The Lone Star Ranger and the Mysterious Rider (27 page)

Then the prisoner, Snecker, with a cough that broke the spell of silence, shuffled a couple of steps toward the door.

“Hold on!” called Duane. The call halted Snecker, as if it had been a bullet.

“Longstreth, I saw Snecker attack Laramie,” said Duane, his voice still ringing. “What has the court to say to that?”

“The court has this to say. West of the Pecos we'll not aid any ranger service. We don't want you out here. Fairdale doesn't need you.”

“That's a lie, Longstreth,” retorted Duane. “I've letters from Fairdale citizens all begging for ranger service.”

Longstreth turned white. The veins corded at his temples. He appeared about to burst into rage. He was at a loss for quick reply.

Floyd Lawson rushed in and up to the table. The blood showed black and thick in his face; his utterance was incoherent, his uncontrollable outbreak of temper seemed out of all proportion to any cause he should reasonably have had for anger. Longstreth shoved him back with a curse and a warning glare.

“Where's your warrant to arrest Snecker?” shouted Longstreth.

“I don't need warrants to make arrests. Longstreth, you're ignorant of the power of Texas Rangers.”

“You'll come none of your damned ranger stunts out here. I'll block you.”

That passionate reply of Longstreth's was the signal Duane had been waiting for. He had helped on the crisis. He wanted to force Longstreth's hand and show the town his stand.

Duane backed clear of everybody.

“Men! I call on you all!” cried Duane, piercingly. “I call on you to witness the arrest of a criminal prevented by Longstreth, Mayor of Fairdale. It will be recorded in the report to the Adjutant-General at Austin. Longstreth, you'll never prevent another arrest.”

Longstreth sat white with working jaw.

“Longstreth, you've shown your hand,” said Duane, in a voice that carried far and held those who heard. “Any honest citizen of Fairdale can now see what's plain—yours is a damn poor hand! You're going to hear me call a spade a spade. In the two years you've been Mayor you've never arrested one rustler. Strange, when Fairdale's a nest for rustlers! You've never sent a prisoner to Del Rio, let alone to Austin. You have no jail. There have been nine murders during your office—innumerable street-fights and holdups. Not one arrest! But you have ordered arrests for trivial offenses, and have punished these out of all proportion. There have been lawsuits in your court—suits over water-rights, cattle deals, property lines. Strange how in these lawsuits you or Lawson or other men close to you were always involved! Strange how it seems the law was stretched to favor your interest!”

Duane paused in his cold, ringing speech. In the silence, both outside and inside the hall, could be heard the deep breathing of agitated men. Longstreth was indeed a study. Yet did he betray anything but rage at this interloper?

“Longstreth, here's plain talk for you and Fairdale,” went on Duane. “I don't accuse you and your court of dishonesty. I say
strange
! Law here has been a farce. The motive behind all this laxity isn't plain to me—yet. But I call your hand!”

CHAPTER 17

Duane left the hall, elbowed his way through the crowd, and went down the street. He was certain that on the faces of some men he had seen ill-concealed wonder and satisfaction. He had struck some kind of a hot trail, and he meant to see where it led. It was by no means unlikely that Cheseldine might be at the other end. Duane controlled a mounting eagerness. But ever and anon it was shot through with a remembrance of Ray Longstreth. He suspected her father of being not what he pretended. He might, very probably would, bring sorrow and shame to this young woman. The thought made him smart with pain. She began to haunt him, and then he was thinking more of her beauty and sweetness than of the disgrace he might bring upon her. Some strange emotion, long locked inside Duane's heart, knocked to be heard, to be let out. He was troubled.

Upon returning to the inn he found Laramie there, apparently none the worse for his injury.

“How are you, Laramie?” he asked.

“Reckon I'm feelin' as well as could be expected,” replied Laramie. His head was circled by a bandage that did not conceal the lump where he had been struck. He looked pale, but was bright enough.

“That was a good crack Snecker gave you,” remarked Duane.

“I ain't accusin' Bo,” remonstrated Laramie, with eyes that made Duane thoughtful.

“Well, I accuse him. I caught him—took him to Longstreth's court. But they let him go.”

Laramie appeared to be agitated by this intimation of friendship.

