 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Lone Star Ranger by Zane Gray, Chapter 23 Dwayne returned to Fairdale and camped in the Mesquite till the twenty-third of the month. The few days seemed endless. All he could think of was that the hour in which he must disgrace Ray Longstreethe was slowly but inexorably coming. In that waiting time he learned what love was, and also duty. When the day at last dawned he rode like one possessed, down the rough slope, hurdling the stones and crashing through the brush, the sound in his ears that was not all the rush of the wind, something dragged at him. Apparently one side of his mind was unalterably fixed, while the other was a hurrying conglomeration of flashes of thought, reception of sensations. He could not get calmness. By and by, almost involuntarily, he hurried faster on. The actions seemed to make his state less oppressive. It eased the wait. But the farther he went on, the harder it was to continue. Had he turned his back upon love, happiness, perhaps on life itself, there seemed no use to go on farther until he was absolutely sure of himself. Dwayne received a clear warning thought that such work as seemed haunting and driving him could never be carried out in the mood under which he labored. He hung on to that thought. Several times he slowed up, then stopped, only to go on again. At length, as he mounted a low ridge, Fairdale lay bright and green before him not far away, and the sight was a conclusive check. There were mesquites on the ridge, and Dwayne sought the shade beneath them. It was the noon hour, with hot, glary sun and no wind. Here Dwayne had to have out his fight. Dwayne was utterly unlike himself. He could not bring the old self back. He was not the same man he once had been. But he could understand why. It was because of Ray Longstreethe. Temptation assailed him. To have her his wife. It was impossible. The thought was insidiously alluring. Dwayne pictured a home. He saw himself riding through the cotton and rice and cane, home to a stately old mansion where long-eared hounds bade him welcome, and a woman looked for him and met him with happy and beautiful smile. There might. There would be children. And something new, strange, confounding with its emotion came to life deep in Dwayne's heart. There would be children. Ray, their mother! The kind of life a lonely outcast always yearned for and never had. He saw it all. Felt it all. But beyond and above all other claims came Captain McNally's. It was then there was something cold and deathlike in Dwayne's soul. For he knew whatever happened, of one thing he was sure, he would have to kill either Longstreethe or Lawson. Longstreethe might be trapped into arrest, but Lawson had no sense, no control, no fear. He would snarl like a panther and go for his gun, and he would have to be killed. This of all consummations was the one to be calculated upon. Dwayne came out of it all bitter and callous and sore, in the most fitting of moods to undertake a difficult and deadly enterprise. He had fallen upon his old, strange, futile dreams, now rendered poignant by reason of love. He drove away those dreams. In their places came the images of the olive-skinned Longstreethe with his sharp eyes, and the dark, evil-faced Lawson, and then returned tenfold more thrilling and sinister the old, strange passion to meet Poggan. It was about one o'clock when Dwayne rode in to Fairdale. The streets, for the most part, were deserted. He went directly to find Morton and Zimmer. He found them at length, restless, somber, anxious, but unaware of the part he had played at Ord. They said Longstreethe was home too. It was possible that Longstreethe had arrived home in ignorance. Dwayne told them to be on hand in town with their men in case he might need them, and then with teeth locked he set off for Longstreethe's ranch. Dwayne stole through the bushes and trees, and when nearing the porch he heard loud, angry, familiar voices. Longstreethe and Lawson's were quarreling again. How Dwayne's lucky star guided him. He had no plan of action, but his brain was equal to a hundred lightning-swift evolutions. He meant to take any risk rather than kill Longstreethe. Both of the men were out on the porch. Dwayne wormed his way to the edge of the shrubbery and crouched low to watch for his opportunity. Longstreethe looked haggard and thin. He was in his shirt sleeves, and he had come out with a gun in his hand. This he laid on a table near the wall. He wore no belt. Lawson was red, bloated, thick-lipped, all fiery and sweaty from drink, though sober on the moment, and he had the expression of a desperate man in his last stand. It was his last stand, though he was ignorant of that. Watch your news! You needn't be afraid of my feelings," said Lawson. Ray confessed to an interest in this ranger, replied Longstreethe. Dwayne thought Lawson would choke. He was thick-necked anyway, and the rush of blood made him tear at the soft collar of his shirt. Dwayne awaited his chance. Patient, cold! All his feelings shut in a vise. But why should your daughter meet this ranger? demanded Lawson harshly. She's in love with him, and he's in love with her. Dwayne reveled in Lawson's condition. The stape it might have had the force of a juggernaut. Was Longstreethe sincere? What was his game? Lawson, finding his voice, cursed Ray, cursed the ranger, then Longstreethe. You damn selfish fool! cried Longstreethe in deep bitter scorn. All you think of is yourself, your loss of the girl. Think once of me, my home, my life. Then the connection subtly put out by Longstreethe apparently dawned upon the other. Somehow through this girl her father and cousin were to be betrayed. Dwayne got that impression, though he could not tell how true it was. Certainly Lawson's jealousy was his paramount emotion. To hell with you! burst out Lawson incoherently. He was frenzied. I'll have her, or nobody else will. You never will, returned Longstreethe strightly. So help me God! I'd rather see her the ranger's wife than yours. While Lawson absorbed that shock, Longstreethe