 West of the Pecos River, Texas extended a vast wild region, barren in the north where the Lano-esk-tacado spread its shifting sands, fertile in the south along the Rio Grande. A railroad marked an undeviating course across five hundred miles of this country, and the only villages and towns lay on or near this line of steel. Unsettled as was this western Texas, and despite the acknowledged dominance of the outlaw bands, the pioneers pushed steadily into it, first to come the lone rancher, and his neighbors in near and far valleys, then the hamlets, at last the railroad and the towns, and still the pioneers came, spreading deeper into the valleys, farther and wider over the plains. It was mesquite-dotted, cactus-covered desert, but rich soil upon which water acted like magic. There was little grass to an acre, but there were millions of acres. The climate was wonderful. Cattle flourished and ranchers prospered. The Rio Grande flowed almost due south along the western boundary for a thousand miles, and then, weary of its course, turned abruptly north to make what was called the Big Bend. The railroad, running west, cut across this bend, and all that country bounded on the north by the railroad, and on the south by the river, was as wild as the staked plains. It contained not one settlement. Across the face of this Big Bend, as if to isolate it, stretched the Ord Mountain Range, of which Mount Ord, Cathedral Mount, and Elephant Mount raised bleak peaks above their fellows. In the valleys of the foothills and out across the plains were ranches, and farther north villages, and the towns of Alpine and Marfa. Like other parts of the great Lone Star State, this section of Texas was a world in itself, a world where the riches of the rancher were ever enriching the outlaw. The village closest to the gateway of this outlaw-infested region was a little place called Ord, named after the dark peak that looms some miles to the south. It had been settled originally by Mexicans. There were still the ruins of Adobe missions. But with the advent of the rustler and outlaw many inhabitants were shot or driven away, so that at the height of Ord's prosperity and evil sway there were but few Mexicans living there, and these had their choice between holding hand and glove with the outlaws, or furnishing target practice for that wild element. Toward the close of a day in September a stranger rode into Ord, and in a community where all men were remarkable for one reason or another he excited interest. His horse perhaps received the first and most engaging attention, horses in that region being apparently more important than men. This particular horse did not attract with beauty. At first glance he seemed ugly. But he was a giant, black as coal, rough despite the care manifestly bestowed upon him, long of body, ponderous of limb, huge in every way. A bystand remark that he had a grand head. True, if only his head had been seen he would have been a beautiful horse. Like men horses show what they are in the shape, the size, the line, the character of the head. This one denoted fire, speed, blood, loyalty, and his eyes were as soft and dark as a woman's. His face was solid black except in the middle of his forehead where there was a round spot of white. Say, Mr., mind telling me his name? Asked to rag it urchin, with born love of a horse in his eyes. Bullitt replied the rider. That there's for the white mark, ain't it? whispered the youngster to another. Say, isn't he a whopper? Biggest horse I ever seen! Bullitt carried a huge black silver ornamented saddle of Mexican make, a lariat and canteen, and a small pack rolled into a tarpaulin. This rider apparently put all care of appearances upon his horse. His apparel was the ordinary jeans of the cowboy without vanity, and it was torn and travel-stained. His boots showed evidence of an intimate acquaintance with the cactus. Like his horse this man was a giant in stature, but rangier, not so heavily built. Otherwise the only striking thing about him was his somber face with its piercing eyes, and hair white over the temples. He packed two guns, both low down, but that was too common a thing to attract notice in the big bend. A close observer, however, would have noted a singular fact. This rider's right hand was more bronzed, more weather-beaten than his left. He never wore a glove on that right hand. He had dismounted it before a ramshackle structure that bore upon its wide, high-boarded front the sign, Hotel. There were horsemen coming and going down the wide street between its rows of old stores, saloons, and houses. Ord certainly did not look enterprising. Americans had manifestly assimilated much of the leisure of the Mexicans. The Hotel had a wide platform in front, and this did duty as porch and sidewalk. Upon it and leaning against a hitching rail were men of varying ages, most of them slovenly in old jeans and slouch sombreros. Some were booted, belted, and spurred. No man there wore a coat, but all wore vests. The guns in that group would have outnumbered the men. It was a crowd seemingly too lazy to be curious. Good nature did not appear to be wanting, but it was not the frank and boisterous kind natural to the cowboy or rancher in town for a day. These men were idlers. What else, perhaps, was easy to conjecture? Certainly to this arriving stranger who flashed a keen eye over them. They wore an atmosphere never associated with work. Presently a tall man, with a drooping sandy mustache, leisurely detached himself from the crowd. Howdy, stranger! he said. The stranger had bent over to loosen the cinches. He straightened up and nodded. Then, I'm thirsty. That brought a broad smile to faces. It was characteristic greeting. One and all trooped after the stranger into the hotel. It was a dark, ill-smelling barn of a place, with a bar as high as a short man's head. A bartender with a scarred face was serving drinks. "'Line up, gents,' said the stranger. They piled over one another to get to the bar, with coarse jests and oaths and laughter. None of them noted that the stranger did not appear so thirsty as he had claimed to be. In fact, though he went through the motions, he did not drink at all. "'My name's Jim Fletcher,' said the tall man with a drooping sandy mustache. He spoke laconically. Nevertheless there was a tone that showed he expected to be known. Something went with that name. The stranger did not appear to be impressed. "'My name might be blazes, but it ain't,' he replied. "'What do you call this, Berg?' "'Strangea, this hymn, Metropolis, bears the handle, Ord. Is that new to you?' He leaned back against the bar, and now his little yellow eyes, clear as crystal, flawless as a hawk's, fixed on the stranger. Other men crowded close, forming a circle, curious, ready to be friendly or otherwise, according to how the tall interrogator marked the newcomer. "'Sure, Ord's a little strange to me. Off the railroad some ain't it. Funny trails hear abouts.' "'How fur was you goin?' "'I reckon I was goin' as far as I could,' replied the stranger with a hard laugh. His reply had subtle reaction on that listening circle. Some of the men exchanged glances. Fletcher stroked his drooping mustache, seemed thoughtful, but lost something of that piercing scrutiny. "'Well, Ord's the jumpin' off-place,' he said presently. "'Sure, you've heard of the Big Ben country?' "'I sure have, and was makin' tracks for it,' replied the stranger. Fletcher turned toward a man in the outer edge of the group. "'Now come in here!' This individual elbowed his way in and was seen to be scarcely more than a boy, almost pale beside these bronze men, with a long, expressionless face, thin and sharp. "'Now this he is,' Fletcher wheeled to the stranger. "'What, you call yourself?' "'I'd hate to mention what I've been callin' myself lately.' This sally fetched another laugh. The stranger appeared cool, careless, indifferent. Perhaps he knew, as the others present knew, that this show of Fletcher's, this pretence of introduction, was merely talk while he was looked over. Nell stepped up, and it was easy to see, from the way Fletcher relinquished his part in the situation, that a man greater than he had appeared upon the scene. "'Any business here?' he queried curtly. When he spoke, his expressionless face was in strange contrast with the ring, the quality, the cruelty of his voice. This voice portrayed an absence of humor, of friendliness, of heart. "'Nope,' replied the stranger. "'Now anybody hereabouts?' "'Narry one.' Just ridin' through. "'Yep.' "'Slopin' for back-country, hey!' Then came a pause. The stranger appeared to grow a little resentful, and drew himself up disdainfully. "'Well, considering you all seem so damn friendly and uncurious down here in this big-beng country, I don't mind sayin' yes. I am in on the dodge,' he replied, with deliberate sarcasm. "'From west of Oord, out El Paso way, maybe?' "'Sure.' "'Aha! That's so!' Nell's words cut the air, stilled the room. "'You're from way down the river. That's what they say down there, on the dodge. Stranger, you're a liar!' With a swift clink of spur and thump of boot the crowd split, leaving Nell and the stranger in the center. Wild breed of that ilk never made a mistake in judging a man's nerve. Nell had cut out with a trenchant call, and stood ready. The stranger suddenly lost his every semblance to the rough and easy character before manifest in him. He became bronze. That situation seemed familiar to him. His eyes held a singular, piercing light that danced like a compass-needle. "'Sure I lied,' he said, so I ain't takin' a fence at the way you called me. "'I'm lookin' to make friends, not enemies. You don't strike me as one of them four flushes, achin' to kill somebody. But if you are, go ahead and open the ball. You see, I never throw a gun on them fellers till they go for theirs.' Nell coolly eyed his antagonist, his strange face not changing in the least. Yet somehow it was evident in his look that here was metal which rang differently from what he had expected. Invited to start a fight or withdraw, as he chose, Nell proved himself big in the manner characteristic of only the genuine gunman. "'Stranger, I pass,' he said, and turning to the bar he ordered liquor. The tension relaxed. The silence broke. The men filled up the gap. The incident seemed closed. Jim Fletcher attached himself to the stranger, and now both respect and friendliness tempered his asperity. "'Well, for a want of a better handle, I'll call you Dodge,' he said. "'Dodge is as good as any. Chance, line up again, and if you can't be friendly, be careful.' Such was Buck Dwayne's debut in the little outlaw hamlet of Ward. Dwayne had been three months out of the noose's country. At El Paso he bought the finest horse he could find, and, armed and otherwise outfitted to suit him, he had taken to unknown trails. Leisurely he rode from town to town, village to village, ranch to ranch, fitting his talk and his occupation to the impression he wanted to make upon different people whom he met. He was, in turn, a