“See here, Laramie,” went on Duane, “in some parts of Texas it's policy to be close-mouthed. Policy and health-preserving! Between ourselves, I want you to know I lean on your side of the fence.”

Laramie gave a quick start. Presently Duane turned and frankly met his gaze. He had startled Laramie out of his habitual set taciturnity; but even as he looked the light that might have been amaze and joy faded out of his face, leaving it the same old mask. Still Duane had seen enough. Like a bloodhound he had a scent.

“Talking about work, Laramie, who'd you say Snecker worked for?”

“I didn't say.”

“Well, say so now, can't you? Laramie, you're powerful peevish to-day. It's that bump on your head. Who does Snecker work for?”

“When he works at all, which sure ain't often, he rides for Longstreth.”

“Humph! Seems to me that Longstreth's the whole circus round Fairdale. I was some sore the other day to find I was losing good money at Longstreth's faro game. Sure if I'd won I wouldn't have been sore—ha, ha! But I was surprised to hear some one say Longstreth owned the Hope So joint.”

“He owns considerable property hereabouts.” replied Laramie, constrainedly.

“Humph again! Laramie, like every other fellow I meet in this town, you're afraid to open your trap about Longstreth. Get me straight, Laramie. I don't care a damn for Colonel Mayor Longstreth. And for cause I'd throw a gun on him just as quick as on any rustler in Pecos.”

“Talk's cheap,” replied Laramie, making light of his bluster, but the red was deeper in his face.

“Sure. I know that,” Duane said. “And usually I don't talk. Then it's not well known that Longstreth owns the Hope So?”

“Reckon it's known in Pecos, all right. But Longstreth's name isn't connected with the Hope So. Blandy runs the place.”

“That Blandy. His faro game's crooked, or I'm a locoed bronch. Not that we don't have lots of crooked faro-dealers. A fellow can stand for them. But Blandy's mean, back-handed, never looks you in the eyes. That Hope So place ought to be run by a good fellow like you, Laramie.”

“Thanks,” replied he; and Duane imagined his voice a little husky. “Didn't you hear I used to—run it?”

“No. Did you?” Duane said, quickly.

“I reckon. I built the place, made additions twice, owned it for eleven years.”

“Well, I'll be doggoned.” It was indeed Duane's turn to be surprised, and with the surprise came a glimmering. “I'm sorry you're not there now. Did you sell out?”

“No. Just lost the place.”

Laramie was bursting for relief now—to talk, to tell. Sympathy had made him soft.

“It was two years ago—two years last March,” he went on. “I was in a big cattle deal with Longstreth. We got the stock—an' my share, eighteen hundred head, was rustled off. I owed Longstreth. He pressed me. It come to a lawsuit—an' I—was ruined.”

It hurt Duane to look at Laramie. He was white, and tears rolled down his cheeks. Duane saw the bitterness, the defeat, the agony of the man. He had failed to meet his obligations; nevertheless, he had been swindled. All that he suppressed, all that would have been passion had the man's spirit not been broken, lay bare for Duane to see. He had now the secret of his bitterness. But the reason he did not openly accuse Longstreth, the secret of his reticence and fear—these Duane thought best to try to learn at some later time.

“Hard luck! It certainly was tough,” Duane said. “But you're a good loser. And the wheel turns! Now, Laramie, here's what. I need your advice. I've got a little money. But before I lose it I want to invest some. Buy some stock, or buy an interest in some rancher's herd. What I want you to steer me on is a good square rancher. Or maybe a couple of ranchers, if there happen to be two honest ones. Ha, ha! No deals with ranchers who ride in the dark with rustlers! I've a hunch Fairdale is full of them. Now, Laramie, you've been here for years. Sure you must know a couple of men above suspicion.”

“Thank God I do,” he replied, feelingly. “Frank Morton an' Si Zimmer, my friends an' neighbors all my prosperous days, an' friends still. You can gamble on Frank an' Si. But if you want advice from me—don't invest money in stock now.”

“Why?”

“Because any new feller buyin' stock these days will be rustled quicker 'n he can say Jack Robinson. The pioneers, the new cattlemen—these are easy pickin' for the rustlers. Lord knows all the ranchers are easy enough pickin'. But the new fellers have to learn the ropes. They don't know anythin' or anybody. An' the old ranchers are wise an' sore. They'd fight if they—”

“What?” Duane put in, as he paused. “If they knew who was rustling the stock?”