leaned toward him. All of hate and menace in his mien. Lawson, you made me what I am. Continued Longstreethe, I backed you. Shielded you. Your chesledine, if the truth is told. Now it's ended. I quit you. I'm done. Their gray, passion-corded faces were still as stones. Gentlemen! Dwayne called in far-reaching voice as he stepped out. You're both done! They wheeled to confront Dwayne. Don't move, not a muscle, not a finger, he warned. Longstreethe read what Lawson had not the mind to read. His face turned from gray to ashen. What do you mean? yelled Lawson fiercely, shrilly. It was not in him to obey a command to see impending death. All quivering and strung, yet with perfect control, Dwayne raised his left hand to turn back a lapel of his open vest. The silver star flashed brightly. Lawson howled like a dog. With barbarous and insane fury, with sheer, impudent folly, he swept a clawing hand for his gun. Dwayne's shot broke his action. Before Lawson ever tottered, before he loosed the gun, Longstreethe leaped behind him, clasped him with left arm, quick as lightning jerked the gun from both clutching fingers and sheath. Longstreethe protected himself with the body of the dead man. Dwayne saw red flashes, puffs of smoke, he heard quick reports. Something stung his left arm. Then a blow like wind, light of sound, yet shocking in impact, struck him, staggered him. The hot rend of lead followed the blow. Dwayne's heart seemed to explode, yet his mind kept extraordinarily clear and rapid. Dwayne heard Longstreethe work the action of Lawson's gun. He heard the hammer-click fall upon empty shells. Longstreethe had used up all the loads in Lawson's gun. He cursed as a man cursed at defeat. Dwayne waited. Cool and sure now. Longstreethe tried to lift the dead man, to edge him closer toward the table where his own gun lay. But considering the peril of exposing himself, he found the task beyond him. He bent, peering at Dwayne under Lawson's arm, which flopped out from his side. Longstreethe's eyes were the eyes of a man who meant to kill. There was never any mistaking the strange and terrible light of eyes like those. More than once Dwayne had a chance to aim at them, at the top of Longstreethe's head, at a strip of his side. Longstreethe flung Lawson's body off. But even as it dropped before Longstreethe could leap as he surely intended for the gun, Dwayne covered him, called piercingly to him. Don't jump for the gun. Don't. I'll kill you. Sure is God. I'll kill you. Longstreethe stood perhaps ten feet from the table where his gun lay. Dwayne saw him calculating chances. He was game. He had the courage. That forced Dwayne to respect him. Dwayne just saw him measure the distance to that gun. He was magnificent. He meant to do it. Dwayne would have to kill him. Longstreethe, listen! cried Dwayne swiftly. The game's up. You're done. But think of your daughter. I'll spare your life. I'll try to get you freedom on one condition. For her sake. I've got you nailed. All the proofs. There lies Lawson. You're alone. I've morten and mend to my aid. Give up. Surrender. Consent to demands and I'll spare you. Maybe I can persuade McNally to let you go free back to your old country. It's for Ray's sake. Her life, perhaps her happiness, can be saved. Hurry, man. Your answer. Suppose I refuse. He queried with a dark and terrible earnestness. Then I'll kill you in your tracks. You can't move a hand. Your word or death. Hurry, longstreethe, be a man. For her sake. Quick. Another second now. I'll kill you. I'll write back, Dwayne. I give my word," he said, and deliberately walked to the chair and fell into it. Longstreethe looked strangely at the bloody blot on Dwayne's shoulder. There come the girls," he suddenly exclaimed. Can you help me drag Lawson inside? They mustn't see him. Dwayne was facing down the porch toward the court in corrals. Miss Longstreethe and Ruth had come in sight, were swiftly approaching, evidently alarmed. The two men succeeded in drawing Lawson into the house before the girls saw him. Dwayne, you're not hard hit," said Longstreethe. I reckon not, replied Dwayne. I'm sorry. If only you could have told me sooner. Lawson, damn him. Always I've split over him. But the last time, Longstreethe. Yes, and I came near driving you to kill me, too. Dwayne, you talked me out of it. For Ray's sake. She'll be in here in a minute. This'll be harder than facing a gun. Hard now. But I hope it'll turn out all right. Dwayne, will you do me a favour? He asked, and he seemed shame-faced. Sure. Let Ray and Ruth think Lawson's shot you. He's dead. It can't matter. Dwayne, the old side of my life is coming back. It's been coming. It'll be here just about when she enters this room, and by God I'd change places with Lawson, if I could. Glad you said that, Longstreethe, replied Dwayne. And sure. Lawson plugged me. It's our secret. Just then Ray and Ruth entered the room. Dwayne heard two low cries, so different in tone, and he saw two white faces. Ray came to his side. She lifted a shaking hand to point at the blood upon his breast. White and mute, she gazed from that to her father. Papa cried Ray, wringing her hands. Don't give way, he replied huskily. Both your girls will need your nerve. Dwayne isn't badly hurt, but Floyd is—is dead. Listen, let me tell it quick. There's been a fight. It was Lawson—it was Lawson's gun that shot Dwayne. Dwayne let me off. In fact, Ray, he saved me. I'm to divide my property. Return so far as possible what I've stolen. Leave Texas at once with Dwayne under arrest. He says maybe he can get McNally, the Ranger Captain, to let me go, for your sake. She stood there, realizing her deliverance, with the dark and tragic glory of her eyes passing from her father to Dwayne. You must rise above this, said Dwayne to her. I expected this to ruin you, but your father is alive. He will live it down. I'm sure I can promise you he'll be free. Perhaps back there in Louisiana the dishonor will never be known. This country is far from your old home. And even in San Antonio, in Austin, a man's evil repute means little. Then the line