a great fear of Bland. “If I could only think!”

Then she dragged Duane to the door, pushed him in.

“Euchre, come out with me! Duane, you stay with the girl! I’ll tell Bland you’re in love with her. Jen, if you give us away I’ll wring your neck.”

The swift action and fierce whisper told Duane that Mrs. Bland was herself again. Duane stepped close to Jennie, who stood near the window. Neither spoke, but her hands were outstretched to meet his own. They were small, trembling hands, cold as ice. He held them close, trying to convey what he felt—that he would protect her. She leaned against him, and they looked out of the window. Duane felt calm and sure of himself. His most pronounced feeling besides that for the frightened girl was a curiosity as to how Mrs. Bland would rise to the occasion. He saw the riders dismount down the lane and wearily come forward. A boy led away the horses. Euchre, the old fox, was talking loud and with remarkable ease, considering what he claimed was his natural cowardice.

“—that was way back in the sixties, about the time of the war,” he was saying. “Rustlin’ cattle wasn’t nuthin’ then to what it is now. An’ times is rougher these days. This gun-throwin’ has come to be a disease. Men have an itch for the draw same as they used to have fer poker. The only real gambler outside of greasers we ever had here was Bill, an’ I presume Bill is burnin’ now.”

The approaching outlaws, hearing voices, halted a rod or so from the porch. Then Mrs. Bland uttered an exclamation, ostensibly meant to express surprise, and hurried out to meet them. She greeted her husband warmly and gave welcome to the other man. Duane could not see well enough in the shadow to recognize Bland’s companion, but he believed it was Alloway.

“Dog-tired we are and starved,” said Bland, heavily. “Who’s here with you?”

“That’s Euchre on the porch. Duane is inside at the window with Jen,” replied Mrs. Bland.

“Duane!” he exclaimed. Then he whispered low—something Duane could not catch.

“Why, I asked him to come,” said the chief’s wife. She spoke easily and naturally and made no change in tone. “Jen has been ailing. She gets thinner and whiter every day. Duane came here one day with Euchre, saw Jen, and went loony over her pretty face, same as all you men. So I let him come.”

Bland cursed low and deep under his breath. The other man made a violent action of some kind and apparently was quieted by a restraining hand.

“Kate, you let Duane make love to Jennie?” queried Bland, incredulously.

“Yes, I did,” replied the wife, stubbornly. “Why not? Jen’s in love with him. If he takes her away and marries her she can be a decent woman.”

Bland kept silent a moment, then his laugh pealed out loud and harsh.

“Chess, did you get that? Well, by God! what do you think of my wife?”

“She’s lyin’ or she’s crazy,” replied Alloway, and his voice carried an unpleasant ring.

Mrs. Bland promptly and indignantly told her husband’s lieutenant to keep his mouth shut.

“Ho, ho, ho!” rolled out Bland’s laugh.

Then he led the way to the porch, his spurs clinking, the weapons he was carrying rattling, and he flopped down on a bench.

“How are you, boss?” asked Euchre.

“Hello, old man. I’m well, but all in.”

Alloway slowly walked on to the porch and leaned against the rail. He answered Euchre’s greeting with a nod. Then he stood there a dark, silent figure.

Mrs. Bland’s full voice in eager questioning had a tendency to ease the situation. Bland replied briefly to her, reporting a remarkably successful trip.

Duane thought it time to show himself. He had a feeling that Bland and Alloway would let him go for the moment. They were plainly nonplussed, and Alloway seemed sullen, brooding. “Jennie,” whispered Duane, “that was clever of Mrs. Bland. We’ll keep up the deception. Any day now be ready!”

She pressed close to him, and a barely audible “Hurry!” came breathing into his ear.

“Good night, Jennie,” he said, aloud. “Hope you feel better to-morrow.”

Then he stepped out into the moonlight and spoke. Bland returned the greeting, and, though he was not amiable, he did not show resentment.

“Met Jasper as I rode in,” said Bland, presently. “He told me you made Bill Black mad, and there’s liable to be a fight. What did you go off the handle about?”

Duane explained the incident. “I’m sorry I happened to be there,” he went on. “It wasn’t my business.”

“Scurvy trick that ‘d been,” muttered Bland. “You did right. All the same, Duane, I want you to stop quarreling with my men. If you were one of us—that’d be different. I can’t keep my men from fighting. But I’m not called on to let an outsider hang around my camp and plug my rustlers.”

“I guess I’ll have to be hitting the trail for somewhere,” said Duane.

“Why not join my band? You’ve got a bad start already, Duane, and if I know this border you’ll never be a respectable citizen again. You’re a born killer. I know every bad man on this frontier. More than one of them have told me that something exploded in their brain, and when sense came back there lay another dead man. It’s not so with me. I’ve done a little shooting, too, but I never wanted to kill another man just to rid myself of the last one. My dead men don’t sit on my chest at night. That’s the gunfighter’s trouble. He’s crazy. He has to kill a new man—he’s driven to it to forget the last one.”

