A Texas Ranger

by Raine, William MacLeod

  The ranger nodded. He understood. The picture rose before him of a man in a Berserk rage, stark mad for the moment, playing Destiny on that lonely, moonlit hill. The face his instinct fitted to the irresponsible murderer was that of Jed Briscoe. Somehow he was sure of that, beyond the shadow of a doubt. His imagination conceived that long ride back across the hills, the deep agonies of silence, the fierce moments of vindictive accusation. No doubt for long the tug of conscience was with them in all their waking hours, for these men were mostly simple-minded cattlemen caught in the web of evil chance.

  "That's how it was, Steve. In as long as it takes to empty a Winchester, we were every one of us guilty of a murder we'd each have given a laig to have stopped. We were all in it, all tied together, because we had broke the law to go raiding in the first place. Technically, the man that emptied that rifle wasn't any more guilty than us poor wretches that stood frozen there while he did it. Put it that we might shave the gallows, even then the penitentiary would bury us. There was only one thing to do. We agreed to stand together, and keep mum."

  "Is that why you're telling me, Alec?" Fraser smiled.

  "We ain't telling you, not legally," the cow-puncher answered coolly. "If you was ever to say we had, Dick and me would deny it. But we ain't worrying any about you telling it. You're a clam, and we know it. No, we're telling you, son, because we want you to know about how it was. The boys didn't ride out to do murder. They rode out simply to drive the sheep off their range."

  The Texan nodded. "That's about how I figured it. I'm glad you told me, boys. I reckon I don't need to tell you I'm padlocked in regard to this."

  Arlie came to the door and looked in. "It's time you boys were going. Doc said a half hour"

  "All right, Arlie," responded Dick. "So-long, Steve. Be good, you old pie eater."

  After they had gone, the Texan lay silent for a long time. He understood perfectly their motive in telling him the story. They had not compromised themselves legally, since a denial would have given them two to one in the matter of witnesses. But they wished him to see that, morally, every man but one who rode on that raid was guiltless of the Squaw Creek murders.

  Arlie came in presently, and sat down near the window with some embroidery.

  "Did the boys tire you?" she asked, noting his unusual silence.

  "No. I was thinking about what they told me. They were giving me the inside facts of the Squaw Creek raid."

  She looked up in surprise. "They were?" A little smile began to dimple the corners of her mouth. "That's funny, because they had just got through forgiving me for what I told you."

  "What they told me was how the shooting occurred."

  "I don't know anything about that. When I told you their names I was only telling what I had heard people whisper. That's all I knew."

  "You've been troubled because your friends were in this, haven't you? You hated to think it of them, didn't you?" he asked.

  "Yes. It has troubled me a lot."

  "Don't let it trouble you any more. One man was responsible for all the bloodshed. He went mad and saw red for half a minute. Before the rest could stop him, the slaughter was done. The other boys aren't guilty of that, any more than you or I."

  "Oh, I'm glad— I'm glad," she cried softly. Then, looking up quickly to him: "Who was the man?" she asked.

  "I don't know. It is better that neither of us should know that."

  "I'm glad the boys told you. It shows they trust you."

  "They figure me out a white man," he answered carelessly.

  "Ah! That's where I made my mistake." She looked at him bravely, though the color began to beat into her cheeks beneath the dusky tan. "Yet I knew it all the time— in my heart. At least, after I had given myself time to think it over. I knew you couldn't be that. If I had given you time to explain— but I always think too late."

  His eyes, usually so clear and steely, softened at her words. "I'm satisfied if you knew— in your heart."

  "I meant——" she began, with a flush.

  "Now, don't spoil it, please," he begged.

  Under his steady, half-smiling gaze, her eyes fell. Two weeks ago she had been a splendid young creature, as untaught of life as one of the wild forest animals and as unconsciously eager for it. But there had come a change over her, a birth of womanhood from that night when she had stood between Stephen Fraser and death. No doubt she would often regret it, but she had begun to live more deeply. She could never go back to the care-free days when she could look all men in the face with candid, girlish eyes. The time had come to her, as it must to all sensitive of life, when she must drink of it, whether she would or no.

