 This is the LibreVox recording. All LibreVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibreVox.org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. THE LONE STAR RANGER by Zane Gray CHAPTER XVIII. Strangers rode into Fairdale, another hard-looking customer is new to Dwayne if not to Fairdale, up to create a charge in waiting atmosphere. The saloons did unusual business and were never closed. Respectable citizens of the town were awakened in the early dawn by rowdies carousing in the streets. Dwayne kept pretty close under cover during the day. He did not entertain the opinion that the first time he walked down street he would be a target for guns. Things seldom happened that way, and when they did happen so it was more accident than design. But at night he was not idle. He met Laramie, Morton, Zimmer, and others of like character. A secret club had been formed, and all the members were ready for action. Dwayne spent hours at night watching the house where Floyd Lawson stayed when he was not up at long-streths. At night he was visited, or at least the house was, by strange men who were swift, stealthy, mysterious. All that kindly disposed friends or neighbors would not have been. Dwayne had not been able to recognize any of these night visitors, and he did not think the time was ripe for a bold holding up of one of them. Nevertheless he was sure such an event would discover Lawson, or someone in that house, to be in touch with crooked men. Laramie was right, not twenty-four hours after his last talk with Dwayne in which he advised quick action. He was found behind the little bar of his restaurant with a bullet hole in his breast, dead. No one could be found who had hurt a shot. It had been deliberate murder, for upon the bar had been left a piece of paper, rudely scrawled with a pencil. All friends of Rangers looked for the same. This roused Dwayne. His first move, however, was to bury Laramie. None of Laramie's neighbors evinced any interest in the dead man or the unfortunate family he had left. Dwayne saw that these neighbors were held in check by fear. Mrs. Laramie was ill. The shock of her husband's death was hard on her, and she had been left almost destitute with five children. Dwayne rented a small adobe house on the outskirts of town and moved the family into it. Then he played the part of provider and nurse and friend. After several days Dwayne went boldly into town and showed that he meant business. It was his opinion that there were men in Fairdale secretly glad of a ranger's presence. What he intended to do was food for great speculation. A company of militia could not have had the effect upon the wild element of Fairdale that Dwayne's presence had. It got out that he was a gunman lightning swift on the draw. It was death to face him. He had killed thirty men, wildest rumour of all. It was actually said of him he had the gun-skill of Buck Dwayne or of Poggan. At first there had not only been great conjecture among the vicious element, but also a very decided checking of all kinds of action calculated to be conspicuous to a keen-eyed ranger. At the tables, at the bars, and lounging places, Dwayne heard the remarks, Who's that ranger after? What'll he do first off? Is he waiting for somebody? Who's going to draw on him first and go to hell? Just about how soon will he be found somewhere as full of lead? When it came out somewhere that Dwayne was openly cultivating the honest stay-at-home citizens to array themselves in time against the other element, then Fairdale showed its wolf teeth. Several times Dwayne was shot at in the dark and once slightly injured. Rumour had it that Poggan, the gunman, was coming to meet him. But the lawless element did not rise up in a mass to slay Dwayne on sight. It was not so much that the enemies of the law awaited his next move, but just a slowness peculiar to the frontier. The ranger was in their midst. He was interesting, if formidable. He would have been welcomed at card-tables, at the bars, to play and drink with the men who knew they were under suspicion. There was a rude kind of good humour even in their open hostility. Besides, one ranger or a company of rangers could not have held the undivided attention of these men from their games and drinks and quarrels except by some decided move. Excitement, greed, appetite were rife in them. Dwayne marked, however, a striking exception to the usual run of strangers he had been in the habit of seeing. Snacker had gone or was under cover. Again Dwayne caught a vague rumour of the coming of Poggan, yet he never seemed to arrive. Moreover, the goings-on among the habituaries of the resorts and the cowboys who came into drink and gamble were unusually mild in comparison with former conduct. This lull, however, did not deceive Dwayne. It could not last. The wonder was that it had lasted so long. Dwayne went often to see Mrs. Laramie and her children. One afternoon while he was there he saw Miss Longstreet and Ruth right up to the door. They carried a basket. Evidently they had heard of Mrs. Laramie's trouble. Dwayne felt strangely glad, but he went into an adjoining room rather than meet them. Mrs. Laramie, I've come to see you! said Miss Longstreet cheerfully. The little room was not very light, there being only one window and the doors, but Dwayne could see plainly enough. Mrs. Laramie lay hollow-cheeked and haggard on a bed. Once she had evidently been a woman of some comeliness. The rapages of trouble and grief were there to read in her worn face. It had not, however, any of the hard and bitter lines that had characterised her husbands. Dwayne wondered, considering that Longstreet had ruined Laramie, how Mrs. Laramie was going to regard the daughter of an enemy. Though your granger Longstreet's girl queried the woman with her bright black eyes fixed on a visitor. Yes, replied Miss Longstreet simply. This is my cousin, Ruth Herbert. We've come to nurse you. Take care of the children. Help you in any way you'll let us. There was a long silence. Well, you look a little like Longstreet. Finally said Mrs. Laramie. But you're not at all like him. You must take after your mother. Miss Longstreet, I don't know if I can, if I ought to accept anything from you. Your father, ruined by husband. Yes, I know. replied the girl sadly. That's all the more reason you should let me help you. Pray don't refuse. It will mean so much to me. If this poor, stricken woman had any resentment, it speedily melted in the warmth and sweetness of Miss Longstreet's manner. Dwayne's idea was that the impression of Ray Longstreet's beauty was always swiftly succeeded by that of her generosity and nobility. At any rate, she had started well with Mrs. Laramie, and no sooner had she begun to talk to the children than both they and the mother were one. The opening of that big basket was an event. Poor, starved little beggars. Dwayne's feelings seemed too easily roused. Hard indeed would it have gone with Jim Laramie's slayer if he could have laid eyes on him then. However, Miss Longstreet and Ruth, after the nature of tender and practical girls, did not appear to take the sad situation to heart. The havoc was wrought in that household. The needs now were cheerfulness, kindness, help, action, and these the girls furnished with a spirit that did Dwayne good. Mrs. Laramie, who dressed this baby? Presently asked Miss Longstreet. Dwayne peeped in to see a dilapidated youngster on her knee. That sight, if any other was needed, completed his full and splendid estimate of Ray Longstreet and wrought strangely upon his heart. The Ranger, replied Mrs. Laramie, The Ranger! exclaimed Miss Longstreet. Yes, he's taken care of us all since—since— Mrs. Laramie choked. Oh! So you've had no help but his! replied Miss Longstreet hastily. No women! Too bad! I'll send some one, Mrs. Laramie, and I'll come myself. It'll be good of you, when on the older woman. You see, Jim had few friends. That is, right in town. And they've been afraid to help us. Afraid they get what poor Jim. That's awful! Burst out Miss Longstreet passionately. A brave lot of friends. Mrs. Laramie, don't you worry any more. We'll take care of you. Here, Ruth, help me. Whatever is the matter with baby's dress? Manifestly Miss Longstreet had some difficulty in subduing her emotion. Why, it's on the hind side before! declared Ruth. I guess Mr. Ranger hasn't dressed many babies. He did the best he could, said Mrs. Laramie. Lord only knows what would have become of us. Then he is—is something more than a Ranger? queried Miss Longstreet with a little break in her voice. He's more than I can tell, replied Mrs. Laramie. He buried Jim. He paid our debts. He fetched us here. He bought food for us. He cooked for us and fed us. He washed and dressed the baby. He sat with me the first two nights after Jim's death, when I thought I'd die myself. He's so kind. So gentle. So patient. He has kept me up just by being near. Sometimes I'd wake from a dose and seen him there. I'd know how false were all these tales Jim heard about him and believed it first. Why, he plays with the children just like any good man might. When he has the baby up I just can't believe he's a bloody gunman, as they say. He's good. But he isn't happy. He has such sad eyes. He looks far off sometimes when the children climb round him. They love him. His life is sad. Nobody need tell me. He sees the good in things. Once he said somebody had to be a Ranger, well I say, thank God, for a Ranger like him. Dwayne did not want to hear more, so he walked into the room. It was thoughtful of you, Dwayne said. Women kind are needed here. I could do so little. Mrs. Laramie, you look better already. I'm glad. And his baby all clean and white. Baby, what a time I had trying to puzzle out the way your clothes went on. Well, Mrs. Laramie, didn't I tell you, friends would come? So will the brighter side. Yes, I have more faith than I had, replied Mrs. Laramie. Ranger Longstress's daughter has come to me. There for a while after Jim's death I thought I'd sink. We have nothing. How could I ever take care of my little ones? But I'm gaining courage to—Mrs. Laramie, do not distress yourself any more, said Mrs. Longstress. I shall see you are well cared for. I promise you. Mrs. Longstress, that's fine, exclaimed Dwayne. It's what I'd—I'd have expected of you. It must have been sweet praise to her for the whiteness of her face burned out in a beautiful blush. And it's good of you, too, Miss Herbert, to come. Had I, Dwayne? Let me thank you both. I'm glad I have you girls' allies in part of my lonely task here. More than glad for the sake of this good woman and the little ones. But both of you be careful about coming here alone. There's risk. And now I'll be going. Goodbye, Mrs. Laramie. I'll drop in again to-night. Goodbye. Mr. Ranger—wait! called Miss Longstress as he went out. She was white and wonderful. She stepped out of the door close to him. I have wronged you, she said impulsively. Miss Longstress, how can you say that? He returned. I believed what my father and Floyd Lawson said about you. Now I see. I wronged you. You make me very glad. But, Miss Longstress, please don't speak of wronging me. I have been a—a gunman. I am a ranger, and much said of me is true. My duty is hard on others. Sometimes on those who are