between a rustler and a rancher is hard to draw in these wild border days. Dwayne is stealing cattle, and I once heard a well-known rancher say that all rich cattlemen had done a little stealing. Your father drifted out here, and, like a good many others, he succeeded. It's perhaps just as well not to split hairs, to judge him by the law and morality of a civilized country. Some way or other he drifted in with bad men. Maybe a deal that was honest somehow tied his hands. This matter of land, water, a few stray head of stock had to be decided out of court. I'm sure in his case he never realized where he was drifting. Then one thing led to another, until he was faced to face with Dwayne that took on crooked form. To protect himself he bound men to him, and so the gang developed. Many powerful gangs had developed that way out here. He could not control them. He became involved with them. And eventually their dealings became deliberately and boldly dishonest. That meant the inevitable spilling of blood sooner or later, and so he grew into the leader because he was the strongest. Whatever he is to be judged for, I think he could have been infinitely worse. Wounds are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Lone Star Ranger. By Zane Gray. Chapter 24 On the morning of the twenty-sixth, Dwayne rode into Bradford in time to catch the early train. His wounds did not seriously incapacitate him. Longstreet was with him, and Miss Longstreet and Ruth Herbert would not be left behind. They were all leaving Fairdale for ever. Longstreet had turned over the whole of his property to Morton, who was to divide it as he and his comrades believed just. Dwayne had left Fairdale with his party by night, passed through Sanderson in the early hours of dawn, and reached Bradford as he had planned. That fateful morning found Dwayne outwardly calm, but inwardly he was in a tumult. He wanted to rush to Valverde. Would Captain McNally be there with his Rangers, as Dwayne had planned for them to be? Memory of that tawny Poggan returned with strange passion. Dwayne had borne hours and weeks and months of waiting, had endured the long hours of the outlaw, but now he had no patience. The whistle of the train made him leap. It was a fast train, yet the ride seemed slow. Dwayne, disliking to face Longstreet and the passengers in the car, changed his seat to one behind his prisoner. They had seldom spoken. Longstreet sat with bowed head, deep in thought. The girls sat in a seat nearby and were pale, but composed. Occasionally the train halted briefly at a station. The latter half of that ride Dwayne had observed a wagon-road running parallel with the railroad, sometimes right alongside, at others near or far away. When the train was about twenty miles from Valverde, Dwayne aspired a dark group of horsemen trotting eastward. His blood beat like a hammer at his temples. The gang. He thought he recognized the tawny Poggan and felt a strange inward contraction. He thought he recognized the clean-cut Blossom cane, the black-bearded giant bolt, the red-faced panhandle smith and Fletcher. There was another man strange to him. Was that Nell? No, it could not have been Nell. Dwayne leaned over the seat and touched Longstreet on the shoulder. Look! he whispered. Chesildine was stiff. He had already seen. The train flashed by. The outlaw gang receded out of range of sight. Did you notice Nell wasn't with him? whispered Dwayne. Dwayne did not speak to Longstreet again till the train stopped at Valverde. They got off the car and the girls followed as naturally as ordinary travelers. The station was a good deal larger than that at Bradford, and there was considerable action and bustle incident to the arrival of the train. Dwayne's sweeping gaze searched faces, rested upon a man who seemed familiar. This fellow's look, too, was that of one who knew Dwayne, but was waiting for a sign, a cue. Then Dwayne recognized him. McNally, clean shaven. Without mustache he appeared different, younger. When McNally saw that Dwayne intended to greet him, to meet him, he hurried forward. A keen light flashed from his eyes. He was glad, eager, yet suppressing himself, and the glances he sent back and forth from Dwayne to Longstreet were questioning, doubtful. Certainly Longstreet did not look the part of an outlaw. Dwayne—Lord, I'm glad to see you—was the captain's greeting. Then a closer look into Dwayne's face his warmth fled, something he saw there checked his enthusiasm, or at least its utterance. McNally, shake hands with Chesseldean, said Dwayne, low-voiced. The ranger captain stood dumb, motionless, but he saw Longstreet's instant action, and awkwardly he reached for the outstretched hand. Any of your men down here? queried Dwayne sharply. No, they're uptown. Come. McNally, you walk with him. We've ladies in the party. I'll come behind with them. They set off uptown. Longstreet walked as if he were with friends on the way to dinner. The girls were mute. McNally walked like a man in a trance. There was not a word spoken in four blocks. Presently Dwayne aspired a stone building on a corner of the broad street. There was a big sign—Ranchers Bank. There's the hotel, said McNally. Some of my men are there. We've scattered around. They crossed the street, went through office and lobby, and then Dwayne asked McNally to take them to a private room. Without a word the captain complied. When they were all inside Dwayne closed the door, and drawing a deep breath as if of relief, he faced them calmly. Miss Longstreet, you and Miss Ruth try to make yourselves comfortable now, he said, and don't be distressed. Then he turned to his captain. McNally, this girl is the daughter of the man I've brought to you, and this one is his niece. Then Dwayne briefly related Longstreet's story, and though he did not spare the wrestler-chief, he was generous. When I went after Longstreet, concluded Dwayne, it was either to kill him or offer him freedom on conditions, so I chose the latter for his daughter's sake. He is already disposed of all his property. I believe he'll live up to the