The Lone Star Ranger by Zane Grey (red white and royal blue hardcover .txt) 📖

When Duane reached the crossing of the roads the name Fairfield on the sign-post seemed to be the thing that tipped the oscillating balance of decision in favor of that direction.

He answered here to unfathomable impulse. If he had been driven to hunt up Jeff Aiken, now he was called to find this unknown ranger captain. In Duane’s state of mind clear reasoning, common sense, or keenness were out of the question. He went because he felt he was compelled.

Dusk had fallen when he rode into a town which inquiry discovered to be Fairfield. Captain MacNelly’s camp was stationed just out of the village limits on the other side.

No one except the boy Duane questioned appeared to notice his arrival. Like Shirley, the town of Fairfield was large and prosperous, compared to the innumerable hamlets dotting the vast extent of southwestern Texas. As Duane rode through, being careful to get off the main street, he heard the tolling of a church-bell that was a melancholy reminder of his old home.

There did not appear to be any camp on the outskirts of the town. But as Duane sat his horse, peering around and undecided what further move to make, he caught the glint of flickering lights through the darkness. Heading toward them, he rode perhaps a quarter of a mile to come upon a grove of mesquite. The brightness of several fires made the surrounding darkness all the blacker. Duane saw the moving forms of men and heard horses. He advanced naturally, expecting any moment to be halted.

“Who goes there?” came the sharp call out of the gloom.

Duane pulled his horse. The gloom was impenetrable.

“One man—alone,” replied Duane.

“A stranger?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want?”

“I’m trying to find the ranger camp.”

“You’ve struck it. What’s your errand?”

“I want to see Captain MacNelly.”

“Get down and advance. Slow. Don’t move your hands. It’s dark, but I can see.”

Duane dismounted, and, leading his horse, slowly advanced a few paces. He saw a dully bright object—a gun—before he discovered the man who held it. A few more steps showed a dark figure blocking the trail. Here Duane halted.

“Come closer, stranger. Let’s have a look at you,” the guard ordered, curtly.

Duane advanced again until he stood before the man. Here the rays of light from the fires flickered upon Duane’s face.

“Reckon you’re a stranger, all right. What’s your name and your business with the Captain?”

Duane hesitated, pondering what best to say.

“Tell Captain MacNelly I’m the man he’s been asking to ride into his camp—after dark,” finally said Duane.

The ranger bent forward to peer hard at this night visitor. His manner had been alert, and now it became tense.

“Come here, one of you men, quick,” he called, without turning in the least toward the camp-fire.

“Hello! What’s up, Pickens?” came the swift reply. It was followed by a rapid thud of boots on soft ground. A dark form crossed the gleams from the fire-light. Then a ranger loomed up to reach the side of the guard. Duane heard whispering, the purport of which he could not catch. The second ranger swore under his breath. Then he turned away and started back.

“Here, ranger, before you go, understand this. My visit is peaceful—friendly if you’ll let it be. Mind, I was asked to come here—after dark.”

Duane’s clear, penetrating voice carried far. The listening rangers at the camp-fire heard what he said.

“Ho, Pickens! Tell that fellow to wait,” replied an authoritative voice. Then a slim figure detached itself from the dark, moving group at the camp-fire and hurried out.

“Better be foxy, Cap,” shouted a ranger, in warning.

“Shut up—all of you,” was the reply.

This officer, obviously Captain MacNelly, soon joined the two rangers who were confronting Duane. He had no fear. He strode straight up to Duane.

“I’m MacNelly,” he said. “If you’re my man, don’t mention your name—yet.”

All this seemed so strange to Duane, in keeping with much that had happened lately.

“I met Jeff Aiken to-day,” said Duane. “He sent me—”

“You’ve met Aiken!” exclaimed MacNelly, sharp, eager, low. “By all that’s bully!” Then he appeared to catch himself, to grow restrained.

“Men, fall back, leave us alone a moment.”

The rangers slowly withdrew.

“Buck Duane! It’s you?” he whispered, eagerly.

“Yes.”

“If I give my word you’ll not be arrested—you’ll be treated fairly—will you come into camp and consult with me?”

“Certainly.”

“Duane, I’m sure glad to meet you,” went on MacNelly; and he extended his hand.

Amazed and touched, scarcely realizing this actuality, Duane gave his hand and felt no unmistakable grip of warmth.

“It doesn’t seem natural, Captain MacNelly, but I believe I’m glad to meet you,” said Duane, soberly.

“You will be. Now we’ll go back to camp. Keep your identity mum for the present.”