innocent, alas. But God knows that duty is hard, too, on me. I did wrong you. If you entered my home again I would think it an honour. I—please, don't, Miss Longstress. Interrupted Dwayne. But, sir, my conscience flays me. She went on. There was no other sound like her voice. Will you take my hand? Will you forgive me? She gave it royally, while the other was there pressing at her breast. Dwayne took the proffered hand. He did not know what else to do. Then it seemed to dawn upon him that there was more behind this white, sweet, noble intensity of her than just making amends for a fancied or real wrong. Dwayne thought the man did not live on earth who could have resisted her then. I honour you for your goodness to this unfortunate woman, she said, and now her speech came swiftly. When she was all alone and helpless you were her friend. It was the deed of a man. But Mrs. Laramie isn't the only unfortunate woman in the world. I, too, am unfortunate. Ah, how I may soon need a friend. Will you be my friend? I'm so alone. I'm terribly worried. I fear. I fear. Oh, surely I'll need a friend soon. Soon. Oh, I'm afraid of what you'll find out sooner or later. I want to help you. Let us save life, if not honour. Must I stand alone? All alone? Will you—will you be—? Her voice failed. It seemed to Dwayne that she must have discovered what he had begun to suspect, that her father and Lawson were not the honest ranchers they pretended to be. Perhaps she knew more. Her appeal to Dwayne shook him deeply. He wanted to help her more than he had ever wanted anything, and with the meaning of the tumultuous sweetness she stirred in him there came the realization of a dangerous situation. I must be true to my duty, he said hoarsely. If you knew me, you'd know I could never ask you to be false to it. Well, then, I'll do anything for you. Oh, thank you! I'm ashamed that I believed my cousin Floyd. He lied. He lied. I'm all in the dark, strangely distressed. My father wants me to go back home. Floyd is trying to keep me here. They've quarreled. Oh, I know something dreadful will happen. I know I'll need you—if—if—will you help me? Yes, replied Dwayne, and his look brought the blood to her face. End of chapter. This is the 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 XIX After supper Dwayne stole out for his usual evening spying. The night was dark, without starlight, and a stiff wind rustled the leaves. Dwayne bent his steps toward the Longstreet's ranch house. He had so much to think about that he never knew where the time went. This night when he reached the edge of the shrubbery heard Lawson's well-known footsteps and saw Longstreet's door open, flashing a broad bar of light in the darkness. Lawson crossed the threshold, the door closed, and all was dark again outside. Not a ray of light escaped from the window. Little doubt there was that this talk with Longstreet would be interesting to Dwayne. He tiptoed to the door and listened, but could only hear a murmur of voices. Besides that position was too risky. He went around the corner of the house. This side of the Big Adobe house was of much older construction than the back and larger part. There was a narrow passage between the houses, leading from the outside through to the patio. This passage now afforded Dwayne an opportunity, and he decided to avail himself of it in spite of the very great danger. Crawling on very stealthily he got under the shrubbery to the entrance of the passage. In the blackness a faint streak of light showed the location of a crack in the wall. He had to slip in sidewise. It was a tight squeeze, but he entered without the slightest noise. As he progressed the passage grew a very little wider in that direction, and that fact gave rise to the thought that in case of a necessary and hurried exit he would do best by working toward the patio. It seemed a good deal of time was consumed in reaching a vantage point. When he did get there the crack he had marked was a foot over his head. There was nothing to do but find toe holes in the crumbling walls and by bracing knees on one side, back against the other, hold himself up. Once with his eye there he did not care what risk he ran. Longstreth appeared disturbed. He sat stroking his mustache. His brow was clouded. Lawson's face seemed darker, more sullen, yet lighted by some indomitable resolve. We'll settle both deals tonight, Lawson was saying. That's what I came for. But suppose I don't choose to talk here? protested Longstreth impatiently. I never before made my house a place to—we've waited long enough. This place is as good as any. You've lost your nerve since that ranger hit the town. First now, will you give Ray to me? Floyd, you talk like a spoiled boy. Give Ray to you. Why, she's a woman, and I'm finding out that she's got a mind of her own. I told you I was willing for her to marry you. I tried to persuade her. But Ray hasn't any use for you now. She liked you at first, but now she doesn't. So what can I do? You can make her marry me," replied Lawson. Make that girl do what she doesn't want to. It couldn't be done, even if I tried. And I don't believe I'll try. I haven't the highest opinion of you as a prospective son-in-law, Floyd. But if Ray loved you, I would consent. We'd all go away together before this damned miserable business is out. Then she'd never know. And maybe you might be more like you used to be before the West ruined you. But as matters stand, you fight your own game with her. And I'll tell you now, you'll lose. Why'd you want to let her come out here for? demanded Lawson hotly. It was a dead mistake. I've lost my head over her. I'll have her or die. Don't you think if she was my wife I'd soon pull myself together? Since she's come we've none of us been right. And the gang has put up a holler. No long-strength we got to settle things to-night. Well, we can't settle what Ray's concerned in right now," replied Long Strength, rising. Come on, we'll ask her. See where you stand. They went out, leaving the door open. Dwayne dropped down to rest himself and to wait. He would have liked to hear Miss Longstress answer. But he could guess what it would be. Lawson appeared to be all Dwayne had thought him, and he believed he was going to find out presently that he was worse. The men seemed to be absent a good while, though that feeling might have been occasioned by Dwayne's thrilling interest in anxiety. Finally he heard heavy steps. Lawson came in alone. He was leaden-faced, humiliated. Then something abject in him gave place to rage. He strode the room. He cursed. Then Longstress returned. Now appreciably calmer. Dwayne could not but decide that he felt relief at the evident rejection of Lawson's proposal. Don't fuss about it, Floyd. He said. You see I can't help it. We're pretty wild out here, but I can't rope my daughter and give her to you as I would an unruly steer. Longstress, I can make her marry me," declared Lawson thickly. How? You know the hold I got on you, the deal that made you balsa this rustler gang? It isn't likely I'd forget," replied Longstress grimly. I can go to Ray. Tell her that. Make her believe I'd tell it broadcast. Tell this ranger unless she'd marry me. Lawson spoke breathlessly, with haggard face and shadowed eyes. He had no shame. He was simply in the grip of passion. Longstress gazed with dark, controlled fury at this relative. In that look Dwayne saw a strong, unscrupulous man fallen into evil ways, but still a man. It portrayed Lawson to be the wild and passionate weakling. Dwayne seemed to see also how during all the years of association this strong man had upheld the weak one. But that time had gone for ever, both in intent on Longstress's part and impossibility. Lawson, like the great majority of evil and unrestrained men on the border, had reached a point where influence was futile. Reason had degenerated. He saw only himself. But Floyd, raised the one person on earth who must never know I'm a rustler, a thief, a red-handed ruler of the worst gang on the border, replied Longstress impressively. Floyd bowed his head at that, as if the significance had just occurred to him. But he was not long at a loss. She's going to find it out sooner or later. I tell you she knows now there's something wrong out here. She's got eyes. Mark what I say. Ray has changed, I know. But she hasn't any idea yet that her dad is a boss-rustler. Ray is concerned about what she calls my duty as mayor. Also I think she's not satisfied with my explanations in regard to certain property. Lawson halted in his restless walk and leaned against the stone mantelpiece. He had his hands in his pockets. He squared himself as if this was his last stand. He looked desperate. But on the moment showed an absence of his usual nervous excitement. Longstress that may well be true, he said. No doubt all you say is true. But it doesn't help me. I want the girl. If I don't get her, I reckon we'll all go to hell. He might have meant anything. Probably meant the worst. He certainly had something more in mind. Longstress gave a slight start, barely perceptible, like the switch of an awakening tiger. He sat there, head down, stroking his mustache. Almost Dwayne saw his thought. He had long experience in reading men under stress of such emotion. He had no means to vindicate his judgment, but his conviction was that Longstress right then and there decided that the thing to do was to kill Lawson. For Dwayne's part he wondered that Longstress had not come to such a conclusion before. Not improbably the advent of his daughter had put Longstress in conflict with himself. Suddenly he threw off a somber cast of countenance and he began to talk. He talked swiftly, persuasively. Yet Dwayne imagined he was talking to smooth Lawson's passion for the moment. Lawson no more caught the fateful significance of a line crossed, a limit reached, a decree decided than if he had not been present. He was obsessed with himself. How, Dwayne wondered, had a man of his mind ever lived so long and gone so far among the exacting conditions of the Southwest? The answer was, perhaps, that Longstress had guided him, upheld him, guided him. The coming of Ray Longstress had been the entering wedge of dissension. Your two impatient, concluded Longstress, you'll ruin any chance of happiness if you rush, Ray. She might be one. If you told her who I am, she'd hate you for ever. She might marry you to save me, but she'd hate you. That isn't the way. Wait! Play for time. Be different with her. Cut out your drinking. She despises that. Let's plan to sell out here. Stock, ranch, property, and leave the country. Then you'd have a show with her. I told you we've got to stick, growled Lawson. The gang won't stand for our going. It can't be done unless you want to sacrifice everything. You mean double-cross the men? Go without there knowing? Leave them here to face whatever comes? I mean just that. I'm bad enough, but not that bad. Returned Longstress, if I can't get the gang to let me off, I'll stay and face the music. All the same, Lawson, did it ever strike you that most of the deals the last few years have been yours? Yes, if I hadn't rung them in there, there wouldn't have been any. You have cold feet, and especially since this ranger has been here. Well, call it cold feet, if you like, but I call