cowboy, a rancher, a cattleman, a stock-buyer, a boomer, a land-hutter, and long before he reached the wild and inhospitable oared he had acted the part of an outlaw, drifting into new territory. He passed on leisurely because he wanted to learn the laithal country, the location of the villages and ranches, the work, habit, gossip, pleasures and fears of the people with whom he came in contact. The one subject most impelling to him, outlaws, he never mentioned. But by talking all around it, sifting the old ranch and cattle's story, he acquired a knowledge calculated to aid his plot. In this game time was of no moment. If necessary he would take years to accomplish his task. The stupendous and perilous nature of it showed in the slow, weary preparation. When he heard Fletcher's name and face knell he knew he had reached the place he sought. Ord was a hamlet on the fringe of the grazing country, of doubtful honesty, from which surely winding trails led down into that free and never disturbed paradise of outlaws the big bend. May made himself agreeable, yet not too much so, to Fletcher and several other men disposed to talk and drink and eat. And then, after having a care for his horse, he rode out of town a couple of miles to a grove he had marked, and there, well hidden, he prepared to spend the night. This proceeding served a double purpose. He was safer, and the habit would look well in the eyes of outlaws, who would be more inclined to see in him the lone wolf fugitive. Long since Dwayne had fought out a battle with himself, one a hard earned victory. His outer life, the action, was much the same as it had been. But the inner life had tremendously changed. He could never become a happy man, he could never shake utterly those haunting fandoms that had once been his despair and madness. But he had assumed a task impossible for any man save one like him. He had felt the meaning of it grow strangely and wonderfully, and through that flourished up consciousness of how passionately he now clung to this thing which would blot out his former infamy. The iron fetters no more threatened his hands, the iron door no more haunted his dreams. He never forgot that he was free. Finally too, along with his feeling of new manhood, there gathered the force of imperious desire to run these chief outlaws to their dooms. He never called them outlaws, but wrestlers, thieves, robbers, murderers, criminals. He sensed the growth of a relentless driving passion, and sometimes he feared that, more than the newly acquired zeal in pride in this ranger service, it was the old, terrible, inherited killing instinct, lifting its hydrohead in new guise. But of that he could not be sure. He dreaded the thought. He could only wait. Another aspect of the change in Dwayne, neither passionate nor driving, yet not improbably even more potent of new significance to life, was the imperceptible return of an old love of nature dead during his outlaw days. For years a horse had been only a machine of locomotion to carry him from place to place, to beat and spur and goad mercilessly in flight. Now this giant black, with his splendid head, was a companion, a friend, a brother, a love-thing guarded jealously, fed and trained and ridden with an intense appreciation of his great speed and endurance. For years the daytime, with its birth of sunrise on through long hours to the ruddy close, had been used for sleep or rest in some rocky hole or willow-break or deserted hut, had been hated because it augmented danger of pursuit, because it drove the fugitive to lonely wretched hiding. Now the dawn was a greeting, a promise of another day to ride, to plan, to remember, and sun, wind, cloud, rain, sky. All were joys to him, somehow speaking his freedom. For years the night had been a black space, during which he had to ride unseen along the endless trails, to peer with cat-eyes through gloom for the moving shape that ever pursued him. Now the twilight and the dusk and the shadows of grove and canyon darkened into night with its train of stars and brought him calm reflection of the day's happenings, of the morrow's possibilities, perhaps a sad, brief procession of the old phantoms, then sleep. For years canyons and valleys and mountains had been looked at as retreats that might be dark and wild enough to hide even an outlaw. Now he saw these features of the great desert with something of the eyes of the boy who had once burned for adventure and life among them. Last night a wonderful afterglow lingered along in the west, and against the golden red of clear sky the bold black head of Mount Orde reared itself aloft, beautiful but aloof, sinister yet calling. Small wonder that Dwayne gazed in fascination upon the peak. Somewhere deep in its corrugated sides or lost in a rugged canyon was hidden the secret stronghold of the master outlaw, Chesildine. All down along the ride from El Paso Dwayne had heard of Chesildine, of his band, his fearful deeds, his cunning, his widely separated raids, of his flitting here and there like a jack-o'-lantern, but never a word of his den, never a word of his appearance. Next morning Dwayne did not return to Orde. He struck off to the north, riding down a rough, slow descending road that appeared to have been used occasionally for cattle-driving. As he had ridden in from the west, this northern direction led him into totally unfamiliar country. While he passed on, however, he exercised such keen observation that in the future he would know whatever might be of service to him if he chanced that way again. The rough, wild, brush-covered slope down from the foothills gradually leveled out into plain, a magnificent grazing country, upon which till noon of that day Dwayne did not see a herd of cattle or a ranch. About that time he made out smoke from the railroad, and after a couple of hours riding he entered a town which inquiry discovered to be Bradford. It was the largest town he had visited since Marfa, and he calculated must have a thousand or fifteen hundred inhabitants, not including Mexicans. He decided this would be a good place for him to hold up for a while, being the nearest town to Orde, only forty miles away. So he hitched his horse in front of a store and leisurely set about studying Bradford. It was after dark, however, that Dwayne verified his suspicions concerning Bradford. The town was awake after dark, and there was one long row of saloons, dance halls, gambling resorts in full blast. Dwayne visited them all, and was surprised to see wildness and license equal to that of the old river-camp of Blanz and its palmiest days. Here it was forced upon him that the farther west one traveled along the river, the sparser the respectable settlements, the more numerous the hard characters, and in consequence the greater the element of lawlessness. Dwayne returned to his lodging-house with the conviction that McNally's task of cleaning up the Big Ben country was a stupendous one. Yet he reflected, a company of intrepid and quick-shooting rangers could have soon cleaned up this Bradford. The innkeeper had one other guest that night, a long, black-coated and wide sombreroid Texan who reminded Dwayne of his grandfather. This man had penetrating eyes, a courtly manner, and an unmistakable leaning toward companionship and mint julips. The gentleman introduced himself as Colonel Webb, of Marfa, and took it as a matter of course that Dwayne made no comment about himself. "'Sir, it's all one to me,' he said, blandly waving his hand. "'I have traveled. Texas is free, and this frontier is one where it's healthier and just as friendly for a man to have no curiosity about his companion. You might be chastle-dean of the Big Ben, or you might be judge-little of El Paso. It's all one to me. I enjoy drinking with you, anyway.' Dwayne thanked him, conscious of a reserve and dignity that he could not have felt or pretended three months before. And then, as always, he was a good listener. Colonel Webb told, among other things, that he had come out to the Big Ben to look over the affairs of a deceased brother who had been a rancher and a sheriff of one of the towns. Fairdale, by name. "'Found no affairs, no ranch, not even his grave,' said Colonel Webb. "'And I tell you, sir, if hell's any tougher than this Fairdale, I don't want to expiate my sins there.' "'Fairdale, I imagine sherrers have a hard row to hoe out there,' replied Dwayne, trying not to appear curious. The Colonel swore lustily. My brother was the only honest sheriff Fairdale ever had. It was wonderful how long he lasted. But he had nerve. He could throw a gun, and he was on the square. When he was wise enough to confine his work to offenders of his own town and neighborhood, he let the riding-out laws alone, else he wouldn't have lasted at all. "'What this frontier needs, sir, is about six companies of Texas Rangers,' Dwayne was aware of the Colonel's close scrutiny. "'Do you know anything about the service?' "'Yes.' "'I used to, ten years ago, when I lived in San Antonio. A fine body of men, sir, and the salvation of Texas.' "'Governor Stone doesn't entertain that opinion,' said Dwayne.' Here Colonel Webb exploded. Manifestly the Governor was not his choice for a chief executive of the great state. He talked politics for a while, and of the vast territory west of the Pecos that seemed never to get a benefit from Austin. He talked enough for Dwayne to realize that here was just the kind of intelligent, well-informed, honest citizen that he had been trying to meet. He exerted himself thereafter to be agreeable and interesting, and he saw presently that here was an opportunity to make a valuable acquaintance, if not a friend. "'I'm a stranger in these parts,' said Dwayne, finally. What is this outlaw situation you speak of?' "'It's damnable, sir, and unbelievable. Not rustling any more, but just wholesale herd-stealing, in which some big cattlemen, supposed to be honest, are equally guilty with the outlaws. On this border, you know, the rustler has always been able to steal cattle in any numbers. But to get rid of big bunches, that's the hard job. The gang operating between here and Valentine evidently have not this trouble. Nobody knows where the stolen stock goes. But I'm not alone, in my opinion, that most of it goes to several big stockmen. They shipped to San Antonio, Austin, New Orleans, also to El Paso. If you travel the stock-row between here and Marfa and Valentine, you'll see dead cattle all along the line, and straight cattle out in the scrub. The herds have been driven fast and far, and stragglers are not rounded up. "'Holesale, business, eh?' remarked Dwayne. "'Who are these, uh, big stock-buyers?' Colonel Webb seemed a little startled at the abrupt query. He bent his penetrating gaze upon Dwayne, and thoughtfully stroked his pointed beard. "'Names, of course. I'll not mention. Opinions are one thing, direct accusation another. This is not a healthy country for the informer.' When it came to the outlaws themselves, Colonel Webb was disposed to talk freely. Dwayne could not judge whether the colonel