The Lone Star Ranger: A Romance of the Border by Zane Grey (good inspirational books TXT) 📗

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