it sense. We reached our limit long ago. We began by rustling a few cattle, at a time when rustling was laughed at. But as our greed grew, so did our boldness. Then came the gang, the regular trips, the one thing and another till, before we knew it, before I knew it. We had shady deals, hold-ups, and murders on our record. Then we had to go on, too late to turn back. I reckon we've all said that. None of the gang wants us to quick. They all think and think we can't be touched. We may be blamed, but nothing can be proved. We're too strong. That's where your dead wrong rejoined Longstreeth emphatically. I imagined that once, not long ago, I was bullheaded. Who would ever connect Granger Longstreeth with a rustler gang? I've changed my mind. I've begun to think. I've reasoned out things. We're crooked, and we can't last. It's the nature of life, even here, for conditions to grow better. The wise deal for us would be to divide equally and leave the country, all of us. But you and I have all the stock, all the gain, protested Lawson. I'll split mine. I won't. That settles that, had Lawson instantly. Longstreeth spread wide his hands as if it was useless to try to convince this man. Talking had not increased his calmness, and he now showed more than impatience. A dull glint gleamed deep in his eyes. Your stock and property will last a long time. Do you lots of good when this ranger, by, hoarsely croaked Lawson. The ranger's name was a match applied to powder. Haven't I told you he'd be dead soon? Any time. Same as Laramie is. Yes, you mentioned the supposition. Replied Longstreeth sarcastically. I inquired, too, just how that very desired event was to be brought about. The gang will lay him out. Bah! Retorted Longstreeth in turn. He laughed contemptuously. Floyd, don't be a fool. You've been on the border for ten years. You've packed a gun, and you've used it. You've been with rustlers when they killed their men. You've been present at many fights. But you never, in all that time, saw a man like this ranger. You haven't got sense enough to see him right if you had a chance. Neither have any of you. The only way to get rid of him is for the gang to draw on him all it wants. Then he's going to drop some of them. Longstreeth, you say that like a man who wouldn't care much if he did drop some of them. Declared Lawson, and now he was sarcastic. To tell you the truth I wouldn't. Return the other bluntly. I'm pretty sick of this mess. Lawson cursed in amazement. His emotions were all out of proportion to his intelligence. He was not at all quick-witted. Dwayne had never seen a vainer or more arrogant man. Longstreeth, I don't like your talk, he said. If you don't like the way I talk, you know what you can do. Replied Longstreeth quickly. He stood up then, cool and quiet, with flash of eyes and set of lips that told Dwayne he was dangerous. Well after all, that's neither here nor there, went on Lawson, unconsciously cowed by the other. The thing is, do I get the girl? Not by any means except her consent. You'll not make her marry me? No, no. Replied Longstreeth, his voice still cold, low-pitched. All right, then I'll make her. Early Longstreeth understood the man before him so well that he wasted no more words. Dwayne knew what Lawson never dreamed of, and that was that Longstreeth had a gun somewhere within reach and meant to use it. Then heavy footsteps sounded outside, trapping upon the porch. Dwayne might have been mistaken, but he believed those footsteps saved Lawson's life. There they are! said Lawson, and he opened the door. Five masked men entered. They all wore coats hiding any weapons. A big man with burly shoulders shook hands with Longstreeth and the others stood back. The atmosphere of that room had changed. Lawson might have been a non-entity for all he counted. Longstreeth was another man, a stranger to Dwayne. If he had entertained a hope of freeing himself from this band, of getting away to a safer country, he abandoned it at the very sight of these men. There was power here, and he was bound. The big man spoke in low horse whispers, and at this all the others gathered around him close to the table. There were evidently some signs of membership not plain to Dwayne. Then all the heads were bent over the table. Low voices spoke, queried, answered, argued. By straining his ears Dwayne caught a word here and there. They were planning, and they were brief. Dwayne gathered that they were to have a rendezvous at or near Ord. Then the big man, who evidently was the leader of the present convention, got up to depart. He went as swiftly as he had come, and was followed by his comrades. Longstreeth prepared for a quiet smoke. Lawson seemed uncommunicative and unsociable. He smoked fiercely and drank continually. All at once he straightened up, as if listening. What's that? he called suddenly. Dwayne's strained ears were pervaded by a slight rustling sound. Must be a rat! replied Longstreeth. The rustle became a rattle. Sounds like a rattlesnake to me! said Lawson. Longstreeth got up from the table and peered round the room. Just at that instant Dwayne felt an almost inappreciable movement of the Adobe wall which supported him. He could scarcely credit his senses, but the rattle inside Longstreeth's room was mingling with dull little thuds of falling dirt. The Adobe wall, merely dried mud, was crumbling. Dwayne distinctly felt a tremor pass through it. Then the blood gushed back to his heart. What in the hell! exclaimed Longstreeth. I smell dust! said Lawson sharply. That was the signal for Dwayne to drop down from his perch, yet despite his care he made a noise. Did you hear a step? queried Longstreeth. No one answered. But a heavy piece of the Adobe wall fell with a thud. Dwayne heard it crack, felt it shake. There's somebody between the walls, thundered Longstreeth. Then a section of the wall fell inward with a crash. Dwayne began to squeeze his body through the narrow passage toward the patio. Hear him! yelled Lawson. Decide! No, he's going that way! yelled Longstreeth. The trap of heavy boots led Dwayne the strength of desperation. He was not shirking a fight, just to be cornered like a trapped coyote was another matter. He almost tore his clothes off in that passage. The dust nearly stifled him. When he burst into the patio it was not a single instant too soon. But one deep gasp of breath revived him and he was up, gun in hand, running for the outlet into the court. Thumping footsteps turned him back. While there was a chance to get away he did not want to fight. He thought he heard someone running into the patio from the other end. He stole along, and coming to a door without any idea of where it might lead he softly pushed it open the little way and slipped in. End of chapter. This is the 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 Simsonville, South Carolina. The Lone Star Ranger by Zane Gray Chapter 20 A low cry greeted Dwayne. The room was light. He saw Ray Longstreth sitting on her bed in her dressing-gown. With a warning gesture to her to be silent he turned to close the door. It was a heavy door, without bolt or bar, and when Dwayne had shut it he felt safe only for the moment. Then he gazed around the room. There was one window with blind closely drawn. He listened and seemed to hear footsteps retreating, dying away. Then Dwayne turned to Miss Longstreth. She had slipped off the bed, half to her knees, and was holding out trembling hands. She was as white as the pillow on her bed. She was terribly frightened. Again with warning hand commending silence. Dwayne stepped softly forward, meaning to reassure her. Oh! she whispered wildly, and Dwayne thought she was going to faint. When he got close and looked into her eyes he understood the strange dark expression in them. She was terrified because she believed he meant to kill her, or do worse, probably worse. Dwayne realized he must have looked pretty hard and fierce bursting into her room with that big gun in hand. The way she searched Dwayne's face with doubtful, fearful eyes hurt him. Listen! I didn't know this was your room. I came here to get away, to save my life. I was pursued. I was spying on. Oh! on your father and his men. They heard me, but did not see me. They don't know who was listening. They're after me now. Her eyes changed from blank gulfs to dilating, shadowing, quickening windows of thought. Then she stood up and faced Dwayne with the fire and intelligence of a woman in her eyes. Tell me now. You were spying on my father? Briefly Dwayne told her what had happened before he entered her room, not omitting a terse word as to the character of the men he had watched. My God! So it's that. I knew something was terribly wrong here, with him, with place, the people. And right off I hated Floyd Lawson. Oh, it'll kill me if—if—it's so much worse than I dreamed. What shall I do? The sound of soft steps somewhere near distracted Dwayne's attention, reminded him of her peril, and now what counted more with him made clear the probability of being discovered in her room. I'll have to get out of here! whispered Dwayne. Wait! she replied. Didn't you say there was hunting for you? They sure are. He returned grimly. Oh! then you mustn't go! They might shoot you before you got away. Stay! If we hear them you can hide. I'll turn out the light. I'll meet them at the door. You can trust me. Wait till all quiet's down. If we have to wait till morning, then you can slip out. I oughtn't to stay. I don't want to— I won't. Dwayne replied, perplexed and stubborn. But you must. It's the only safe way. They won't come here. Suppose they should. It's an even chance long-strettle search every room and corner in this old house. If they found me here I couldn't start a fight. You might be hurt. Then, the fact of my being here—Dwayne did not finish what he meant, but instead made a step toward the door. White of face and dark of eye she took hold of him to detain him. She was as strong and supple as a panther. But she need not have been either resolute or strong, for the clasp of her hand was enough to make Dwayne weak. Up yet ray came long-streth's clear voice, too strained, too eager to be natural. Now I'm in bed reading. Good night! Instantly replied Miss Longstreth, so calmly and naturally that Dwayne marvelled at the difference between man and woman. Then she motioned for Dwayne to hide in the closet. Dwayne slipped in, but the door would not close altogether. Are you alone? went on Longstreth's penetrating voice. Yes! she replied. Ruth went to bed. The door swung inward with a swift scrape and jar. Longstreth half-entered, haggard, flaming-eyed. Behind him Dwayne saw Lawson and indistinctly another man. With barred Lawson from entering, which action showed control, as well as distrust, he wanted to see into the room. When he had glanced around he went out and closed the door. Then what seemed a long interval ensued. The house grew silent once more. Dwayne could not seem as long-streth, but he heard her quick breathing. How long did she mean to let him stay hidden there? Hard and perilous as his life had been, this was a new kind of adventure. He had devined the strange softness of his feeling as something due to the magnetism of this beautiful woman. It hardly seemed possible that he, who had been outside the