had a hobby of that subject, or the outlaws were so striking in personality indeed that any man would know all about them. The great name along the river was Chesildine, but it seemed to be a name detached from an individual. No person of veracity known to Colonel Webb had ever seen Chesildine, and those that claimed that doubtful honour, varied so diversely in descriptions of the chief that they confused the reality, and lent to the outlaw only further mystery. Strange to say of an outlaw leader, as there was no one who could identify him, so there was no one who could prove he had actually killed a man. Blood flowed like water over the Big Bend country, and it was Chesildine who spilled it. Yet the fact remained there were no eyewitnesses to connect any individual called Chesildine with these deeds of violence. But in striking contrast to this mystery was the person, character, and cold-blooded action of Poggan and Nell, the chief's lieutenants. They were familiar figures in all the towns within two hundred miles of Bradford. Nell had a record, but as a gunman was an incredible list of victims Poggan was supreme. If Poggan had a friend, no one ever heard of him. There were a hundred stories of his nerve, his wonderful speed with a gun, his passion for gambling, his love of a horse, his cold, implacable inhuman wiping out of his path any man that crossed it. Chesildine is a name, a terrible name, said Colonel Webb. Sometimes I wonder if he's not only a name. In that case, where does the brains of this gang come from? No. There must be a master craftsman behind this border pillage, a master capable of handling those terrors Poggan and Nell. Of all the thousands of outlaws developed by Western Texas in the last twenty years, these three are the greatest. In Southern Texas, down between the Pecos and the Nussys, there have been and are still many bad men. But I doubt if any outlaw there, possibly accepting Buck Dwayne, ever equaled Poggan, you heard of this Dwayne? Yes, a little, replied Dwayne quietly. I'm from Southern Texas. Buck Dwayne, then, is known out here? Why, man, where isn't his name known? replied Colonel Webb. I've kept track of his record as I have all the others. Of course, Dwayne being a lone outlaw is somewhat of a mystery also. But not like Chesildine. Out here there have drifted many stories of Dwayne, horrible, some of them. But despite them a sort of romance clings to that Nussys outlaw. He's killed three great outlaw leaders, I believe. Bland, Harden, and the other I forgot. Harden was known in the Big Ben, had friends there. Bland had a hard name at Del Rio. Then this man, Dwayne, enjoys rather an unusual repute west of the Pecos, inquired Dwayne. He's considered more of an enemy to his kind than to honest men. I understand Dwayne had many friends. That whole county is swear by him. Secretly, of course. For he's a hunted outlaw with rewards on his head. His fame in this country appears to hang on his matchless gun-play and his enmity toward outlaw chiefs. I've heard many a rancher say. I wish to God that Buck Dwayne would drift out here. I'd give a hundred pesos to see him and Poggan meet. It's a singular thing, stranger, how jealous these great outlaws are of each other. Yes, indeed. All about them is singular. Reply, Dwayne. Has Chesildine's gang been busy lately? No. This section has been free of wrestling for months, though there's unexplained movements of stock. Probably all the stock that's being shipped now was rustled long ago. Chesildine works over a wide section, too wide for news to travel inside of weeks. Then sometimes he's not heard of at all for a spell. These lulls are pretty surely indicative of a big storm sooner or later. And Chesildine's deals, as they grow fewer and farther between, certainly get bigger, more daring. There are some people who think Chesildine had nothing to do with the bank robberies and train-hold-ups during the last few years in this country. But that's poor reasoning. The jobs have been too well done, too surely covered to be the work of greasers or ordinary outlaws. What's your view of the outlook? How's all this going to wind up? Will the outlaw ever be driven out? Asked Dwayne. Never. That will always be outlaws along the Rio Grande. All the armies in the world couldn't comb the wild breaks of that fifteen hundred miles a river. But the sway of the outlaw, such as is enjoyed by these great leaders, will sooner or later be passed. The criminal element flocked to the south-west, but not so thick and fast as the pioneers. Besides, the outlaws killed themselves and the ranchers are slowly rising in wrath, if not in action. That will come soon. If they only had a leader to start the fight. But that will come. There's talk of vigilantes. The same that were organized in California and are now in force in Idaho. So far it's only talk. But the time will come, and days of chastilding and pogging are numbered. Dwayne went to bed that night exceedingly thoughtful. The long trail was growing hot. This valuable colonel had given him new ideas. He came to Dwayne in surprise that he was famous along the upper Rio Grande. Assuredly he would not long be able to conceal his identity. He had no doubt that he would soon meet the chiefs of this clever and bold wrestling-gang. He could not decide whether he would be safer unknown or known. In the latter case his one chance lay in the fatality connected with his name, in his power to look it and act it. Dwayne had never dreamed of any sleuth-hound tendency in his nature, but now he felt something like one. Above all others his mind fixed on Poggan. Poggan the brute, the executor of Chesildine's will, but mostly upon Poggan the gunman. This in itself was a warning to Dwayne. He felt terrible forces at work within him. There was the stern and indomitable resolve to make McNally's boast good to the governor of the state, to break up Chesildine's gang. Yet this was not in Dwayne's mind before a strange grim and deadly instinct which he had to drive away for fear he would find in it a passion to kill Poggan, not for the state, nor for his word to McNally, but for himself. Had his father's blood and the hard years made Dwayne the kind of man who instinctively wanted to meet Poggan, he was sworn to McNally's service and he fought himself to keep that, and that only in his mind. Dwayne ascertained that Fairdale was situated two days' ride from Bradford toward the north. There was a stage which made the journey twice a week. Next morning Dwayne mounted his horse and headed for Fairdale. He rode leisurely as he wanted to learn all he could about the country. There were few ranches. The farther he travelled the better grazing he encountered, and, strange to note, the fewer herds of cattle. It was just sunset when he made out a cluster of adobe houses that marked the halfway point between Bradford and Fairdale. Here Dwayne had learned was stationed a comfortable inn for wayfarers. When he drew up before the inn the landlord and his family and a number of loungers greeted him leconically. "'Beat the stage in, hey!' remarked one. "'There she comes now,' said another. "'Joll sure is driving to-night!' Far down the road Dwayne saw a cloud of dust and horses and a lumbering coach. When he had looked after the needs of his horse he returned to the group before the inn. They awaited the stage with that interest common to isolated people. Presently it rolled up a large mud-bespattered and dusty vehicle, littered with baggage on top and tied on behind. A number of passengers alighted, three of whom excited Dwayne's interest. One was a tall, dark, striking looking man, and the other two were ladies, wearing long gray ulsters and veils. Dwayne heard the proprietor of the inn address the man as Colonel Longstrath, and as the party entered the inn Dwayne's quick ears caught a few words which acquainted him with the fact that Longstrath was the mayor of Fairdale. Dwayne passed inside himself to learn that Supper would soon be ready. At table he found himself opposite the three who had attracted his attention. Routh I envy the lucky cowboys, Longstrath was saying. Routh was a curly-headed girl with gray or hazel eyes. I'm crazy to ride Broncos, she said. Dwayne gathered she was on a visit to Western Texas, the other girl's deep voice, sweet like a bell, may Dwayne regard her closer. She had beauty as he had never seen it in another woman. She was slender, but the development of her figure gave Dwayne the impression she was twenty years old or more. She had the most exquisite hands Dwayne had ever seen. She did not resemble the Colonel, who was evidently her father. She looked tired, quiet, even melancholy. A finely chiseled oval face, clear olive tinted skin, long eyes, set wide apart and black as coal, beautiful to look into. A slender, straight nose that had something nervous and delicate about it, which made Dwayne think of a thoroughbred, and a mouth by no means small, but perfectly curved, and hair like jet. All these features proclaimed her beauty to Dwayne. Dwayne believed her a descendant of one of the old French families of eastern Texas. He was sure of it when she looked at him, drawn by his rather persistent gaze. There were pride, fire, and passion in her eyes. Dwayne felt himself blushing in confusion. His stare at her had been rude, perhaps, but unconscious. How many years had passed since he had seen a girl like her. Thereafter he kept his eyes upon his plate, yet he seemed to be aware that he had aroused the interest of both girls. After supper the guests assembled in a big sitting-room where an open fire place with blazing mesquite sticks gave out warmth and cheery glow. Dwayne took a seat by a table in the corner, and, finding a paper, began to read. Presently when he glanced up he saw two dark-faced men, strangers who had not appeared before, and were peering in from a doorway. When they saw Dwayne had observed them they stepped back out of sight. It flashed over Dwayne that the strangers acted suspiciously. In Texas in the seventies it was always bad policy to let strangers go unheeded. Dwayne pondered a moment. Then he went out to look over these two men. The doorway opened into a patio, and across that was a little dingy, dim-lighted bar-room. Here Dwayne found the innkeeper dispensing drinks to the two strangers. They glanced up when he entered, and one of them whispered. He imagined he had seen one of them before. In Texas, where outdoor men were so rough, bronzed, bold, and sometimes grim of aspect, it was no easy task to pick out the crooked ones. But Dwayne's ears on the border had augmented a natural instinct or gift to re-character, or at least to sense the evil in men, and he knew at once that these strangers were dishonest. Hey, something! One of them asked, leering, both looked Dwayne up and down. No thanks, I don't drink. Dwayne replied, and returned their scrutiny with interest. How's Trix and the Big Bend? Both been stared. It had taken only a close glance for Dwayne to recognize a type of ruffian most frequently met along