“But I’m no gunfighter,” protested Duane. “Circumstances made me—”

“No doubt,” interrupted Bland, with a laugh. “Circumstances made me a rustler. You don’t know yourself. You’re young; you’ve got a temper; your father was one of the most dangerous men Texas ever had. I don’t see any other career for you. Instead of going it alone—a lone wolf, as the Texans say—why not make friends with other outlaws? You’ll live longer.”

Euchre squirmed in his seat.

“Boss, I’ve been givin’ the boy egzactly thet same line of talk. Thet’s why I took him in to bunk with me. If he makes pards among us there won’t be any more trouble. An’ he’d be a grand feller fer the gang. I’ve seen Wild Bill Hickok throw a gun, an’ Billy the Kid, an’ Hardin, an’ Chess here—all the fastest men on the border. An’ with apologies to present company, I’m here to say Duane has them all skinned. His draw is different. You can’t see how he does it.”

Euchre’s admiring praise served to create an effective little silence. Alloway shifted uneasily on his feet, his spurs jangling faintly, and did not lift his head. Bland seemed thoughtful.

“That’s about the only qualification I have to make me eligible for your band,” said Duane, easily.

“It’s good enough,” replied Bland, shortly. “Will you consider the idea?”

“I’ll think it over. Good night.”

He left the group, followed by Euchre. When they reached the end of the lane, and before they had exchanged a word, Bland called Euchre back. Duane proceeded slowly along the moonlit road to the cabin and sat down under the cottonwoods to wait for Euchre. The night was intense and quiet, a low hum of insects giving the effect of a congestion of life. The beauty of the soaring moon, the ebony canons of shadow under the mountain, the melancholy serenity of the perfect night, made Duane shudder in the realization of how far aloof he now was from enjoyment of these things. Never again so long as he lived could he be natural. His mind was clouded. His eye and ear henceforth must register impressions of nature, but the joy of them had fled.

Still, as he sat there with a foreboding of more and darker work ahead of him there was yet a strange sweetness left to him, and it lay in thought of Jennie. The pressure of her cold little hands lingered in his. He did not think of her as a woman, and he did not analyze his feelings. He just had vague, dreamy thoughts and imaginations that were interspersed in the constant and stern revolving of plans to save her.

A shuffling step roused him. Euchre’s dark figure came crossing the moonlit grass under the cottonwoods. The moment the outlaw reached him Duane saw that he was laboring under great excitement. It scarcely affected Duane. He seemed to be acquiring patience, calmness, strength.

“Bland kept you pretty long,” he said.

“Wait till I git my breath,” replied Euchre. He sat silent a little while, fanning himself with a sombrero, though the night was cool, and then he went into the cabin to return presently with a lighted pipe.

“Fine night,” he said; and his tone further acquainted Duane with Euchre’s quaint humor. “Fine night for love-affairs, by gum!”

“I’d noticed that,” rejoined Duane, dryly.

“Wal, I’m a son of a gun if I didn’t stand an’ watch Bland choke his wife till her tongue stuck out an’ she got black in the face.”

“No!” ejaculated Duane.

“Hope to die if I didn’t. Buck, listen to this here yarn. When I got back to the porch I seen Bland was wakin’ up. He’d been too fagged out to figger much. Alloway an’ Kate had gone in the house, where they lit up the lamps. I heard Kate’s high voice, but Alloway never chirped. He’s not the talkin’ kind, an’ he’s damn dangerous when he’s thet way. Bland asked me some questions right from the shoulder. I was ready for them, an’ I swore the moon was green cheese. He was satisfied. Bland always trusted me, an’ liked me, too, I reckon. I hated to lie black thet way. But he’s a hard man with bad intentions toward Jennie, an’ I’d double-cross him any day.

“Then we went into the house. Jennie had gone to her little room, an’ Bland called her to come out. She said she was undressin’. An’ he ordered her to put her clothes back on. Then, Buck, his next move was some surprisin’. He deliberately thronged a gun on Kate. Yes sir, he pointed his big blue Colt right at her, an’ he says:

“‘I’ve a mind to blow out your brains.’

“‘Go ahead,’ says Kate, cool as could be.

“‘You lied to me,’ he roars.

“Kate laughed in his face. Bland slammed the gun down an’ made a grab fer her. She fought him, but wasn’t a match fer him, an’ he got her by the throat. He choked her till I thought she was strangled. Alloway made him stop. She flopped down on the bed an’ gasped fer a while. When she come to them hardshelled cusses went after her, trying to make her give herself away. I think Bland was jealous. He suspected she’d got thick with you an’ was foolin’ him. I reckon thet’s a sore feelin’ fer a man to have—to guess pretty nice, but not to BE sure. Bland gave it up after a