The Lone Star Ranger and the Mysterious Rider (29 page)

Duane went often to see Mrs. Laramie and her children. One afternoon while he was there he saw Miss Longstreth and Ruth ride up to the door. They carried a basket. Evidently they had heard of Mrs. Laramie's trouble. Duane felt strangely glad, but he went into an adjoining room rather than meet them.

“Mrs. Laramie, I've come to see you,” said Miss Longstreth, cheerfully.

The little room was not very light, there being only one window and the doors, but Duane could see plainly enough. Mrs. Laramie lay, hollow-cheeked and haggard, on a bed. Once she had evidently been a woman of some comeliness. The ravages of trouble and grief were there to read in her worn face; it had not, however, any of the hard and bitter lines that had characterized her husband's.

Duane wondered, considering that Longstreth had ruined Laramie, how Mrs. Laramie was going to regard the daughter of an enemy.

“So you're Granger Longstreth's girl?” queried the woman, with her bright, black eyes fixed on her visitor.

“Yes,” replied Miss Longstreth, simply. “This is my cousin, Ruth Herbert. We've come to nurse you, take care of the children, help you in any way you'll let us.”

There was a long silence.

“Well, you look a little like Longstreth,” finally said Mrs. Laramie, “but you're not
at all
like him. You must take after your mother. Miss Longstreth, I don't know if I can—if I ought accept anything from you. Your father ruined my husband.”

“Yes, I know,” replied the girl, sadly. “That's all the more reason you should let me help you. Pray don't refuse. It will—mean so much to me.”

If this poor, stricken woman had any resentment it speedily melted in the warmth and sweetness of Miss Longstreth's manner. Duane's idea was that the impression of Ray Longstreth's beauty was always swiftly succeeded by that of her generosity and nobility. At any rate, she had started well with Mrs. Laramie, and no sooner had she begun to talk to the children than both they and the mother were won. The opening of that big basket was an event. Poor, starved little beggars! Duane's feelings seemed too easily roused. Hard indeed would it have gone with Jim Laramie's slayer if he could have laid eyes on him then. However, Miss Longstreth and Ruth, after the nature of tender and practical girls, did not appear to take the sad situation to heart. The havoc was wrought in that household. The needs now were cheerfulness, kindness, help, action—and these the girls furnished with a spirit that did Duane good.

“Mrs. Laramie, who dressed this baby?” presently asked Miss Longstreth. Duane peeped in to see a dilapidated youngster on her knee. That sight if any other was needed, completed his full and splendid estimate of Ray Longstreth and wrought strangely upon his heart.

“The ranger,” replied Mrs. Laramie.

“The ranger!” exclaimed Miss Longstreth.

“Yes, he's taken care of us all since—since—” Mrs. Laramie choked.

“Oh! So you've had no help but his,” replied Miss Longstreth, hastily. “No women. Too bad! I'll send some one, Mrs. Laramie, and I'll come myself.”

“It'll be good of you,” went on the older woman. “You see, Jim had few friends—that is, right in town. And they've been afraid to help us—afraid they'd get what poor Jim—”

“That's awful!” burst out Miss Longstreth, passionately. “A brave lot of friends! Mrs. Laramie, don't you worry any more. We'll take care of you. Here, Ruth, help me. Whatever is the matter with baby's dress?”

Manifestly Miss Longstreth had some difficulty in subduing her emotion.

“Why, it's on hind side before,” declared Ruth. “I guess Mr. Ranger hasn't dressed many babies.”

“He did the best he could,” said Mrs. Laramie. “Lord only knows what would have become of us!”

“Then he is—is something more than a ranger?” queried Miss Longstreth, with a little break in her voice.

“He's more than I can tell,” replied Mrs. Laramie. “He buried Jim. He paid our debts. He fetched us here. He bought food for us. He cooked for us and fed us. He washed and dressed the baby. He sat with me the first two nights after Jim's death, when I thought I'd die myself. He's so kind, so gentle, so patient. He has kept me up just by being near. Sometimes I'd wake from a doze, an', seeing him there, I'd know how false were all these tales Jim heard about him and believed at first. Why, he plays with the children just—just like any good man might. When he has the baby up I just can't believe he's a bloody gunman, as they say. He's good, but he isn't happy. He has such sad eyes. He looks far off sometimes when the children climb round him. They love him. His life is sad. Nobody need tell me—he sees the good in things. Once he said somebody had to be a ranger. Well, I say, ‘Thank God for a ranger like him!'”

