A Texas Ranger by William MacLeod Raine (read with me .TXT) 📖

“Far as I can make out, that young man is going to be loaded with suspicions of me anyhow,” he laughed.

“It isn’t anything to laugh at. You don’t know him,” she told him gravely.

“And can’t say I’m suffering to,” he drawled.

She looked at him a little impatiently, as if he were a child playing with gunpowder and unaware of its potentialities.

“Can’t you understand? You’re not in Texas with your friends all around you. This is Lost Valley— and Lost Valley isn’t on the map. Men make their own law here. That is, some of them do. I wouldn’t give a snap of my fingers for your life if the impression spread that you are a spy. It doesn’t matter that I know you’re not. Others must feel it, too.”

“I see. And Mr. Briscoe will be a molder of public opinion?”

“So far as he can he will. We must forestall him.”

“Beat him to it, and give me a clean bill of moral health, eh?”

She frowned. “This is serious business, my friend.”

“I’m taking it that way,” he said smilingly.

“I shouldn’t have guessed it.”

Yet for all his debonair ease the man had an air of quiet competence. His strong, bronzed face and neck, the set of his shoulders, the light poise of him in the saddle, the steady confidence of the gray eyes, all told her as much. She was aware of a curiosity about what was hidden behind that stone-wall face of his.

“You didn’t finish telling me about that enemy in Texas,” she suggested suddenly.

“Oh, there ain’t much to tell. He broke out from the pen, where I had put him when I was a kid. He was a desperado wanted by the authorities, so I arrested him again.”

“Sounds easy.”

“He made some trouble, shot up two or three men first.” Fraser lifted his hand absently.

“Is that scar on your hand where he shot you?” Arlie asked.

He looked up in quick surprise. “Now, how did you know that?”

“You were talking of the trouble he made and you looked at your hand,” she explained. “Where is he now? In the penitentiary?”

“No. He broke away before I got him there.”

She had another flash of inspiration. “And you came to Wyoming to get him again.”

“Good gracious, ma’am, but you’re ce’tainly a wizard! That’s why I came, though it’s a secret.”

“What is he wanted for?”

“Robbing a train, three murders and a few other things.”

As she swung from her pony in front of the old-fashioned Southern log house, Artie laughed at him over her shoulder.

“You’re a fine officer! Tell all you know to the first girl you meet!”

“Well, you see, the girl happened to be— you!”

After the manner of the old-fashioned Southern house a wide “gallery” bisected it from porch to rear. Saddles hung from pegs in the gallery. Horse blankets and bridles, spurs and saddlebags, lay here and there in disarray. A disjointed rifle which some one had started to clean was on the porch. Swiftly Arlie stripped saddle, bridle, and blanket from her pony and flung them down as a contribution to the general disorder, and at her suggestion Fraser did the same. A half-grown lad came running to herd the horses into a corral close at hand.

“I want you when you’ve finished feeding, Bobbie,” Arlie told the lad. Then briefly to her guest: “This way, please.”

She led him into a large, cheerful living room, into which, through big casement windows, the light streamed. It was a pleasant room, despite its barbaric touch. There was a grizzly bear skin before the great open, stone fireplace, and Navajo rugs covered the floor and hung on the walls. The skin of a silver-tip bear was stretched beneath a writing desk, a trophy of Arlie’s rifle, which hung in a rack above. Civilization had furnished its quota to the room in a piano, some books, and a few photographs.

The Texan observed that order reigned here, even though it did not interfere with the large effect of comfort.

The girl left him, to return presently with her aunt, to whom she introduced him. Miss Ruth Dillon was a little, bright-eyed old lady, whose hair was still black, and her step light. Evidently she had her instructions, for she greeted their guest with charming cordiality, and thanked him for the service he had rendered her brother and her niece.

Presently the boy Bobbie arrived for further orders. Arlie went to her desk and wrote hurriedly.

“You’re to give this note to my father,” she directed. “Be sure he gets it himself. You ought to find him down in Jackson’s Pocket, if the drive is from Round Top to-day. But you can ask about that along the road.”

When the boy had gone, Arlie turned to Fraser.

“I want to tell father you’re here before Jed gets to him with his story,” she explained. “I’ve asked him to ride down right away. He’ll probably come in a few hours and spend the night here.”

After they had eaten supper they returned to the living room, where a great fire, built by Jim the negro horse wrangler, was roaring up the chimney.

It was almost eleven o’clock when horses galloped up and Dillon came into the house, followed by Jed Briscoe. The latter looked triumphant, the former embarrassed as he disgorged letters and newspapers from his pocket.

“I stopped at the office to get the mail as I came down. Here’s yore paper, Ruth.”

Miss Dillon pounced eagerly upon the Gimlet Butte Avalanche, and disappeared with it to her bedroom. She had formerly lived in Gimlet Butte, and was still keenly interested in the gossip of the town.

Briscoe had scored one against Arlie by meeting her father, telling his side of the story, and returning with him to the house. Nevertheless Arlie, after giving him the slightest nod her duty as hostess would permit, made her frontal attack without hesitation.