He led Duane in the direction of the camp-fire.

“Pickers, go back on duty,” he ordered, “and, Beeson, you look after this horse.”

When Duane got beyond the line of mesquite, which had hid a good view of the camp-site, he saw a group of perhaps fifteen rangers sitting around the fires, near a long low shed where horses were feeding, and a small adobe house at one side.

“We’ve just had grub, but I’ll see you get some. Then we’ll talk,” said MacNelly. “I’ve taken up temporary quarters here. Have a rustler job on hand. Now, when you’ve eaten, come right into the house.”

Duane was hungry, but he hurried through the ample supper that was set before him, urged on by curiosity and astonishment. The only way he could account for his presence there in a ranger’s camp was that MacNelly hoped to get useful information out of him. Still that would hardly have made this captain so eager. There was a mystery here, and Duane could scarcely wait for it to be solved. While eating he had bent keen eyes around him. After a first quiet scrutiny the rangers apparently paid no more attention to him. They were all veterans in service—Duane saw that—and rugged, powerful men of iron constitution. Despite the occasional joke and sally of the more youthful members, and a general conversation of camp-fire nature, Duane was not deceived about the fact that his advent had been an unusual and striking one, which had caused an undercurrent of conjecture and even consternation among them. These rangers were too well trained to appear openly curious about their captain’s guest. If they had not deliberately attempted to be oblivious of his presence Duane would have concluded they thought him an ordinary visitor, somehow of use to MacNelly. As it was, Duane felt a suspense that must have been due to a hint of his identity.

He was not long in presenting himself at the door of the house.

“Come in and have a chair,” said MacNelly, motioning for the one other occupant of the room to rise. “Leave us, Russell, and close the door. I’ll be through these reports right off.”

MacNelly sat at a table upon which was a lamp and various papers. Seen in the light he was a fine-looking, soldierly man of about forty years, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a bronzed face, shrewd, stern, strong, yet not wanting in kindliness. He scanned hastily over some papers, fussed with them, and finally put them in envelopes. Without looking up he pushed a cigar-case toward Duane, and upon Duane’s refusal to smoke he took a cigar, rose to light it at the lamp-chimney, and then, settling back in his chair, he faced Duane, making a vain attempt to hide what must have been the fulfilment of a long-nourished curiosity.

“Duane, I’ve been hoping for this for two years,” be began.

Duane smiled a little—a smile that felt strange on his face. He had never been much of a talker. And speech here seemed more than ordinarily difficult.

MacNelly must have felt that.

He looked long and earnestly at Duane, and his quick, nervous manner changed to grave thoughtfulness.

“I’ve lots to say, but where to begin,” he mused. “Duane, you’ve had a hard life since you went on the dodge. I never met you before, don’t know what you looked like as a boy. But I can see what—well, even ranger life isn’t all roses.”

He rolled his cigar between his lips and puffed clouds of smoke.

“Ever hear from home since you left Wellston?” he asked, abruptly.

“No.”

“Never a word?”

“Not one,” replied Duane, sadly.

“That’s tough. I’m glad to be able to tell you that up to just lately your mother, sister, uncle—all your folks, I believe—were well. I’ve kept posted. But haven’t heard lately.”

Duane averted his face a moment, hesitated till the swelling left his throat, and then said, “It’s worth what I went through to-day to hear that.”

“I can imagine how you feel about it. When I was in the war— but let’s get down to the business of this meeting.”

He pulled his chair close to Duane’s.

“You’ve had word more than once in the last two years that I wanted to see you?”

“Three times, I remember,” replied Duane.

“Why didn’t you hunt me up?”

“I supposed you imagined me one of those gunfighters who couldn’t take a dare and expected me to ride up to your camp and be arrested.”

“That was natural, I suppose,” went on MacNelly. “You didn’t know me, otherwise you would have come. I’ve been a long time getting to you. But the nature of my job, as far as you’re concerned, made me cautious. Duane, you’re aware of the hard name you bear all over the Southwest?”

“Once in a while I’m jarred into realizing,” replied Duane.

“It’s the hardest, barring Murrell and Cheseldine, on the Texas border. But there’s this difference. Murrell in his day was known to deserve his infamous name. Cheseldine in his day also. But I’ve found hundreds of men in southwest Texas who’re your friends, who swear you never committed a crime. The farther south I get the clearer this becomes. What I want to know is the truth. Have you ever done anything criminal? Tell me the truth, Duane. It won’t make any difference in my plan. And