 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. This is the dedication to Captain John Hughes and his Texas Rangers. It may seem strange to you that out of all the stories I heard on the Rio Grande I should choose as first that of Buck Dwayne, outlaw and gunman. But indeed Ranger Coffey's story of the last of the Dwaynes has haunted me, and I have given full reign to imagination and have retold it in my own way. It deals with the old law, the old border days. Therefore it is better first. Soon, perchance, I shall have the pleasure of writing of the border of today, which enjoys Sitter's laconic speech. Sure is most as bad and wild as ever. In the north and east there is a popular idea that the frontier of the west is a thing long past, and remembered now only in stories. As I think of this I remember Ranger Sitter when he made that remark, while he grimly stroked an unhealed bullet wound. And I remember the giant Vaughn, that typical son of Stowart Texas, sitting there quietly with bandaged head, his thoughtful eye boating ill to the outlaw who had ambushed him. Only a few months have passed since then, when I had my memorable sojourn with you, and yet in that short time Russell and Moore have crossed the divide like Rangers. Gentlemen, I have the honor to dedicate this book to you, and the hope that it shall fall to my lot to tell the world the truth about a strange, unique, and misunderstood body of men, the Texas Rangers, who made the great Lone Star State habitable, who never know peaceful rest and sleep, who are passing, who surely will not be forgotten and will some day come into their own. The Outlaw So it was in him then, an inherited fighting instinct, a driving intensity to kill. He was the last of the Dwaynes, that old fighting stock of Texas. But not the memory of his dead father, nor the pleading of his soft voice mother, nor the warning of this uncle who stood before him now, had brought to Buck Dwayne so much realization of the dark, passionate strain in his blood. It was the recurrence, a hundredfold increased in power, of a strange emotion that for the last three years had arisen in him. Yes, Cal Baines in town, full of bad whiskey and hunting for ya, repeated the elder man gravely. It's the second time, mother Dwayne, as if to himself. Son, you can't avoid a meeting. Leave town till Cal sobers up. He ain't got it in for ya when he's not drinking. But what's he want me for? demanded Dwayne. To insult me again? I won't stand that twice. He's got a fever that's rampant in Texas these days, my boy. He wants gunplay. If he meets you, he'll try to kill ya. Here it stirred in Dwayne again, that bursting gush of blood, like a wind of flame shaking all his inner being, and subsiding to leave him strangely chilled. Kill me! What for? he asked. Lord knows there ain't any reason. But what's that to do with most of the shootin' these days? Didn't five cowboys over to Everalls kill one another dead, all because they got to jerkin' at a quart among themselves, and Cal has no reason to love you. His girl was sweet on ya. I quit when I found out she was his girl. I reckon she ain't quit. But never mind her or reasons. Cal's here, just drunk enough to be ugly. He's achin' to kill somebody. He's one of them four flush gunfighters. He'd like to be thought bad. There's a lot of wild cowboys who are ambitious for a reputation. They talk about how quick they are on the draw. The ape-blanding kingfisher, and harden, and all the big outlaws. They make threats about joinin' the gangs along the Rio Grande. They laugh at the sheriffs and brag about how they'd fix the Rangers. Cal's sure not much for you to bother with if you only keep out of his way. You mean for me to run? asked Dwayne in scorn. I reckon I wouldn't put it that way. Just avoid him. Buck, I'm not afraid Cal would get you if you met down there in town. You've your father's eye and his slick hand with a gun. What I'm most afraid of is that you'll kill Bane. Bane was silent, letting his uncle's earnest words sink in, trying to realize their significance. If Texas ever recovers from that full war and kills off these outlaws, why, a young man will have a lookout, went on the uncle. You're twenty-three now, and a powerful side of a fine fella, barring your temper. You have a chance in life. But if you go gunfightin', if you kill a man, you're ruined. Then you'll kill another. It'll be the same old story. And the Rangers would make you an outlaw. The Rangers mean law and order for Texas. This even break business doesn't work with them. If you resist arrest, they'll kill you. If you submit to arrest, then you go to jail, and maybe you hang. I'd never hang, muttered Dwayne Darkley. I reckon you wouldn't, replied the old man. You'd be like your father. He was ever ready to draw. Too ready. In times like these, with the Texas Rangers enforcin' the law, your dad would've been driven to the river. And, son, I'm afraid you're a chip off the old block. Can't you hold in, keep your temper, run away from trouble? Because it'll only result in you gettin' the worst of it, in the end. Your father was killed in a street fight. And it was told of him that he shot twice after a bullet had passed through his heart. Think of the terrible nature of a man to be able to do that. If you have any such blood in you, never give it a chance. What you say is all very well, Uncle. Returned Dwayne. But the only way out for me is to run, and I won't do it. Cal Bain and his outfit have already made me look like a coward. He says I'm afraid to come out and face him. A man simply can't stand that in this country. Besides, Cal would shoot me in the back some day, if I didn't face him. Well, then, whatcha gonna do? inquired the older man. I haven't decided. Yet. No, but you're comin' to it mighty fast. That damn spell is workin' in ya. You're different today. I remember how you used to be moody and lose your temper and talk wild. Never was much afraid of you then. But now you're gettin' cool and quiet. And you think deep. And I don't like the light in your eye. It reminds me of your father. I wonder what Dad would say to me today if he were alive and here, said Dwayne. What do you think? What could ya expect of a man who never wore a glove on his right hand for twenty years? Well, he'd hardly have said much. Dad never talked. But he would have done a lot, and I guess I'll go downtown and let Cal Bain find me. Then followed a long silence, during which Dwayne sat with downcast eyes, and the uncle appeared lost in sad thought of the future. Presently he turned to Dwayne with an expression that denoted resignation, and yet a spirit which showed where in they were of the same blood. You've got a fast horse, the fastest I know of in this country. After you meet Bain, hurry back home. I'll have a saddle-bag packed for ya and the horse ready. Without he turned on his heel and went into the house, leaving Dwayne to revolve in his mind his singular speech. Buck wondered presently if he shared his uncle's opinion of the result of a meeting between himself and Bain. His thoughts were vague, but on the instant of final decision, when he had settled with himself that he would meet Bain, such a storm of passion assailed him that he felt as if he were being shaken with ague, yet it was all internal inside his breast, for his hand was like a rock, and, for all he could see, not a muscle about him quivered. He had no fear of Bain or of any other man, but a vague fear of himself, of this strange force in him, made him ponder and shake his head. It was as if he had not all to say in this matter. There appeared to have been in him a reluctance to let himself go, and some voice, some spirit from a distance, something he was not accountable for, had compelled him. That hour of Dwayne's life was like years of actual living, and in it he became a thoughtful man. He went into the house and buckled on his belt and gun. The gun was a colt forty-five, six-shot, and heavy, with an ivory handle. He had packed it on and off for five years. Before that it had been used by his father. There were a number of notches filed in the bulge of the ivory handle. This gun was the one his father had fired twice after being shot through the heart, and his hand had stiffened so tightly upon it in the death grip that his fingers had to be pried open. It had never been drawn upon any man since it had come into Dwayne's possession. But the cold, bright polish of the weapon showed how it had been used. Dwayne could draw it with inconceivable rapidity, and at twenty feet he could split a card pointing edgewise toward him. Dwayne wished to avoid meeting his mother. Fortunately, as he thought, she was away from home. He went out and down the path toward the gate. The air was full of the fragrance of blossoms and the melody of birds. Outside in the road a neighbour woman stood talking to a countryman in a wagon. They spoke to him, and he heard, but did not reply. Then he began to stride down the road toward the town. Wellston was a small town, but important in that unsettled part of the great state because it was the trading centre of several hundred miles of territory. On the main street there were perhaps fifty buildings, some brick, some frame, mostly adobe, and one-third of the lot, and by far the most prosperous, were saloons. From the road Dwayne turned into this street. It was a wide thoroughfare, lined by hitching-rails and saddled horses and vehicles of various kinds. Dwayne's eye ranged down the street, taking in all at a glance, particularly persons moving leisurely up and down. Not a cowboy was in sight. Dwayne slackened his stride, and by the time he reached Sol White's place, which was the first saloon, he was walking slowly. Several people spoke to him and turned to look back after they had passed. He paused at the door of White's saloon, took a sharp survey of the interior, then stepped inside. The saloon was large and cool, full of man and noise and smoke. The noise ceased upon his entrance, and the silence and suing presently broke to the clink of Mexican silver dollars at a monte-table. Sol White, who was behind the bar, straightened up when he saw Dwayne. Then, without speaking, he bent over to rinse the glass. All eyes except those of the Mexican gamblers were turned upon Dwayne, and these glances were keen, speculative, questioning. These men knew Bane was looking for trouble. They probably had heard his boasts. But what did Dwayne intend to do? Several of the cowboys and ranchers present exchanged glances. Dwayne had been weighed by unerring Texas instinct, by men who all packed guns. The boy was the son of his father, whereupon they greeted him