pail for so many years, could have fallen in love. Yet that must be the secret of his agitation. Presently he pushed open the closet door and stepped forth. This long-streth had her head lowered upon her arms and appeared to be in distress. At his touch she raised a quivering face. "'I think I can go now, safely,' he whispered. "'Go then, if you must. But you may stay till you're safe,' she replied. "'I—I couldn't thank you enough. It's been hard on me, this finding out. I knew his daughter. I feel strange. I don't understand myself well. But I want you to know, if I were not an outlaw, a ranger, I'd lay my life at your feet.' "'Oh! You've seen so—so little of me,' she faltered. "'All the same it's true, and that makes me feel more the trouble my coming caused you. You will not fight my father? Not if I can help it. I'm trying to get out of his way.' "'But you spied upon him?' "'I am a ranger, Miss Long-streth.' "'And—oh! I am a rustler's daughter!' she cried. That's so much more terrible than I suspected. It was tricky cattle-deals I imagined he was engaged in. But only to-night I had strong suspicions aroused. "'How? Tell me.' I overheard Floyd say that men were coming to-night to arrange a meeting for my father at a rendezvous near Ord. Father did not want to go. Floyd taunted him with a name. "'What name?' queried Dwayne. "'It was Chesseldeen.' "'Chesseldeen! My God! Miss Long-streth, why did you tell me that?' "'What difference does that make?' "'Your father and Chesseldeen are one and the same,' whispered Dwayne hoarsely. "'I gathered so much myself,' she replied miserably. But Long-streth his father's real name. Dwayne felt so stunned he could not speak at once. It was the girl's part in this tragedy that weakened him. The instant she betrayed the secret, Dwayne realized perfectly that he did love her. The emotion was like a great flood. "'Miss Long-streth, all this seems so unbelievable,' he whispered. "'Chesseldeen is the rustler-chief I've come out here to get. He's only a name. Your father is the real man. I've sworn to get him. I'm bound by more than law or oaths. I can't break what binds me. And I must disgrace you. Wreck your life. Why, Miss Long-streth, I believe—I love you. It's all come in a rush. I died for you if I could. How fatal, terrible this is. How things work out!' She slipped to her knees with her hands on his. "'You won't kill him,' she implored. "'If you care for me, you won't kill him?' "'No, that I promise you.' With a low moan she dropped her head upon the bed. Dwayne opened the door and stealthily stole out to the corridor to the court. When Dwayne got out into the dark, where his hot face cooled in the wind, his relief equalled his other feelings. The night was dark, windy, stormy, yet there was no rain. Dwayne hoped as soon as he got clear of the ranch to lose something of the pain he felt. But long after he had trapped out into the open there was a lump in his throat and an ache in his breast. All his thought centered around Ray Long-streth. What a woman she had turned out to be! He seemed to have a vague, hopeless hope that there might be. There must be some way he could save her." CHAPTER XXI. Before going to sleep that night, Dwayne had decided to go to Ord and try to find the rendezvous where Long-streth was to meet his men. These men Dwayne wanted even more than their leader. If Long-streth, or Chesildine, was the brains of that gang, Poggan was the executor. It was Poggan who needed to be found and stopped. Poggan and his right-hand men. Dwayne experienced a strange, tigerish thrill. It was thought of Poggan more than thought of success for McNally's plan. Dwayne felt dubious over this emotion. Next day he set out for Bradford. He was glad to get away from Fairdale for a while. But the hours and the miles and no wise changed the new pain in his heart. The only way he could forget Miss Long-streth was to let his mind dwell upon Poggan, and even this was not always effective. He avoided Sanderson, and at the end of the day and a half he arrived at Bradford. The night at the day before he reached Bradford, No. 6, the mail and express train going east, was held up by train robbers. The Wells Fargo messenger killed over his safe. The mail clerk wounded. The bags carried away. The engine of No. 6 came into town minus even a tender. An engineer and fireman told conflicting stories. A posse of railroad men and citizens, led by a sheriff Dwayne suspected was crooked, was made up before the engine steamed back to pick up the rest of the train. Dwayne had the sudden inspiration that he had been cuddling his mind to find, and, acting upon it, he mounted his horse again and left Bradford unobserved. As he rode out into the night over a dark trail in the direction of Ord, he uttered a short, grim, sardonic laugh at the hope that he might be taken for a train robber. He rode at an easy trot most of the night, and when the black peak of Ord Mountain loomed up against the stars he halted, tied his horse and slept until dawn. He had brought a small pack, and now he took his time cooking breakfast. When the sun was well up he saddled bullet, and, leaving the trail where his tracks showed plain in the ground, he put his horse to the rocks and brush. He selected an exceedingly rough roundabout and difficult course to Ord. He hid his tracks with the skill of a long-hunted fugitive, and arrived there with his horse winded and covered with lather. It added considerable to his arrival that the man Dwayne remembered as Fletcher and several others saw him come in the back way through the lots and jump a fence into the road. Dwayne led bullet up to the porch where Fletcher stood wiping his beard. He was hatless, vestless, and evidently had just enjoyed a morning drink. "'Howdy-dodge,' said Fletcher leconically. Dwayne replied, and the other man returned the greeting with interest. "'Jim, my horse is done up. I want to hide him from any chance tourists, as might happen to ride up curious-like. Ho-ho-ho!' Dwayne gathered encouragement from that chorus of course laughter. "'Well, if them tourists ain't too darn snooky, the horse'll be safe in the Dobie Shack back of bills here. Feed thar, too, but you'll have to rustle water.' Dwayne led bullet to the place indicated, had care of his welfare, and left him there. Upon returning to the tavern porch Dwayne saw the group of men had been added to by others, some of whom he had seen before. Without comment Dwayne walked along the edge of the road, and wherever one of the tracks of his horse showed he carefully obliterated it. This procedure was attentively watched by Fletcher and his companions. "'Well-dodge,' remarked Fletcher, as Dwayne returned. That's safer than praying for rain!' Dwayne's reply was a remark as loquacious as Fletcher's, to the effect that a long, slow, monotonous ride was conducive to thirst. They all joined him, unmistakably friendly. But Nell was not there, and most assuredly not Poggan. Fletcher was no common outlaw, but whatever his ability it probably lay an execution of orders. Apparently at that time these men had nothing to do but drink and lounge around the tavern. Evidently they were poorly supplied with money, though Dwayne observed they could borrow a pace so occasionally from the bartender. Dwayne set out to make himself agreeable, and succeeded. There was card-playing for small stakes, idle jests of coarse nature, much bantering among the younger fellows, and occasionally a mild quarrel. While morning men came and went, until all told, Dwayne calculated he had seen at least fifty. Toward the middle of the afternoon a young fellow burst into the saloon and yelled one word, Posse! From the scramble to get outdoors Dwayne judged that word and the ensuing action was rare in order. What the hell! muttered Fletcher as he gazed down the road at a dark compact bunch of horses and riders. First time I ever seen that in order! We're getting popular like them camps out of Valentine. Wish Phil was here, or a Pocky. Now all of you jets keep quiet. I'll do the talking. The Posse entered the town, trotted up on dusty horses, and hauled it in a bunch before the tavern. The party consisted of about twenty men, all heavily armed, and evidently in charge of a clean-cut, lean-limbed cowboy. Dwayne experienced considerable satisfaction at the absence of the sheriff who he had understood was to lead the Posse. Perhaps he was out in another direction with a different force. Hello, Jim Fletcher! called the cowboy. Howdy! replied Fletcher. At his short, dry response in the way he strode leisurely out before the Posse, Dwayne found himself modifying his contempt for Fletcher. The outlaw was different now. If Fletcher we've tracked a man to all but three miles of this place. Tracks his plane as the nose on your face. Found his camp. Then he hit into the brush and we lost his trail. Didn't have no tracker with us. Think he went into the mountains. But we took a chance and rid over the rest of the way. See an orde was so close. Anybody come in here late last night or early this morning? Nope. replied Fletcher. His response was what Dwayne had expected from his manner, and evidently the cowboy took it as a matter of course. He turned to the others of the Posse, entering into a low consultation. Evidently there was difference of opinion if not real dissension in that Posse. Didn't I tell you this was a wild goose chase coming way out here? Protested an old hawk-faced rancher. Them haws tracks we followed ain't like any of them we seen at the water-tank where the train was held up. I'm not so sure of that. replied the leader. Well, Guthrie, I followed tracks all my life. But you couldn't keep to the trail this feller made in the brush. Give me time, and I could. That takes time. And here you go hell-bent for election. But it's a wrong lead out this way. If you're right this road-agent after he killed his pals would have ridden back right through town. And with them mail-bags, supposing they was greasers. Some greasers have sense, and when it comes to Theven they sure cute. But we ain't got any reason to believe this robber who murdered the greasers is a greaser himself. I tell you it was a slick job done by no ordinary sneak. Did you hear the facts? One greaser hopped the engine and covered the engineer and fireman. Another greaser kept flashing his gun outside the train. The big man who shoved back the car door and did the killing. He was the real gent, and don't you forget it. Some of the posse sided with the cowboy leader and some with the old cattleman. Finally the young leader disgustedly gathered up his bridle. Oh, hell! That sheriff shoved you off this trail. Maybe he had reasons. Savive that? If I had a bunch of cowboys with me, I tell you what, I'd take a chance and clean up this hole. All the while Jim Fletcher stood quietly with his hands in his pockets. Guthrie, I'm sure treasuring up your friendly talk, he said. The menace was in the tone, not the content of his speech. You can and be damned to you, Fletcher, called Guthrie as the horses started. Fletcher, standing out alone before the others of his clan, watched the posse out of sight. Look for you all that Poggy wasn't here, he said as they disappeared. Then with the thoughtful men he strode up on the porch and led Dwayne away from the others