the river. These strangers had that stamp, and their surprise proved he was right. Here the innkeeper showed signs of uneasiness, and seconded the surprise of his customers. No more was said at the instant, and the two rather hurriedly went out. Say, boss, do you know those fellows? Dwayne asked the innkeeper. Nope! Which way did they come? Now, I think of it, them fellers rid in from both corners to-day, he replied, and he put both hands on the bar and looked at Dwayne. The noon here, coming from Bradford, they said, and trailed in after the stage. When Dwayne returned to the sitting-room, Colonel Longstreth was absent. Also several of the other passengers. Miss Ruth sat in the chair he had vacated, and across the table from her sat Miss Longstreth. Dwayne went directly to them. Excuse me, said Dwayne, addressing them. I want to tell you there are a couple of rough-looking men here. I've just seen them. They mean evil. Tell your father to be careful. Lock your doors. Bar your windows tonight. Oh! cried Ruth, very low. Ray, do you hear? Thank you, we'll be careful, said Miss Longstreth gracefully. The rich color had faded in her cheek. I saw those men watching you from that door. They had such bright black eyes. Is there really danger here? I think so, was Dwayne's reply. Soft swift steps behind him proceeded a harsh voice. Hands up! No man quicker than Dwayne to recognize the intent in those words. His hands shot up. Miss Ruth uttered a little frightened cry and sank into her chair. Miss Longstreth turned white, her eyes dilated. Both girls were staring at someone behind Dwayne. Run around! ordered the harsh voice. The big, dark stranger, the bearded one who had whispered to his comrade in the bar-room and asked Dwayne to drink, had him covered with a cocked gun. He strode forward, his eyes gleaming, pressed the gun against him, and with his other hand dove into his inside coat pocket and tore out his roll of bills. Then he reached low at Dwayne's hip, felt his gun, and took it. Then he slapped the other hip, evidently in search of another weapon. That done he backed away, wearing an expression of fiendish satisfaction that made Dwayne think he was only a common thief, a novice at this kind of game. His comrade stood in the door where the gun leveled at two other men who stood there frightened, speechless. Get a move on, Bill, called this fellow, and he took a hasty glance backward. A stamp of hoofs came from outside. Of course the robbers had horses waiting. The one called Bill strode across the room, and with brutal, careless haste began to prod the two men with his weapon and to search them. The robber in the doorway called Russell, and disappeared. Dwayne wondered where the innkeeper was, and Colonel Longstreath and the other two passengers. The bearded robber quickly got through with his searching, and from his growls Dwayne gathered he had not been well remunerated. Then he wheeled once more. Dwayne had not moved a muscle, stood perfectly calm with his arms high. The robber strode back with his bloodshot eyes, fastened upon the girls. Miss Longstreath never flinched, but the little girl appeared about to faint. Don't yap there! he said, low and hard. He thrust the gun close to Ruth. Then Dwayne knew for sure that he was no knight of the road, but a plain cutthroat robber. Danger always made Dwayne exult in a kind of cold glow. But now something hot worked within him. He had a little gun in his pocket. The robber had missed it, and he began to calculate chances. Any money, jewelry, diamonds? Ordered the Ruffian fiercely. Miss Ruth collapsed. Then he made it Miss Longstreath. She stood with her hands at her breast. Evidently the robber took this position to mean that she had valuables concealed there. Between fancied she had instinctively pressed her hands against a throbbing heart. Come out with it! he said, harshly, reaching for her. Don't dare touch me! she cried her eyes ablaze. She did not move. She had nerve. It made Dwayne thrill. He saw he was going to get a chance. Waiting had been a science with him. But here it was hard. Miss Ruth had fainted, and that was well. Miss Longstreath had to fight in her, which fact helped Dwayne yet made injury possible to her. She eluded to lunges the man made at her. Then his rough hand caught her waist and with one pull ripped it asunder, exposing her beautiful shoulder, white as snow. She cried out. The prospect of being robbed or even killed had not shaken Miss Longstreath's nerve as had this brutal tearing off of half her waist. The Ruffian was only turned partially away from Dwayne. For himself he could have waited no longer, but for her. That gun was still held dangerously upward, close to her. Dwayne watched only that. Then a bellow made him jerk his head. Colonel Longstreath stood in the doorway in a magnificent rage. He had no weapon. Strange how he showed no fear. He bellowed something again. Dwayne's shifting glance caught the robber's sudden movement. It was a kind of start. He seemed stricken. Dwayne expected him to shoot Longstreath. Instead the hand that clutched Miss Longstreath's torn waist loosened its hold. The other hand with its cocked weapon slowly dropped till it pointed to the floor. That was Dwayne's chance. Swift as a flash he drew his gun and fired. Thud went his bullet, and he could not tell on the instant whether it hit the robber or went into the ceiling. Then the robber's gun boomed harmlessly. He fell with blood spurting over his face. Dwayne realized he had hit him, but the small bullet had glanced. Miss Longstreath reeled and might have fallen had Dwayne not supported her. It was only a few steps to a couch to which he half led, half carried her. Then he rushed out of the room, across the patio, through the bar to the yard. Nevertheless he was cautious, and the gloom stood a saddled horse, probably the one belonging to the fellow he had shot. His comrade had escaped. Returning to the sitting-room Dwayne found a condition approaching Pandemonium. The end-caper rushed in, pitchfork in hands. Evidently he had been out at the barn. He was now shouting to find out what had happened. Joel, the stage-driver, was trying to quiet the men who had been robbed. The woman, wife of one of the men, had come in, and she had hysterics. The girls were still and white. The robber Bill lay where he had fallen, and Dwayne guessed he had made a fair shot after all. And lastly, the thing that struck Dwayne most of all was Longstreath's rage. He never saw such passion. Like a caged lion Longstreath stalked and roared. Then came a quieter moment in which the end-keeper shrilly protested. Man, what are you raving about? Nobody's hurt, and that's lucky. I swear to God I had nothing to do with them fellers. I ought to kill you anyhow! Replied Longstreath, and his voice now astounded Dwayne. It was so full of power. Upon examination Dwayne found that his bullet had furrowed the robber's temple, torn a great piece out of his scalp, and as Dwayne had guessed had glanced. He was not seriously injured, and already shown signs of returning consciousness. Drag him out of here! ordered Longstreath, and he turned to his daughter. Before the end-keeper reached the robber, Dwayne had secured the money and gun taken from him, and presently recovered the property of the other men. Joel helped the end-keeper carry the injured man somewhere outside. Miss Longstreath was sitting white but composed upon the couch, where lay Miss Ruth, who evidently had been carried there by the Colonel. Dwayne did not think she had wholly lost consciousness, and now she lay very still, with eyes dark and shadowy, her face pallid and wet. The Colonel, now that he finally remembered his womenfolk, seemed to be gentle and kind. He talked soothingly to Miss Ruth, made light of the adventure, said she must learn to have nerve out here where things happened. Can I be of any service? asked Dwayne solicitously. Thanks! I guess there's nothing you can do. Talk to these frightened girls while I go see what's to be done with that thick-skulled robber, he replied, and telling the girls that there was no more danger, he went out. Miss Longstreath sat with one hand holding her torn waist in place, the other she extended to Dwayne. He took it awkwardly, and he felt a strange thrill. You saved my life, she said, in grave sweet seriousness. No, no! Dwayne exclaimed. He might have struck you, hurt you, but no more. I saw murder in his eyes. He thought I had jewels under my dress. I couldn't bear his touch. The beast I'd have fought. Only my life was in peril. Did you kill him? asked Miss Ruth, who lay listening. Oh, no! He's not badly hurt. I'm very glad he's alive! said Miss Longstreath, shuddering. My intention was bad enough. Dwayne went on. It was a ticklish place for me. You see, he was half drunk, and I was afraid his gun might go off. Full careless he was. Did you say you didn't save me? Miss Longstreath returned quickly. Well, let it go with that. Dwayne responded. I saved you something. Tell me all about it? asked Miss Ruth, who was fast recovering. Rather embarrassed, Dwayne briefly told the incident from his point of view. Then you stood there all the time with your hands up thinking of nothing, watching for nothing except a little moment when you might withdraw your gun. asked Miss Ruth. I guess that's about it, he replied. Cousin said Miss Longstreath thoughtfully. It was fortunate for us that this gentleman happened to be here. Papa scouts laughed at danger. He seems to think there was no danger, yet he raved after it came. Go with us all the way to Fairdale, please! asked Miss Ruth, sweetly offering her hand. I am Ruth Herbert, and this is my cousin Ray Longstreath. I'm travelling that way, replied Dwayne in great confusion. He did not know how to meet the situation. Colonel Longstreath returned then, and after bidding Dwayne a good night, which seemed rather curt by contrast to the graciousness of the girls, he led them away. Before going to bed Dwayne went outside to take a look at the injured robber, and perhaps to ask him a few questions. To Dwayne's surprise he was gone, and so was his horse. The innkeeper was dumbfounded. He said that he left the fellow on the floor in the barred room. Had he come to? inquired Dwayne. Sure! he asked for whiskey. Did he say anything else? That to me I heard him talking to the father of them girls. You mean Colonel Longstreath? I reckon. He sure was some riled, wasn't he? Just as if I was to blame for that two-bit of a hold-up. What did you make of the old gents' rage? asked Dwayne, watching the innkeeper. He scratched his head dubiously. He was sincere, and Dwayne believed in his honesty. Well, I'm all gone if I know what to make of it. But I reckon he's either crazy or got more nerve than most Texans. More nerves, maybe? Dwayne replied. Show me a bed now, innkeeper. Once in bed in the dark Dwayne composed himself to think over the several events of the evening. He called up the details of the hold-up and carefully revolved them in mind. The Colonel's wrath under