and returned to their drinks and cards. Sol White stood with his big red hands out upon the bar. He was a tall, raw-boned Texan with a long mustache waxed to sharp points. Howdy, Buck! was his greeting to Dwayne. He spoke carelessly and averted his dark gaze for an instant. Howdy, Sol! replied Dwayne slowly. Say, Sol, I hear there's a chint in town looking for me bad. Reckon there is, Buck! replied White. He came in here about an hour ago. Sure he was some riled and a roaring frigore. Told me confidential a certain party had given you a white silk scarf, and he was hellbent on wearing it home spotted red. Anybody with him? queried Dwayne. Heard in Sam Alkcalt and a little cow-puncher I never seen before. They all was coaxing trim to leave town. But he's looked on the flowing glass, Buck, and he's here for keeps. Why doesn't Sheriff Oaks lock him up if he's that bad? Oaks went away with the Rangers. There's been another raid at Fletcher's Ranch, the Kingfisher Gang, likely, and so the town's shore wide open. Oaks stalked outdoors and faced down the street. He walked the whole length of the long block, beating many people—farmers, ranchers, clerks, merchants, Mexicans, cowboys, and women. It was a singular fact that when he turned to retrace his steps the street was almost empty. He had not returned a hundred yards on his way when the street was wholly deserted. A few heads protruded from doors and around corners. That main street of Wellston saw some such situation every few days. If it was an instinct for Texans to fight it was also instinctive for them to sense with remarkable quickness the signs of a coming gun play. Rumor could not fly so swiftly. In less than ten minutes everybody who had been on the street or in the shops knew that Buck Dwayne had come forth to meet his enemy. Dwayne walked on. When he came to within fifty paces of a saloon he swerved out into the middle of the street, stood there for a moment, then went ahead and back to the sidewalk. He passed on in this way the length of the block. Soul White was standing in the door of his saloon. "'Buck, I'm a-tippin' you off,' he said, quick and low-voiced. Dwayne's over at Everalls. If he's a-hunting you bad as he brags, he'll show there.' Dwayne crossed the street and started down. Not with standing White's statement. Dwayne was wary and slow at every door. Nothing happened, and he traversed almost the whole length of the block without seeing a person. Everalls' place was on the corner. Dwayne knew himself to be cold, steady. He was conscious of a strange fury that made him want to leap ahead. He seemed along for this encounter more than anything he had ever wanted. But vivid as were his sensations, he felt as if in a dream. Before he reached Everalls he heard loud voices, one of which was raised high. Then the short door swung outward as if impelled by a vigorous hand. A bow-legged cowboy, wearing woolly chaps, burst out upon the sidewalk. At sight of Dwayne he seemed to bound into the air, and he uttered a savage roar. Dwayne stopped in his tracks at the outer edge of the sidewalk, perhaps a dozen rods from Everalls' door. If Bane was drunk he did not show it in his movement. He swaggered forward, rapidly closing up the gap. Red, sweaty, dishevelled and endless, his face distorted and expressive of the most malignant intent. He was a wild and sinister figure. He had already killed a man, and this showed in his demeanor. His hands were extended before him, the right hand a little lower than the left. At every step he bellowed his rancor and speech mostly curses. Gradually he slowed his walk, and then halted. A good twenty-five paces separated the men. "'Won't nothing make you draw you?' he shouted fiercely. "'I'm waitin' on you, Cal,' replied Dwayne. Bane's right hand stiffened, moved. Dwayne threw his gun as a boy throws a ball under hand. I draw his father had taught him. He pulled twice. His shots almost as one. Bane's big colt boomed while it was pointed downward and he was falling. His bullets scattered dust and gravel at Dwayne's feet. He fell loosely, without contortion. In a flash all was reality for Dwayne. He went forward and held his gun ready for the slightest movement on the part of Bane. But Bane lay on his back, and all that moved were his breast and his eyes. Now strangely the red had left his face, and also the distortion. The devil that had showed in Bane was gone. He was sober and conscious. He tried to speak. But failed. His eyes expressed something pitifully human. They changed. Rolled. Set blankly. Dwayne drew a deep breath and sheathed his gun. He felt calm and cool. Glad the fray was over. One violent expression burst from him. The fool! When he looked up there were men around him. Plum said her, said one. Another, a cowboy who evidently had just left the gaming table, leaned down and pulled open Bane's shirt. He had the ace of spades in his hand. He laid it on Bane's breast and the black figure on the card covered the two bullet holes just over Bane's heart. Dwayne wheeled and hurried away. He heard another man say, Wreck and cow got what he deserved. Bucked Dwayne's first gunplay. Like father, like son. CHAPTER II A thought kept repeating itself to Dwayne and it was that he might have spared himself concern through his imagining how awful it would be to kill a man. He had no such feeling now. He had rid the community of a drunken, bragging, quarrelsome cowboy. When he came to the gate of his home and saw his uncle there with a meddlesome horse, saddled, with canteen, rope and bags all in place, a subtle shock pervaded his spirit. It had slipped his mind, the consequence of his act. But sight of the horse and the look of his uncle recalled the fact that he must now become a fugitive. An unreasonable anger took hold of him. THE DAMN FOOL! he exclaimed hotly. Meeting Bane wasn't much, Uncle Jim. He dusted my boots, that's all. And for that I've got to go on the dodge. SON, you killed him then? asked the uncle huskily. Yes, I stood over him, watched him die. I did as I would have been done by. I knew it. Long ago I saw it coming. But now we can't stop to cry over spilt blood. You've got to leave town in this part of the country. Elder exclaimed Dwayne. She's away from home. You can't wait. I'll break it to her. What she's always feared. Suddenly Dwayne sat down and covered his face with his hands. My God! Uncle, what have I done? His broad shoulders shook. Listen, son, and remember what I say, replied the elder man, honestly. Don't ever forget. You're not to blame. I'm glad to see you take it this way, because maybe you'll never grow hard in callus. You're not to blame. This is Texas. You're your father's son. These are wild times. The law as the Rangers are laying it down now can't change life all in a minute. Even your mother, who is a good, true woman, has had her share in making you what you are this moment. For she was one of the pioneers, the fighting pioneers of this state. Those years of wild times before you was born developed in her instinct to fight, to save her life, her children, and that instinct is cropped out in you. It will be many years before it dies out of the boys born in Texas. I'm a murderer, said Dwayne, shuddering. No, son, you're not, and you never will be. But you've got to be an outlaw till time makes it safe for you to come home. An outlaw? I said it. If we had money and influence we'd risk a trial. But we've neither. And I reckon the scaffold or jail is no place for buckly Dwayne. Strike for the wild country. And wherever you go, in whatever you do, be a man. Live honestly, if that's possible. If it isn't, be as honest as you can. If you have to herd without laws try not to become bad. There are outlaws who are not all bad. Many who have been driven to the river by such a deal as this you had. When you get among these men, avoid brawls. Don't drink. Don't gamble. I needn't tell you what to do if it comes to gunplay, as likely it will. You can't come home. When this thing is lived down, if that time ever comes, I'll get word into the unsettled country. It'll reach you some day. That's all. Remember, be a man. Goodbye. Dwayne, with blurred sight and contracting throat, gripped his uncle's hand and bade him a wordless farewell. Then he leaped aside the blackened road out of town. As swiftly as was consistent with the care for his steed, Dwayne put a distance of fifteen or eighteen miles behind him. With that he slowed up and the matter of riding did not require all his faculties. He passed several ranches and was seen by men. This did not suit him, and he took an old trail across country. It was a flat region with a poor growth of mesquite and prickly pear cactus. Occasionally he caught a glimpse of low hills in the distance. He had hunted often in that section and knew where to find grass and water. When he reached this higher ground he did not, however, halt at the first favorable camping spot, but went on and on. Once he came out upon the brow of a hill and saw a considerable stretch of country beneath him. It had the gray sameness characterizing all that he had traversed. He seemed to want to see wide spaces, to get a glimpse of the great wilderness lying somewhere beyond to the southwest. It was sunset when he decided to camp at a likely spot he came across. He led the horse to water and then began searching through the shallow valley for a suitable place to camp. He passed by old campsites that he well remembered. These, however, did not strike his fancy this time, and the significance of the change in him did not occur at the moment. At last he found a secluded spot under cover of thick mesquites and oaks at a goodly distance from the old trail. He took saddle and pack off the horse. He looked among his effects for a hobble and finding that his uncle had failed to put one in. He suddenly remembered that he seldom used a hobble and never on this horse. He cut a few feet off the end of his lasso and used that. The horse, unused to such hampering of his free movements, had to be driven out upon the grass. Dwayne made a small fire, prepared and ate his supper. This done, ending the work of that day, he sat down and filled his pipe. Twilight had waned into dusk. A few waned stars had just begun to show and brighten. Above the low continuous hum of insects sounded the evening carol of robins. Presently the birds ceased their singing, and then the quiet was more noticeable. When night set in and the place seemed all the more isolated and lonely for that, Dwayne had a sense of relief. It dawned upon him all at once that he was nervous, watchful, sleepless. The fact caused him surprise, and he began to think back, to take note of