conditions. He's to leave Texas never to return. The name Chesildine has been a mystery, and now it'll fade. A few moments later Dwayne followed McNally to a large room, like a hall, and here were men reading and smoking. Dwayne knew them. Rangers. McNally beckoned to his men. Boys, here he is! How many men have you? asked Dwayne. Fifteen. McNally almost embraced Dwayne, would probably have done so, but for the dark grimness that seemed to be coming over the man. Instead he glowed, he sputtered, he tried to talk, to wave his hands. He was beside himself, and his Rangers crowded closer, eager, like hounds ready to run. They all talked at once, and the word most significant and frequent in their speech was, outlaws. McNally clapped his fist in his hand. This'll make the adjutant sick with joy. Maybe we won't have it on the Governor. We'll show them about the Ranger's service. Dwayne, how did you ever do it? Now, Captain, not the half nor the quarter of this job's done. The gang's coming down the road. I saw them from the train. They'll ride into town on the dot, two-thirty. How many? asked McNally. Poggan, Blossom Cain, Panhandle Smith, Bolt, Jim Fletcher, and another man I don't know. These are the picked men of Chesildine's gang. I'll bet they'll be the fastest, hardest bunch you Rangers ever faced. Poggan! That's the hard nut to crack. I've heard their records since I've been in Valverde. Oh, where's Nell? They say he's a boy, but hell him blazes. Nell's dead. Ah! exclaimed McNally, softly. Then he grew business-like, cool, and of harder aspect. Dwayne, it's your game today. I'm only a Ranger under orders. We're all under your orders. We've absolute faith in you. Make your plan quick so I can go round and post the boys who are not here. You understand there's no sense in trying to arrest Poggan, Cain, and that lot? Query Dwayne. No! I don't understand that! replied McNally bluntly. It can't be done. The drop can't be got on such men. If you meet them, they shoot, and mighty quick and straight. Poggan! That outlaw has no equal with a gun. Unless, eh, he's got to be killed quick. They'll all have to be killed. They're all bad, desperate, no-no fear, are lightning in action. Very well, Dwayne. Then it's a fight. That'll be easier, perhaps. The boys are spoiling for a fight. Out with your plan now. But one man at each end of the street, just at the edge of town, let him hide there with a rifle to block the escape of any outlaw that we might fail to get. I had a good look at the bank building. It's well situated for our purpose. But four men up in that room over the bank, four men, two at each open window. Let them hide till the game begins. They want to be there so encase these foxy outlaws get wise before they're down on the ground or inside the bank. The rest of your men put inside behind the counters where they'll hide. Now go over to the bank, spring the thing on the bank officials, and don't let them shut up the bank. You want their aid. Let them make sure of their gold. But the clerks and cashier ought to be at their desks or window when Poggan rides up. He'll glance in before he gets down. They make no mistake, these fellows. We must be slicker than they are, or lose. When you get the bank people wise, send your men over one by one. No hurry, no excitement, no unusual thing to attract notice in the bank. All right, that's great. Tell me, where do you intend to wait? Dwayne heard McNally's question, and it struck him peculiarly. He had seemed to be planning and speaking mechanically. As he was confronted by the fact it numplest him somewhat, and he became thoughtful with lowered head. Where'll you wait, Dwayne? insisted McNally, with keen eyes speculating. I'll wait in front, just inside the door. Replied Dwayne with an effort. Why? demanded the captain. Well, began Dwayne slowly. Poggan will get down first and start in. But the others won't be far behind. They'll not get swift till inside. The thing is, they mustn't get clear inside because the instant they do they'll pull guns. That means death to somebody. If we can, we want to stop them just at the door. But will you hide? asked McNally. Hide. The idea had not occurred to Dwayne. There's a wide open doorway, a sort of round hall, a vestibule, with steps leading up to the bank. There's a door in the vestibule too. It leads somewhere. We can put men in there. You can be there. Dwayne was silent. See here, Dwayne. Began McNally nervously. You shan't take any undue risk here. You'll hide with the rest of us? No. The word was wrenched from Dwayne. McNally stared and then a strange comprehending light seemed to flit over his face. Dwayne, I can give you no orders to-day. He said distinctly. I'm only offering advice. Need you take any more risks? You've done a grand job for the service already. You've paid me a thousand times for that pardon. You've redeemed yourself. The governor, the adjutant general, the whole state will rise up and honor you. The game's almost up. We'll kill these outlaws, or enough of them to break forever their power. I say, as a ranger, need you take more risk than your captain? Still Dwayne remained silent. He was locked between two forces, and one, a tide that was bursting at its bounds, seemed about to overwhelm him. Finally, that side of him, the retreating self, the weaker, found a voice. Captain, you want this job to be sure? He asked. Certainly. I've told you the way. I alone know the kind of men to be met. Just what I'll do, or where I'll be, I can't say yet. In meetings like this the moment decides. But I'll be there. McNally spread wide his hands, looked helplessly at his curious and sympathetic rangers, and shook his head. Now you've done your work. Laid the trap. Is this strange move of yours going to be fair to Miss Longstreethe? Asked McNally in significant low voice. Like a great tree chopped at the roots, Dwayne vibrated to that. He looked up as if he had seen a ghost. Mercilessly the Ranger Captain went on. You can win her, Dwayne. Oh, you can't fool me. I was wise in a minute. Fight with us from cover, then go back to her. You