The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “Well, old boy, how’s tricks?” he asked easily.

  “Well, old man, did you land that son of a gun in jail?”

  “You bet I did. And he’ll stay there for a while. Del Rio rather liked the idea, Russ. All right there. I side-stepped Sanderson on the way back. But over here at the little village—Sampson they call it—I was held up. Couldn’t help it, because there wasn’t any road around.”

  “Held up?” I queried.

  “That’s it, the buckboard was held up. I got into the brush in time to save my bacon. They began to shoot too soon.”

  “Did you get any of them?”

  “Didn’t stay to see,” he chuckled. “Had to hoof it to Linrock, and it’s a good long walk.”

  “Been to your ’dobe yet tonight?”

  “I slipped in at the back. Russ, it bothered me some to make sure no one was laying for me in the dark.”

  “You’ll have to get a safer place. Why not take to the open every night?”

  “Russ, that’s well enough on a trail. But I need grub, and I’ve got to have a few comforts. I’ll risk the ’dobe yet a little.”

  Then I narrated all that I had seen and done and heard during his absence, holding back one thing. What I did tell him sobered him at once, brought the quiet, somber mood, the thoughtful air.

  “So that’s all. Well, it’s enough.”

  “All pertaining to our job, Vaughn,” I replied. “The rest is sentiment, perhaps. I had a pretty bad case of moons over the little Langdon girl. But we quarreled. And it’s ended now. Just as well, too, because if she’d.…”

  “Russ, did you honestly care for her? The real thing, I mean?”

  “I—I’m afraid so. I’m sort of hurt inside. But, hell! There’s one thing sure, a love affair might have hindered me, made me soft. I’m glad it’s over.”

  He said no more, but his big hand pressing on my knee told me of his sympathy, another indication that there was nothing wanting in this Ranger.

  “The other thing concerns you,” I went on, somehow reluctant now to tell this. “You remember how I heard Wright making you out vile to Miss Sampson? Swore you’d never come back? Well, after he had gone, when Sally said he’d meant you’d be killed, Miss Sampson felt bad about it. She said she ought to be glad if someone killed you, but she couldn’t be. She called you a bloody ruffian, yet she didn’t want you shot.

  “She said some things about the difference between your hideous character and your splendid stature. Called you a magnificent fellow—that was it. Well, then she choked up and confessed something to Sally in shame and disgrace.”

  “Shame—disgrace?” echoed Steele, greatly interested. “What?”

  “She confessed she had been taken with you—had her little dream about you. And she hated herself for it.”

  Never, I thought, would I forget Vaughn Steele’s eyes. It did not matter that it was dark; I saw the fixed gleam, then the leaping, shadowy light.

  “Did she say that?” His voice was not quite steady. “Wonderful! Even if it only lasted a minute! She might—we might—If it wasn’t for this hellish job! Russ, has it dawned on you yet, what I’ve got to do to Diane Sampson?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “Vaughn, you haven’t gone sweet on her?”

  What else could I make of that terrible thing in his eyes? He did not reply to that at all. I thought my arm would break in his clutch.

  “You said you knew what I’ve got to do to Diane Sampson,” he repeated hoarsely.

  “Yes, you’ve got to ruin her happiness, if not her life.”

  “Why? Speak out, Russ. All this comes like a blow. There for a little I hoped you had worked out things differently from me. No hope. Ruin her life! Why?”

  I could explain this strange agitation in Steele in no other way except that realization had brought keen suffering as incomprehensible as it was painful. I could not tell if it came from suddenly divined love for Diane Sampson equally with a poignant conviction that his fate was to wreck her. But I did see that he needed to speak out the brutal truth.

  “Steele, old man, you’ll ruin Diane Sampson, because, as arrest looks improbable to me, you’ll have to kill her father.”

  “My God! Why, why? Say it!”

  “Because Sampson is the leader of the Linrock gang of rustlers.”

  That night before we parted we had gone rather deeply into the plan of action for the immediate future.

