by Zane Grey
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 today,” 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.
“Pickens, 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 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 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,” he 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 le
ft 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 today 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 when I say crime I mean what I would call crime, or any reasonable Texan.”
“That way my hands are clean,” replied Duane.
“You never held up a man, robbed a store for grub, stole a horse when you needed him bad—never anything like that?”
“Somehow I always kept out of that, just when pressed the hardest.”
“Duane, I’m damn glad!” MacNelly exclaimed, gripping Duane’s hand. “Glad for your mother’s sake! But, all the same, in spite of this, you are a Texas outlaw accountable to the state. You’re perfectly aware that under existing circumstances, if you fell into the hands of the law, you’d probably hang, at least go to jail for a long term.”
“That’s what kept me on the dodge all these years,” replied Duane.
“Certainly.” MacNelly removed his cigar. His eyes narrowed and glittered. The muscles along his brown cheeks set hard and tense. He leaned close to Duane, laid sinewy, pressing fingers upon Duane’s knee.
“Listen to this,” he whispered, hoarsely. “If I place a pardon in your hand—make you a free, honest citizen once more, clear your name of infamy, make your mother, your sister proud of you—will you swear yourself to a service, any service I demand of you?”
Duane sat stock still, stunned.
Slowly, more persuasively, with show of earnest agitation, Captain MacNelly reiterated his startling query.
“My God!” burst from Duane. “What’s this? MacNelly, you can’t be in earnest!”
“Never more so in my life. I’ve a deep game. I’m playing it square. What do you say?”
He rose to his feet. Duane, as if impelled, rose with him. Ranger and outlaw then locked eyes that searched each other’s soul. In MacNelly’s Duane read truth, strong, fiery purpose, hope, even gladness, and a fugitive mounting assurance of victory.
Twice Duane endeavored to speak, failed of all save a hoarse, incoherent sound, until, forcing back a flood of speech, he found a voice.
“Any service? Every service! MacNelly, I give my word,” said Duane.
A light played over MacNelly’s face, warming out all the grim darkness. He held out his hand. Duane met it with his in a clasp that men unconsciously give in moments of stress.
When they unclasped and Duane stepped back to drop into a chair MacNelly fumbled for another cigar—he had bitten the other into shreds—and lighting it as before, he turned to his visitor, now calm and cool. He had the look of a man who had justly won something at considerable cost. His next move was to take a long leather case from his pocket and extract from it several folded papers.
“Here’s your pardon from the Governor,” he said, quietly. “You’ll see, when you look it over, that it’s conditional. When you sign the paper I have here the condition will be met.”
He smoothed out the paper, handed Duane a pen, ran his forefinger along a dotted line.
Duane’s hand was shaky. Years had passed since he had held a pen. It was with difficulty that he achieved his signature. Buckley Duane—how strange the name looked!
“Right here ends the career of Buck Duane, outlaw and gun-fighter,” said MacNelly; and, seating himself, he took the pen from Duane’s fingers and wrote several lines in several places upon the paper. Then with a smile he handed it to Duane.
“That makes you a member of Company A, Texas Rangers.”
“So that’s it!” burst out Duane, a light breaking in upon his bewilderment. “You want me for ranger service?”