will have served the Texas Rangers as no other man has. I'll accept your resignation. You'll be free, honored, happy. That girl loves you. I saw it in her eyes. She's—but Dwayne cut him short with a fierce gesture. He lunged up to his feet, and the Rangers fell back. Dark, silent, grim as he had been. Still there was a transformation singularly more sinister. Stranger. Enough. I'm done. He said somberly. I've planned. Do we agree? Or shall I meet Poggan and his gang alone? McNally cursed and again threw up his hands, this time in baffled chagrin. There was deep regret in his dark eyes as they rested upon Dwayne. Dwayne was left alone. Never had his mind been so quick, so clear, so wonderful in its understanding of what had heretofore been intricate and elusive impulses of his strange nature. His determination was to meet Poggan, meet him before anyone else had a chance, Poggan first, and then the others. He was as unalterable in that decision as if on the instant of its acceptance he had become stone. Why? Then came realization. He was not a Ranger now. He cared nothing for the State. He had no thought of freeing the community of a dangerous outlaw, of ridding the country of an obstacle to its progress and prosperity. He wanted to kill Poggan. It was significant now that he forgot the other outlaws. He was the gunman, the gun-thrower, the gun-fighter, passionate and terrible. His father's blood, that dark and fierce strain, his mother's spirit, that strong and unquenchable spirit of the surviving pioneer, these had been in him, and the killings one after another. The wild and haunted gears had made him, absolutely in spite of his will, the gunman. He realized it now, bitterly, hopelessly, the thing he had intelligence enough to hate he had become. At last he shuddered under the driving, ruthless, inhuman bloodlust of the gunman. Long ago he had seemed to seal in a tomb that horror of his kind, the need, in order to forget the haunting, sleepless presence of his last victim, to go out and kill another. But it was still there in his mind, and now it stalked out, worse, more powerful, magnified by its rest, augmented by the violent passions peculiar and inevitable to that strange, wild product of the Texas frontier, the gun-fighter. And those passions were so violent, so raw, so base, so much lower than what ought to have existed in a thinking man, actual pride of his record, actual vanity in his speed with a gun, actual jealousy of any rival. Dwayne could not believe it. But there he was, without a choice. What he had feared for years had become a monstrous reality. Respect for himself, blindness, a certain honor that he had clung to while in outlawry. All, like scales, seemed to fall away from him. He stood stripped bare, his soul naked, the soul of Cain. Always since the first brand had been forced and burned upon him he had been ruined. But now, with conscience flayed to the quick, yet utterly powerless over this tiger instinct, he was lost. He said it, he admitted it, and at the utter abasement the soul he despised suddenly leaped and quivered with the thought of Ray Longstreethe. Then came Agony. As he could not govern all the chances of this fatal meeting, as all his swift and deadly genius must be occupied with Poggan, perhaps in vain, as hard-shooting men whom he could not watch would be close behind, this almost certainly must be the end of Buck Dwayne. That did not matter. But he loved the girl, he wanted her, all her sweetness, her fire, and pleading return to torture him. At that moment the door opened and Ray Longstreethe entered. Dwayne, she said softly, Captain McNally sent me to you. But you shouldn't have come, replied Dwayne. As soon as he told me I would have come whether he wished it or not, you left me, all of us, stunned. I had no time to thank you. Oh, I do, with all my soul. It was noble of you. Father is overcome. He didn't expect so much. And he'll be true. Between I was told to hurry and hear I'm selfishly using time. Go then, and leave me. You mustn't unnerve me now, when there's a desperate game to finish. Need it be desperate? She whispered, coming close to him. Yes, it can't be else. McNally had sent her to weaken him, of that Dwayne was sure. And he felt that she had wanted to come. Her eyes were dark, strained, beautiful, and they shed a light upon Dwayne he had never seen before. You're going to take some mad risk, she said. Let me persuade you not to. You said you cared for me, and I—oh, Dwayne, don't you know? The low voice, deep, sweet as an old cord, faltered and broke and failed. Dwayne sustained a sudden shock and an instant of paralyzed confusion of thought. She moved, she swept out her hands, and the wonder of her eyes dimmed in a flood of tears. My God, you can't care for me, he cried hoarsely. Then she met him, hands outstretched. But I do, I do! Swift as light, Dwayne caught her and held her to his breast. He stood holding her tight, with the feeling of her warm, throbbing breast in the clasp of her arms as flesh and blood realities to fight a terrible fear. He felt her, and for the moment the might of it was stronger than all the demons that possessed him, and he held her as if she had been his soul, his strength on earth, his hope of heaven, against his lips. The strife of doubt all passed. He found his sight again, and there rushed over him a tide of emotion unutterably sweet and full, strong like an intoxicating wine, deep as his nature, something glorious and terrible as the blaze of the sun to one long in darkness. He had become an outcast, a wanderer, a gunman, a victim of circumstances. He had lost and suffered worse than death in that loss. He had gone down the endless bloody trail, a killer of men, a fugitive whose mind slowly and inevitably closed to all except the instinct to survive, and a black despair. And now, with this woman in his arms, her swelling breast against his, in this moment almost of resurrection, he bent under the storm of passion and joy possible only to him who had endured so much. Do you care a little? He whispered unsteadily. He bent over