his late actions and their motives. The change one day had wrought amazed him. He, who had always been free, easy, happy, especially when out alone in the open, had become in a few short hours bound, serious, preoccupied. The silence that had once been sweet now meant nothing to him except a medium whereby he might the better hear the sounds of pursuit. The loneliness, the night, the wild, that had always been beautiful to him, now only conveyed a sense of safety for the present. He watched, he listened, he thought. He felt tired, yet he had no inclination to rest. He intended to be off by dawn, heading toward the southwest. Had he a destination? It was vague as his knowledge of that great waste of Mesquite in rock bordering the Rio Grande. Somewhere out there was a refuge, for he was a fugitive from justice, an outlaw. This being an outlaw then meant eternal vigilance, no home, no rest, no sleep, no content, no life worth the living. He must be a lone wolf, or he must herd among men obnoxious to him. If he worked for an honest living he must still hide his identity and take risks of detection. If he did not work on some distant outlying ranch, how was he to live? The idea of stealing was repugnant to him. The future seemed gray and somber enough, and he was twenty-three years old. Why had this hard life been imposed upon him? The bitter question seemed to start a strange iciness that stole along his veins. What was wrong with him? He stirred the few sticks of Mesquite into a last flickering blaze. He was cold, and for some reason he wanted some light. The black circle of darkness weighed down upon him, closed in around him. Suddenly he sat bolt upright, and then frozen that position. He had heard a step. It was behind him. No, on the side. Someone was there. He forced his hand down to his gun, and the touch of cold steel was another icy shock. Then he waited. But all was silent. Silent as only a wilderness aroyo can be, with its low murmuring of wind in the Mesquite. Had he heard a step, he began to breathe again. But what was the matter with the light of his campfire? It had taken on a strange green luster, and seemed to be waving off into the outer shadows. Dwayne heard no step, saw no movement. Nevertheless there was another present at that campfire vigil. Dwayne saw him. He lay there in the middle of the green brightness. Prostrate, motionless, dying. Cal Bain. His features were wonderfully distinct, clearer than any cameo, more sharply outlined than those of any picture. It was a hard face, softening at the threshold of eternity. The red tan of sun, the coarse signs of drunkenness, the ferocity and hate so characteristic of Bain, were no longer there. This phase represented a different Bain. Showed all that was human in him, fading. Fading as swiftly as it blanched white. The lips wanted to speak, but had not the power. The eyes held an agony of thought. They revealed what might have been possible for this man if he lived. Then he saw his mistake too late. Then they rolled, set blankly, and closed in death. That haunting visitation left Dwayne sitting there in a cold sweat, a remorse gnawing at his vitals, realizing the curse that was on him. He defined that never would he be able to keep off that phantom. He remembered how his father had been eternally pursued by the furies of accusing guilt, how he had never been able to forget in work or in sleep those men he had killed. The hour was late when Dwayne's mind let him sleep, and then dreams troubled him. In the morning he bestowed himself so early that in the gray gloom he had difficulty in finding his horse. Day had just broken when he struck the old trail again. He rode hard all morning and halted in a shady spot to rest and graze his horse. In the afternoon he took to the trail at an easy trot. The country grew wilder. Bald, rugged mountains broke the level of the monotonous horizon. About three in the afternoon he came to a little river which marked the boundary line of his hunting territory. The decision he made to travel upstream for a while was owing to two facts. The river was high with quicksand bars on each side, and he felt reluctant to cross into that region where his presence alone meant that he was a marked man. The bottom lands through which the river wound to the southwest were more inviting than the barons he had traversed. The rest of that day he rode leisurely upstream. At sunset he penetrated the breaks of willow and cottonwood to spend the night. It seemed to him that in this lonely cover he would feel easy and content. But he did not. Every feeling, every imagining he had experienced the previous night returned somewhat more vividly and accentuated by newer ones of the same intensity and color. In this kind of traveling camping he spent three more days during which he crossed a number of trails and one road where cattle, soling cattle, probably, had recently passed. Thus time exhausted his supply of food except salt, pepper, coffee, and sugar of which he had a quantity. There were deer in the breaks, but as he could not get close enough to kill them with a revolver he had to satisfy himself with a rabbit. He knew he might as well content himself with a hard fare that assuredly would be his lot. Somewhere up this river there was a village called Huntsville. It was distant about a hundred miles from Wellston and had a reputation throughout southwestern Texas. He had never been there. The fact was this reputation was such that honest travelers gave the town a wide berth. Dwayne had considerable money for him in his possession and he concluded to visit Huntsville if he could find it and buy a stock of provisions. The following day, toward evening, he happened upon a road which he believed might lead to the village. There were a good many fresh horse tracks in the sand and these made him thoughtful. Nevertheless he followed the road, proceeding cautiously. He had not gone very far when the sound of rapid hoof beats caught his ears. They came from his rear. In the darkening twilight he could not see in a great distance back along the road. Voices, however, warned him that these riders, whoever they were, had approached closer than he liked. To go farther down the road was not to be thought of, so he turned a little way in among the mesquites and halted, hoping to escape being seen or heard. As he was now a fugitive, it seemed every man was his enemy and pursuer. The horsemen were fast approaching. Presently they were abreast of Dwayne's position, so near that he could hear the creek of saddles, the clink of spurs. "'Sure,' he crossed the river below,' said one man. "'I reckon you're right, Bill. He slipped us,' replied another. Rangers, or posse of ranchers, in pursuit of a fugitive. The knowledge gave Dwayne a strange thrill. Certainly they could not have been hunting him. But the feeling their proximity gave him was identical to what it would have been had he been this particular hundredth man. He held his breath. He clenched his teeth. He pressed a quieting hand upon his horse. Suddenly he became aware that these horsemen had halted. They were whispering. He could just make out a dark group closely masked. What had made them halt so suspiciously? "'You're wrong, Bill,' said a man, in a low but distinct voice. "'The idea, a here in a horse-heave, you're what's in the ranger, and you'll hell-bent on killing that wrestler. Now I say let's go home and eat.' "'Well, I'll just take a look at the sand,' replied the man called Bill. Dwayne heard the clink of spurs on steel stirrup and the thud of boots on the ground. There followed a short silence which was broken by a sharply breath exclamation. Dwayne waited for no more. They had found his trail. He spurred his horse straight into the brush. At the second crashing bound there came yells from the road and then shots. Dwayne heard the hiss of a bullet close by his ear, and as it struck a branch it made a peculiar singing sound. These shots and the proximity of that lead missile roused in Dwayne a quick, hot resentment which mounted into a passion almost ungovernable. He must escape. Yes, it seemed that he did not care whether he did or not. Something grim kept urging him to halt and return the fire of these men. After running a couple of hundred yards he raised himself from over the pommel where he had bent to avoid the stinging branches and tried to guide his horse. In the dark shadows under mesquites and cottonwoods he was hard put to it to find open passage. However he succeeded so well and made such little noise that gradually he drew away from his pursuers. The sound of their horses crashing through the thickets died away. Dwayne reigned in and listened. He had distanced them. Probably they would go to the camp till daylight, and follow his tracks. He started on again walking his horse and peered sharply at the ground so that he might take advantage of the first trail he crossed. It seemed a long while until he came upon one. He followed it until a late hour when, striking the willow breaks again and hence the neighborhood of the river, he picketed his horse and lay down to rest. But he did not sleep. His mind bitterly revolved the fate that had come upon him. He made efforts to think of other things, but in vain. Every moment he expected the chill, the sense of loneliness that yet was ominous of a strange visitation, that peculiarly imagined lights and shades of the night, these things that presaged the coming of Cal Bane. Doggedly Dwayne fought against the insidious phantom. He kept telling himself that it was just imagination, that it would wear off in time. Still in his heart he did not believe what he hoped. But he would not give up. He would not accept the ghost of his victim as a reality. Gray Dawn found him in the saddle again, headed for the river. Half an hour of riding brought him to the dense chaparral and willow thickets. These he threaded to come at length to the ford. It was a gravel bottom, and therefore an easy crossing. Once upon the opposite shore he reigned in his horse and looked darkly back. This action marked his acknowledgment of his situation. He had voluntarily sought the refuge of the outlaws. He was beyond the pale. A bitter and passionate curse passed his lips as he spurred his horse into the brakes on that alien shore. He rode perhaps twenty miles, not sparing his horse nor caring whether or not he left a plain trail. Let them hunt me! he muttered. When the heat of the day began to be oppressive and hunger and thirst made themselves manifest, Dwayne began to look about him for a place to halt for the noon hours. The trail led into a road which was hard-packed and smooth from the tracks of