  First I gave Steele my earnest counsel and then as stiff an argument as I knew how to put up, all anent the absolute necessity of his eternal vigilance. If he got shot in a fair encounter with his enemies—well, that was a Ranger’s risk and no disgrace. But to be massacred in bed, knifed, in the dark, shot in the back, ambushed in any manner—not one of these miserable ends must be the last record of Vaughn Steele.

  He promised me in a way that made me wonder if he would ever sleep again or turn his back on anyone—made me wonder too, at the menace in his voice. Steele seemed likely to be torn two ways, and already there was a hint of future desperation.

  It was agreed that I make cautious advances to Hoden and Morton, and when I could satisfy myself of their trustworthiness reveal my identity to them. Through this I was to cultivate Zimmer, and then other ranchers whom we should decide could be let into the secret.

  It was not only imperative that we learn through them clues by which we might eventually fix guilt on the rustler gang, but also just as imperative that we develop a band of deputies to help us when the fight began.

  Steele, now that he was back in Linrock, would have the center of the stage, with all eyes upon him. We agreed, moreover, that the bolder the front now the better the chance of ultimate success. The more nerve he showed the less danger of being ambushed, the less peril in facing vicious men.

  But we needed a jail. Prisoners had to be corraled after arrest, or the work would be useless, almost a farce, and there was no possibility of repeating trips to Del Rio.

  We could not use an adobe house for a jail, because that could be easily cut out of or torn down.

  Finally I remembered an old stone house near the end of the main street; it had one window and one door, and had been long in disuse. Steele would rent it, hire men to guard and feed his prisoners; and if these prisoners bribed or fought their way to freedom, that would not injure the great principle for which he stood.

  Both Steele and I simultaneously, from different angles of reasoning, had arrived at a conviction of Sampson’s guilt. It was not so strong as realization; rather a divination.

  Long experience in detecting, in feeling the hidden guilt of men, had sharpened our senses for that particular thing. Steele acknowledged a few mistakes in his day; but I, allowing for the same strength of conviction, had never made a single mistake.

  But conviction was one thing and proof vastly another. Furthermore, when proof was secured, then came the crowning task—that of taking desperate men in a wild country they dominated.

  Verily, Steele and I had our work cut out for us. However, we were prepared to go at it with infinite patience and implacable resolve. Steele and I differed only in the driving incentive; of course, outside of that one binding vow to save the Ranger Service.

  He had a strange passion, almost an obsession, to represent the law of Texas, and by so doing render something of safety and happiness to the honest pioneers.

  Beside Steele I knew I shrunk to a shadow. I was not exactly a heathen, and certainly I wanted to help harassed people, especially women and children; but mainly with me it was the zest, the thrill, the hazard, the matching of wits—in a word, the adventure of the game.

  Next morning I rode with the young ladies. In the light of Sally’s persistently flagrant advances, to which I was apparently blind, I saw that my hard-won victory over self was likely to be short-lived.

  That possibility made me outwardly like ice. I was an attentive, careful, reliable, and respectful attendant, seeing to the safety of my charges; but the one-time gay and debonair co
wboy was a thing of the past.

  Sally, womanlike, had been a little—a very little—repentant; she had showed it, my indifference had piqued her; she had made advances and then my coldness had roused her spirit. She was the kind of girl to value most what she had lost, and to throw consequences to the winds in winning it back.

  When I divined this I saw my revenge. To be sure, when I thought of it I had no reason to want revenge. She had been most gracious to me.

  But there was the catty thing she had said about being kissed again by her admirers. Then, in all seriousness, sentiment aside, I dared not make up with her.

  So the cold and indifferent part I played was imperative.

  We halted out on the ridge and dismounted for the usual little rest. Mine I took in the shade of a scrubby mesquite. The girls strolled away out of sight. It was a drowsy day, and I nearly fell asleep.

  Something aroused me—a patter of footsteps or a rustle of skirts. Then a soft thud behind me gave me at once a start and a thrill. First I saw Sally’s little brown hands on my shoulders. Then her head, with hair all shiny and flying and fragrant, came round over my shoulder, softly smoothing my cheek, until her sweet, saucy, heated face was right under my eyes.