into the bar room. When he looked into Dwayne's face it was somehow an entirely changed scrutiny. Dodge, where'd you hide the stuff? I reckon I'd get in on this deal, seeing I staved off Guthrie. Dwayne played his part. As he was a tiger after prey he seized it. First he coolly eyed the outlaw and then disclaimed any knowledge whatever of the train robbery other than Fletcher had heard himself. Then it Fletcher's persistence and admiration, an increasing show of friendliness he laughed occasionally and allowed himself to swell with pride, though still denying. Next he feigned a lack of consistent will-power and seemed to be wavering under Fletcher's persuasion and grew silent. Then surly. Fletcher, evidently sure of ultimate victory, desisted for the time being. However, in his solicitous regard and close companionship for the rest of that day he betrayed the bent of his mind. Later when Dwayne started up announcing his attention to get his horse and make for camp out in the brush, Fletcher seemed grievously offended. Why don't you stay with me? I've got a comfortable dubby over here. Didn't I stick by you when Guthrie and his bunch come up? Suppose I hadn't showed down a cold hand to him. You'd be swinging somewheres now. I tell you, Dodge, it ain't square. I'll square it. I pay my debts, replied Dwayne. But I can't put up here all night. If I belong to the gang it'd be different. What gang? asked Fletcher bluntly. Why, Chesseldeans? Fletcher's beard knotted as his jaw dropped. Dwayne laughed. I run into him the other day. Knowed him on site. Sure he's the kingpin rustler. When he seen me and asked me what reason I had for being on earth or some such like, why I up and told him. Fletcher appeared staggered. Who in all fired hail are you talking about? Didn't I tell you once, Chesseldean? He calls himself Longstreethe over there. All of Fletcher's face, not covered by hair, turned a dirty white. Chesseldean? Longstreethe. He whispered hoarsely. God Almighty! You braced the— Then a remarkable transformation came over the outlaw. He gulped. He straightened his face. He controlled his agitation. But he could not send the healthy brown back into his face. Dwayne, watching this rude man, marveled at the change in him, the sudden checking movement, the proof of a wonderful fear and loyalty. It all meant, Chesseldean, a master of men. Who are you? queried Fletcher in a queer-strained voice. You gave me a handle, didn't you? Dodge. That's as good as any. Sure, it hits me hard. Jim, I've been pretty lonely for years and I'm getting in need of pals. Think it over, will you? See you mañana. The outlaw watched Dwayne go off after his horse, watched him as he returned to the tavern, watched him ride out into the darkness, all without a word. Dwayne left the town, threaded a quiet passage through cactus and mesquite to a spot he had marked before, and made ready for the night. His mind was so full that he found sleep aloof. Luck at last was playing his game. He sensed the first slow heave of a mighty crisis. The end, always haunting, had to be sternly blotted from thought. It was the approach that needed all his mind. He passed the night there, and late in the morning, after watching trail and road from a ridge, he returned to Ord. If Jim Fletcher tried to disguise his surprise, the effort was a failure. Certainly he had not expected to see Dwayne again. Dwayne allowed himself a little freedom with Fletcher, an attitude hitherto lacking. That afternoon a horseman rode in from Bradford, an outlaw evidently well known and liked by his fellows, and Dwayne heard him say, before he could possibly have been told the train robber was in Ord, that the loss of money in the holdup was slight. Like a flash, Dwayne saw the luck of this report. He pretended not to have heard. In the early twilight at an opportune moment he called Fletcher to him, and, linking his arm within the outlaws, he drew him off in a stroll to a log bridge spanning a little gully. Here, after gazing around, he took out a roll of bills, spread it out, split it equally, and without a word handed one half to Fletcher. With clumsy fingers Fletcher ran through the roll. Five hundred, he exclaimed. Dodge, that's damn handsome of you, considering the job wasn't—considering nothing. Interrupted Dwayne, I'm making no reference to a job here or there. You did me a good turn. I split my pile. If that doesn't make us pards, good turns and money ain't no use in this country. Fletcher was won. The two men spent much time together. Dwayne made up a short fictitious history about himself that satisfied the outlaw. Only it drew forth the laughing jest upon Dwayne's modesty. For Fletcher did not hide his belief that this new partner was a man of achievements. Nell and Poggan, and then Chessel Dean himself, would be persuaded of this fact, so Fletcher boasted. He had influence. He would use it. He thought he pulled a stroke with Nell. But nobody on earth, not even the boss, had any influence on Poggan. Poggan was concentrated ice, part of the time. All the rest he was bursting hell. But Poggan loved a horse. He never loved anything else. It could be one with that black horse bullet. Chessel Dean was already won by Dwayne's monumental nerve. Otherwise he would have killed Dwayne. Little by little the next few days Dwayne learned the points he longed to know and how indelibly they etched themselves in his memory. Chessel Dean's hiding place was on the far slope of Mount Horde, in a deep high-walled valley. He always went there just before a contemplated job, where he met and planned with his lieutenants. Then while they executed he bashed in the sunlight before one or another of the public places he owned. He was there in the oared den now, getting ready to plan the biggest job yet. It was a bank robbery, but where Fletcher had not as yet been advised. Then when Dwayne had pumped the now amenable outlaw of all details pertaining to the present he gathered data and facts and places covering a period of ten years. Fletcher had been with Chessel Dean. And herewith was unfolded a history so dark in its bloody regime, so incredible in its brazen daring, so appalling in its proof of the outlaw's sweep and grasp of the country from Pecos to Rio Grande, that Dwayne was stunned. Compared to this Chessel Dean of the Big Ben, to this rancher, stock-buyer, cattle-speculator, property-holder, all of the outlaws Dwayne had ever known sank into insignificance. The power of the man stunned Dwayne. The strange fidelity given him stunned Dwayne. The intricate inside working of his great system was equally stunning. But when Dwayne recovered from that the old terrible passion to kill consumed him, and it raged fiercely, and it could not be checked. If that red-handed Poggan, if that cold-eyed, dead-faced Nell had only been at Ord, but they were not, and Dwayne with help of time got what he hoped was the upper hand of himself. End of chapter. This is the 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 XXII Again inaction and suspense dragged at Dwayne's spirit. Like a leashed hound with a keen scent in his face, Dwayne wanted to leap forth when he was bound. He almost fretted. Something called to him over the bold, wild brow of Mount Ord. But while Fletcher stayed in Ord waiting for Nell and Poggan, or for Orders, Dwayne knew his game was again a waiting one. But one day there were signs of the long quiet of Ord being broken. A messenger strange to Dwayne wrote in on a secret mission that had to do with Fletcher. When he went away Fletcher became addicted to thoughtful moods and lonely walks. He seldom drank, and this in itself was a striking contrast to former behavior. The messenger came again. Whatever communication he brought it had a remarkable effect upon the outlaw. Dwayne was present in the tavern when the fellow arrived, saw the few words whispered but did not hear them. Fletcher turned white with anger, or fear, perhaps both, and a cursed like a madman. The messenger, a lean, dark-faced, hard-riding fellow, reminding Dwayne of the cowboy Guthrie, left the tavern without even a drink and rode away off to the west. This west mystified and fascinated Dwayne as much as the south beyond Mount Ord. Where were Nell and Poggan? Apparently they were not at present with the leader on the mountain. After the messenger left Fletcher grew silent and surly. He had presented a variety of moods to Dwayne's observation, and this latest one was provocative of thought. Fletcher was dangerous. It became clear now that the other outlaws of the camp feared him, kept out of his way. Dwayne let him alone, yet closely watched him. Perhaps an hour after the messenger had left, not longer, Fletcher manifestly arrived at some decision and he called for his horse. Then he went to his shack and returned. To Dwayne the outlaw looked in shape both to ride and to fight. He gave orders for the men in camp to keep close until he returned. Then he mounted. "'Come here, Dodge,' he called. Dwayne went up and laid a hand on the pommel of the saddle. Fletcher walked his horse, with Dwayne beside him, till they reached the log bridge, when they halted. "'Dodge, I'm in bad with Nell,' he said. And it appears I'm the cause of friction between Nell and Poggy. Nell never had any use for me, but Poggy's been square, if not friendly. The boss has a big deal on, and here it's been held up because of this scrap. He's waiting over there on the mountain to give orders to Nell or Poggy, and neither one's showing up. I've got to stand in the breach, and I ain't enjoying the prospects.' "'What's the trouble about, Jim?' asked Dwayne. "'Reckon it's a little about you, Dodge,' said Fletcher, dryly. Nell hadn't any use for you that day. He ain't got no use for a man unless he can rule him. Some of the boys here have blabbed before I edged in with my say, and there's hell to pay. Nell claims to know something about you that'll make both the boss and Poggy sick when he springs it. But he's keeping quiet. Hard man to figure that, Nell. "'Reckon you better go back to Bradford for a day or so, then camp out near here till I come back.' "'Why?' "'Well, because there ain't any use for you to get him back, too. The gang will ride over here any day. If they're friendly, I'll light a fire on the hill there. Say, three nights from to-night. If you don't see it that night, you hit the trail. I'll do what I can. Jim Fletcher sticks to his pals. So long, Dodge.' Then he rode away. He left Dwayne in a quandary. This news was black. Things had been working out so well. Here was a setback. At the moment Dwayne did not know which way to turn, but certainly he had no idea of going back to Bradford. Friction between the two great lieutenants of Chesildine. Open hostility between one of them and another of the chief's right hand men. Among outlaws that sort of thing was deadly serious. Only such matters were settled with guns. Dwayne gathered encouragement even from disaster. Perhaps the disintegration of Chesildine's great band had already begun. But what did Nell know? Dwayne did not circle around the idea with doubts and hopes. If Nell knew anything it was that this stranger in Ord, this new partner of Fletcher's, was no less than buck Dwayne. Well, it was about time, thought Dwayne, that he made use of his name if