cattle. He doubted not that he had come across one of the roads used by border raiders. He headed into it, and had scarcely traveled a mile when, turning a curve, he came point blank upon a single horseman riding toward him. Both riders wheeled their mounts sharply and were ready to run and shoot back. Not more than a hundred paces separated them. They stood then for a moment watching each other. Mawn and Stranger called the man, dropping his hand from his hip. Howdy replied Dwayne shortly. They rode toward each other, closing half the gap, then they hauled it again. I seen you ain't no Ranger, called the rider, and sure I ain't none. He laughed loudly as if he had made a joke. How'd you know I wasn't Ranger? asked Dwayne curiously. Somehow he had instantly divine that his horseman was no officer or even a rancher trailing stolen stock. While, said the fellow, starting his horse forward at a walk, I Ranger'd never get ready to run the other way from one man. He laughed again. He was small and wiry, slouchy of attire, and armed to the teeth. And he bestrowed a fine bay horse. He had quick dancing brown eyes, at once frank and bold, and a coarse bronze face. Evidently he was a good-natured ruffian. Dwayne acknowledged the truth of the assertion and turned over in his mind how shrewdly the fellow had guessed him to be a hunted man. My name's Luke Stevens, and I hail from the river. Who are you? said the Stranger. Dwayne was silent. I reckon you're Buck Dwayne, went on Stevens. I heard you were a damn bad man with a gun. This time Dwayne laughed. Not at the doubtful compliment, but at the idea that the first outlaw he met should know him. Here was proof of how swiftly facts about gunplay traveled on the Texas border. Wow, Buck! said Stevens, in a friendly manner. I ain't presuming on your time or company. I see you're heading for the river. But will you stop long enough to stake a feller to abide a grub? I'm out of grub and pretty hungry myself, admitted Dwayne. Been pushing your horse, I see. Well, I reckon you'd better stock up before you hit that stretch of country. He made a wide sweep of his right arm, indicating the southwest, and there was that in his action which seemed significant of a vast and barren region. Stock up, queried Dwayne thoughtfully. Sure, a feller has just got to eat. I can wrestle along without whisky, but not without grub. That's what makes it so embarrassing traveling these parts, dodging your shadow. Now, I'm on my way to Mercer. It's a little two-bit town up the river of ways. I'm going to pack out some grub. Stevens' tone was inviting. Evidently he would welcome Dwayne's companionship, but he did not openly say so. Dwayne kept silence, however, and then Stevens went on, Stranger, in this here country, twos a crowd. It's safer. I never was much on this lone wolf-dodging, though I've done it of necessity. It takes a damn good man to travel alone any length of time. Why, I've been that sick I was just aching for some rager to come along and plug me. Give me a partner any day. Now, maybe you're not that kind of a feller, and I'm sure not presuming to ask, but I just declare as myself sufficient. You mean you'd like me to go with you? asked Dwayne. Stevens grinned. Well, I should smile. I'd be particularly proud to be braced with manner, your reputation. See here, my good fellow, that's all nonsense, declared Dwayne in some haste. Sure, I think modest did become unto a youngster, replied Stevens. I hate a brag, and I know useful these full-flush cowboys that are always looking for trouble in talking gunplay. Buck, I don't know much about you. But every man who's lived along the Texas border remembers a lot about your dad. It was expected of you, I reckon, in much of your rep was established before you thronged your gun. I just heard that you was lightning on the draw, and when you cut loose with a gun, why, the figure on the ace of spades would cover your cluster of bullet holes. That's the word that's gone down the border. It's the kind of reputation most sure to fly far and swift ahead of a man in this country. And the safest, too. I'll gamble on that. That's the land of the draw. I see now you're only a boy, though you're sure a strapping husky one. Now, Buck, I'm not a spring chicken, and I've been long on the dodge. Maybe a little of my society won't hurt you none. You'll need to learn the country. That was something sincere and likable about this outlaw. I dare say you're right," replied Dwayne quietly, and I'll go to Mercer with you. Next moment he was riding down the road with Stevens. Dwayne had never been much of a talker, and now he found speech difficult. But his companion did not seem to mind that. He was a Joccos-volatile fellow, probably glad now to hear the sound of his own voice. Dwayne listened, and sometimes he thought with a pang of the distinction of name and heritage of blood his father had left to him. End of Chapter This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Lone Star Ranger by Zane Gray, Chapter 3. Right that day, a couple of hours before sunset, Dwayne and Stevens, having rested their horses in the shade of some mesquites near the town of Mercer, saddled up and prepared to move. "'Buck, as we're looking for Grubb, and not trouble, I reckon you better hang up out here," Stevens was saying as he mounted. "'You see, towns and sheriffs and rangers are always looking for new fellers gone bad. They sort of forget most of the old boys, except those as are plum bad. Now nobody in Mercer will take notice of me. Reckon there's been a thousand men running to the river country to become outlaws, as yours truly. You just wait here and be ready to ride hard. Maybe my besetting sin will go operating in spite of my good intentions. In which case there'll be—' His pause was significant. He grinned, and his brown eyes danced with a kind of wild humor. "'Stevens, have you got any money?' asked Dwayne. "'Money!' exclaimed Luke, blankly. "'Say, I haven't owned a two-bit piece since—well, for some time.' "'I'll furnish money for Grub,' returned Dwayne, and for Whiskey, too, provided you hurry back here without making trouble.' "'Show your downright good-pod!' declared Stevens in admiration as he took the money. "'I'll give you my word, Buck, and I'm here to say I never broke it yet. Lay low and look for me back quick.' With that he spurred his horse and rode out of the Mesquites toward the town. At that distance, about a quarter of a mile, Mercer appeared to be a cluster of low, adobe houses set in a grove of cotton-woods. Pastures of alfalfa were dotted by horses and cattle. Dwayne saw a sheep herder driving in a meager flock. Presently Stevens rode out of sight into the town. Dwayne waited, hoping the outlaw would make good his word. Probably not a quarter of an hour had elapsed when Dwayne heard the clear reports of a Winchester rifle, the clatter of rapid hoof-beats, and yells unmistakably the kind to mean danger for a man like Stevens. Dwayne mounted and rode to the edge of the Mesquites. He saw a cloud of dust down the road in a bay horse running fast. Stevens apparently had not been wounded by any of the shots, for he had a steady seat in his saddle, and his riding, even at that moment, struck Dwayne as admirable. He carried a large pack over the pommel, and he kept looking back. The shots had ceased, but the yells increased. Dwayne saw several men running and waving their arms. Then he spurred his horse and got into a swift stride, so Stevens would not pass him. Presently the outlaw caught up with him. Stevens was grinning, and there was now no fun in the dancing eyes. It was a devil that danced in them. His face seemed a shade paler. "'West just coming out of the store,' yelled Stevens, ran plumb into a rancher who'd known me. He opened up with a rifle. Think they'll chase us!' They covered several miles before there were any signs of pursuit, and when horsemen did move into sight out of the Cottonwoods, Dwayne and his companions steadily drew farther away. "'No horses in that bunch to worry us!' called out Stevens. Dwayne had the same conviction, and he did not look back again. He rode somewhat to the fore, and was constantly aware of the rapid thudding of hosts behind, as Stevens kept close to him. At sunset they reached the willow breaks and the river. Dwayne's horse was winded and lashed with sweat and lather. It was not until the crossing had been accomplished that Dwayne halted to rest his animal. Stevens was riding up the low sandy bank. He reeled in the saddle. With an exclamation of surprise, Dwayne leaped off and ran to the outlaw's side. Stevens was pale, and his face bore beads of sweat. The whole front of his shirt was soaked with blood. "'You were shot!' cried Dwayne. "'Well, who in hell says I wasn't? Would you mind giving me a lift on this year's pack?' Dwayne lifted the heavy pack down, and then helped Stevens to dismount. The outlaw had a bloody foam on his lips, and he was spitting blood. "'Oh, why didn't you say so?' cried Dwayne. "'I never thought. You seemed all right.' "'Wow! Luke Stevens may be as gabby as an old woman. But sometimes he doesn't say anything. It wouldn't have done no good.' Dwayne baited him, sit down, removed his shirt, and washed the blood from his breast and back. Stevens had been shot in the breast, fairly low down, and the bullet had gone clear through him. His ride, holding himself in that heavy pack in the saddle, had been a feet little short of marvellous. Dwayne did not see how it had been possible, and he felt no hope for the outlaw. But he plugged the wounds and bound them tightly. "'Feller's name was Brown,' Stevens said. "'Me and him fell out over a husk I stole from him over in Huntsville. We had a shoot-and-scrape then. Well, as I was straddling my husk back there in Mercer I had seen this brown, and seen him before he'd seen me. Could have killed him, too. But I wasn't breaking my word to you. I kind of hoped he wouldn't spot me. But he did. And first shot he got me here. What do you think of this hole?' "'It's pretty bad,' replied Dwayne, and he could not look the cheerful outlaw in the eyes. "'I reckon it is. Well, I've had some bad wounds I lived over. Yes, maybe I can stand this one. Now, Buck, get me some place in the brakes. Leave me some grub and water at my hand, and then you clear out.' "'Leave you here alone?' asked Dwayne sharply. "'Sure. You see, I can't keep up with you. Brown and his friends will follow us across the river aways. You've got to think of number one in this game.' "'What would you do in my case?' asked Dwayne curiously. "'Well, I reckon I'd clear out and save my hide,' replied Stevens. Dwayne felt inclined to