  “Russ, don’t you love me any more?” she whispered.

  CHAPTER 4

  STEELE BREAKS UP THE PARTY

  That night, I saw Steele at our meeting place, and we compared notes and pondered details of our problem.

  Steele had rented the stone house to be used as a jail. While the blacksmith was putting up a door and window calculated to withstand many onslaughts, all the idlers and strangers in town went to see the sight. Manifestly it was an occasion for Linrock. When Steele let it be known that he wanted to hire a jailer and a guard this caustically humorous element offered itself en masse. The men made a joke out of it.

  When Steele and I were about to separate I remembered a party that was to be given by Miss Sampson, and I told him about it. He shook his head sadly, almost doubtfully.

  Was it possible that Sampson could be a deep eyed, cunning scoundrel, the true leader of the cattle rustlers, yet keep that beautiful and innocent girl out on the frontier and let her give parties to sons and daughters of a community he had robbed? To any but remorseless Rangers the idea was incredible.

  Thursday evening came in spite of what the girls must have regarded as an interminably dragging day.

  It was easy to differentiate their attitudes toward this party. Sally wanted to look beautiful, to excell all the young ladies who were to attend, to attach to her train all the young men, and have them fighting to dance with her. Miss Sampson had an earnest desire to open her father’s house to the people of Linrock, to show that a daughter had come into his long cheerless home, to make the evening one of pleasure and entertainment.

  I happened to be present in the parlor, was carrying in some flowers for final decoration, when Miss Sampson learned that her father had just ridden off with three horsemen whom Dick, who brought the news, had not recognized.

  In her keen disappointment she scarcely heard Dick’s concluding remark about the hurry of the colonel. My sharp ears, however, took this in and it was thought-provoking. Sampson was known to ride off at all hours, yet this incident seemed unusual.

  At eight o’clock the house and porch and patio were ablaze with lights. Every lantern and lamp on the place, together with all that could be bought and borrowed, had been brought into requisition.

  The cowboys arrived first, all dressed in their best, clean shaven, red faced, bright eyed, eager for the fun to commence. Then the young people from town, and a good sprinkling of older people, came in a steady stream.

  Miss Sampson received them graciously, excused her father’s absence, and bade them be at home.

  The music, or the discordance that went by that name, was furnished by two cowboys with banjos and an antediluvian gentleman with a fiddle. Nevertheless, it was music that could be danced to, and there was no lack of enthusiasm.

  I went from porch to parlor and thence to patio, watching and amused. The lights and the decorations of flowers, the bright dresses and the flashy scarfs of the cowboys furnished a gay enough scene to a man of lonesome and stern life like mine. During the dance there was a steady, continuous shuffling tramp of boots, and during the interval following a steady, low hum of merry talk and laughter.

  My wandering from place to place, apart from my usual careful observation, was an unobtrusive but, to me, a sneaking pursuit of Sally Langdon.

  She had on a white dress I had never seen with a low neck and short sleeves, and she looked so sweet, so dainty, so altogether desirable, that I groaned a hundred times in my jealousy. Because, manifestly, Sally did not intend to run any risk of my not seeing her in her glory, no matter where my eyes looked.

  A couple of times in promenading I passed her on the arm of some proud cowboy or gallant young buck from town, and on these occasions she favored her escort with a languishing glance that probably did as much damage to him as to me.

  Presently she caught me red-handed in my careless, sauntering pursuit of her, and then, whether by intent or from indifference, she apparently deigned me no more notice. But, quick to feel a difference in her, I marked that from that moment her gaiety gradually merged into coquettishness, and soon into flirtation.

  Then, just to see how far she would go, perhaps desperately hoping she would make me hate her, I followed her shamelessly from patio to parlor, porch to court, even to the waltz.

  To her credit, she always weakened when some young fellow got her in a corner and tried to push the flirting to extremes. Young Waters was the only one lucky enough to kiss her, and there was more of strength in his conquest of her than any decent fellow could be proud of.