  "Because I'd rather you would know it in your heart than in your mind," he said.

  Something sweet and terrifying, with the tingle and warmth of rare wine in it, began to glow in her veins. Eyes shy, eager, frightened, met his for an instant. Then she remembered the other girl. Something hard as steel ran through her. She turned on her heel and left the room.

  CHAPTER XV

  THE TEXAN PAYS A VISIT

  From that day Fraser had a new nurse. Arlie disappeared, and her aunt replaced her a few hours later and took charge of the patient. Steve took her desertion as an irritable convalescent does, but he did not let his disappointment make him unpleasant to Miss Ruth Dillon.

  "I'm a chump," he told himself, with deep disgust. "Hadn't any more sense than to go scaring off the little girl by handing out a line of talk she ain't used to. I reckon now she's done with me proper."

  He continued to improve so rapidly that within the prescribed two weeks he was on horseback again, though still a little weak and washed out. His first ride of any length was to the Dillon ranch. Siegfried accompanied him, and across the Norwegian's saddle lay a very business-like rifle.

  As they were passing the mouth of a cañon, the ranger put a casual question: "This Jack Rabbit Run, Sig?"

  "Yah. More men wanted bane lost in that gulch than any place Ay knows of."

  "That so? I'm going in there to-morrow to find that man Struve," his friend announced carelessly.

  The big blonde giant looked at him. "Yuh bain't, Steve? Why, yuh bain't fit to tackle a den uh wild cats." An admiring grin lit the Norwegian's face. "Durn my hide, yuh've got 'em all skinned for grit, Steve. Uh course, Ay bane goin' with yuh."

  "If it won't get you in bad with your friends I'll be glad to have you, Sig."

  "They bain't my friends. Ay bane shook them, an' served notice to that effect."

  "Glad of it."

  "Yuh bane goin' in after Struve only?"

  "Yes. He's the only man I want."

  "Then Ay bane go in, and bring heem out to yuh."

  Fraser shook his head. "No, old man, I've got to play my own hand."

  "Ay t'ink it be a lot safer f'r me to happen in an' get heem," remonstrated Siegfried.

  "Safer for me," corrected the lieutenant, smiling. "No, I can't work that way. I've got to take my own chances. You can go along, though, on one condition. You're not to interfere between me and Struve. If some one else butts in, you may ask him why, if you like.

  "Ay bane t'ink yuh von fool, Steve. But Ay bane no boss. Vat yuh says goes."

  They found Arlie watering geraniums in front of the house. Siegfried merely nodded to her and passed on to the stables with the horses. Fraser dismounted, offering her his hand and his warm smile.

  He had caught her without warning, and she was a little shy of him. Not only was she embarrassed, but she saw that he knew it. He sat down on the step, while she continued to water her flowers.

  "You see your bad penny turned up again, Miss Arlie," he said.

  "I didn't know you were able to ride yet, Lieutenant Fraser."

  "This is my first try at it. Thought I'd run over and say 'Thank you' to my nurse."

  "I'll call auntie," she said quickly.

  He shook his head. "Not necessary, Miss Arlie. I settled up with her. I was thinking of the nurse that ran off and left me."
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  She was beginning to recover herself. "You want to thank her for leaving while there was still hope," she said, with a quick little smile.

  "Why did you do it? I've been mighty lonesome the past two weeks," he said quietly.

  "You would be, of course. You are used to an active outdoor life, and I suppose the boys couldn't get round to see you very often."

  "I wasn't thinking of the boys," he meditated aloud.

  Arlie blushed; and to hide her embarrassment she called to Jimmie, who was passing: "Bring up Lieutenant Fraser's Teddy. I want him to see how well we're caring for his horse."

  As a diversion, Teddy served very well. Horse and owner were both mightily pleased to see each other. While the animal rubbed its nose against his coat, the ranger teased and petted it.

  "Hello, you old Teddy hawss. How air things a-comin', pardner?" he drawled, with a reversion to his Texas speech. "Plumb tickled to death to meet up with yore old master, ain't you? How come it you ain't fallen in love with this young lady and forgot Steve?"

  "He thinks a lot of me, too," Arlie claimed promptly.

