The Lone Star Ranger | Page 9

himself so early that in the
gray gloom he had difficulty in finding his horse. Day had just broken
when he struck the old trail again.
He rode hard all morning and halted in a shady spot to rest and graze
his horse. In the afternoon he took to the trail at an easy trot. The
country grew wilder. Bald, rugged mountains broke the level of the
monotonous horizon. About three in the afternoon he came to a little
river which marked the boundary line of his hunting territory.
The decision he made to travel up-stream for a while was owing to two

facts: the river was high with quicksand bars on each side, and he felt
reluctant to cross into that region where his presence alone meant that
he was a marked man. The bottom-lands through which the river
wound to the southwest were more inviting than the barrens he had
traversed. The rest or that day he rode leisurely up-stream. At sunset he
penetrated the brakes of willow and cottonwood to spend the night. It
seemed to him that in this lonely cover he would feel easy and content.
But he did not. Every feeling, every imagining he had experienced the
previous night returned somewhat more vividly and accentuated by
newer ones of the same intensity and color.
In this kind of travel and camping he spent three more days, during
which he crossed a number of trails, and one road where cattle--stolen
cattle, probably--had recently passed. Thus time exhausted his supply
of food, except salt, pepper, coffee, and sugar, of which he had a
quantity. There were deer in the. brakes; but, as he could not get close
enough to kill them with t a revolver, he had to satisfy himself with a
rabbit. He knew he might as well content himself with the hard fare that
assuredly would be his lot.
Somewhere up this river there was a village called Huntsville. It was
distant about a hundred miles from Wellston, and had a reputation
throughout southwestern Texas. He had never been there. The fact was
this reputation was such that honest travelers gave the town a wide
berth. Duane had considerable money for him in his possession, and he
concluded to visit Huntsville, if he could find it, and buy a stock of
provisions.
The following day, toward evening, he happened upon a road which he
believed might lead to the village. There were a good many fresh
horse-tracks in the sand, and these made him thoughtful. Nevertheless,
he followed the road, proceeding cautiously. He had not gone very far
when the sound of rapid hoof-beats caught his ears. They came from
his rear. In the darkening twilight he could not see any great distance
back along the road. Voices, however, warned him that these riders,
whoever they were, had approached closer than he liked. To go farther
down the road was not to be thought of, so he turned a little way in

among the mesquites and halted, hoping to escape being seen or heard.
As he was now a fugitive, it seemed every man was his enemy and
pursuer.
The horsemen were fast approaching. Presently they were abreast of
Duane's position, so near that he could hear the creak of saddles, the
clink of spurs.
"Shore he crossed the river below," said one man.
"I reckon you're right, Bill. He's slipped us," replied another.
Rangers or a posse of ranchers in pursuit of a fugitive! The knowledge
gave Duane a strange thrill. Certainly they could not have been hunting
him. But the feeling their proximity gave him was identical to what it
would have been had he been this particular hunted man. He held his
breath; he clenched his teeth; he pressed a quieting hand upon his horse.
Suddenly he became aware that these horsemen had halted. They were
whispering. He could just make out a dark group closely massed. What
had made them halt so suspiciously?
"You're wrong, Bill," said a man, in a low but distinct voice.
"The idee of hearin' a hoss heave. You're wuss'n a ranger. And you're
hell-bent on killin' that rustler. Now I say let's go home and eat."
"Wal, I'll just take a look at the sand," replied the man called Bill.
Duane heard the clink of spurs on steel stirrup and the thud of boots on
the ground. There followed a short silence which was broken by a
sharply breathed exclamation.
Duane waited for no more. They had found his trail. He spurred his
horse straight into the brush. At the second crashing bound there came
yells from the road, and then shots. Duane heard the hiss of a bullet
close by his ear, and as it struck a branch it made a peculiar singing
sound. These shots