The Lone Star Ranger | Page 4

draw. T hey ape Bland an' King Fisher an'
Hardin an' all the big outlaws. They make threats about joinin' the
gangs along the Rio Grande. They laugh at the sheriffs an' brag about
how they'd fix the rangers. Cal's sure not much for you to bother with,
if you only keep out of his way."
"You mean for me to run?" asked Duane, in scorn.
"I reckon I wouldn't put it that way. Just avoid him. Buck, I'm not

afraid Cal would get you if you met down there in town. You've your
father's eye an' his slick hand with a gun. What I'm most afraid of is
that you'll kill Bain."
Duane was silent, letting his uncle's earnest words sink in, trying to
realize their significance.
"If Texas ever recovers from that fool war an' kills off these outlaws,
why, a young man will have a lookout," went on the uncle. "You're
twenty-three now, an' a powerful sight of a fine fellow, barrin' your
temper. You've a chance in life. But if you go gun-fightin', if you kill a
man, you're ruined. Then you'll kill another. It'll be the same old story.
An' the rangers would make you an outlaw. The rangers mean law an'
order for Texas. This even-break business doesn't work with them. If
you resist arrest they'll kill you. If you submit to arrest, then you go to
jail, an' mebbe you hang."
"I'd never hang," muttered Duane, darkly.
"I reckon you wouldn't," replied the old man. "You'd be like your father.
He was ever ready to draw--too ready. In times like these, with the
Texas rangers enforcin' the law, your Dad would have been driven to
the river. An', son, I'm afraid you're a chip off the old block. Can't you
hold in--keep your temper--run away from trouble? Because it'll only
result in you gettin' the worst of it in the end. Your father was killed in
a street-fight. An' it was told of him that he shot twice after a bullet had
passed through his heart. Think of the terrible nature of a man to be
able to do that. If you have any such blood in you, never give it a
chance."
"What you say is all very well, uncle," returned Duane, "but the only
way out for me is to run, and I won't do it. Cal Bain and his outfit have
already made me look like a coward. He says I'm afraid to come out
and face him. A man simply can't stand that in this country. Besides,
Cal would shoot me in the back some day if I didn't face him."
"Well, then, what're you goin' to do?" inquired the elder man.

"I haven't decided--yet."
"No, but you're comin' to it mighty fast. That damned spell is workin' in
you. You're different to-day. I remember how you used to be moody an'
lose your temper an' talk wild. Never was much afraid of you then. But
now you're gettin' cool an' quiet, an' you think deep, an' I don't like the
light in your eye. It reminds me of your father."
"I wonder what Dad would say to me to-day if he were alive and here,"
said Duane.
"What do you think? What could you expect of a man who never wore
a glove on his right hand for twenty years?"
"Well, he'd hardly have said much. Dad never talked. But he would
have done a lot. And I guess I'll go down-town and let Cal Bain find
me."
Then followed a long silence, during which Duane sat with downcast
eyes, and the uncle appeared lost in sad thought of the future. Presently
he turned to Duane with an expression that denoted resignation, and yet
a spirit which showed wherein they were of the same blood.
"You've got a fast horse--the fastest I know of in this country. After
you meet Bain hurry back home. I'll have a saddle-bag packed for you
and the horse ready."
With that he turned on his heel and went into the house, leaving Duane
to revolve in his mind his singular speech. Buck wondered presently if
he shared his uncle's opinion of the result of a meeting between himself
and Bain. His thoughts were vague. But on the instant of final decision,
when he had settled with himself that he would meet Bain, such a storm
of passion assailed him that he felt as if he was being shaken with ague.
Yet it was all internal, inside his breast, for his hand was like a rock
and, for all he could see, not a muscle about him quivered. He had no
fear of Bain or of any other man; but a vague fear of himself, of this
strange force in him, made him ponder and