“Nope.”

“If they had the nerve?”

“Not thet so much.”

“What then? What'd make them fight?”

“A leader!”

“Howdy thar, Jim,” boomed a big voice.

A man of great bulk, with a ruddy, merry face, entered the room.

“Hello, Morton,” replied Laramie. “I'd introduce you to my guest here, but I don't know his name.”

“Haw! Haw! Thet's all right. Few men out hyar go by their right names.”

“Say, Morton,” put in Duane, “Laramie gave me a hunch you'd be a good man to tie to. Now, I've a little money and before I lose it I'd like to invest it in stock.”

Morton smiled broadly.

“I'm on the square,” Duane said, bluntly. “If you fellows never size up your neighbors any better than you have sized me—well, you won't get any richer.”

It was enjoyment for Duane to make his remarks to these men pregnant with meaning. Morton showed his pleasure, his interest, but his faith held aloof.

“I've got some money. Will you let me in on some kind of deal? Will you start me up as a stockman with a little herd all my own?”

“Wal, stranger, to come out flat-footed, you'd be foolish to buy cattle now. I don't want to take your money an' see you lose out. Better go back across the Pecos where the rustlers ain't so strong. I haven't had more'n twenty-five hundred herd of stock for ten years. The rustlers let me hang on to a breedin' herd. Kind of them, ain't it?”

“Sort of kind. All I hear is rustlers, Morton,” replied Duane, with impatience. “You see, I haven't ever lived long in a rustler-run county. Who heads the gang, anyway?”

Morton looked at Duane with a curiously amused smile, then snapped his big jaw as if to shut in impulsive words.

“Look here, Morton. It stands to reason, no matter how strong these rustlers are, how hidden their work, however involved with supposedly honest men—they
can't
last.”

“They come with the pioneers, an' they'll last till thar's a single steer left,” he declared.

“Well, if you take that view of circumstances I just figure you as one of the rustlers!”

Morton looked as if he were about to brain Duane with the butt of his whip. His anger flashed by then, evidently as unworthy of him; and, something striking him as funny, he boomed out a laugh.

“It's not so funny,” Duane went on. “If you're going to pretend a yellow streak, what else will I think?”

“Pretend?” he repeated.

“Sure. I know men of nerve. And here they're not any different from those in other places. I say if you show anything like a lack of sand it's all bluff. By nature you've got nerve. There are a lot of men around Fairdale who're afraid of their shadows—afraid to be out after dark—afraid to open their mouths. But you're not one. So I say if you claim these rustlers will last you're pretending lack of nerve just to help the popular idea along. For they
can't
last. What you need out here is some new blood. Savvy what I mean?”

“Wal, I reckon I do,” he replied, looking as if a storm had blown over him. “Stranger, I'll look you up the next time I come to town.”

Then he went out.

Laramie had eyes like flint striking fire.

He breathed a deep breath and looked around the room before his gaze fixed again on Duane.

“Wal,” he replied, speaking low. “You've picked the right men. Now, who in the hell are you?”

Reaching into the inside pocket of his buckskin vest Duane turned the lining out. A star-shaped bright silver object flashed as he shoved it, pocket and all, under Jim's hard eyes.

“Ranger!”
he whispered, cracking the table with his fist. “You sure rung true to me.”

“Laramie, do you know who's boss of this secret gang of rustlers hereabouts?” asked Duane, bluntly. It was characteristic of him to come sharp to the point. His voice—something deep, easy, cool about him—seemed to steady Laramie.

“No,” replied Laramie.

“Does anybody know?” went on Duane.

“Wal, I reckon there's not one honest native who
knows.
”

“But you have your suspicions?”

“We have.”

“Give me your idea about this crowd that hangs round the saloons—the regulars.”

“Jest a bad lot,” replied Laramie, with the quick assurance of knowledge. “Most of them have been here years. Others have drifted in. Some of them work, odd times. They rustle a few steers, steal, rob, anythin' for a little money to drink an' gamble. Jest a bad lot!”