circumstances where almost any Texan would have been cool. Non-plus Dwayne. And he put it down to a choloric temperament. He pondered long on the action of the robber, when Longstreath's bellow of rage burst in upon him. This ruffian, as bold and mean a type as Dwayne had ever encountered, had, from some cause or other, been startled. From whatever point Dwayne viewed the man's strange indecision, he could come to only one conclusion. His start, his check, his fear had been that of recognition. Dwayne compared this effect with the suddenly acquired sense he had gotten of Colonel's Longstreath's powerful personality. Why had that desperate robber lowered his gun and stood paralyzed at sight and sound of the mayor of Fairdale? This was not answerable. There might have been a number of reasons all to Colonel Longstreath's credit, but Dwayne could not understand. Longstreath had not appeared to see danger for his daughter, even though she had been roughly handled, and had advanced in front of a cocked gun. Dwayne probed deep into this singular fact, and he brought to bear on the thing all his knowledge and experience of violent Texas life. And he found that the instant Colonel Longstreath had appeared on the scene there was no further danger threatening his daughter. Why? That likewise Dwayne could not answer. Then his rage, Dwayne concluded, had been solely at the idea of his daughter being assaulted by a robber. This deduction was indeed a thought disturber, but Dwayne put it aside to crystallize and for more careful consideration. Next morning Dwayne found that the little town was called Sanderson. It was larger than he had first supposed. He walked up the main street and back again. Just as he arrived, some horseman rode up to the inn and dismounted, and at this juncture the Longstreath party came out. Dwayne heard Colonel Longstreath utter an exclamation. Then he saw him shake hands with a tall man. Longstreath looked surprised and angry, and he spoke of force. But Dwayne could not hear what it was he said. The fellow laughed, yet somehow he struck Dwayne as sullen, until suddenly he aspired Mr. Longstreath. Then his face changed, and he removed his sombrero. Dwayne went closer. "'Floy, did you come with the teams?' asked Longstreath sharply. "'Not me. I rode a horse, good and hard,' was the reply. "'Huh! I have a word to say to you later.' Then Longstreath turned to his daughter. "'Ray, here's the cousin I've told you about. You used to play with him ten years ago. Floyd Lawson. Floyd, my daughter, and my niece, Ruth Herbert.' Dwayne always scrutinized every one he met, and now with a dangerous game to play. With the consciousness of Longstreath's unusual and significant personality he bent a keen and searching glance upon this Floyd Lawson. He was under thirty, yet gray at his temples, dark, smooth-shaven, with lines left by wildness dissipation, shadows under dark eyes, a mouth strong and bitter, and a square chin, a reckless, careless, handsome, sinister face strangely losing the hardness when he smiled. The grace of a gentleman clung around him, seemed like an echo in his mellow voice. Dwayne doubted not that he, like many a young man, had drifted out to the frontier where rough and wild life had wrought sternly, but had not quite effaced the mark of good family. Colonel Longstreath apparently did not share the pleasure of his daughter and his niece in the advent of this cousin. Something hinged on this meeting. Dwayne grew intensely curious, but as the stage appeared ready for the journey he had no further opportunity to gratify it. CHAPTER XVI Dwayne followed the stage through the town, out into the open, onto a wide, hard-packed road showing years of travel. It headed northwest. To the left rose a range of low, bleak mountains he had noted yesterday, and to the right sloped the mesquite-patched sweep of ridge and flat. The driver pushed his team to a fast trot, which Gates surely covered ground rapidly. The stage made three stops in the forenoon, wanted a place where the horses could be watered, the second at a chuck wagon belonging to cowboys who were riding after stock, and the third at a small cluster of adobe and stone houses constituting a hamlet the driver called Longstreath, named after the Colonel. From that point on to Fairdale there were only a few ranches, each one controlling great acreage. Early in the afternoon from a ridge-top Dwayne sited Fairdale, a green patch in the mass of gray. For the barrens of Texas it was indeed a fair sight. But he was more concerned with its remoteness from civilization than its beauty. At that time, in the early seventies, when the vast western third of Texas was a wilderness, the pioneer had done wonders to settle there and establish places like Fairdale. It needed only a glance for Dwayne to pick out Colonel Longstreath's ranch. The house was situated on the only elevation around Fairdale, and it was not high, nor more than a few minutes' walk from the edge of the town. It was a low, flat-roof structure made of red adobe bricks and covered what appeared to be fully an acre of ground. All was green about it, except where the fenced growls and numerous barns or sheds showed gray and red. Dwayne soon reached the shady outskirts of Fairdale and entered the town with mingled feelings of curiosity, eagerness, and expectation. The street he rode down was a main one, and on both sides of the street was a solid row of saloons, resorts, hotels. Saddled horses stood hitched all along the sidewalk in two long lines, with a buck-board and team here and there breaking the continuity. This block was busy and noisy. From all outside appearances Fairdale was no different from other frontier towns, and Dwayne's expectations were scarcely realized. As the afternoon was weaning he halted at a little inn. A boy took charge of his horse. Dwayne questioned the lad about Fairdale and gradually drew to the subject most in mind. Colonel Longstreath has a big outfit, eh? Wrecking he has, replied the lad. Don't know how many cowboys, they're always coming and going. I ain't acquainted with half of them. Much movement of stock these days? Stocks always moving, he replied with a queer look. Rustlers? But he did not follow up that look with the affirmative Dwayne expected. Early place, I hear. Fairdale is? Ain't so lively as Sanderson, but it's bigger. Yes, I heard it was. Fellow down there was talking about two cowboys who were arrested. Sure, I heard all about that. Joe Bean and Brick Higgins. They belong here, but they ain't here much. Longstreath's boys. Dwayne did not want to appear over inquisitive, so he turned the talk into other channels. After getting supper, Dwayne strolled up and down the main street. When darkness set in, he went into a hotel, bought cigars, sat around and watched. Then he passed out and went into the next place. This was of rough crude exterior, but the inside was comparatively pretentious and ablaze with lights. It was full of men coming and going, a dusty-booted crowd that smelled of horses and smoke. Dwayne sat down for a while, with wide eyes and open ears. Then he hunted up the bar where most of the guests had been or were going. He found a great square room lighted by six huge lamps, a bar at one side and all the floor space taken up by tables and chairs. This was the only gambling place of any size in southern Texas in which he had noted the absence of Mexicans. There was some card-playing going on at this moment. Dwayne stayed in there for a while, and knew that strangers were too common in Fairdale to be conspicuous. Then he returned to the inn where he had engaged a room. Dwayne sat down on the steps of the dingy little restaurant. Two men were conversing inside, and they had not noticed Dwayne. Laramie, what's the stranger's name? asked one. He didn't say, replied the other. Sure was a strapping big man. Struck me a little odd, he did. No cattlemen him. How did you size him? Well, like one of them cool, easy, quiet Texans who's been looking for a man for years, to kill him when he found him. But you are, Laramie, and between you and me I hope he's looking for long, shh, interrupted Laramie. You must be half-drunk to go talk it that way. Thereafter they conversed in too low a tone for Dwayne to hear, and presently Laramie's visitor left. Dwayne went inside, and making himself agreeable, began to ask casual questions about Fairdale. Laramie was not communicative. Dwayne went to his room in a thoughtful frame of mind. Had Laramie's visitor meant he hoped someone had come to kill long-strength? Dwayne inferred just that for the interrupted remark. There was something wrong about the mayor of Fairdale. Dwayne felt it. And he felt also, if there was a crooked and dangerous man, it was this Floyd Lawson. The innkeeper Laramie would be worth cultivating. And last in Dwayne's thoughts that night was Miss Longstrength. He could not help thinking of her. How strangely the meeting with her had affected him. It made him remember that long past time when girls had been a part of his life. What a sad and dark and endless void lay between that past and the present. He had no right even to dream of a beautiful woman like Ray Longstrength. That conviction, however, did not dispel her. Indeed, it seemed perversely to make her grow more fascinating. Dwayne grew conscious of a strange, unaccountable hunger, a something that was like a pang in his breast. Next day he lounged about the inn. He did not make any overtures to the taciturn proprietor. Dwayne had no need of hurry now. He contented himself with watching and listening. And at the close of that day he decided Fairdale was what McNally had claimed it to be, and that he was on the track of an unusual adventure. The following day he spent it much the same way, though on one occasion he told Laramie he was looking for a man. The innkeeper grew a little less furtive and reticent after that. He would answer casual queries, and it did not take Dwayne Long to learn that Laramie had seen better days, that he was now broken, bitter, and hard. Someone had wronged him. Several days passed. Dwayne did not succeed in getting any closer to Laramie, but he found the idlers on the corners and in front of the stores unsuspicious and willing to talk. It did not take him long to find out that Fairdale stood parallel with Huntsville for gambling, drinking, and fighting. The street was always lined with dusty, saddled horses, the town full of strangers. Money appeared more abundant than in any place Dwayne had ever visited, and it was spent with the abandon that spoke forcibly of easy and crooked acquirement. Dwayne decided that Sanderson, Bradford, and Ord were but notorious outposts to this Fairdale, which was a secret center of rustlers and outlaws. And what struck Dwayne's strangest of all was the fact that Longstreethe was mayor here and held court daily. Dwayne knew intuitively, before a chance remark gave him proof, that this court was a sham, a farce, and he wondered if it were not a blind. This wonder of his was equivalent to suspicion of