her, looking deep into the dark wet eyes. She uttered a low laugh that was half sob, and her arms slipped up to his neck. A little? Oh, Twain! Twain! A great deal! Their lips met in their first kiss. The sweetness, the fire of her mouth seemed so new, so strange, so irresistible to Dwayne. His sore and hungry heart throbbed with thick and heavy beats. He felt the outcast need of love, and he gave up to the enthralling moment. She met him half way, returned kiss for kiss, clasp for clasp, her face scarlet, her eyes closed till, her passion and strength spent, she fell back upon his shoulder. Twain suddenly thought she was going to faint. He defined then that she had understood him, would have denied him nothing, not even her life, in that moment. But she was overcome, and he suffered a pang of regret at his unrestraint. Presently she recovered, and she drew only the closer, and leaned upon him with her face upturned. He felt her hands on his, and they were soft, clinging, strong, like steel under velvet. He felt the rise and fall, the warmth of her breast. A tremor ran over him. He tried to draw back, and if he succeeded a little, her form swayed with him, pressing closer. She held her face up, and he was compelled to look. It was wonderful now, white yet glowing, with the red lips parted, and dark eyes alluring. But that was not all. There was passion, unquenchable spirit, woman's resolve deep and mighty. I love you, Dwayne," she said. For my sake, don't go out to meet this outlaw face to face. It's something wild in you. Conquer it if you love me. Dwayne became suddenly weak, and when he did take her into his arms again he scarcely had strength to lift her to a seat beside him. She seemed more than a dead weight. Her calmness had fled. She was throbbing, palpitating, quivering with hot wet cheeks and arms that clung to him like vines. She lifted her mouth to his, whispering, Kiss me! She meant to change him, hold him. Dwayne bent down, and her arms went round his neck and drew him close. With his lips on hers he seemed to float away. That kiss closed his eyes, and he could not lift his head. He sat motionless holding her, blind and helpless, wrapped in a sweet dark glory. She kissed him, one long endless kiss, or else a thousand times. Her lips, her wet cheeks, her hair, the softness, the fragrance of her, the tender clasp of her arms, the swell of her breast—all these seemed to enclose him. Dwayne could not put her from him. He yielded to her lips and arms, watching her, involuntarily returning her caresses, sure now of her intent, fascinated by the sweetness of her, bewildered, almost lost. This was what it was to be loved by a woman. His years of outlawry had blotted out any boyish love he might have known. This was what he had to give up. All this wonder of her sweet person, this strange fire he feared yet loved, this mate his deep and tortured soul recognized. Never until that moment had he divine the meaning of a woman to a man. That meaning was physical in as much that he learned what beauty was, what marvel in the touch of quickening flesh, and it was spiritual in that he saw there might have been for him under happier circumstances. Thus a life of noble deeds lived for such a woman. Don't go! Don't go! She cried as he started violently. I must, dear good-bye, remember I loved you. He pulled her hands loose from his, stepped back. Ray, dearest, I believe. I'll come back. He whispered. These last words were falsehood. He reached the door, gave her one last piercing glance, to fix for ever in memory that white face with its dark, staring, tragic eyes. He fled with that moan like thunder, death, hell in his ears. To forget her, to get back his nerve, he forced into mind the image of Poggan. Poggan, the tawny haired, the yellow-eyed, like a jaguar, with his rippling muscles. He brought back his sense of the outlaw's wonderful presence, his own unaccountable fear and hate. Yes, Poggan had sent the cold sickness of fear to his marrow. Why, since he hated life so? Poggan was his supreme test, and this abnormal and stupendous instinct, now deep as the very foundation of his life, demanded its wild and fatal issue. There was a horrible thrill in his sudden remembrance that Poggan likewise had been taunted in fear of him. So the dark tide overwhelmed Dwayne, and when he left the room he was fierce, implacable, steeled to any outcome, quick like a panther, somber as death, in the thrall of his strange passion. There was no excitement in the street. He crossed to the bank corner. A clock inside pointed the hour of two. He went through the door into the vestibule, looked around, passed up the steps into the bank. The clerks were at their desks, apparently busy, but they showed nervousness. The cashier paled at sight of Dwayne. There were men, the rangers, crouching down behind the low partition. All the windows had been removed from the iron grating before the desks. The safe was closed. There was no money in sight. A customer came in, spoke to the cashier, and was told to come to-morrow. Dwayne returned to the door. He could see far down the street, out into the country. There he waited, and minutes were eternities. He saw no person near him. He heard no sound. He was insulated in his unnatural strain. At a few minutes before half-past two a dark, compact body of horsemen appeared far down, turning into the road. They came at a sharp trot, a group that would have attracted attention anywhere, at any time. They came a little faster as they entered town, then faster still. Now they were four blocks away, now three, now two. Dwayne backed down the middle of the vestibule, up the steps, and halted in the center of the wide doorway. There seemed to be a rushing in his ears through which pierced sharp, ringing clip-clop of iron hoofs. He could see only the corner of the street, but suddenly into that shot lean-limbed, dusty bay horses. There was a clattering of nervous hoofs pulled to a halt. Dwayne saw the tawny Poggins speak to his companions. He dismounted quickly. They followed suit. They had the manner of ranchers about