“You’ll be glad to know, dad, that Mr. Fraser is our guest. He has had rather a stormy time since we saw him last, and he has consented to stay with us a few days till things blow over.”

Dillon, very ill at ease, shook hands with the Texan, and was understood to say that he was glad to see him.

“Then you don’t look it, dad,” Arlie told him, with a gleam of vexed laughter.

Her father turned reproachfully upon her. “Now, honey, yo’ done wrong to say that. Yo’ know Mr. Fraser is welcome to stay in my house long as he wants. I’m proud to have him stay. Do you think I forgot already what he done for us?”

“Of course not. Then it’s all settled,” Arlie cut in, and rushed on to another subject. “How’s the round-up coming, dad?”

“We’ll talk about the round-up later. What I’m saying is that Mr, Fraser has only got to say the word, and I’m there to he’p him till the cows come home.”

“That’s just what I told him, dad.”

“Hold yore hawsses, will yo’, honey? But, notwithstanding which, and not backing water on that proposition none, we come to another p’int.”

“Which Jed made to you carefully on the way down,” his daughter interrupted scornfully.

“It don’t matter who made it. The p’int is that there are reasons why strangers ain’t exactly welcome in this valley right now, Mr. Fraser. This country is full o’ suspicion. Whilst it’s onjust, charges are being made against us on the outside. Right now the settlers here have got to guard against furriners. Now I know yo’re all right, Mr. Fraser. But my neighbors don’t know it.”

“It was our lives he saved, not our neighbors’,” scoffed Arlie.

“K’rect. So I say, Mr. Fraser, if yo’ are out o’ funds, I’ll finance you. Wherever you want to go I’ll see you git there, but I hain’t got the right to invite you to stay in Lost Valley.”

“Better send him to Gimlet Butte, dad! He killed a man in helping us to escape, and he ‘s wanted bad! He broke jail to get here! Pay his expenses back to the Butte! Then if there’s a reward, you and Jed can divide it!” his daughter jeered.

“What’s that? Killed a man, yo’ say?”

“Yes. To save us. Shall we send him back under a rifle guard? Or shall we have Sheriff Brandt come and get him?”

“Gracious goodness, gyurl, shet up whilst I think. Killed a man, eh? This valley has always been open to fugitives. Ain’t that right, Jed?”

“To fugitives, yes,” said Jed significantly. “But that fact ain’t proved.”

“Jed’s getting right important. We’ll soon be asking him whether we can stay here,” said Arlie, with a scornful laugh. “And I say it is proved. We met the deputies the yon side of the big ca�on.”

Briscoe looked at her out of dogged, half-shuttered eyes. He said nothing, but he looked the picture of malice.

Dillon rasped his stubbly chin and looked at the Texan. Far from an alert-minded man, he came to conclusions slowly. Now he arrived at one.

“Dad burn it, we’ll take the ‘fugitive’ for granted. Yo’ kin lie up here long as yo’ like, friend. I’ll guarantee yo’ to my neighbors. I reckon if they don’t like it they kin lump it. I ain’t a-going to give up the man that saved my gyurl’s life.”

The door opened and let in Miss Ruth Dillon. The little old lady had the newspaper in her hand, and her beady eyes were shining with excitement.

“It’s all in here, Mr. Fraser— about your capture and escape. But you didn’t tell us all of it. Perhaps you didn’t know, though, that they had plans to storm the jail and hang you?”

“Yes, I knew that,” the Texan answered coolly. “The jailer told me what was coming to me. I decided not to wait and see whether he was lying. I wrenched a bar from the window, lowered myself by my bedding, flew the coop, and borrowed a horse. That’s the whole story, ma’am, except that Miss Arlie brought me here to hide me.”

“Read aloud what the paper says,” Dillon ordered.

His sister handed the Avalanche to her niece. Arlie found the article and began to read:

“A dastardly outrage occurred three miles from Gimlet Butte last night. While on their way home from the trial of the well-known Three Pines sheep raid case, a small party of citizens were attacked by miscreants presumed to be from the Cedar Mountain country. How many of these there were we have no means of knowing, as the culprits disappeared in the mountains after murdering William Faulkner, a well-known sheep man, and wounding Tom Long.”

There followed a lurid account of the battle, written from the point of view of the other side. After which the editor paid his respects to Fraser, though not by name.

“One of the ruffians, for some unknown reason— perhaps in the hope of getting a chance to slay another victim— remained too long near the scene of the atrocity and was apprehended early this morning by that fearless deputy, James Schilling. He refused to give his name or any other information about himself. While the man is a stranger to Gimlet Butte, there can be no doubt that he is one of the Lost Valley desperadoes implicated in the Squaw Creek raid some months ago. Since the bullet that killed Faulkner was probably fired from the rifle carried by this man, it is safe to assume that the actual murderer was apprehended. The man is above medium height, well built and muscular, and carries all the earmarks of a desperate character.”

Arlie glanced up from her reading to smile at Fraser. “Dad and I are miscreants, and you are a ruffian and a desperate character,” she told him