doubt the outlaw's assertion. For his own part he decided his conduct without further speech. First he watered the horses, filled canteens in water-bag, and then tied the pack upon his own horse. That done he lifted Stevens upon his horse, and, holding him in the saddle, turned into the brakes, being careful to pick out hard or grassy ground that left little signs of tracks. Just about dark he ran across a trail that Stevens said was a good one to take into the wild country. "'Reckon we better keep right on in the dark, till I drop!' concluded Stevens with a laugh. All that night Dwayne, gloomy and thoughtful, attentive to the wounded outlaw, walked the trail and never halted till daybreak. He was tired then and very hungry. Stevens seemed in bad shape, although he was still spirited and cheerful. Dwayne made camp. The outlaw refused his food, but asked for both whiskey and water. Then he stretched out. "'Buck, will you take off my boots?' he asked with a faint smile on his pallid face. Dwayne removed them, wondering if the outlaw had the thought that he did not want to die with his boots on. Stevens seemed to read his mind. "'Buck, my old daddy used to say that I was born to be hanged. But I wasn't, and dying with your boots on is the next worst way to croak.' "'You've a chance to get over this,' said Dwayne. "'Sure, but I want to be correct about the boots. And say, Pard, if I do go over, just you remember that I was appreciating of your kindness.' Then he closed his eyes and seemed to sleep. Dwayne could not find water for the horses, but there was an abundance of dew-wet grass upon which he hobbled them. After that was done he prepared himself a much-needed meal. The sun was getting warm when he lay down to sleep, and when he awoke it was sinking in the west. Stevens was still alive, for he breathed heavily. The horses were in sight. All was quiet except the hum of insects and the brush. Dwayne listened awhile, then rose and went for the horses. When he returned with them he found Stevens awake, bright-eyed, cheerful as usual, and apparently stronger. "'Wow, Buck, I'm still with you, and good for another night's ride,' he said. "'Guess about all I need now is a big pool on that bottle. Help me, will you?' "'There. That was bully. I ain't swallowing my blood this evening. Maybe I bled all there was in me.' While Dwayne got a hurried meal for himself, packed up the little outfit, and saddled the horses, Stevens kept on talking. He seemed to be in a hurry to tell Dwayne all about the country. Another night-ride would put them beyond fear of pursuit, within striking distance of the Rio Grande and the hiding-places of the outlaws. When it came time for mounting the horses, Stevens said, "'Reckon you can pull on my boots once more.' In spite of the laugh accompanying the words, Dwayne detected a subtle change in the outlaw's spirit. On this night travel was facilitated by the fact that the trail was broad enough for two horses abreast, enabling Dwayne to ride while upholding Stevens in the saddle. The difficulty most persistent was in keeping the horses in a walk. They were used to a trot, and that kind of gait would not do for Stevens. The red dyed out of the west, a pale afterglow prevailed for a while, darkness set in. Then the broad expanse of blue darkened and the stars brightened. After a while Stevens ceased talking, and trooped in his saddle. Dwayne kept the horses going, however, and the slow hours wore away. Dwayne thought the quiet night would never break the dawn, that there was no end to the melancholy brooding plane, but at length a grain exploded out the stars and mantled the level of mesquite and cactus. Dawn caught the fugitives at a green camping site on the bank of a rocky little stream. Stevens fell a dead weight into Dwayne's arms, and one look at the haggard face showed Dwayne that the outlaw had taken his last ride. He knew it, too. Yet that cheerfulness prevailed. "'Buck, my feet are awful tired, packing them heavy boots,' he said, and seemed immensely relieved when Dwayne had removed them. This matter of the outlaw's boots was strange, Dwayne thought. He made Stevens as comfortable as possible, then attended to his own needs, and the outlaw took up the thread of his conversation where he'd left off the night before. This trail splits up a ways from here, and every branch of it leads to a hole where you'll find men, a few maybe like yourself, some like me, and gangs of no good-hoss thieves, wrestlers and such. It's easy living, Buck. I reckon, though, that you'll not find it easy. You'll never mix in. You'll be a lone wolf. I've seen that right off. Well, if a man can stand the loneliness, and if he's quick on the draw, maybe lone wolfen, it is the best. Sure, I don't know. But these fellers in here will be suspicious of a man who goes it alone. If they get a chance, they'll kill you." Stevens asked for water several times. He had forgotten, or he did not want the whisky. His voice grew perceptively weaker. "'Be quiet,' said Dwayne. Talking uses up your strength. "'All I'll talk till—' "'I'm done,' he replied doggedly. "'See here, Pard, you can gamble on what I'm telling you, and it'll be useful. From this camp we'll—you'll meet men right along. And none of them will be honest men. All the same, some are better than others. I've lived along the river for twelve years. There's three big gangs of outlaws—King Fisher. You know him, I reckon, for he's half the time living among respectable folks. King is a pretty good feller. It'll do to tie up with him and his gang. Now there's Chessel Dean, who hangs out in the rim-rock way up the river. He's an outlaw chief. I never seen him, though I stayed once right in his camp. Late years he's got rich, and keeps back pretty well hid. But Bland—I knowed Bland for years, and I haven't had any use for him. Bland has the biggest gang. You ain't likely to miss striking his place some time or later. He's got a regular town, I might say. Sure there's some gambling and gun-fightin' goin' on at Bland's camp all the time. Bland has killed some twenty men, and that's not countin' greasers. Here Stevens took another drink, and then rested for a while. You ain't likely to get on with Bland, he resumed presently. You're too strappin' big and good-lookin' to please the chief. For he's got women in his camp. Then he'd be jealous of your possibilities with a gun. Sure, I reckon he'd be careful, though. Bland's no fool, and he loves his hide. I reckon any of the other gangs would be better for you when you ain't goin' it alone. Apparently that exhausted the fund of information and advice Stevens had been eager to impart. He lapsed into silence and lay with closed eyes. Being while the sun rose warm, the breeze waved the mesquites, the birds came down to splash in the shallow stream, twain dozed in a comfortable seat. By and by something roused him. Stevens was once more talking, but with a changed tone. Feller's name was Brown. He rambled. We fell out. Over a haus I stole from him in Huntsville. He stole it fuss. Brown's one of them sneaks. Afraid of the open, he steals and pretends to be honest. Say, Buck, maybe you'll meet Brown some day. You and me are parts now. I'll remember if I ever meet him, said Dwayne. That seemed to satisfy the outlaw. Presently he tried to lift his head, but had not the strength. A strange shade was creeping across the bronzed, rough face. My feet are pretty heavy. Sure you got my boots off? Dwayne held them up, but was not certain that Stevens could see them. The outlaw closed his eyes again and muttered incoherently. Then he fell asleep. Dwayne believed that sleep was final. The day passed, with Dwayne watching and waiting. Towards sundown Stevens awoke and his eyes seemed clearer. Dwayne went to get some fresh water, thinking his comrade would surely want some. When he returned, Stevens made no sign that he wanted anything. There was something bright about him, and suddenly Dwayne realized what it meant. Pard! You, you stuck to me! the outlaw whispered. Dwayne caught a hint of gladness in the voice. He traced a faint surprise in the haggard face. Dwayne seemed like a little child. To Dwayne the moment was sad, elemental, big. With a burden of mystery he could not understand. Dwayne buried him in a shallow arroyo and heaped up a pile of stones to mark the grave. That done he saddled his comrade's horse, hung the weapons over the pommel, and, mounting his own steed, he rode down the trail in the gathering twilight. END OF CHAPTER 2 Days later, about the middle of the forenoon, Dwayne dragged the two horses up the last ascent of an exceedingly rough trail, and found himself on top of the rim-rock, with a beautiful green valley at his feet, the yellow sluggish Rio Grande shining in the sun, and the great wild mountainous barren of Mexico stretching to the south. Dwayne had not fallen in with any travellers. He had taken the likeliest looking trail he had come across. Where it had led him, he had not the slightest idea, except that here was the river, and probably the enclosed valley was the retreat of some famous outlaw. No wonder outlaws were safe in that wild refuge. Dwayne had spent the last two days climbing the roughest and most difficult trail he had ever seen. From the looks of the descent he imagined the worst part of his travel was yet to come. Not improbably it was two thousand feet down to the river. The wedge-shaped valley, green with alfalfa and cottonwood, and nestling down amid the bare walls of yellow rock, was a delight and a relief to his tired eyes. Eager to get down to a level and to find a place to rest, Dwayne began the descent. The trail proved to be the kind that could not be descended slowly. He kept dodging rocks which his horses loosed behind him, and in a short time he reached the valley, entering at the apex of the wedge. A stream of clear water tumbled out of the rocks here, and most of it ran in two irrigation ditches. His horses drank thirstily, and he drank with that fullness and gratefulness common to the desert traveller finding sweet water. Then he mounted and rode down the valley, wondering what would be his reception. The valley was much larger than it had appeared from the high elevation. Well watered, green with grass and tree, and farmed evidently by good hands it gave Dwayne a considerable surprise. Horses and cattle were everywhere. Every clump of cottonwoods surrounded a small adobe house. Dwayne saw Mexicans working in the fields and horsemen going to and fro. Presently he passed a house bigger than the others with a porch attached. A woman, young and pretty, he thought, watched him from a door. No one else appeared to notice