to conduct some business. No guns showed. Poggins started leisurely for the back door, quickening step a little. The others, close together, came behind him. Blossom Cain had a bag in his left hand. Jim Fletcher was left at the curb, and he had already gathered up the bridles. Poggins entered the vestibule first, with Cain on one side, bolt on the other, a little in his rear. As he strode in, he saw Dwayne. Hell's fire! he cried. Something inside Dwayne burst, piercing all of him with cold. Was it that fear? Buck, Dwayne! echoed Cain. One instant Poggin looked up and Dwayne looked down. Like a striking jaguar, Poggin moved. Almost as quickly Dwayne threw his arm. The guns boomed almost together. Dwayne fell to blow just before he pulled trigger. His thoughts came fast, like the strange dots before his eyes. His rising gun had loosened in his hand. Poggin had drawn quicker. A tearing agony encompassed his breast. He pulled, pulled at random. Thunder of booming shots all about him. Red flashes, jets of smoke, shrill yells. He was sinking. The end. Yes, the end. With fading sight he saw Cain go down, then bolt. But supreme torture, bidderer than death, Poggin stood, main like a lion's, back to the wall, bloody-faced, grand, with his guns spouting red. All faded. Darkened. The thunder didn't. Dwayne fell. Seemed floating. There it drifted. Ray-long-strength sweet face, white, with dark, tragic eyes, fading from his sight. Fading. Fading. End of chapter. South Carolina The Lone Star Ranger By Zane Gray The last chapter. 25 Light shone before Dwayne's eyes. Thick, strange light that came and went. For a long time dull and booming sounds rushed by, filling all. It was a dream in which there was nothing, a drifting under a burden, darkness, light, sound, movement, and vague obscure sense of time, time that was very long. There was fire, creeping, consuming fire. A dark cloud of flame enveloped him, rolled him away. He saw then dimly a room that was strange, strange people moving about over him, with faint voices far away, things in a dream. He saw again, clearly, and consciousness returned, still unreal, still strange, full of those vague and far away things. Then he was not dead. He lay stiff, like a stone, with a weight ponderous as a mountain upon him, and all his bound body racked in slow, dull, beating agony. A woman's face hovered over him, white and tragic-eyed, like one of his old, haunting fathoms, yet sweet and eloquent. Then a man's face bent over him, looked deep into his eyes, and seemed to whisper from a distance, Dwayne, Dwayne, ah, he knew me. After that there was another long interval of darkness. When the light came again, clearer this time, the same earnest-faced man bent over him. It was McNelly, and with recognition the past flooded back. Dwayne tried to speak. His lips were weak, and he could scarcely move them. Poggan, he whispered. His first real conscious thought was for Poggan, ruling passion, eternal instinct. Poggan is dead, Dwayne, shot to pieces, replied McNelly, solemnly. What a fight he made! He killed two of my men, wounded others. God, he was a tiger. He used up three guns before we downed him. Who got away? Fletcher, the man with the horses. We downed all the others. Dwayne, the job's done. It's done. Why, man, you're—what a—of—her. Miss Longstreet has been almost constantly at your bedside. She helped the doctor. She watched your wounds. And Dwayne the other night, when you sank low, so low, I think it was her spirit that held yours back. Oh, she's a wonderful girl. Dwayne, she never gave up. Never lost her nerve for a moment. Well, we're going to take you home, and she'll go with us. Colonel Longstreet left for Louisiana right after the fight. I advised it. There was great excitement. It was best for him to leave. Have I a chance to recover? Chance? Why, man? exclaimed the captain. You'll get well. You'll pack aside a lead all your life, but you can stand that. Dwayne the whole south-west knows your story. You'd need never again be ashamed of the name Buck Dwayne. The brand-out law is washed out. Texas believes you've been a secret ranger all the time. You're a hero. And now think of home, your mother, of this noble girl, of your future. The Rangers took Dwayne home to Wellston. A railroad had been built since Dwayne had gone into exile. Wellston had grown. A noisy crowd surrounded the station, but it stilled as Dwayne was carried from the train. A sea of faces pressed close. Some were faces he remembered—schoolmates, friends, old neighbors. There was an up-flinging of many hands. Dwayne was being welcomed home to the town from which he had fled. A deadness within him broke. This welcome heard him somehow, quickened him, and through his cold being his weary mind passed a change. His sight dimmed. Then there was a White House, his old home. How strange, yet how real. His heart beat fast. Had so many, many years passed. How familiar, yet strange it was, and all seemed magnified. They carried him in, these ranger comrades, and laid him down, and lifted his head upon pillows. The house was still, though full of people. Dwayne's gaze sought the open door. Someone entered, a tall girl in white, with dark, wet eyes and a light upon her face. She was leading an old lady, grey-haired, austere-faced, somber and sad. His mother. She was feeble, but she walked erect. She was pale, shaking, yet maintained her dignity. The someone in white uttered a low cry, and knelt by Dwayne's bed. His mother flung wider arms with a strange gesture. This man! They have not brought back my boy! This man's his father! Where is my son? My son! Oh, my son! When Dwayne grew stronger it was a pleasure to lie by the west window and watch Uncle Jim whittle his stick and listen to his talk. The old man was broken now. He told many interesting things about people Dwayne had known, people who had grown up and married, failed, succeeded, gone away, and died. But it was hard to keep Uncle Jim off the subject of guns, outlaws, fights. He could not seem to divine how mention of these things hurt Dwayne. Uncle Jim was childish