Duane did not want to hear more, so he walked into the room.

“It was thoughtful of you,” Duane said. “Womankind are needed here. I could do so little. Mrs. Laramie, you look better already. I'm glad. And here's baby, all clean and white. Baby, what a time I had trying to puzzle out the way your clothes went on! Well, Mrs. Laramie, didn't I tell you—friends would come? So will the brighter side.”

“Yes, I've more faith than I had,” replied Mrs. Laramie. “Granger Longstreth's daughter has come to me. There for a while after Jim's death I thought I'd sink. We have nothing. How could I ever take care of my little ones? But I'm gaining courage to—”

“Mrs. Laramie, do not distress yourself any more,” said Miss Longstreth. “I shall see you are well cared for. I promise you.”

“Miss Longstreth, that's fine!” exclaimed Duane. “It's what I'd have—expected of you.”

It must have been sweet praise to her, for the whiteness of her face burned out in a beautiful blush.

“And it's good of you, too, Miss Herbert, to come,” added Duane. “Let me thank you both. I'm glad I have you girls as allies in part of my lonely task here. More than glad for the sake of this good woman and the little ones. But both of you be careful about coming here alone. There's risk. And now I'll be going. Good-by, Mrs. Laramie. I'll drop in again to-night. Good-by.”

“Mr. Ranger, wait!” called Miss Longstreth, as he went out. She was white and wonderful. She stepped out of the door close to him.

“I have wronged you!” she said, impulsively.

“Miss Longstreth! How can you say that?” he returned.

“I believed what my father and Floyd Lawson said about you. Now I see—I wronged you.”

“You make me very glad. But, Miss Longstreth, please don't speak of wronging me. I have been a—a gunman, I
am
a ranger—and much said of me is true. My duty is hard on others—sometimes on those who are innocent, alas! But God knows that duty is hard, too, on me.”

“I did wrong you. If you entered my home again I would think it an honor. I—”

“Please—please don't, Miss Longstreth,” interrupted Duane.

“But, sir, my conscience flays me,” she went on. There was no other sound like her voice. “Will you take my hand? Will you forgive me?”

She gave it royally, while the other was there pressing at her breast. Duane took the proffered hand. He did not know what else to do.

Then it seemed to dawn upon him that there was more behind this white, sweet, noble intensity of her than just the making amends for a fancied or real wrong. Duane thought the man did not live on earth who could have resisted her then.

“I honor you for your goodness to this unfortunate woman,” she said, and now her speech came swiftly. “When she was all alone and helpless you were her friend. It was the deed of a man. But Mrs. Laramie isn't the only unfortunate woman in the world. I, too, am unfortunate. Ah, how
I
may soon need a friend! Will
you
be my friend? I'm so alone. I'm terribly worried. I fear—I fear— Oh, surely I'll need a friend soon—soon. Oh, I'm afraid of what you'll find out sooner or later. I want to help you. Let us save life if not honor. Must I stand alone—all alone? Will you—will you be—” Her voice failed.

It seemed to Duane that she must have discovered what he had begun to suspect—that her father and Lawson were not the honest ranchers they pretended to be. Perhaps she knew more! Her appeal to Duane shook him deeply. He wanted to help her more than he had ever wanted anything. And with the meaning of the tumultuous sweetness she stirred in him there came realization of a dangerous situation.

“I must be true to my duty,” he said, hoarsely.

“If you knew me you'd know I could never ask you to be false to it.”

“Well, then—I'll do anything for you.”

“Oh, thank you! I'm ashamed that I believed my cousin Floyd! He lied—he lied. I'm all in the dark, strangely distressed. My father wants me to go back home. Floyd is trying to keep me here. They've quarreled. Oh, I know something dreadful will happen. I know I'll need you if—if— Will you help me?”

“Yes,” replied Duane, and his look brought the blood to her face.