him. Presently the trail widened into a road, and that into a kind of square lined by a number of adobe and long buildings of rudist structure. Within sight were horses, dogs, a couple of steers, Mexican women with children, and white men, all of whom appeared to be doing nothing. This advent created no interest until he rode up to the white men who were lolling in the shade of a house. This place evidently was a store and saloon, and from the inside came a lazy hum of voices. As Dwayne reigned to a halt, one of the loungers in the shade rose with a loud exclamation, BUST ME IF THAT AIN'T LUXHAUS! The others accorded their interest, if not assent, by rising to advance toward Dwayne. How about it, Euker? Ain't that Luke's Bay? queried the first man. Playing as your nose, replied the fellow named Euker. There ain't no doubt about it, then, laughed another. For Bostmer's nose is sure plain on the landscape. These men lined up before Dwayne, and as he coolly regarded them he thought they could have been recognized anywhere as desperados. The man called Bostmer, who had stepped forward, had a forbidding face which showed yellow eyes, an enormous nose, and the skin the color of dust, with a thatch of sandy hair. Stranger, who are you and where in the hell did you get that Bayhoss? He demanded. His yellow eyes took in Stevens's horse, then the weapons hung on the saddle, and finally turned their glinting hard light upward to Dwayne. Dwayne did not like the tone in which he had been addressed, and he remained silent. At least half his mind seemed busy with curious interest in regard to something that leaped inside him and made his breast feel tight. He recognized it as that strange emotion which had shot through him often of late, and which had decided him to go out to the meeting with Bain. Only now it was different, more powerful. Stranger, who are you? asked another man, somewhat more civilly. My name's Dwayne, replied Dwayne curtly. And how'd you come by the Hoss? Dwayne answered briefly, and his words were followed by a short silence, during which the men looked at him. Bostmer began to twist the ends of his beard. Rack and he's dead all right, and nobody'd have his horse and guns. Presently said Euker. Mr. Dwayne began Bostmer in low, stinging tones. I happened to be Luke Stevens's side-partner. Dwayne looked him over, from dusty, worn-out boots to his slouchy sombrero. That look seemed to inflame Bostmer. And I want the horses and them guns, he shouted. You or anybody else can have them, for all I care. I just fetched them in. But the pack is mine, replied Dwayne. And say, I befriended your part. If you can't use a civil tongue, you'd better cinch it. Siffle! Ha-ha! rejoined the outlaw. I don't know you. How do we know you didn't plug Stevens, and stole his horse, and just happened to stumble down here? You'll have to take my word, that's all, replied Dwayne sharply. I ain't takin' your word, savvy that, and I was Luke's part. With that Bostmer wield, and pushing his companions aside, he's stamped into the saloon, where his voice broke out in a roar. He dismounted and threw his bridle. Stranger, Bostmer sure hot-edded, said the man Euker. He did not appear unfriendly, nor were the others hostile. At this juncture several more outlaws crowded out of the door, and the one in the lead was a tall man of stalwart physique. His manner proclaimed him a leader. He had a long face, a flaming red beard, and clear, cold blue eyes that fixed in close scrutiny upon Dwayne. He was not a Texan. In truth Dwayne did not recognize one of these outlaws as native to his state. I'm bland, said the tall man, authoritatively. Who are you, and what are you doin' here? Dwayne looked at bland as he had at the others. This outlaw chief appeared to be reasonable, if he was not courteous. Dwayne told his story again, this time a little more in detail. I believe you, replied bland at once. Think I know when a fellow is lyin'. I reckon you're on the right trail, put in Euker. That about Luke wantin' his boots took off. That satisfies me. Luke had a mortal dreaded dyin' with his boots on. At this sally the chief and his men laughed. You said Dwayne. Buck Dwayne? queried bland. Are you a son of that Dwayne who was a gunfighter some years back? Yes, replied Dwayne. Never met him. Glad I didn't, said bland with a grim humor. So you got in trouble and had to go on the dodge? What kind of trouble? Had a fight. Fight? You mean gunplay? Question bland. He seemed eager, curious, speculative. Yes. It ended in gunplay, I'm sorry to say. Answered Dwayne. Guess I needn't ask the son of Dwayne if he killed his man. Went on bland, ironically. Well, I'm sorry you bucked against trouble in my camp. But as it is, I guess you'd be wise to make yourself scarce. Do you mean I'm politely told to move on? Asked Dwayne quietly. Not exactly that, said bland as if irritated. If this isn't a free place, there isn't one on earth. Every man is equal here. Do you want to join my band? No, I don't. Well, even if you did, I imagine that wouldn't stop Bossamer. He's an ugly fellow. He's one of the few gunmen I've met who wants to kill somebody all the time. Most men like that are four flushes. But Bossamer's all one color, and that's red. Merely for your own sake I advise you to hit the trail. Thanks. But if that's all, I'll stay. Returned Dwayne. Even as he spoke he felt that he did not know himself. Bossamer appeared at the door, pushing men who tried to detain him, and as he jumped clear of a last-reaching hand he uttered a snarl like an angry dog. Manifestly the short while he had spent inside the saloon had been devoted to drinking and talking himself into a frenzy. Bland and the other outlaws quickly moved aside, letting Dwayne stand alone. When Bossamer saw Dwayne standing motionless and watchful a strange change passed quickly in him. He hauled it in his tracks, and as he did that the men who had followed him out piled over one another in their hurry to get to one side. Dwayne saw all the swift action, felt intuitively the meaning of it, and Bossamer's sudden change of front. The outlaw was keen, and he had expected a shrinking, or at least a frightened antagonist. Dwayne knew he was neither. He felt like iron, and yet thrill after thrill ran through him. It was almost as if this situation had been one long familiar to him. Somehow he understood this yellow-wide Bossamer. The outlaw had come out to kill him. And now, though somewhat checked by the stand of a stranger, he still meant to kill. Like so many desperados of his ilk he was victim of a passion to kill for the sake of killing. Dwayne devined that no sudden animosity was driving Bossamer. It was just his chance. In that moment murder would have been joy to him. Very likely he had forgotten his pretext for a quarrel. Very probably his faculties were absorbed in conjecture as to Dwayne's possibilities. But he did not speak a word. He remained motionless for a long moment. His eyes pale and steady. His right hand like a claw. That instant gave Dwayne a power to read in his enemy's eyes the thought that preceded action. But Dwayne did not want to kill another man. Still, he would have to fight. And he decided to cripple Bossamer. When Bossamer's hand moved, Dwayne's gun was spouting fire. Two shots only, both from Dwayne's gun, and the outlaw fell with his right arm shattered. Bossamer cursed harshly and floundered in the dust, trying to reach the gun with his left hand. His comrades, however, seeing that Dwayne would not kill unless forced, closed in upon Bossamer and prevented any further madness on his part. End of chapter. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Lone Star Ranger. By Zane Gray. Chapter 5 Of the outlaws present, Euchar appeared to be the one most inclined to lend friendliness to curiosity, and he led Dwayne and the horses away to a small adobe shack. He tied the horses in an open shed and removed their saddles. Then, gathering up Stevens's weapons, he invited his visitor to enter the house. It had two rooms, windows without coverings, bare floors, one room contained blankets, weapons, saddles and bridles, the other a stone fireplace, rude table and bench, two bunks, a box cupboard, and various blackened utensils. Make yourself to home as long as you want to stay, said Euchar. I ain't rich in this world's goods, but I own what's here, and you're welcome. Thanks. I'll stay a while and rest. I'm pretty well played out," replied Dwayne. Euchar gave him a keen glance. Go ahead and rest. I'll take your horses to grass. Euchar left Dwayne alone in the house. Dwayne relaxed then, and mechanically he wiped a sweat from his face. He was laboring under some kind of a spell or shock which did not pass off quickly. When it had worn away he took off his coat and belt and made himself comfortable on the blankets, and he had a thought that if he rested or slept what difference would it make on the moral? No rest, no sleep could change the gray outlook of the future. He felt glad when Euchar came bustling in, and for the first time he took notice of the outlaw. Euchar was old in years. What little hair he had was gray. His face clean-shaven and full of wrinkles. His eyes were half shut from long gazing through the sun and dust. He stooped, but his thin frame denoted strength and endurance still unimpaired. Hey, a drink or a smoke? He asked. Dwayne shook his head. He had not been unfamiliar with whiskey, and he had used tobacco moderately since he was sixteen. But now, strangely, he felt a disgust at the idea of stimulants. He did not understand clearly what he felt. There was that vague idea of something wild in his blood, something that made him fear himself. Euchar wagged his old head sympathetically. I reckon you feel a little sick. When it comes to shooting, I run. What's your age? I am twenty-three, replied Dwayne. Euchar showed surprise. Yo, wrongly a boy! I thought you thirty, anyways. But I heard what you told Bland, and putting that with my own figurant, I reckon you're no criminal yet. Throwing a gun in self-defense, that ain't no crime. Dwayne, finding relief in talking, told more about himself. Huh! replied the old man. I've been on this river for years, and I've seen hundreds of boys come in on the dodge. Most of them, though, was no good. And that kind don't last long. This river-country has been and is the refuge for criminals from all over the States. I've bunked with bank cashiers, foragers, plain thieves, and out-and-out murderers, all of which had no business on the Texas border. Fellers like Bland are exceptions. He's no Texan. You've seen that. The gang he rules here come from all over. And they're tough cusses. You