Colonel Longstreethe, and Dwayne reproached himself. Then he realized that the reproach was because of the daughter. Inquiry had brought him the fact that Ray Longstreethe had just come to live with her father. Longstreethe had originally been a planter in Louisiana, where his family had remained after his advent in the West. He was a rich rancher. He owned half of Fairdale. He was a cattle-buyer on a large scale. Floyd Lawson was his lieutenant and associate in deals. On the afternoon of the fifth day of Dwayne's day in Fairdale he returned to the inn from his usual stroll, and upon entering was amazed to have a rough-looking young fellow rush by him out of the door. Inside Laramie was lying on the floor, with a bloody bruise on his face. He did not appear to be dangerously hurt. "'Bow, snacker!' he hit me and went after the cash-drawer," said Laramie, laboring to his feet. "'Are you hurt much?' queried Dwayne. "'I guess not. But Bow, needing to have soaked me, I've been robbed before without that.' "'Well, I'll take a look after Bow,' replied Dwayne. He went out and glanced down the street toward the center of the town. He did not see any one he could take for the innkeeper's assailant. Then he looked up the street, and he saw the young fellow about a block away, hurrying along and gazing back. Dwayne yelled for him to stop and started to go after him. Snicker broke into a run. Then Dwayne set out to overhaul him. There were two motives in Dwayne's action, one of anger and the other a desire to make a friend of this man Laramie, whom Dwayne believed could tell him much. Dwayne was light on his feet and he had a giant stride. He gained rapidly upon Snicker, who, turning this way and that, could not get out of sight. Then he took to the open country and ran straight for the green hill where Longstreet's house stood. Dwayne had almost caught Snicker when he reached the shrubbery in trees and there eluded him. But Dwayne kept him in sight in the shade, on the paths, and up the road into the courtyard, and he saw Snicker go straight for Longstreet's house. Dwayne was not to be turned back by that, singular as it was. He did not stop to consider. It seemed enough to know that fate had directed him to the path of this rancher Longstreet. Dwayne entered the first open door on that side of the court. It opened into a corridor which led into a plaza. It had wide, smooth stone porches and flowers and shrubbery in the center. Dwayne hurried through to burst into the presence of Miss Longstreet and a number of young people. Evidently she was giving a little party. Lawson stood leaning against one of the pillars that supported the porch roof. At sight of Dwayne his face changed remarkably, expressing amazement, consternation, then fear. In the quick and suing silence Miss Longstreet rose white as her dress. The young women present stared in astonishment if they were not equally perturbed. There were cowboys present who suddenly grew intent and still. By these things Dwayne gathered that his appearance must be disconcerting. He was panting. He wore no hat or coat. His big gun sheath showed plainly at his hip. Sight of Miss Longstreet had an unaccountable effect upon Dwayne. He was plunged into confusion. For the moment he saw no one but her. Miss Longstreet, I came to search your house, panted Dwayne. He hardly knew what he was saying, yet the instant he spoke he realized that that should have been the last thing for him to say. He had blundered. But he was not used to women and this dark-eyed girl made him thrill and his heart beat thickly and his wits go scattering. Search my house!" exclaimed Miss Longstreet, and Redd succeeded the white in her cheeks. She appeared astonished and angry. What for? Why, how dare you! This is unwartable! A man, Bo Snecker, assaulted and robbed Jim Larraby. Replyed Dwayne hurriedly. I chased Snecker here, saw him run into the house. Here? Oh, sir, you must be mistaken. We have seen no one. In the absence of my father I'm mistress here. I'll not permit you to search." Lawson appeared to come out of his astonishment. He stepped forward. Ray, don't be bothered now, he said to his cousin. This fellow's making a bluff. I'll settle him. See here, mister, you clear out. I want Snecker. He's here, and I'm going to get him. Replyed Dwayne quietly. Bah! That's all a bluff! sneered Lawson. I'm on to your game. You just wanted an excuse to break in here, to see my cousin again. When you saw the company you invented that excuse, now be off, or it'll be the worst for you! Dwayne felt his face burn with a tide of hot blood. Almost he felt that he was guilty of such motive. Had he not been unable to put this Ray Longstreath out of his mind? There seemed to be scorn in her eyes now, and somehow that checked his embarrassment. Miss Longstreath, will you let me search the house? He asked. No. Then I regret to say I'll do so without your permission. You'll not dare!" she flashed. She stood erect, her bosom swelling. Pardon me. Yes, I will. Who are you? she demanded suddenly. I'm a Texas Ranger, replied Dwayne. A Texas Ranger! she echoed. Floyd Lawson's dark face turned pale. Miss Longstreath, I don't need warrants to search houses, said Dwayne. I'm sorry to annoy you. I'd prefer to have your permission. A Ruffian has taken refuge here, in your father's house. He's hidden somewhere. May I look for him? If you are indeed a Ranger! Dwayne produced his papers. Miss Longstreath haughtily refused to look at them. Miss Longstreath, I've come to make Fairdale a safer, cleaner, better place for women and children. I don't wonder at your resentment. But to doubt me, insult me, some day you may be sorry. Floyd Lawson made a violent motion with his hands. All stuff! Cousin, go on with your party. I'll take a couple of cowboys and go with this Texas Ranger. Thanks, said Dwayne Cooley, as he eyed Lawson. Perhaps you'll be able to find Snicker quicker than I could. What do you mean?" demanded Lawson, and now he grew livid. Evidently he was a man of fierce, quick passions. Don't quarrel, said Miss Longstreath. Floyd, you go with him. Please hurry. I'll be nervous till—the man's found, or you're sure there's not one. They started with several cowboys to search the house. They went through the room searching, calling out, peering into dark places. They struck Dwayne more than forcibly that Lawson did all the calling. He was hurried, too, tried to keep in the lead. Dwayne wondered if he knew his voice would be recognized by the hiding man. Be that as it might, it was Dwayne who peered into a dark corner, and then, with a gun leveled, said, Come out! He came forth into the flare, a tall, slim, dark-faced youth wearing sombrero, blouse, and trousers. Dwayne collared him before any of the others could move, and held the gun close enough to make him shrink. But he did not impress Dwayne as being frightened just then. Nevertheless he had a clammy face, the pallid look of a man who had just gotten over a shock. He peered into Dwayne's face, then into that of the cowboy next to him, then into Lawson's, and if ever in Dwayne's life he beheld relief it was then. That was all Dwayne needed to know, but he meant to find out more, if he could. Who are you? asked Dwayne quietly. Bo Snacker, he said. What did you hide here for? He appeared to grow sullen. Rec and I'd be as safe and long stress as any way as— Ranger, what do you do with him? Lawson queried, as if uncertain, now the capture was made. I'll see to that, replied Dwayne, and he pushed Snacker in front of him out into the court. Dwayne had suddenly conceived the idea of taking Snacker before Mayor Longstreethe in the court. When Dwayne arrived at the hall where court was held there were other men there, a dozen or more, and all seemed excited. Evidently news of Dwayne had preceded him. Longstreethe sat at a table up on a platform. Near him sat a thick-set grizzled man with deep eyes, and this was Hanford Owens, county judge. To the right stood a tall, angular, yellow-faced fellow with a drooping sandy mustache. Conspicuous on his vest was a huge silver shield. This was Gorsetch, one of Longstreethe's tariffs. There were four other men whom Dwayne knew by sight, several whose faces were familiar, and half a dozen strangers, all dusty horsemen. Longstreethe pounded hard on the table to be heard. Mayor or not, he was unable at once to quell the excitement. Gradually, however, it subsided, and from the last few utterances before quiet was restored, Dwayne gathered that he had intruded upon some kind of a meeting in the hall. What did you break in here for, demanded Longstreethe? Isn't this the court? Aren't you the mayor of Fairdale? Interrogated Dwayne, his voice was clear and loud, almost piercing. Yes, replied Longstreethe, like Flint he seemed, yet Dwayne felt his intense interest. I've arrested a criminal, said Dwayne. I arrested a criminal, ejaculated Longstreethe. You? Who are you? I'm a ranger, replied Dwayne. A significant silence ensued. I charged Snecker with assault on Laramie and attempted robbery, if not murder. He's had a shady past here, as this court will know if it keeps a record. What's this I hear about you, Beau? Get up and speak for yourself," said Longstreethe gruffly. Snecker got up, not without a furtive glance at Dwayne, and he had shuffled forward a few steps toward the mayor. He had an evil front, but not the boldness even of a rustler. It ain't so, Longstreethe, he began, loudly. I went in Laramie's place for grub. Some fellow I never seen before come in from the hall and hit Laramie and wrestled him on the floor. I went out. Then this big ranger chased me and fetched me here. I didn't do nothing. This ranger's hankering to arrest somebody. That's my hunch, Longstreethe. Longstreethe said something in an undertone to judge Owens, and that worthy nodded his great bushy head. Beau, you're discharged, said Longstreethe bluntly. Now the rest of you clear out of here. He absolutely ignored the ranger. That was his rebuff to Dwayne, his slap in the face to an interfering ranger's service. If Longstreethe was crooked he certainly had magnificent nerve. Dwayne almost decided he was above suspicion. But as nonchalance, his air of finality, his authoritative assurance, these Dwayne's keen and practice eyes were in significant contrast to a certain tenseness of line about his mouth and a slow paling of his olive skin. In that momentary lull Dwayne's scrutiny of Longstreethe gathered an impression of the man's intense curiosity. Then the prisoner, Snacker, with a cough that broke the spell of silence, shuffled a couple of steps toward the door. Hold on! called Dwayne. The call halted Snacker as if it had been a bullet. Longstreethe I saw Snacker attack Laramie. Said Dwayne, his voice still ringing. What has the court to say to that? The court has this to say. West of the Pecos will not aid any ranger service. We don't want you out here. Faradale doesn't need you. That's a lie, Longstreethe, retorted Dwayne. I've letters from Faradale's citizens all begging for ranger service. Dwayne turned