“Sure. That’s it,” replied the Captain, dryly. “Now to hear what that service is to be. I’ve been a busy man since I took this job, and, as you may have heard, I’ve done a few things. I don’t mind telling you that political influence put me in here and that up Austin way there’s a good deal of friction in the Department of State in regard to whether or not the ranger service is any good—whether it should be discontinued or not. I’m on the party side who’s defending the ranger service. I contend that it’s made Texas habitable. Well, it’s been up to me to produce results. So far I have been successful. My great ambition is to break up the outlaw gangs along the river. I have never ventured in there yet because I’ve been waiting to get the lieutenant I needed. You, of course, are the man I had in mind. It’s my idea to start way up the Rio Grande and begin with Cheseldine. He’s the strongest, the worst outlaw of the times. He’s more than a rustler. It’s Cheseldine and his gang who are operating on the banks. They’re doing bank-robbing. That’s my private opinion, but it’s not been backed up by any evidence. Cheseldine doesn’t leave evidence. He’s intelligent, cunning. No one seems to have seen him—to know what he looks like. I assume, of course, that you are a stranger to the country he dominates. It’s five hundred miles west of your ground. There’s a little town over there called Fairdale. It’s the nest of a rustler gang. They rustle and murder at will. Nobody knows who the leader is. I want you to find out. Well, whatever way you decide is best you will proceed to act upon. You are your own boss. You know such men and how they can be approached. You will take all the time needed, if it’s months. It will be necessary for you to communicate with me, and that will be a difficult matter. For Cheseldine dominates several whole counties. You must find some way to let me know when I and my rangers are needed. The plan is to break up Cheseldine’s gang. It’s the toughest job on the border. Arresting him alone isn’t to be heard of. He couldn’t be brought out. Killing him isn’t much better, for his select men, the ones he operates with, are as dangerous to the community as he is. We want to kill or jail this choice selection of robbers and break up the rest of the gang. To find them, to get among them somehow, to learn their movements, to lay your trap for us rangers to spring—that, Duane, is your service to me, and God knows it’s a great one!”
“I have accepted it,” replied Duane.
“Your work will be secret. You are now a ranger in my service. But no one except the few I choose to tell will know of it until we pull off the job. You will simply be Buck Duane till it suits our purpose to acquaint Texas with the fact that you’re a ranger. You’ll see there’s no date on that paper. No one will ever know when you entered the service. Perhaps we can make it appear that all or most of your outl
awry has really been good service to the state. At that, I’ll believe it’ll turn out so.”
MacNelly paused a moment in his rapid talk, chewed his cigar, drew his brows together in a dark frown, and went on. “No man on the border knows so well as you the deadly nature of this service. It’s a thousand to one that you’ll be killed. I’d say there was no chance at all for any other man beside you. Your reputation will go far among the outlaws. Maybe that and your nerve and your gun-play will pull you through. I’m hoping so. But it’s a long, long chance against your ever coming back.”
“That’s not the point,” said Duane. “But in case I get killed out there—what—”
“Leave that to me,” interrupted Captain MacNelly. “Your folks will know at once of your pardon and your ranger duty. If you lose your life out there I’ll see your name cleared—the service you render known. You can rest assured of that.”
“I am satisfied,” replied Duane. “That’s so much more than I’ve dared to hope.”
“Well, it’s settled, then. I’ll give you money for expenses. You’ll start as soon as you like—the sooner the better. I hope to think of other suggestions, especially about communicating with me.”
Long after the lights were out and the low hum of voices had ceased round the camp-fire Duane lay wide awake, eyes staring into the blackness, marveling over the strange events of the day. He was humble, grateful to the depths of his soul. A huge and crushing burden had been lifted from his heart. He welcomed this hazardous service to the man who had saved him. Thought of his mother and sister and Uncle Jim, of his home, of old friends came rushing over him the first time in years that he had happiness in the memory. The disgrace he had put upon them would now be removed; and in the light of that, his wasted life of the past, and its probably tragic end in future service as atonement changed their aspects. And as he lay there, with the approach of sleep finally dimming the vividness of his thought, so full of mystery, shadowy faces floated in the blackness around him, haunting him as he had always been haunted.
It was broad daylight when he awakened. MacNelly was calling him to breakfast. Outside sounded voices of men, crackling of fires, snorting and stamping of horses, the barking of dogs. Duane rolled out of his blankets and made good use of the soap and towel and razor and brush near by on a bench—things of rare luxury to an outlaw on the ride. The face he saw in the mirror was as strange as the past he had tried so hard to recall. Then he stepped to the door and went out.