can bet on that. They live fat and easy. If it wasn't for the fighting among themselves, they'd sure grow populous. Thrimrock is no place for a peaceable, decent fellow. I heard you tell Bland you wouldn't join his gang. That'll not make him take a liking to you. Have you any money? Not much, replied Dwayne. Could you live by gambling? Are you any good at cards? No. You wouldn't steal Haas as a Russell cattle? No. When your money's gone, how in hell will you live? There ain't any work a decent fellow could do. You can't herd with greasers. Why, Bland's men would shoot at you in the fields. What'll you do, son? God knows, replied Dwayne hopelessly. I'll make my money as last as long as possible, then starve. Well, I'm pretty poor, but you'll never starve while I got anything. Here it struck Dwayne again. That's something human and kind and eager which he had seen in Stevens. Dwayne's estimate of outlaws had lacked this quality. He had not accorded them any virtues. To him, as to the outside world, they had been merely vicious men without one redeeming feature. I much obliged to you, Euker, replied Dwayne. But, of course, I won't live with any one unless I can pay my share. Have it any way you like, my son, said Euker, good-humoredly. You make a fire, and I'll sit about getting grub. I'm a sour-dough-buck. That man doesn't live, who can beat my bread. How do you ever pack supplies in here? asked Dwayne, thinking of the almost inaccessible nature of the valley. Some comes across from Mexico and the rest down the river. That river trip is a bird. It's more than 500 miles to any supply point. Bland has mozos, greaser boatmen. Sometimes, too, he gets supplies in from downriver. You see, Bland sells thousands of cattle in Cuba, and all this stock has to go down by boat to meet the ships. Where on earth are the cattle driven down to the river? asked Dwayne. That's not my secret, replied Euker, shortly. Fact is, I don't know. I've rustled cattle for Bland, but he never sent me through the rim-rock with him. Dwayne experienced a sort of pleasure in the realization that interest had been stirred in him. He was curious about Bland and his gang, and glad to have something to think about. For every once in a while he had a sensation that was almost like a pang. He wanted to forget. In the next hour he did forget, and enjoyed helping in the preparation and eating of the meal. Euker, after washing and hanging up the several utensils, put on his hat and turned to go out. Come along or stay here as you want, he said to Dwayne. I'll stay. rejoined Dwayne slowly. The old outlaw left the room and trudged away, whistling cheerfully. Dwayne looked around him for a book or paper, anything to read, but all the printed matter he could find consisted of a few words on cartridge-boxes and an advertisement on the back of a tobacco-pouch. There seemed to be nothing for him to do. He had rested. He did not want to lie down any more. He began to walk to and fro, from one end of the room to the other, and as he walked he fell into the lately acquired habit of brooding over his misfortune. Suddenly he straightened up with a jerk. Unconsciously he had drawn his gun. Standing there with a bright cold weapon in his hand he looked at it in consternation. How had he come to draw it? With difficulty he traced his thoughts backward, but could not find any that were accountable for his act. He discovered, however, that he had a remarkable tendency to drop his hand to his gun. That might have come from the habit-long practice in drawing a given him. Likewise it might have come from a subtle sense, scarcely thought of at all, of the late, close, and inevitable relation between that weapon and himself. He was amazed to find that, bitter as he had grown at fate, the desire to live burned strong in him. If he had been as unfortunately situated, but with the differences that no man wanted to put him in jail or take his life, he felt that this burning passion to be free, to save himself, might not have been so powerful. Life certainly held no bright prospects for him. Already he had begun to despair of ever getting back to his home. But to give up like a white-hearted coward, to let himself be handcuffed and jailed, to run from a drunken, bragging cowboy, or be shot in cold blood by some border brute who merely wanted to add another notch to his gun. These things were impossible for Dwayne, because there was in him the temperate of fight. In that hour he yielded only to fate and the spirit inborn in him. Later after this gun must be a living part of him. Right then and there he returned to a practice he had long discontinued, the draw. It was now a stern, bitter, deadly business with him. He did not need to fire the gun, for accuracy was a gift and had become assured. Swiftness on the draw, however, could be improved, and he set himself to acquire the limit of speed possible to any man. He stood still in his tracks. He paced the room. He sat down, lay down, put himself in awkward positions, and from every position he practiced throwing his gun, practice it till he was hot and tired, and his arm ached and his hand burned. That practice he determined to keep up every day. It was one thing at least that would help pass the weary hours. Later he went outdoors to the cooler shade of the Cottonwoods. From this point he could see a good deal of the valley. Under different circumstances Dwayne felt that he would have enjoyed such a beautiful spot. Euker Shack sat against the first rise of the slope of the wall, and Dwayne, by climbing a few rods, got a view of the whole valley. Assuredly it was an outlaw settlement. He saw a good many Mexicans, who of course were hand and glove with bland. Also he saw enormous flat boats, crewed of structure, moored along the banks of the river. The Rio Grande rolled away between high bluffs, a cable, sagging deep in the middle, was stretched over the wide yellow stream, and an old scow, evidently used as a ferry, lay anchored on the far shore. The valley was an ideal retreat for an outlaw band operating on a big scale. Pursuit scarcely needed be feared over the broken trails of the rim-rock, and the open end of the valley could be defended against almost any number of men coming down the river. Access to Mexico was easy and quick. What puzzled Dwayne was how bland got cattle down to the river, and he wondered if the rustler really did get rid of his stolen stock by use of boats. Dwayne must have idled considerable time up on the hill, for when he returned to the shack Euker was busily engaged around the campfire. "'Wow! Glad to see you ain't so pale about the gills as you was,' he said, by way of greeting. "'Pitch in, and we'll soon have grub ready. There's sure one consoling fact round this here camp.' "'What's that?' asked Dwayne. "'Plenty a good juicy beef to eat, and it doesn't cost a short bit.' "'But it costs hard rides and trouble. Bad conscience, and life too, doesn't it?' "'I ain't sure about the bad conscience. My never bothered me none. "'And as for life, why, that's cheap in Texas.' "'Who is bland?' asked Dwayne, quickly changing the subject. "'What do you know about him?' "'We don't know who he is or where he hails from,' replied Euker. "'That's always been something to interest the gang. He must have been a young man when he struck Texas. Now he's middle-aged. I remember how years ago he was soft-spoken and not rough in talk, or act like he is now. "'Bland ain't likely his right name. He knows a lot. He can doctor you, and he's sure a knowing fellow with tools. He's the kind that rules men. Outlaws are always riding in here to join his gang, and if it hadn't been for the gamblin and gunplay he'd have a thousand men around him. "'How many in his gang now?' "'I reckon they're short of a hundred now. The number varies. Dem Bland has several small camps up and down the river. Also he has men back on the cattle ranges. "'How does he control such a big force?' asked Dwayne. "'Especially when his band's composed of bad men. Luke Stevens said he had no use for Bland, and I heard once somewhere that Bland was a devil. "'That's it. He is a devil. He's as hard as flint, violent and temper, never made any friends except his right-hand men, Dave Rugg and Chess Allaway. Bland'll shoot at a wink. He's killed a lot of fellers, and some for nothing. The reason that outlaws gather round him and stick is because he's a safe refuge, and then he's well-healed. Bland is rich. They say he has a hundred thousand pesos hid somewhere, and lots of gold. But he's free with money. He gambles when he's not off with a shipment of cattle. He throws money around. And the fact is there's always plenty of money where he is. That's what holds the gang. Dirty, bloody money. It's a wonder he hasn't been killed. All these years on the border." exclaimed Dwayne. "'Wow!' replied Euker dryly. He's been quicker on the draw than the other fellers who hankered to kill him. That's all." Euker's reply rather chilled Dwayne's interest for the moment. Such remarks always made his mind revolve around facts pretending to himself. "'Speaking of this here swift risk game,' went on Euker, there's been considerable talk in camp about your throwing of a gun. You know, Buck, that among us fellers, us hunted men, there ain't anything calculated to rouse respect like a slick hand with a gun. I heard Bland say this afternoon, and he said it serious like in speculative, that he'd never seen your equal. He was watching at you close, he said, and just couldn't follow your hand when you drawed. All the fellers who seen you meet Bossimer had something to say. Bo was about as handy with a gun as any man in this camp, barring Chess Allaway, and maybe Bland himself. Chess is the captain with a colt. Or he was. And he sure didn't like the references made about your speed. Bland was honest in acknowledging it, but he didn't like it neither. Some of the fellers allowed your draw might have been just accident, but most of them figured different. And they all shut up when Bland told who and what your dad was. Appears to me, I once seen your dad in a gun scrape over at Santone years ago. Well, I put my oar in today among the fellers, and I says, What ails you loco-jents? Did young Dwayne budge an inch when Bo came roaring out, blood in his eye? Wasn't he cool and quiet, stead of lips, and weren't his eyes reading Bo's mind? And that light in the draw, can't you all see that's a family gift? Euker's narrow eyes twinkled, and he gave the dough he was rolling a slap with his flour-whitened hand. Manifestly he had proclaimed himself a champion and partner of Dwayne's, with all the pride an old man could feel in a young