white. The veins courted at his temples. He appeared about to burst into rage. He was at a loss for quick reply. Floyd Lawson rushed in and up to the table. The blood showed black and thick in his face. His utterance was incoherent. His uncontrollable outbreak of temper seemed out of all proportion to any cause he should reasonably have had for anger. Longstreethe shoved him back with a curse and a warning glance. Where's your warrant to address Snacker? shouted Longstreethe. I don't need warrants to make arrests. Longstreethe, you're ignorant of the power of Texas Rangers. You'll come none of your damned ranger stunts out here. I'll block you. That passionate reply of Longstreethe's was the signal Dwayne had been waiting for. He had helped on the crisis. He wanted to force Longstreethe's hand and show the town his stand. Dwayne backed clear of everybody. Men, I call on you all! cried Dwayne piercingly. I call on you to witness the arrest of a criminal prevented by Longstreethe, Mayor of Fairdale. It will be recorded in the report to the Agenda General at Austin. Longstreethe, you'll never prevent another arrest. Longstreethe, you've shown your hand, said Dwayne in a voice that carried far and held those who heard. Any honest citizen of Fairdale can now see what's plain. Yours is a damn poor hand. You're going to hear me call a spade a spade. In the two years you've been mayor, you've never arrested one rustler. Strange, when Fairdale's a nest for rustlers, you've never sent a prisoner to Del Rio let alone to Austin. You have no jail. There have been nine murders during your office, innumerable street fights and hold-ups, not one arrest. But you have ordered arrest for trivial offenses and have punished these out of all proportion. There have been lawsuits in your court, suits over water rights, cattle deals, property lines. Strange how in these lawsuits you or Lawson or other men close to you were always involved. Strange how it seems the law was stretched to favor your interest. Dwayne paused in his cold ringing speech. In the silence, both outside and inside the hall could be heard the deep breathing of agitated men. Longstreethe was indeed a study. Yet did he betray anything but rage at this interloper? Longstreethe, here's plain talk for you and Fairdale, went on Dwayne. I don't accuse you and your court of dishonesty. I say, strange. Law here has been a farce. The motive behind all this laxity isn't plain to me, yet. But I call your hand. CHAPTER XVII Dwayne left the hall. Elbowed his way through the crowd and went down the street. He was certain that on the faces of some men he had seen ill-concealed wonder and satisfaction. He had struck some kind of a hot trait, and he meant to see where it led. It was by no means unlikely that Chasselledee might be at the other end. Dwayne controlled a mounting eagerness. But ever and on it was shot through with the remembrance of Ray Longstreethe. He suspected her father of being not what he pretended. He might, very probably would, bring sorrow and shame to this young woman. The thought made him smart with pain. She began to haunt him, and then he was thinking more of her beauty and sweetness than of the disgrace he might bring upon her. Some strange emotion, long locked inside Dwayne's heart, knocked to be heard, to be let out. He was troubled. Upon returning to the inn he found Laramie there, apparently none the worse for his injury. How are you, Laramie? He asked. Rec and I am feeling as well as could be expected. Replied Laramie, his head was circled by a bandage that did not conceal the lump where he had been struck. He looked pale, but was bright enough. That was a good crack Snicker gave you! remarked Dwayne. I ain't accuse him bow, remonstrated Laramie, with eyes that made Dwayne thoughtful. Well, I accuse him. I caught him. Took him to Longstreethe's court. But they let him go. Laramie appeared to be agitated by this intimation of friendship. See here, Laramie, went on Dwayne. In some parts of Texas it's policy to be close-mouthed. Policy and health-preserving. Between ourselves I want you to know I lean on your side of the fence. Laramie gave a quick start. Presently Dwayne turned and frankly met his gaze. He had startled Laramie out of his habitual set to as eternity. But even as he looked, the light that might have been a maze and joy faded out of his face, leaving it the same old mask. Still Dwayne had seen enough, like a bloodhound he had ascent. Talking about work, Laramie, who'd you say Snicker worked for? I didn't say. Well, say so now, can't you? Laramie, you're powerful peevish today. It's that bump on your head. Who to Snicker work for? When he works at all, which sure ain't often, he rides for Longstreethe. Huh! Seems to me that Longstreethe's the whole circus round Fairdale. I was some sore the other day to find I was losing good money at Longstreethe's pharaoh-game. Sure, if I'd won I wouldn't have been sore. Ha-ha! But I was surprised to hear someone say Longstreethe owned the Hope-So-Joint. He owns considerable property hereabouts, replied Laramie, constrainedly. Hope again! Laramie, like every other fellow I met in this town, you're afraid to open your trap about Longstreethe. Get me straight, Laramie. I don't care a damn for Colonel Mayer Longstreethe, and for cause I'd throw a gun on him just as quick as on any rustler in Pekos. Docks cheap! replied Laramie, making light of his bluster, but the red was deeper in his face. Sure, I know that, Dwayne said. And usually I don't talk. Then it's not well known that Longstreethe owns the Hope-So? Reckon it's known in Pekos, all right. But Longstreethe's name isn't connected with the Hope-So. Blandy runs the place. That Blandy, his pharaoh-game's crooked or I'm a low-code bronc. Not that we don't have lots of crooked pharaoh-dealers. A fellow can stand for them. But Blandy's mean, backhanded, never looks you in the eyes. That Hope-So place ought to be run by a good fellow like you, Laramie. Thanks! replied he, and Dwayne imagined his voice a little husky. Didn't you hear I used to run it? No, did you? Dwayne said quickly. I reckon I built the place, made additions twice, owned it for eleven years. Well, I'll be doggone. It was indeed Dwayne's turn to be surprised, and with the surprise came a glimmering. I'm sorry you're not there now. Did you sell out? No, I just lost the place. Laramie was bursting for relief now, to talk, to tell. Sympathy had made him soft. It was two years ago, two years last March, he went on. I was in a big cattle-deal with Longstreethe. We got the stock, and my share, eighteen hundred-head, was rustled off. I owed Longstreethe. He pressed me. It come to a lawsuit, and I was ruined. It hurt Dwayne to look at Laramie. He was white, and tears rolled down his cheeks. Dwayne saw the bitterness, the defeat, the agony of the man. He had failed to meet his obligations. Nevertheless he had been swindled. All that he suppressed, all that would have been passion had the man's spirit not been broken, as a bear for Dwayne to see. He had now the secret of his bitterness. But the reason he did not openly accuse Longstreethe, the secret of his reticence and fear, these Dwayne thought best to try to learn it some later time. Hard luck! It certainly was tough, Dwayne said. But you're a good loser. And the wheel turns. Now, Laramie, here's what. I need your advice. I've got a little money. But before I lose it, I want to invest some. Buy some stock, or buy an interest in some rancher's herd. What I want you to steer me on is a good square rancher. Or maybe a couple of ranchers, if there happen to be two honest ones. No deals with ranchers who ride in the dark with wrestlers. I have a hunch Fairdale is full of them. Now, Laramie, you've been here for years. Sure you must know a couple of men above suspicion. Thank God I do! he replied feelingly. Frank Morton and Sy Zimmer, my friends and neighbors, all my prosperous days, and friends still. You can gamble on Frank and Sy, but if you want advice from me, don't invest money in stock now. Why? Because any newfellar buying stock these days will be rustled quicker, and he can say, Jack Robinson. The pioneers, the new cattlemen, these are easy picking for the wrestlers. Lord knows all the ranchers are easy enough picking. But the newfellars have to learn the ropes. They don't know anything or any body. And the old ranchers are wise and sore. They'd fight if they— What? Dwayne put in, as he paused. If they knew who was rustling the stock? Nope. If they had the nerve? Not that so much. What then? What'd it make them fight? A leader. Hold it, our Jim! boomed a big voice. A man of great bulk, with a ruddy, merry face, entered the room. Hello, Morton! replied Laramie. I'd introduce you to my guest here, but I don't know his name. Ho-ho-ho! That's all right. Few men out here go buy their right names. Say, Morton, put in Dwayne, Laramie gave me a hunch you'd be a good man to tie to. Now I have a little money, and before I lose it I'd like to invest it in stock. Morton smiled broadly. I'm on the square, Dwayne said, bluntly. If you fellows never size up your neighbors any better than you have sized me, well, you won't get any richer. It was enjoyment for Dwayne to make his remarks to these men, pregnant with meaning. Morton showed his pleasure, his interest, but his faith held aloof. I've got some money. Will you let me in on some kind of deal? Will you start me up as a stockman with a little herd all my own? Well, stranger to come out flat-footed, you'd be foolish to buy cattle now. I don't want to take your money and see you lose out. Better you go back across the Pecos where the wrestlers ain't so strong. I haven't got more than twenty-five hundred herd of stock for ten years. The wrestlers let me hang on to a breeding herd. Kind of them, ain't it? Lord of kind! All I hear is wrestlers, Morton," replied Dwayne with impatience. You see, I haven't ever lived long in a rustler-run county. Who heads the gang, anyway? Morton looked at Dwayne with a curiously amused smile, then snapped his big jaw as if to shut in impulsive words. Look here, Morton! It stands to reason, no matter how strong these wrestlers are, how hidden their work, however involved with supposedly honest men, they can't last. They come with pioneers, and they'll last till there's a single steer left," he declared. Well, if you take that view of circumstances, I just figure you is one of the wrestlers. Morton looked as if he was about to brain-dwayne with the butt of his whip, his anger flashed by then, evidently as unworthy of him, and something striking him as funny he boomed at a laugh. "'It's not so funny,' Dwayne went on. "'If you're going to pretend a yellow streak, what else will I think?' "'Pretend,' he repeated. "'Sure. I know men of nerve, and here they're not any different from those in other places. I say if you show anything like a lack of sand it's all bluff. By nature you've got nerve. There are a lot of men around Fairdale who are afraid of their shadows, afraid to be out after dark, afraid