  When George Wright sought Sally out there was added to my jealousy a real anxiety. I had brushed against Wright more than once that evening. He was not drunk, yet under the influence of liquor.

  Sally, however, evidently did not discover that, because, knowing her abhorrence of drink, I believed she would not have walked out with him had she known. Anyway, I followed them, close in the shadow.

  Wright was unusually gay. I saw him put his arm around her without remonstrance. When the music recommenced they went back to the house. Wright danced with Sally, not ungracefully for a man who rode a horse as much as he. After the dance he waved aside Sally’s many partners, not so gaily as would have been consistent with good feeling, and led her away. I followed. They ended up that walk at the extreme corner of the patio, where, under gaily colored lights, a little arbor had been made among the flowers and vines.

  Sally seemed to have lost something of her vivacity. They had not been out of my sight for a moment before Sally cried out. It was a cry of impatience or remonstrance, rather than alarm, but I decided that it would serve me an excuse.

  I dashed back, leaped to the door of the arbor, my hand on my gun.

  Wright was holding Sally. When he heard me he let her go. Then she uttered a cry that was one of alarm. Her face blanched; her eyes grew strained. One hand went to her breast. She thought I meant to kill Wright.

  “Excuse me,” I burst out frankly, turning to Wright. I never saw a hyena, but he looked like one. “I heard a squeal. Thought a girl was hurt, or something. Miss Sampson gave me orders to watch out for accidents, fire, anything. So excuse me, Wright.”

  As I stepped back, to my amazement, Sally, excusing herself to the scowling Wright, hurriedly joined me.

  “Oh, it’s our dance, Russ!”

  She took my arm and we walked through the patio.

  “I’m afraid of him, Russ,” she whispered. “You frightened me worse though. You didn’t mean to—to—”

  “I made a bluff. Saw he’d been drinking, so I kept near you.”

  “You return good for evil,” she replied, squeezing my arm. “Russ, let me tell you—whenever anything frightens me since we got here I think of you. If you’re only near I feel safe.”
r />   We paused at the door leading into the big parlor. Couples were passing. Here I could scarcely distinguish the last words she said. She stood before me, eyes downcast, face flushed, as sweet and pretty a lass as man could want to see, and with her hand she twisted round and round a silver button on my buckskin vest.

  “Dance with me, the rest of this,” she said. “George shooed away my partner. I’m glad for the chance. Dance with me, Russ—not gallantly or dutifully because I ask you, but because you want to. Else not at all.”

  There was a limit to my endurance. There would hardly be another evening like this, at least, for me, in that country. I capitulated with what grace I could express.

  We went into the parlor, and as we joined the dancers, despite all that confusion I heard her whisper: “I’ve been a little beast to you.”

  That dance seemingly lasted only a moment—a moment while she was all airy grace, radiant, and alluring, floating close to me, with our hands clasped. Then it appeared the music had ceased, the couples were finding seats, and Sally and I were accosted by Miss Sampson.

  She said we made a graceful couple in the dance. And Sally said she did not have to reach up a mile to me—I was not so awfully tall.

  And I, tongue-tied for once, said nothing.

  Wright had returned and was now standing, cigarette between lips, in the door leading out to the patio. At the same moment that I heard a heavy tramp of boots, from the porch side I saw Wright’s face change remarkably, expressing amaze, consternation, then fear.

  I wheeled in time to see Vaughn Steele bend his head to enter the door on that side. The dancers fell back.

  At sight of him I was again the Ranger, his ally. Steele was pale, yet heated. He panted. He wore no hat. He had his coat turned up and with left hand he held the lapels together.

  In a quick ensuing silence Miss Sampson rose, white as her dress. The young women present stared in astonishment and their partners showed excitement.

  “Miss Sampson, I came to search your house!” panted Steele, courteously, yet with authority.

  I disengaged myself from Sally, who was clinging to my hands, and I stepped forward out of the corner. Steele had been running. Why did he hold his coat like that? I sensed action, and the cold thrill animated me.