CHAPTER 19

After supper Duane stole out for his usual evening's spying. The night was dark, without starlight, and a stiff wind rustled the leaves. Duane bent his steps toward Longstreth's ranch-house. He had so much to think about that he never knew where the time went. This night when he reached the edge of the shrubbery he heard Lawson's well-known footsteps and saw Longstreth's door open, flashing a broad bar of light in the darkness. Lawson crossed the threshold, the door closed, and all was dark again outside. Not a ray of light escaped from the window.

Little doubt there was that his talk with Longstreth would be interesting to Duane. He tiptoed to the door and listened, but could hear only a murmur of voices. Besides, that position was too risky. He went round the corner of the house.

This side of the big adobe house was of much older construction than the back and larger part. There was a narrow passage between the houses, leading from the outside through to the patio.

This passage now afforded Duane an opportunity, and he decided to avail himself of it in spite of the very great danger. Crawling on very stealthily, he got under the shrubbery to the entrance of the passage. In the blackness a faint streak of light showed the location of a crack in the wall. He had to slip in sidewise. It was a tight squeeze, but he entered without the slightest noise. As he progressed the passage grew a very little wider in that direction, and that fact gave rise to the thought that in case of a necessary and hurried exit he would do best by working toward the patio. It seemed a good deal of time was consumed in reaching a vantage-point. When he did get there the crack he had marked was a foot over his head. There was nothing to do but find toe-holes in the crumbling walls, and by bracing knees on one side, back against the other, hold himself up. Once with his eye there he did not care what risk he ran. Longstreth appeared disturbed; he sat stroking his mustache; his brow was clouded. Lawson's face seemed darker, more sullen, yet lighted by some indomitable resolve.

“We'll settle both deals to-night,” Lawson was saying. “That's what I came for.”

“But suppose I don't choose to talk here?” protested Longstreth, impatiently. “I never before made my house a place to—”

“We've waited long enough. This place 's as good as any. You've lost your nerve since that ranger hit the town. First now, will you give Ray to me?”

“Floyd, you talk like a spoiled boy. Give Ray to you! Why, she's a woman, and I'm finding out that she's got a mind of her own. I told you I was willing for her to marry you. I tried to persuade her. But Ray hasn't any use for you now. She liked you at first. But now she doesn't. So what can I do?”

“You can make her marry me,” replied Lawson.

“Make that girl do what she doesn't want to? It couldn't be done even if I tried. And I don't believe I'll try. I haven't the highest opinion of you as a prospective son-in-law, Floyd. But if Ray loved you I would consent. We'd all go away together before this damned miserable business is out. Then she'd never know. And maybe you might be more like you used to be before the West ruined you. But as matters stand, you fight your own game with her. And I'll tell you now you'll lose.”

“What 'd you want to let her come out here for?” demanded Lawson, hotly. “It was a dead mistake. I've lost my head over her. I'll have her or die. Don't you think if she was my wife I'd soon pull myself together? Since she came nothing has been right. And the gang has put up a holler. No, Longstreth, we've got to settle things to-night.”

“Well, we can settle what Ray's concerned in, right now,” replied Longstreth, rising. “Come on; we'll ask her. See where you stand.”

They went out, leaving the door open. Duane dropped down to rest himself and to wait. He would have liked to hear Miss Longstreth's answer. But he could guess what it would be. Lawson appeared to be all Duane had thought him, and he believed he was going to find out presently that he was worse.

The men seemed to be absent a good while, though that feeling might have been occasioned by Duane's thrilling interest and anxiety. Finally he heard heavy steps. Lawson came in alone. He was leaden-faced, humiliated. Then something abject in him gave place to rage. He strode the room; he cursed. Then Longstreth returned, now appreciably calmer. Duane could not but decide that he felt relief at the evident rejection of Lawson's proposal.

“Don't fuss about it, Floyd,” he said. “You see I can't help it. We're pretty wild out here, but I can't rope my daughter and give her to you as I would an unruly steer.”

“Longstreth, I can
make
her marry me,” declared Lawson, thickly.

“How?”

“You know the hold I got on you—the deal that made you boss of this rustler gang?”