one whom he admired. Well, he resumed presently, That's your introduction to the border, Buck, and your card was a high trump. You'll be let severely alone by real gun-fighters, and men like Bland, Allaway, Rug, and the bosses of the other gangs. After all, these real men are men, you know, and unless you cross them, they're no more likely to interfere with you than you are with them. But there's a sight of fellers like Bossemer in the river-country. They'll all want your game. And every town you ride into will scare up some cow-puncher full of booze or a long-haired foreflush-gummin or a sheriff, and these men will be playing to the crowd and yelling for your blood. That's the Texas of it. You'll have to hide for ever in the brakes, or you'll have to kill such men. Buck, I reckon this ain't cheerful news to a decent chap like you. I'm only telling you because I've taken a liking to you, and I've seen right off that you ain't border-wise. Let's eat now, and afterward we'll go out so the gang can see you're not hiding. When Dwayne went out with Euker the sun was setting behind a blue range of mountains across the river in Mexico. The valley appeared to open to the southwest. It was a tranquil, beautiful scene. Somewhere in the house near at hand a woman was singing. And in the road Dwayne saw a little Mexican boy driving home some cows, one of which wore a bell. The sweet, happy voice of a woman and a whistling barefoot boy. These seemed utterly out of place here. Euker presently led to the square and the row of rough houses Dwayne remembered. He almost stepped on a wide imprint in the dust where Bossmer had confronted him, and a sudden cold fury beset him that he should be affected strangely by the side of it. Let's have a look in here, said Euker. Dwayne had to bend his head to enter the door. He found himself in a very large room enclosed by adobe walls and roofed with brush. It was full of rude benches, tables, seats. At one corner a number of kegs and barrels lay side by side in Iraq. A Mexican boy was lighting lamps hung on posts that sustained the log rafters of the roof. The only feller is going to put a close eye on you is Benson, said Euker. He runs the place and sells drinks. The gang calls him Jackrabbit Benson, because he's always got his eye peeled and his ear cocked. Don't notice him if he looks you over, Buck. Benson is scared to death of every newcomer who rustles into Bland's camp. And the reason I take it is because he's done somebody dirt. He's hiding. Not from a sheriff or ranger. Men who hide from them don't act like Jackrabbit Benson. He's hiding from some guy who's hunting him to kill him. Well, I'm always expecting to see some feller ride in here and throw a gun on Benson. Can't say I'd be grieved. Dwayne casually glanced in the direction indicated and he saw a spare gaunt man with a face strikingly white beside the red and bronze and dark skins of the men around him. It was a cadaverous face. The black mustache hung down. A heavy lock of black hair dropped down over the brow. Deep-set, hollow, staring eyes looked out piercingly. The man had a restless, alert, nervous manner. He put his hands on the board that served as a bar and stared at Dwayne. But when he met Dwayne's glance, he turned hurriedly to go on serving out liquor. What have you got against him? inquired Dwayne as he sat down beside Euker. He asked more for something to say than from real interest. What did he care about a mean, haunted, craven-faced criminal? Well, maybe I'm cross-grained, replied Euker, apologetically. Sure an outlaw and rustler such as me can't be touchy. But I never stole nothing but cattle from some ranch you never missed him anyway. That's Sneak Benson. He was the means of putting a little girl in Bland's way. Girl, queried Dwayne, now with real attention. Sure! Bland's great on women. I'll tell you about this girl when we get out of here. Some of the gang are going to be sociable and I can't talk about the chief. During the ensuing half-hour a number of outlaws passed by Dwayne and Euker, hauled in for a greeting, or sat down for a moment. They were all gruff, loud-voiced, merry, and good-natured. Dwayne replied civilly and agreeably when he was personally addressed, but he refused all invitations to drink and gamble. Evidently he had been accepted, in a way, as one of their clan. No one made any hint of an allusion to his affair with Bossamer. Dwayne saw readily that Euker was well liked. One outlaw borrowed money from him. Another asked for tobacco. By the time it was dark the big room was full of outlaws and Mexicans, most of whom were engaged at Monte. These gamblers, especially the Mexicans, were intense and quiet. The noise in the place came from the drinkers, the loungers. Dwayne had seen gambling resorts, some of the famous ones in San Antonio and El Paso, a few in border towns where license went unchecked. But this place of Jackrabbit Benson's impressed him as one where guns and knives were accessories to the game. To his, perhaps rather distinguishing eye, the most prominent thing about the game-sters appeared to be their weapons. On several of the tables were piles of silver, Mexican pesos, as large and high as the crown of his hat. There were also piles of gold and silver in United States coin. Dwayne needed no experience dye to see that betting was heavy and that heavy sums exchanged hands. The Mexicans showed a sterner obsession, an intenser passion. Some of the Americans staked freely, nonchalantly, as befitted men to whom money was nothing. These latter were manifestly winning, for there were brother outlaws there who wagered coin with grudging, sullen, greedy eyes. Boisterous talk and laughter among the drinking men drowned, and at intervals the low, brief talk of the gamblers. The clink of coins sounded incessantly. Sometimes just low, steady musical rings. And again when a pile was tumbled quickly there was a silvery crash. Here an outlaw pounded on a table with a butt of his gun. There another noisely palmed a roll of dollars while he studied his opponent's face. The noises, however, in Benson's den did not contribute to any extent to the sinister aspect of the place. That seemed to come from the grim and reckless faces, from the bent, intent heads, from the dark lights and shades. There were bright lights, but these served only to make the shadows, and in the shadows lurked unrestrained lust of gain, a spirit ruthless and reckless, a something at once suggesting lawlessness, theft, murder, and hell. Blan's not here tonight, Euker was saying. He left the day on one of his trips, taking Al away and some others. But his other man, Rugg, he's here. See him standing with them three fellers, all close to Benson. Rugg's the little bow-legged man with a half of his face shot off. He's one-eyed. But he can sure see out of the one he's got. And, darmy, there's Hardin. You know him? He's got an outlaw gang as big as Blan's. Hardin is standing next to Benson. See how quiet, unassuming he looks. Yes, that's Hardin. He comes here once in a while to see Blan. They're friends. Which sure is strange. Do you see that greaser there? The one with gold and lace on his sombrero? That's Manuel, a Mexican bandit. He's a great gambler. Comes here often to drop his coin. Next to him is Bill Maher, the fellow with the bandana round his head. Bill rode in the other day with some fresh bullet holes. He's been shot more than any fellow I ever heard of. He's full of lead. Funny, because Bill's no trouble-hunter, and like me he'd rather run than shoot. But he's the best rustler Blan's got. A grandwriter and a wonder with cattle. And see the toe-headed youngster. That's Kid Fuller, the kid of Blan's gang. Fuller has hit the pace hard and he won't last the year out on the border. He killed his sweetheart's father, got run out of Stacy-town, took to stealing houses. Next he's here with Blan. Another boy gone wrong, and now sure a hard nut. Euker went on calling Dwayne's attention to other men, just as he happened to glance over them. And he one of them would have been a marked man in a respectable crowd. Here each took his place with more or less distinction, according to the record of his past wild prowess and his present possibilities. Dwayne, realizing that he was tolerated there, received in careless friendly spirit by this terrible class of outcasts, experienced a feeling of revulsion that amounted almost to horror. Was this being there not an ugly dream? What had he in common with such roughience? Then in a flash of memory came the painful proof he was a criminal inside of Texas law. He, too, was an outcast. For the moment Dwayne was wrapped up in painful reflections. But Euker's heavy hand, clapping with a warning hold on his arm, brought him back to outside things. The hum of voices, the clink of coin, the loud laughter had ceased. There was a silence that manifestly had followed some unusual word or action sufficient to still the room. It was broken by a harsh curse and the scrape of a bench on the floor. Some men had risen. You stacked a card to you! Say that twice. Another voice replied, so different in its cool, ominous tone from the other. I'll say it twice! returned the first gamester in hot haste. I'll say it three times. I'll whistle it. Are you deaf? You light-fingered gent! You stacked a card! Silence ensued. Deeper than before. Pregnant with meaning. For all that Dwayne saw not an outlaw move for a full moment. Then suddenly the room was full of disorder as men rose and ran and dived everywhere. Run or duck! yelled Euker close to Dwayne's ear. With that he dashed for the door. Men leaped after him. They ran into a jostling mob. Heavy gunshots and horse-yells hurried the crowd Dwayne was with, pel-mel out into the darkness. There they all halted and several peeped in at the door. "'Who was the kid calling?' asked one outlaw. "'Bud Marsh!' replied another. "'I'll record them first shots with buds. Adios, kid! It was coming to him.' Went on yet another. "'How many shots?' Three or four I counted. Three heavy and one light. That light one was the kid's thirty-eight. "'Listen, there's the kid hollering now. He ain't cashed, anyway.' At this juncture most of the outlaws began to file back into the room. Dwayne thought he had seen and heard enough in Benson's den for one night, and he started slowly down the walk. Nobody hurt much was sure some strange, he said. The kid, young Fuller that I was telling you about, he was drinking and losing. Lost his nut, too, calling Bud Marsh that way. The buds as straight at cards as any of them. Somebody grabbed Bud, who shot into the roof, and Fuller's arm was knocked up. He only hit a greaser.