  "Don't blame you a bit, Teddy. I'll ce'tainly shake hands with you on that. But life's jest meetin' and partin', old hawss. I got to take you away for good, day after to-morrow."

  "Where are you going?" the girl asked quickly. Then, to cover the swift interest of her question: "But, of course, it is time you were going back to your business."

  "No, ma'am, that is just it. Seems to me either too soon or too late to be going."

  She had her face turned from him, and was busy over her plants, to hide the tremulous dismay that had shaken her at his news.

  She did not ask him what he meant, nor did she ask again where he was going. For the moment, she could not trust her voice to say more.

  "Too late, because I've seen in this valley some one I'll never forget, and too soon because that some one will forget me, sure as a gun," he told her.

  "Not if you write to him."

  "It isn't a him. It's my little nurse."

  "I'll tell auntie how you feel about it, and I'm sure she won't forget you."

  "You know mighty well I ain't talking about auntie."

  "Then I suppose you must mean me."

  "That's who I'm meaning."

  "I think I'll be able to remember you if I try— by Teddy," she answered, without looking at him, and devoted herself to petting the horse.

  "Is it— would it be any use to say any more, Arlie?" he asked, in a low voice, as he stood beside her, with Teddy's nose in his hands.

  "I— I don't know what you mean, sir. Please don't say anything more about it." Then again memory of the other girl flamed through her. "No, it wouldn't— not a bit of use, not a bit," she broke out fiercely.

  "You mean you couldn't——"

  The flame in her face, the eyes that met his, as if drawn by a magnet, still held their anger, but mingled with it was a piteous plea for mercy. "I— I'm only a girl. Why don't you let me alone?" she cried bitterly, and hard upon her own words turned and ran from the room.

  Steve looked after her in amazed surprise. "Now don't it beat the band the way a woman takes a thing."

  Dubiously he took himself to the stable and said good-by to Dillon.

  An hour later she went down to dinner still flushed and excited. Before she had been in the room two minutes her father gave her a piece of startling news.

  "I been talking to Steve. Gracious, gyurl, what do you reckon that boy's a-goin' to do?"

  Arlie felt the color leap into her cheeks.

  "What, dad?"

  "He's a'goin' back to Gimlet Butte, to give himself up to Brandt, day after to-morrow."

  "But— what for?" she gasped.

  "Durned if I know! He's got some fool notion about playin' fair. Seems he came into the Cedar Mountain country to catch the Squaw Creek raiders. Brandt let him escape on that pledge. Well, he's give up that notion, and now he thinks, dad gum it, that it's up to him to surrender to Brandt again."

  The girl's eyes were like stars. "And he's going to go back there and give himself up, to be tried for killing Faulkner."

  Dillon scratched his head. "By gum, gyurl, I didn't think of that. We cayn't let him go."

  "Yes, we can."

  "Why, honey, he didn't kill Faulkner, looks like. We cayn't let him go back there and take our medicine for us. Mebbe he would be lynched. It's a sure thing he'd be convicted."

  "Never mind. Let him go. I've got a plan, dad." Her vivid face was alive with the emotion which spoke in it. "When did he say he was going?" she asked buoyantly.

  "Day after to-morrow. Seems he's got business that keeps him hyer to-morrow. What's yore idee, honey?"

  She got up, and whispered it in his ear. His jaw dropped, and he stared at her in amazement.

  CHAPTER XVI

  THE WOLF BITES

  Steve came drowsily to consciousness from confused dreams of a cattle stampede and the click of rifles in the hands of enemies who had the drop on him. The rare, untempered sunshine of the Rockies poured into his window from a world outside, wonderful as the early morning of creation. The hillside opposite was bathed miraculously in a flood of light, in which grasshoppers fiddled triumphantly their joy in life. The sources of his dreams discovered themselves in the bawl of thirsty cattle and the regular clicking of a windmill.

  A glance at his watch told him that it was six o'clock.

  "Time to get up, Steve," he told himself, and forthwith did.

