The Lone Star Ranger | Page 6

steps the street was
almost empty. He had not returned a hundred yards on his way when
the street was wholly deserted. A few heads protruded from doors and
around corners. That main street of Wellston saw some such situation
every few days. If it was an instinct for Texans to fight, it was also
instinctive for them to sense with remarkable quickness the signs of a
coming gun-play. Rumor could not fly so swiftly. In less than ten
minutes everybody who had been on the street or in the shops knew
that Buck Duane had come forth to meet his enemy.
Duane walked on. When he came to within fifty paces of a saloon he
swerved out into the middle of the street, stood there for a moment,
then went ahead and back to the sidewalk. He passed on in this way the
length of the block. Sol White was standing in the door of his saloon.
"Buck, I'm a-tippin' you off," he said, quick and low-voiced. "Cal
Bain's over at Everall's. If he's a-huntin' you bad, as he brags, he'll show
there."
Duane crossed the street and started down. Notwithstanding White's
statement Duane was wary and slow at every door. Nothing happened,
and he traversed almost the whole length of the block without seeing a
person. Everall's place was on the corner.
Duane knew himself to be cold, steady. He was conscious of a strange
fury that made him want to leap ahead. He seemed to long for this
encounter more than anything he had ever wanted. But, vivid as were
his sensations, he felt as if in a dream.
Before he reached Everall's he heard loud voices, one of which was
raised high. Then the short door swung outward as if impelled by a
vigorous hand. A bow-legged cowboy wearing wooley chaps burst out
upon the sidewalk. At sight of Duane he seemed to bound into the air,
and he uttered a savage roar.

Duane stopped in his tracks at the outer edge of the sidewalk, perhaps a
dozen rods from Everall's door.
If Bain was drunk he did not show it in his movement. He swaggered
forward, rapidly closing up the gap. Red, sweaty, disheveled, and
hatless, his face distorted and expressive of the most malignant intent,
he was a wild and sinister figure. He had already killed a man, and this
showed in his demeanor. His hands were extended before him, the right
hand a little lower than the left. At every step he bellowed his rancor in
speech mostly curses. Gradually he slowed his walk, then halted. A
good twenty-five paces separated the men.
"Won't nothin' make you draw, you--!" he shouted, fiercely.
"I'm waitin' on you, Cal," replied Duane.
Bain's right hand stiffened--moved. Duane threw his gun as a boy
throws a ball underhand--a draw his father had taught him. He pulled
twice, his shots almost as one. Bain's big Colt boomed while it was
pointed downward and he was falling. His bullet scattered dust and
gravel at Duane's feet. He fell loosely, without contortion.
In a flash all was reality for Duane. He went forward and held his gun
ready for the slightest movement on the part of Bain. But Bain lay upon
his back, and all that moved were his breast and his eyes. How
strangely the red had left his face--and also the distortion! The devil
that had showed in Bain was gone. He was sober and conscious. He
tried to speak, but failed. His eyes expressed something pitifully human.
They changed--rolled--set blankly.
Duane drew a deep breath and sheathed his gun. He felt calm and cool,
glad the fray was over. One violent expression burst from him. "The
fool!"
When he looked up there were men around him.
"Plumb center," said one.

Another, a cowboy who evidently had just left the gaming-table, leaned
down and pulled open Bain's shirt. He had the ace of spades in his hand.
He laid it on Bain's breast, and the black figure on the card covered the
two bullet-holes just over Bain's heart.
Duane wheeled and hurried away. He heard another man say:
"Reckon Cal got what he deserved. Buck Duane's first gunplay. Like
father like son!"
CHAPTER II
A thought kept repeating itself to Duane, and it was that he might have
spared himself concern through his imagining how awful it would be to
kill a man. He had no such feeling now. He had rid the community of a
drunken, bragging, quarrelsome cowboy.
When he came to the gate of his home and saw his uncle there with a
mettlesome horse, saddled, with canteen, rope, and bags all in place, a
subtle shock pervaded his spirit. It had slipped his mind--the
consequence of his act. But sight of the horse and the look