it were to help him at all. That name had been McNally's hope. He had anchored all his scheme to Dwayne's fame. Dwayne was tempted to ride off after Fletcher and stay with him. This, however, would hardly be fair to an outlaw who had been fair to him. Dwayne concluded to await developments and when the gang rode into Ord, probably from the various hiding-places, he would be there ready to be denounced by Nell. Dwayne could not see any other culmination of this series of events than a meeting between Nell and himself. If that terminated fatally for Nell, there was all probability of Dwayne's being in no worse situation than he was now. If Poggan took up the quarrel, here Dwayne accused himself again. Tried in vain to revolt from a judgment that he was only reasoning out excuses to meet these outlaws. Meanwhile, instead of waiting, why not hunt up Chesildine in his mountain retreat? The thought no sooner struck Dwayne than he was hurrying for his horse. He left Ord ostensibly toward Bradford, but once out of sight he turned off the road, circled through the brush, and several miles south of town he struck a narrow grass-grown trail that Fletcher had told him led to Chesildine's camp. The horse-tracks along this trail were not less than a week old, and very likely much more. It wound between low, brush-covered foothills, through arroyos and gullies lined with mesquite, cottonwood, and scrub oak. In an hour Dwayne struck the slope of Mount Ord, and as he climbed he got a view of the rolling, black-spotted country, partly desert, partly fertile, with long, bright lines of dry stream-beds winding away to grow dim in the distance. He got among broken rocks and cliffs, and here the open, downward-rolling land disappeared, and he was hard put to it to find the trail. He lost it repeatedly and made slow progress. Finally he climbed into a region of all rock benches, rough here, smooth there, with only an occasional scratch of iron horseshoe to guide him. Many times he had to go ahead and then work to right or left until he found his way again. It was slow work. It took all day, and night found him half way up the mountain. He hauled it at a little side canyon with grass and water, and here he made camp. The night was clear and cool at that height, with a dark blue sky and a streak of stars blinking across. With this day of action behind him he felt better satisfied than he had been for some time. Here, on this venture, he was answering to a call that had so often directed his movements, perhaps his life, and it was one that logic or intelligence could take little stock of. And on this night, lonely like the ones he used to spend in the Newsea's gorge, and memorable of them because of a likeness to that old hiding-place, he felt the pressing return of old haunting things, the past so long ago, wild flights, dead faces, and the places of these were taken by one quiveringly alive, white, tragic, with its dark and tent-speaking eyes, ray-long strats. That last memory he yielded to until he slept. In the morning, satisfied that he had left still fewer tracks than he had followed up this trail, he led his horse up to the head of the canyon, there a narrow crack and low cliffs, and with branches of cedar fenced him in. Then he went back and took up the trail on foot. Without the horse he made better time and climbed through deep clefts, wide canyons, over ridges, up-shelving slopes, along precipices, a long hard climb, till he reached what he concluded was a divide. Going down was easier, though the farther he followed this dim and winding trail the wider the broken battlements of rock. Above him he saw the black fringe of pinyon and pine, and above that the bold peak, bare, yellow, like a desert butte. Once through a wide gateway between great escarpments he saw the lower country beyond the range, and beyond this, vast and clear as it lay in his sight, was the great river that made the big bend. He went down and down, wondering how a horse could follow that broken trail, believing there must be another better one somewhere into Chesildine's hiding place. He rounded a jutting corner where view had been shut off and presently came out upon the rim of a high wall. Beneath, like a green gulf seen through blue haze, lay an amphitheater walled in on the two sides he could see. It lay perhaps a thousand feet below him, and plain as all the other features of that wild environment, there shone out a big red stone or adobe cabin, white water shining away between great borders, and horses and cattle dotting the levels. It was a peaceful, beautiful scene. Dwayne could not help grinding his teeth at the thought of rustlers living there in quiet and ease. Dwayne worked half way down to the level, and, well hidden in her niche, he settled himself to watch both trail and valley. He made note of the position of the sun and saw that if anything developed, or he decided to descend any farther, there was small likelihood of his getting back to his camp before dark. To try that after nightfall he imagined would be vain effort. Then he bent his keen eyes downward. The cabin appeared to be a crude structure. Though large in size, it had, of course, been built by outlaws. There was no garden, no cultivated field, no corral. Accepting for the rude pile of stones and logs plastered together with mud, the valley was as wild probably as on the day of discovery. Dwayne seemed to have been watching for a long time before he saw any sign of man, and this one apparently went to the stream for water and returned to the cabin. The sun went down behind the wall, and shadows were born in the darker places of the valley. Dwayne began to want to get closer to that cabin. What had he taken this arduous climb for? He held back, however, trying to evolve further plans. While he was pondering the shadows quickly gathered and darkened. If he was to go back to camp he must set out at once. Still, he lingered. And suddenly his wide roving eye caught sight of two horsemen riding up the valley. They must have entered at a point below, round the huge abutment of rock, beyond Dwayne's range of sight. Though horses were tired and stopped at the stream for a long drink, Dwayne left his perch, took to the steep trail, and descended as fast as he could without making noise. It did not take him long to reach the valley floor. It was almost level, with deep grass, and here and there clumps of bushes. Twilight was already thick down there. Dwayne marked the location of the trail, and then began to slip like a shadow through the grass and from bush to bush. He saw a bright light before he made out the dark outline of the cabin. Then he heard voices, a merry whistle, a coarse song, and the clink of iron-cooking utensils. He smelled fragrant wood-smoke. He saw moving dark figures across the light. Evidently there was a wide door, or else the fire was out in the open. Dwayne swerved to the left, out of direct line with the light, and thus was able to see better. He advanced noiselessly but swiftly toward the back of the house. There were trees close to the wall. He would make no noise, and he could scarcely be seen, if only there was no watch-dog. But all his outlaw days he had taken risk with only his useless life at stake. Now, with that changed, he advanced stealthy and bold as an Indian. He reached the cover of the trees, knew he was hidden in their shadows, for at few paces distance he had been able to see only their tops. From there he slipped up to the house, and felt along the wall with his hands. He came to a little window where light shone through. He peeped in. He saw a room shrouded in shadows, a lamp turned low, a table, chairs. He saw an open door, with bright flare beyond, but could not see the fire. Voices came in distinctly. Without hesitation Dwayne stole farther along, all the way to the end of the cabin. Peering round he saw only the flare of light on bare ground. Retracing his cautious steps he paused at the crack again, saw that no man was in the room, and then he went on round that end of the cabin. Fortune favoured him. There were bushes, an old shed, a woodpile, all the cover he needed at that corner. He did not even need to crawl. Before he peered between the rough corner of wall, and the brush growing close to it, Dwayne paused a moment. This excitement was different from that he had always felt when pursued. It had no bitterness, no pain, no dread. There was as much danger here, perhaps more, yet it was not the same. Then he looked. He saw a bright fire, a red-faced man bending over it, whistling, while he handled a steaming pot. Over him was a roofed shed built against the wall, with two open sides and two supporting posts. Dwayne's second glance, not so blinded by the sudden bright light, made out other men, three in the shadow, two in the flare, but with backs to him. It's a smoother trail by long odds, but ain't so short as this one right over the mountain, one outlaw was saying. What's eatin' you, Panhandle? ejaculated another. Blossom and me rode from far away springs, where Poggan is with some of the gang. Excuse me, Phil, sure I didn't see you come in, and Bolton never said nothin'. It took you a while to get here, but I guess that's just as well. Spoke up a smooth, suave voice with a ring in it. Long-stress voice. Chesildine's voice. Here they were, Chesildine, Phil Nell, Blossom Kane, Panhandle Smith, Bolt. How well Dwayne remembered the names. All here, the big men of Chesildine's gang, except the biggest, Poggan. Dwayne had holed them, and his sensations of the moment dead in sight and sound of what was before him. He sank down, controlled himself, silenced a mounting exultation, then from a less strained position he peered forth again. The outlaws were waiting for supper. The conversation might have been that of cowboys in camp, ranchers at a roundup. Dwayne listened with eager ears, waiting for the business talk that he felt would come. All the time he watched with the eyes of a wolf upon its quarry. Blossom Kane was the lean-limbed messenger who had so angered Fletcher. Bolt was a giant in stature, dark, bearded, silent. Panhandle Smith was the red-faced cooked, merry, profane, a short, low-legged man resembling many wrestlers Dwayne had known, particularly Luke Stevens. And Nell, who sat there tall, slim, like a boy in build, like a boy in years, with its pale, smooth, expressionless face and his cold, gray eyes. And Longstreet, who leaned against the wall, handsome, with his dark face and beard like an aristocrat resembling many a rich Louisiana planter Dwayne had met. The sixth man sat so much in the shadow that he could not be plainly discerned, and, though addressed, his name was not mentioned. Panhandle Smith carried pots and pans into the cabin and cheerfully called out, "'If you jants are hungry for grub, don't look for me to feed you with a spoon!' The outlaws piled inside, made a great bustle and clatter as they sat to their meal. Like hungry men they talked little. Dwayne waited there awhile, then guardedly got up and crept round to the other side of the cabin. After he became used to the dark again, he ventured to steal along the wall to the window and peeped in. The outlaws were in the first room and could not be seen. Dwayne waited. The moments dragged endlessly. His heart pounded. The