to open their mouths, but you're not one. So I say if you claim these wrestlers will last, you're pretending lack of nerve just to help the popular idea along. For they can't last. What you need out here is some new blood. Savvy what I mean?' "'Well, I reckon I do,' he replied, looking as if a storm had blown over him. "'Stranger, I'll look you up the next time I come to town.' Then he went out. Laramie had eyes like flint striking fire. He breathed a deep breath and looked around the room before his gaze fixed again on Dwayne. "'Well,' he replied, speaking low, you've picked the right man. Now who in the hell are you?' Reaching into the inside pocket of his buckskin vest, Dwayne turned the lining out. A star-shaped bright silver object flashed as he shoved it pocket and all under Jim's hard eyes. "'Ranger,' he whispered, cracking the table with his fist. "'You sure ring true to me?' "'Laramie, do you know whose boss of this secret gang of wrestlers hear about?' asked Dwayne bluntly. It was characteristic of him to come sharp to the point. His voice, something deep, easy, cool about him, seemed to steady Laramie. "'No,' replied Laramie. "'Does anybody know?' went on Dwayne. "'Well, I reckon there's not one oddest native who knows. But you have your suspicions. We have?' "'Give me your idea about this crowd that hangs round the saloons, the regulars.' "'Just a bad lot,' replied Laramie, with a quick assurance of knowledge. Most of them have been here years. Others have drifted in. Some of them work at odd times. They rustle a few steers, steel, rob—anything for little money to drink and gamble. Just a bad lot.' "'Have you any idea whether Chesseldeen and his gang are associated with this gang here?' "'Lord knows. I've always suspected them the same gang—none of us ever seen Chesseldeen. And that's strange when Nell, Poggan, Panhandle, Smith, Blossom, Cain, and Fletcher—they all ride here often.' "'No. Poggan doesn't come often. But the others do. For that matter they're all over a wist of the Pecos.' "'Now I'm puzzled over this,' said Dwayne. "'Why do men—apparently honest men—seem to be so close mouthed here? Is that a fact or only my impression?' "'It's a sure fact,' replied Laramie darkly. Men have lost cattle and property in Fairdale. Lost them honestly, or otherwise, as hasn't been proved. And in some cases when they talked, hinted a little, they was found dead. Apparently held up and robbed, but dead. Dead men don't talk. That's why we're close mouth.' Dwayne felt a dark somber sterness. Rustling cattle was not intolerable. Western Texas had gone on prospering, growing in spite of the hordes of rustlers ranging its vast stretches. But a cold, secret, murderous hold on a little struggling community was something too strange, too terrible for men to stand long. The ranger was about to speak again when the clatter of hoofs interrupted him. Horses halted out in front, and one rider got down. Floyd Lawson entered. He called for tobacco. If his visit surprised Laramie he did not show any evidence. But Lawson showed rage as he saw the stranger, and then a dark glint flitted from the eyes that shifted from Dwayne to Laramie and back again. Dwayne leaned easily against the counter. Say, that was a bad break of yours, Lawson said. If you come fool around the ranch again there'll be hell. It seemed strange that a man who had lived west of the Pecos for ten years could not see and dwayne something which forbade that kind of talk. It certainly was not nerve, Lawson showed. Men of courage were seldom intolerant. With a matchless nerve that characterized the great gunman of the day there was a cool, unobtrusive manner. A speech brief, almost gentle, certainly courteous. Lawson was a hot-headed Louisiana in a French extraction. A man evidently who had never been crossed in anything, and who was strong, brutal, passionate, which qualities in the face of a situation like this made him simply a fool. I'm sayin' again. You used your Ranger Bluff just to get near Ray Longstreethe. Lawson sneered. Mind ye, if you come up there again there'll be hell. You're right, but not the kind you think, Dwayne retorted, his voice sharp and cold. Ray Longstreethe wouldn't stoop to know a dirty blood-tracker like you, said Lawson hotly. He did not seem to have a deliberate intention to rouse Dwayne. The man was simply rancorous, jealous. I'll call you right, you cheap bluffer. You foreflush. You damned interfering conceited Ranger. Lawson, I'll not take offense, because you seem to be championing your beautiful cousin. Reply Dwayne in slow speech. But let me return your compliment. You're a fine southerner. Why, you're only a cheap foreflush, damned, bullheaded wrestler. Dwayne hissed the last word. Then for him there was the truth in Lawson's working passion-blackened face. Lawson jerked, moved, meant to draw. But how slow? Dwayne lunged forward, his long arms swept up, and Lawson staggered backward, knocking table and chairs, to fall hard in a half-sitting posture against the wall. Don't draw, warned Dwayne. Lawson, get away from your gun! yelled Laramie. But Lawson was crazed with fury. He tugged at his hip, his face corded with purple welts, malignant, murderous. Dwayne kicked the gun out of his hand. Lawson got up, raging, and rushed out. Laramie lifted his shaking hands. What did you wing him for? he wailed. He was drawing on you. Kick men like him. Won't do out here. That bullheaded fool were roar and butt himself with all his gang right into our hands. He's just the man I've needed to meet. Besides, shooting him would have been murder. Murder! exclaimed Laramie. Yes, for me. replied Dwayne. That may be true. Whoever you are. But if Lawson's the man you think he is, he'll begin that secret underground business. Why, Lawson won't sleep of nights now. He and Longstreet have always been after me. Laramie, what are your eyes for? demanded Dwayne. Watch out. And now hear. See your friend Morton. Tell him this game grows hot. Together you approach four or five men you know well and can absolutely trust. I may need your help. Then Dwayne went from place to place, corner to corner, bar to bar, watching, listening, recording. The excitement had preceded him and speculation was rife. He thought best to keep out of it. After dark he stole up to Longstreet's ranch. The evening was warm, the doors were open, and in the twilight the only lamps that had been lit were in Longstreet's big sitting-room at the far end of the house. When a buck-board drove up in Longstreet and Lawson alighted, Dwayne was well hidden in the bushes, so well screened that he could get but a fleeting glimpse of Longstreet as he went in. For all Dwayne could see he appeared to be a calm and quiet man, intense beneath the surface, with an air of dignity under insult. Dwayne's chance to observe Lawson was lost. They went into the house without speaking and closed the door. At the other end of the porch, close under a window, was an offset between step and wall, and there in the shadow Dwayne hid. So Dwayne waited there in the darkness with patience born of many hours of hiding. Presently a lamp was lit, and Dwayne heard the swish of skirts. Something happened surely, Ruth. He heard Miss Longstreet say anxiously. Papa just met me in the hall and didn't speak. He seemed pale, worried. His cousin Floyd looked like a thundercloud, said Ruth. For once he didn't try to kiss me. Something's happened. Well, Ray, this had been a bad day. Oh, dear! Ruth, what can we do? These are wild men. Floyd makes life miserable for me, and he teases you unmerc— I don't call it teasing. Floyd wants to spoon! Clared Ruth emphatically. He'd run after any woman. A fine compliment to me, cousin Ruth, laughed Ray. I don't care, replied Ruth stubbornly. It's so. He's mushy. And when he's been drinking and tries to kiss me, I hate him. There were steps on the hall floor. Hello, girls! sounded out Lawson's voice minus its usual gaiety. Floyd, what's the matter? asked Ray presently. I never saw Papa as he is tonight. Nor you so—so worried. Tell me, what has happened? Well, Ray, we had a jar to-day, replied Lawson with a blunt expressive laugh. Jar echoed both the girls curiously. We had to submit to a damnable outrage, added Lawson, passionately, as if the sound of his voice augmented his feeling. Listen, girls, I'll tell you all about it. He coughed, cleared his throat in a way that betrayed he had been drinking. Dwayne sunk deeper into the shadow of his covert, and stiffening his muscles for a protected spell of rigidity, prepared to listen with all acuteness and intensity. Just one word from this Lawson, inadvertently uttered in a moment of passion, might be the word Dwayne needed for his clue. It happened in the town hall. Began Lawson rapidly. Your father and Judge Owens and I were there in consultation with three ranchers from out of town. Then that damn ranger stalked in Dragon Snacker, the fellow who hid here in the house. He had arrested Snacker for alleged assault on a restaurant keeper named Laramie. Snacker, being obviously innocent, he was discharged. Then this ranger began shouting his insults. Law was a farce in Fairdale. The court was a farce. There was no law. Your father's office as mayor should be impeached. He made arrests only for petty offenses. He was afraid of the rustlers, highwaymen, and murderers. He was afraid, or he just let them alone. He used his office to cheat ranchers and cattlemen in lawsuits. All this the ranger yelled for every one to hear. A damnable outrage. Your father, Ray, insulted in his own court by a rowdy ranger. Oh! cried Ray Longstreet in mingled distress and anger. The ranger's service wants to rule western Texas, went on Lawson. These rangers are all a low set. Many of them worse than the outlaws they hunt. Some of them were outlaws and gunfighters before they became ragers. This is one of the worst of the lot. He's keen, intelligent, smooth, and that makes him more to be feared. For he is to be feared. He wanted to kill. He would kill. If your father had made the least move, he would have shot him. He's a cold-nerved devil. The boring gunman. My God! Any instant I expected to see your father fall dead at my feet. Oh! Floyd, the unspeakable ruffian! cried Ray Longstreet passionately. You see, Ray, this fella, like all rangers, seeks notoriety. He made that play with Snacker just for a chance to rant against your father. He tried to inflame all fair-dale against him. That about the lawsuits was the worst. Damn him! He'll make us enemies. What do you care for the insinuations of such a man? said Ray Longstreet, her voice now deep and rich with feeling. After a moment's thought, no one will be influenced by them. Do not worry, Floyd. Tell Papa not to worry. Surely after all these years he can't be injured in reputation by an adventurer. Yes, he can be injured! replied Floyd quickly. The frontier is a queer place. There are many bitter men here. Men who have failed at ranching. And your father has been wonderfully successful. The ranger has dropped poison, and it'll spread.