The Lone Star Ranger | Page 5

shake his head. It was as if
he had not all to say in this matter. There appeared to have been in him

a reluctance to let himself go, and some voice, some spirit from a
distance, something he was not accountable for, had compelled him.
That hour of Duane's life was like years of actual living, and in it he
became a thoughtful man.
He went into the house and buckled on his belt and gun. The gun was a
Colt .45, six-shot, and heavy, with an ivory handle. He had packed it,
on and off, for five years. Before that it had been used by his father.
There were a number of notches filed in the bulge of the ivory handle.
This gun was the one his father had fired twice after being shot through
the heart, and his hand had stiffened so tightly upon it in the death-grip
that his fingers had to be pried open. It had never been drawn upon any
man since it had come into Duane's possession. But the cold, bright
polish of the weapon showed how it had been used. Duane could draw
it with inconceivable rapidity, and at twenty feet he could split a card
pointing edgewise toward him.
Duane wished to avoid meeting his mother. Fortunately, as he thought,
she was away from home. He went out and down the path toward the
gate. The air was full of the fragrance of blossoms and the melody of
birds. Outside in the road a neighbor woman stood talking to a
countryman in a wagon; they spoke to him; and he heard, but did not
reply. Then he began to stride down the road toward the town.
Wellston was a small town, but important in that unsettled part of the
great state because it was the trading-center of several hundred miles of
territory. On the main street there were perhaps fifty buildings, some
brick, some frame, mostly adobe, and one-third of the lot, and by far
the most prosperous, were saloons. From the road Duane turned into
this street. It was a wide thoroughfare lined by hitching-rails and
saddled horses and vehicles of various kinds. Duane's eye ranged down
the street, taking in all at a glance, particularly persons moving
leisurely up and down. Not a cowboy was in sight. Duane slackened his
stride, and by the time he reached Sol White's place, which was the first
saloon, he was walking slowly. Several people spoke to him and turned
to look back after they had passed. He paused at the door of White's
saloon, took a sharp survey of the interior, then stepped inside.

The saloon was large and cool, full of men and noise and smoke. The
noise ceased upon his entrance, and the silence ensuing presently broke
to the clink of Mexican silver dollars at a monte table. Sol White, who
was behind the bar, straightened up when he saw Duane; then, without
speaking, he bent over to rinse a glass. All eyes except those of the
Mexican gamblers were turned upon Duane; and these glances were
keen, speculative, questioning. These men knew Bain was looking for
trouble; they probably had heard his boasts. But what did Duane intend
to do? Several of the cowboys and ranchers present exchanged glances.
Duane had been weighed by unerring Texas instinct, by men who all
packed guns. The boy was the son of his father. Whereupon they
greeted him and returned to their drinks and cards. Sol White stood
with his big red hands out upon the bar; he was a tall, raw-boned Texan
with a long mustache waxed to sharp points.
"Howdy, Buck," was his greeting to Duane. He spoke carelessly and
averted his dark gaze for an instant.
"Howdy, Sol," replied Duane, slowly. "Say, Sol, I hear there's a gent in
town looking for me bad."
"Reckon there is, Buck," replied White. "He came in heah aboot an
hour ago. Shore he was some riled an' a-roarin' for gore. Told me
confidential a certain party had given you a white silk scarf, an' he was
hell-bent on wearin' it home spotted red."
"Anybody with him?" queried Duane.
"Burt an' Sam Outcalt an' a little cowpuncher I never seen before.
They-all was coaxin' trim to leave town. But he's looked on the flowin'
glass, Buck, an' he's heah for keeps."
"Why doesn't Sheriff Oaks lock him up if he's that bad?"
"Oaks went away with the rangers. There's been another raid at
Flesher's ranch. The King Fisher gang, likely. An' so the town's shore
wide open."

Duane stalked outdoors and faced down the street. He walked the
whole length of the long block, meeting many people--farmers,
ranchers, clerks, merchants, Mexicans, cowboys, and women. It was a
singular fact that when he turned to retrace his