post-reath entered, turned up the light, and taking a box of cigars from the table, he carried it out. "'Here, you fellows, go outside and smoke,' he said. "'Nail, come on in now. Let's get it over.' He returned, sat down, and lighted a cigar for himself. He put his booted feet on the table. Dwayne saw that the room was comfortably, even luxuriously furnished. There must have been a good trail, he thought. Else how could all that stuff have been packed in there? Most assuredly it could not have come over the trail he had traveled. Presently he heard the men go outside and their voices became indistinct. Then Nell came in and seated himself without any of his chief's ease. He seemed preoccupied and, as always, cold. "'What's wrong, Nell? Why didn't you get here sooner?' queried Longstreet. "'Pagan, damn him. We're on the outs again.' "'What for?' "'Aww, he needn't have got sore. He's breaking a new horse over it far away, and you know him where a horse is concerned. That kept him, I reckon, more than anything. "'What else? Get it out of your system so we can go on to the new job.' "'Well, it begins back a ways. I don't know how long ago. "'Weeks?' A stranger rode into Ord and got down easy like as if he owned the place. He seemed familiar to me. But I wasn't sure. We looked him over, and I left, trying to place him in my mind. What did he look like?' "'Rangey, powerful man, white hair over his temples. Still hard face, eyes like knives. The way he packed his guns, the way he walked and stood and swung his right hand showed me what he was. He can't fool me on the gun-sharp, and he had a grand horse, a big black.' "'I've met your man,' said Longstreet.' "'No,' exclaimed Nell. It was wonderful to hear surprise expressed by this man who did not in the least show it in his strange physiognomy. Nell laughed a short, grim, hollow laugh. Boss, this here big gent, drifts into Ord again and makes up to Jim Fletcher. Jim, you know, is easy-led. He likes men. And when a posse come along trailing the blind lead, hunting the wrong way for the man who held up number six, why, Jim, he up and takes this stranger to be the fly-road agent and cottons to him. Got money out of him, sure. And that's what stumps me more. What's this man's game?' I happened to know, boss, that he couldn't have held up number six. "'How do you know?' demanded Longstreet. And because I did the job myself.' A dark and stormy passion clouded the chief's face. "'Damn you, Nell. You're incorrigible. You're unreliable. Another break like that queers you with me. Did you tell Poggan?' "'Yes. That's one reason we fell out. He raved. I thought he was going to kill me.' "'Why did you tackle such a risky job without help or plan?' "'It offered. That's all. And it was easy. But it was a mistake. I got the country and the railroad hollering for nothing. I just couldn't help it. You know what idleness means to one of us. You know also that this very life breeds fatality. It's wrong. That's why. I was born a good parent, and I know what's right. We're wrong, and we can't beat the end, that's all. And for my part I don't care a damn when that comes.' "'Find wise talk from you, Nell,' said Longstreet scorfully. "'Go on with your story.' "'As I said, Jim cottons to the pretender, and they get chummy. They're together all the time. You can gamble,' Jim told all he knew, and then some. A little liquor loosens his tongue. Savile of the boys rode over from Ord, and one of them went to Poggan, and said, Jim Fletcher has a new man for the gang. Poggan, you know, he's always ready for any new man. He says if one doesn't turn out good he can be shut off easy. He rather liked the way this new part of Jim's was boosted. Jim and Poggan's always hit it up together. So, until I got on the deal Jim's part was already in the gang, without Poggan or you ever seeing him. Then I got to figuring hard. Just where had I seen that chap? As it turned out I never had seen him, which accounts for my being doubtful. I'd never forget any man I'd seen. I dug up a lot of old papers from my kit, and went over them. Letters, pictures, clippings, and all that. I guess I had a pretty good notion what I was looking for and who I wanted to make sure of. At last I found it. And I knew my man. But I didn't spring it on Poggan. Oh, no! I want to have some fun with him when the time comes. He'll be wilder than a trapped wolf. I sent Blossom over to Ord to get word from Jim, and when he verified all this talk, I sent Blossom again with a message calculated to make Jim hump. Poggan got sore, said he'd wait for Jim, and I could come over here to see you about the new job. He'd meet me in Ord. Now had spoken hurriedly and low, now and then with passion. His pale eyes glinted like fire in ice, and now his voice fell to a whisper. Who do you think Fletcher's new man is? Who demanded long-strength? Buck Dwayne. Down came long-strength's boots with a crash, then his body grew rigid. That noose is outlaw. That two-shot, ace of spades, gun-thrower who killed Bland, Allaway, and Harden. Now whispered this last name with more feeling than the apparent circumstance demanded. Yes, and Harden, the best one of the rim-rock fellas! Buck Dwayne! Long-strength was so ghastly white now that his black mustache seemed outlined against chalk. He eyed his grim lieutenant. They understood each other without more words. It was enough that Buck Dwayne was there in the big bend. Long-strength rose presently and reached for a flask from which he drank, then offered it to Nell. He waved it aside. Nell began the chief slowly as he wiped his lips. I gathered you had some grudge against this Buck Dwayne. Yes. Well, don't be a fool now and do what Poggan or almost any of your men would. Don't meet this Buck Dwayne. I have reason to believe he's a Texas Ranger now. The hell you say! exclaimed Nell. Yes. Go to Ord and give Jim Fletcher a hunch. He'll get Poggan and they'll fix even Buck Dwayne. All right. I'll do my best. But if I run into Dwayne— Don't run into him! Long-stress voice fairly rang with the force of its passion and command. He wiped his face, drank again from the flask, sat down, resumed his smoking and, drawing a paper from his vest pocket, he began to study it. Well, I'm glad that settled, he said, evidently referring to the Dwayne matter. Now for the new job. This is October the 18th. The owner before the 25th there will be a shipment of gold reached the rancher's bank of Val Verde. After you return to Ord, give Poggan these orders. Keep the gang quiet. You Poggan, Cain, Fletcher, Panhandle Smith and Bolt to be in on the secret and the job. Nobody else. You leave Ord on the 23rd right across country by the trail till you get within sight of Mercer. It's a hundred miles from Bradford to Val Verde, about the same from Ord. Time your travel to get you near Val Verde on the morning of the 26th. You won't have to more than trot your horses. At two o'clock in the afternoon, sharp, ride into town and up to the rancher's bank. Val Verde is a pretty big town. Never been any holdups there. Town feels safe. Make it a clean, fast, daylight job. That's all. Have you got the details? Val did not even ask for the dates again. Suppose Poggan or me might be detained, he asked. Longstreet bent a dark glance upon his lieutenant. Yennef it can tell what a come off, continued Nell. How do my best? The minute you see Poggan, you tell him. A job on hand steadies him. Now I say again. Look to it that nothing happens. Either you or Poggan carry the job through. But I want both of you in it. Break for the hills, and when you get up in the rocks where you can hide your tracks, head for Mount Ord. When all's quiet again, I'll join you here. That's all. Called in the boys. Like a swift shadow and as noiseless, Dwayne stole across the level toward the dark wall of rock. Every nerve was a strong wire. For little while his mind was cluttered and clogged with whirling thoughts, from which like a flashing scroll unrolled the long baffling order of action. The game was now in his hands. He must cross Mount Ord at night. The feat was improbable, but it might be done. He must ride into Bradford, forty miles from the foothills, before eight o'clock next morning. He must telegraph McNally to be in Valverde on the twenty-fifth. He must ride back to Ord to intercept Nell, face him, be denounced, kill him, and while the iron was hot strike hard to win Poggan's is half one interest as he had wholly won Fletcher's. Failing that last he must let the outlaws alone to bide their time in Ord to be free to ride on to their new job in Valverde. In the meantime he must plan to arrest Longstreethe. It was a magnificent outline, incredible, alluring, unfathomable in its nameless certainty. He felt like fate. He seemed to be the iron consequences falling upon these doomed outlaws. Under the wall the shadows were black, only the tips of trees and crags showing, yet he went straight to the trail. It was merely a greyness between borders of black. He climbed and never stopped. It did not seem steep. His feet might have had eyes. He surmounted the wall and looking down into the ebony gulf pierced by one point of light, he lifted a menacing arm and shook it. Then he strode on and did not falter till he reached the huge shelving cliffs. Here he lost the trail. There was none, but he remembered the shapes, the points, the notches of rock above. Before he reached the ruins of splintered ramparts and jumbles of broken walls, the moon topped the eastern slope of the mountain and the mystifying blackness he had dreaded changed to magic silver light. It seemed as light as day, only soft, mellow, and the air held a transparent sheen. He ran up the bare ridges and down the smooth slopes and, like a goat, jumped from rock to rock. In this light he knew his way and lost no time looking for a trail. He crossed the divide and then had all downhill before him. Swifly he descended, almost always sure of his memory of the landmarks. He did not remember having studied them in the ascent, yet here they were, even in the changed light, familiar to his sight. What he had once seen was pictured on his mind, and true as a deer striking for home he reached the canyon where he had left his horse. Bullet was quickly and easily found. Dwayne threw on the saddle in pack, cinched them tight, and resumed his descent. The worst was now to come. Bear downward steps in rock, sliding, weathered slopes, narrow black gullies, a thousand openings in a maze of broken stone. These Dwayne had to descend in fast time, leading a giant of a horse. Bullet cracked the loose fragments, sent them rolling, slid on the scaly slopes, plunged down the steps, followed like a faithful dog at Dwayne's heels. Hours passed his moments. Dwayne was equal to his great opportunity, but he could not quell that self in him which reached back over the lapse of lonely, searing years, and found the boy in him. He who had been worse than dead was now grasping at the skirts of life, which meant victory, honour, happiness. Dwayne knew he was not just right in and part of his mind. Small wonder that he was not insane, he thought. He trapped on downward, his marvellous faculty recovering rough ground and holding to the true course never before even in flight so keen and acute. Yet all the time a spirit