now, and he had a great pride in his nephew. He wanted to hear of all of Dwayne's exile. And if there was one thing more than another that pleased him, it was to talk about the bullets which Dwayne carried in his body. Five bullets, eighty. He asked for the hundredth time. Five in that last scrap. Bar gum! And you had six before? Yes, Uncle. Replyed Dwayne. Five in six. That makes eleven. Bar gum! A man's a man to carry all that lead. But Buck, you could carry more. There's that nigger Edwards right here in Wilston. He's got a ton of bullets in him. Doesn't seem to mind them none. And there's Cole Miller. I've seen him. Been a bad man in his day. They say he packs twenty-three bullets. But he's bigger than you. Got more flesh. Funny, wasn't it, Buck? About the doctor only being able to cut one bullet out of you. That one in your breastbone? It was a forty-one caliber. An unusual cartridge. I saw it. And I wanted it. But Miss Longstreath wouldn't part with it. Buck, there was a bullet left in one of Poggins' guns. And that bullet was the same kind as the one cut out of you. Bar gum! Boy, it had killed you if it stayed there. It would indeed, Uncle. Replyed Dwayne, and the old-haunting somber mood returned. But Dwayne was not often at the mercy of childish old hero-worshiping Uncle Jim. Miss Longstreath was the only person who seemed to divine Dwayne's gloomy mood, and when she was with him she warded off all suggestion. One afternoon while she was there at the west window a message came for him. They read it together. You have saved the ranger's service to the lone star state, signed McNally. Raynell beside him at the window, and he believed she meant to speak then of the thing they had shunned. Her face was still white but sweeter now, warm with rich life beneath the marble, and her dark eyes were still intent, still halted by shadows, but no longer tragic. I'm glad for McNally's sake as well as the state's, said Dwayne. She made no reply to that and seemed to be thinking deeply. Dwayne shrank a little. The pain. Is it any worse today? She asked instantly. No. It's the same. It will always be the same. I'm full of lead, you know. But I don't mind a little pain. Then it's the old mood, the fear, she whispered. Tell me. Yes. It haunts me. I'll be well soon, able to go out. Then that, that hell will come back. No. No! she said with emotion. Some drunken cowboy, some fool with a gun, will hunt me out in every town, wherever I go. He went on miserably. Buck Dwayne. To kill Buck Dwayne. Hush. Don't speak so. Listen. You remember that day in Valverde when I came to you? Plead with you not to meet Poggan? Oh, that was a terrible hour for me. But it showed me the truth. I saw the struggle between your passion to kill and your love for me. I could have saved you then had I known what I know now. Now I understand that, that thing which haunts you. But you'll never have to draw again. You'll never have to kill another man, thank God. Like a drowning man he would have grasped straws. But he could not voice his passionate query. She put tender arms round his neck. Because you'll have me with you always, she replied, because always I shall be between you and that terrible thing. It seemed with the spoken thought absolute assurance of her power came to her. Dwayne realized instantly that he was in the arms of a stronger woman than she who had pled with him that fatal day. Well, we'll be married and leave Texas, she said softly, with the red blood rising rich and dark in her cheeks. Ray, yes we will, though you're laggard in asking me, sir. But dear, suppose, he replied huskily, suppose there might be, be children, a boy, a boy with his father's blood. I pray God there will be. I do not fear what you fear, but even so he'll be half my blood. Dwayne felt the storm rise and break in him, and his terror was that of joy quelling fear. The shining glory of love in this woman's eyes made him weak as a child. How could she love him? How could she so bravely face a future with him? Yet she held him in her arms, twining her hands round his neck and pressing close to him. Her faith and love and beauty, these she meant to throw between him and all that terrible past. They were her power, and she meant to use them all. He dared not think of accepting her sacrifice. But Ray, you dear noble girl, I'm poor, I have nothing, and I'm a cripple. Oh, you'll be well some day. She replied, and listen, I have money. My mother left me well off. All she had was her father's. Do you understand? We'll take Uncle Jim and your mother. We'll go to Louisiana, to my old home. It's far from here. There's a plantation to work. There are horses and cattle, a great cypress forest to cut. All you'll have much to do. You'll forget there. You'll learn to love my home. It's a beautiful old place. There are groves where the gray moss blows all day, and the nightingales sing all night. My darling, cried Dwayne brokenly, no, no, no. Yet he knew in his heart that he was yielding to her, that he could not resist her a moment longer. What was this madness of love? We'll be happy! she whispered. Oh, I know! Come! Come! Come! Her eyes were closing heavy-litted, and she lifted sweet, tremulous, waiting lips. With bursting heart Dwayne bent to them. Then he held her, close pressed to him, while with dim eyes he looked out over the line of low hills in the west, down where the sun was setting gold and red, down over the new seas and the wild breaks of the Rio Grande, which he was never to see again. It was in this solemn and exalted moment that Dwayne accepted happiness and faced a new life, trusting this brave and tender woman to be stronger than the dark and fateful passion that had shadowed his past. It would come back, that wind of flame, that madness to forget, that driving relentless instinct for blood. It would come back with those pale, drifting, haunting faces and the accusing fading eyes, but all his life, always between them and him, rendering them powerless, would be the faith and love and beauty of this noble woman. End of chapter. End of book. Thank you for listening.