  He chose a rough crash towel, slipped on a pair of Howard's moccasins, and went down to the river through an ambient that had the sparkle and exhilaration of champagne. The mountain air was still finely crisp with the frost, in spite of the sun warmth that was beginning to mellow it. Flinging aside the Indian blanket he had caught up before leaving the cabin, he stood for an instant on the bank, a human being with the physical poise, compactness, and lithe-muscled smoothness of a tiger.

  Even as he plunged a rifle cracked. While he dived through the air, before the shock of the icy water tingled through him, he was planning his escape. The opposite bank rose ten feet above the stream. He kept under the water until he came close to this, then swam swiftly along it with only his head showing, so as to keep him out of sight as much as possible.

  Half a stone's throw farther the bank fell again to the water's edge, the river having broadened and grown shallow, as mountain creeks do. The ranger ran, stooping, along the bank, till it afforded him no more protection, then dashed across the stony-bottomed stream to the shelter of the thick aspens beyond.

  Just as he expected, a shot rang from far up the mountainside. In another instant he was safe in the foliage of the young aspens.

  In the sheer exhilaration of his escape he laughed aloud.

  "Last show to score gone, Mr. Struve. I figured it just right. He waited too long for his first shot. Then the bank hid me. He wasn't expecting to see me away down the stream, so he hadn't time to sight his second one."

  Steve wound his way in and out among the aspens, working toward the tail of them, which ran up the hill a little way and dropped down almost to the back door of the cabin. Upon this he was presently pounding.

  Howard let him in. He had a revolver in his hand, the first weapon he could snatch up.

  "You durned old idiot! It's a wonder you ain't dead three ways for Sunday," he shouted joyfully at sight of him. "Ain't I told you 'steen times to do what bathin' you got to do, right here in the shack?"

  The Texan laughed again. Naked as that of Father Adam, his splendid body was glowing with the bath and the exercise.

  "He's ce'tainly the worst chump ever, Alec. Had me in sight all the way down to the creek, but waited till I wasn't moving. Reckon he was nervous. Anyhow, he waited just one-tenth of a second too late. Shot just as I leaned forward for my dive. He gave me a free hair-cut though."

  A swath showed where the bullet had mowed a furrow of hair so close that in one place it had slightly torn the scalp.

>   "He shot again, didn't he?"

  "Yep. I swam along the far bank, so that he couldn't get at me, and crossed into the aspens. He got another chance as I was crossing, but he had to take it on the fly, and missed."

  The cattleman surveyed the hillside cautiously through the front window. "I reckon he's pulled his freight, most likely. But we'll stay cooped for a while, on the chance. You're the luckiest cuss I ever did see. More lives than a cat."

  Howard laid his revolver down within reach, and proceeded to light a fire in the stove, from which rose presently the pleasant odors of aromatic coffee and fried ham and eggs.

  "Come and get it, Steve," said Howard, by way of announcing breakfast. "No, you don't. I'll take the window seat, and at that we'll have the curtain drawn."

  They were just finishing breakfast when Siegfried cantered up.

  "You bane ready, Steve?" he called in.

  Howard appeared in the doorway. "Say, Sig, go down to the corral and saddle up Teddy for Steve, will you? Some of his friends have been potshotting at him again. No damage done, except to my feelings, but there's nothing like being careful."

  Siegfried's face darkened. "Ay bane like for know who it vas?"

  Howard laughed. "Now, if you'll tell Steve that he'll give you as much as six bits, Sig. He's got notions, but they ain't worth any more than yours or mine. Say, where you boys going to-day? I've a notion to go along."

  "Oh, just out for a little pasear," Steve answered casually. "Thought you were going to work on your south fence to-day."

  "Well, I reckon I better. It sure needs fixing. You lads take good care of yourselves. I don't need to tell you not to pass anywhere near the run, Sig," he grinned, with the manner of one giving a superfluous warning.

  Fraser looked at Siegfried, with a smile in his eyes. "No, we'll not pass the run to-day, Alec."

  A quarter of an hour later they were in the saddle and away. Siegfried did not lead his friend directly up the cañon that opened into Jack Rabbit Run, but across the hills to a pass, which had to be taken on foot. They left the horses picketed on a grassy slope, and climbed the faint trail that went steeply up the bowlder-strewn mountain.