was keeping step with him. Thought of Ray Longstreeth, as he had left her, made him weak. But now with the game cleared to its end, with the trap to spring, with success strangely haunting him, Dwayne could not dispel memory of her. He saw her white face, with its sweet sad lips, and the dark eyes so tender and tragic, and time and distance and risk and toil were nothing. The moon sloped to the west. Shadows of trees and crags now crossed to the other side of him. The stars dimmed. Then he was out of the rocks, with the dim trail pale at his feet. Mounting-bullet he made short work of the long slope in the foothills and the rolling land leading down to Ord. The little outlaw camp, with its shacks and cabins and row of houses, lay silent and dark under the paling moon. Dwayne passed by on the lower trail, headed into the road, and put bullet to a gallop. He watched the dying moon, the waning stars, and the east. He had time to spare, so he saved the horse. Nell would be leaving the rendezvous about the time Dwayne turned back toward Ord. Between noon and sunset they would meet. The night wore on. The moon sank behind low mountains in the west. The stars brightened for a while, then faded. Grey gloom enveloped the world, thickened. Lay-like smoke over the road. Then shade by shade it lightened, until through the transparent obscurity shone a dim light. Dwayne reached Bradford before dawn. He dismounted some distance from the tracks, tied his horse, and then crossed over to the station. He heard the clicking of the telegraph instrument, and it thrilled him. An operator sat inside, reading. When Dwayne tapped on the window he looked up with startled glance, then went swiftly to unlock the door. Hello! Give me paper and pencil. Quick! whispered Dwayne. With trembling hands the operator complied. Dwayne wrote out the message he had carefully composed. Send this. Repeat it to make sure. Then keep mum. I'll see you again. Goodbye. The operator stared, but did not speak a word. Dwayne left as stealthily and swiftly as he had come. He walked his horse a couple miles back on the road and then rested him till break of day. The east began to redden. Dwayne turned grimly in the direction of Ord. When Dwayne swung into the wide grassy square on the outskirts of Ord he saw a bunch of saddled horses hitched in front of the tavern. He knew what that meant. Luck still favoured him, if it would only hold. But he could ask no more. The rest was a matter of how greatly he could make his power felt. An open conflict against Od's lay in the balance. That would be fatal to him, and to avoid it he had to trust to his name and a presence he must make terrible. He knew outlaws. He knew what qualities held them. He knew what to exaggerate. There was not an outlaw in sight. The dusty horses had covered distance that morning. As Dwayne dismounted he heard loud angry voices inside the tavern. He removed coat and vest, hung them over the pommel. He packed two guns, one belted high on the left hip, the other swinging low on the right side. He neither looked nor listened but boldly pushed the door and stepped inside. The big room was full of men and every face pivoted toward him. Dwayne's pale face flashed into Dwayne's swift sight, then bolts, then blossom canes, then Panhandle Smith's, then Fletcher's, then others that were familiar, and last that of Poggan. Though Dwayne had never seen Poggan or heard him described, he knew him, for he saw a face that was a record of great and evil deeds. There was absolute silence. The outlaws were lined back of a long table upon which were papers, stacks of silver coin, a bundle of bills, and a huge gold-mounted gun. Our U-Jets looking for me! asked Dwayne. He gave his voice all the ringing force and power of which he was capable, and he stepped back free of anything with the outlaws all before him. Nell stood quivering, but his face might have been a mask. The other outlaws looked from him to Dwayne. Jim Fletcher flung up his hands. My God, Dodge, what did you bust in here for? he said, plaintively, and slowly stepped forward. His action was that of a man true to himself. He meant he had been sponsor for Dwayne and now he would stand by him. Back Fletcher, called Dwayne, and his voice made the outlaw jump. Hold on, Dodge, and you all, everybody, said Fletcher, let me talk, seeing I'm in wrong here. His persuasions did not ease the strain. Go ahead, talk, said Puggan. Fletcher turned to Dwayne. Part, I'm taking it all myself, that you meet enemies here. When I swore you'd meet friends. It's my fault. I'll stand by you if you let me. No, Jim, replied Dwayne. But what did you come here for without the signal? burst out Fletcher in distress. He saw nothing but catastrophe in this meeting. Jim, I ain't pressing my company none, but when I'm wanted bad. Fletcher stopped him with a raised hand. Then he turned to Puggan with a rude dignity. Poggy, he's my part, and he's riled. I never told him a word that it make him soar. I only said now had no more use for him than for me. Now what you say goes in this gang. I never failed you in my life. Here's my part. I vouch for him. Will you stand for me? There's going to be hell if you don't. And us with a big job on hand. While Fletcher toiled over his slow, earnest persuasion, Dwayne had his gaze riveted upon Puggan. There was something Leonine about Puggan. He was tawny. He blazed. He seemed beautiful as fire was beautiful. But looked at closer, with glance seeing the physical man, instead of that thing which shone from him. He was of perfect build, with muscles that swelled and rippled, bulging his clothes, with a magnificent head in face of the cruel, fierce tawny-eyed jaguar. Looking at this strange Poggan, instinctively dividing his abnormal and hideous power, Dwayne had for the first time in his life the inward quaking fear of a man. It was like a cold-tongued bell ringing within him and numbing his heart. The old instinctive firing of blood followed, but did not drive away that fear. He knew. He felt something here deeper than thought could go. And he hated Poggan. That individual had been considering Fletcher's appeal. Jim, I ante up, he said. And if Phil doesn't raise us out with a big hand, why, he'll get called and your Pog can set in the game. Every eye shifted to Nell. He was dead white. He laughed, and anyone hearing that laugh would have realized his intense anger equally with an assurance that made him master of the situation. Poggan, you're a gambler, you are. The ace high, straight, flush hand of the big band, he said with stinging scorn. I'll bet you my role to a greaser peso that I can deal you a hand you'd be afraid to play. Phil, you're talking wild, growled to Poggan with both advice and menace in his tone. If there's anything you hate, it's a man who pretends to be something else when he's not. That's so. Poggan nodded in slow-gathering wrath. Well, Jim's new part. This man Dodge. He's not who he seems. Oh, he's a hell of a lot different. But I know him. And when I spring his name on you, Poggan, you'll freeze to your gizzard. Do you get me? You'll freeze, and your hand'll be stiff when it ought to be lightening. All because you'll realize you've been standing there five minutes, five minutes alive before him. If not hate, then assuredly great passion toward Poggan manifested itself in Nell's scornful fiery address, in the shaking hand he thrust before Poggan's face. In the ensuing silent pause Nell's panting could be plainly heard. The other men were pale, watchful, cautiously edging either way to the wall, leaving the principles in Dwayne in the center of the room. Spring his name, then, you! said Poggan violently with a curse. Strangely Nell did not even look at the man he was about to denounce. He leaned toward Poggan, his hands, his body, his long head, all somewhat expressive of what his face disguised. But Dwayne! he yelled suddenly. The name did not make any great difference in Poggan. But Nell's passionate, swift utterance carried the suggestion that the name ought to bring Poggan to quick action. It was possible, too, that Nell's manner, the import of his denunciation, the meaning-back of all his passion, held Poggan bound more than the surprise. For the outlaw certainly was surprise. Perhaps staggered at the idea that he, Poggan, had been about to stand sponsor with Fletcher for a famous outlaw hated and feared by all outlaws. Nell waited a long moment. And then his face broke its cold immobility in an extraordinary expression of devilish glee. He had hounded the great Poggan into something that gave him vicious, monstrous joy. Buck Dwayne! Yes, he broke out hotly, the noose's gunman, that two-shot ace of spades lone wolf. You and I, we've heard a thousand times of him, talked about him often, and here he in front of you. Poggan, you were back in Fletcher's new part, Buck Dwayne, and he'd fooled you both but for me. But I know him, and I know why he drifted in here, to flash a gun on Chesildine, on you, on me. Bah! Don't tell me he wanted to join the gang. You know a gunman, you're one yourself. Don't you always want to kill another man? And don't you always want to meet a real man, not a foreflush? It's the madness of the gunman, and I know it. Well, Dwayne faced you, called you, and when I sprung his name, what ought you have done? What would the boss, anybody, have expected of Poggan? Did you throw your gun swift like you have so often? No, you froze. And why? Because here's a man with a kind of nerve you'd love to have. Because he's great, beating us here alone. Because you know he's a wonder with a gun, and you love life. Because you and I, and every damn man here, had to take his front, each to himself. If we all drew, we'd kill him. Sure. But who's going to lead? Who's going to be first? Who's going to make him draw? Not you, Poggan. You'd leave that for a lesser man, me, who lived to see you a coward. It comes once to every gunman. You've met your match in Buck Dwayne, and, by God, I'm glad. Here's once I show you up. The horse-taunting voice failed. Nell stepped back from the comrade he hated. He was wet, shaking, haggard, but magnificent. Buck Dwayne, do you remember Hardin? He asked in scarcely audible voice. Yes, replied Dwayne, and a flash of insight made clear Nell's attitude. You met him, forced him to draw, killed him? Yes. Hardin was the best part I ever had. His teeth clicked together tight, and his lips set in a thin line. The room grew still. Even breathing ceased. The time for words had passed. In that long moment of suspense, Nell's body gradually stiffened, and at last the quivering ceased. He crouched. His eyes had a soul-piercing fire. Dwayne watched them. He waited. He caught the thought, the breaking of Nell's muscle-bound rigidity. Then he drew. Through the smoke of his gun he saw two red spurts of flame. Nell's bullets thudded into the ceiling. He fell with a scream like a wild thing in agony. Dwayne did not see Nell die. He watched Poggan. And Poggan, like a stricken and astounded man, looked down upon his prostrate comrade. Fletcher ran it, Dwayne, with hands aloft. Hit that trail, you liar! You'll have to kill me! He yelled. With hands still up he shouldered and bodied Dwayne out of the room. Dwayne leaped on his horse, spurred and plunged away. End of chapter.