The Rustlers of Pecos County | Page 8

Sampson--think she's fine--could look up to her. And I hate to be
different from what she thinks."
"I understand, Russ," he replied in his deep voice that had such quality
to influence a man. "It's no decent job. You'll be ashamed before her.
So would I. But here's our work, the hardest ever cut out for Rangers.
Think what depends upon it. And--"
"There's something wrong with Miss Sampson's father," I interrupted.
"Something strange if not wrong. No man in this community is beyond
us, Russ, or above suspicion. You've a great opportunity. I needn't say
use your eyes and ears as never before."
"I hope Sampson turns out to be on the square," I replied. "He might be
a lax mayor, too good-natured to uphold law in a wild country. And his
Southern pride would fire at interference. I don't like him, but for his
daughter's sake I hope we're wrong."
Steele's eyes, deep and gleaming in the moonlight, searched my face.
"Son, sure you're not in love with her--you'll not fall in love with her?"
"No. I am positive. Why?"

"Because in either case I'd likely have need of a new man in your
place," he said.
"Steele, you know something about Sampson--something more!" I
exclaimed swiftly.
"No more than you. When I meet him face to face I may know more.
Russ, when a fellow has been years at this game he has a sixth sense.
Mine seldom fails me. I never yet faced the criminal who didn't
somehow betray fear--not so much fear of me, but fear of himself--his
life, his deeds. That's conscience, or if not, just realization of fate."
Had that been the thing I imagined I had seen in Sampson's face?
"I'm sorry Diane Sampson came out here," I said impulsively.
Steele did not say he shared that feeling. He was looking out upon the
moon-blanched level.
Some subtle thing in his face made me divine that he was thinking of
the beautiful girl to whom he might bring disgrace and unhappiness.
Chapter 2
A KISS AND AN ARREST
A month had passed, a swift-flying time full of new life. Wonderful it
was for me to think I was still in Diane Sampson's employ.
It was the early morning hour of a day in May. The sun had not yet
grown hot. Dew like diamond drops sparkled on the leaves and grass.
The gentle breeze was clear, sweet, with the song of larks upon it.
And the range, a sea of gray-green growing greener, swept away
westward in rolling ridges and hollows, like waves to meet the dark,
low hills that notched the horizon line of blue.
I was sitting on the top bar of the corral fence and before me stood

three saddled horses that would have gladdened any eye. I was waiting
to take the young ladies on their usual morning ride.
Once upon a time, in what seemed the distant past to this eventful
month, I had flattered myself there had been occasions for thought, but
scornfully I soliloquized that in those days I had no cue for thought
such as I had now.
This was one of the moments when my real self seemed to stand off
and skeptically regard the fictitious cowboy.
This gentleman of the range wore a huge sombrero with an ornamented
silver band, a silken scarf of red, a black velvet shirt, much affected by
the Indians, an embroidered buckskin vest, corduroys, and fringed
chaps with silver buttons, a big blue gun swinging low, high heeled
boots, and long spurs with silver rowels.
A flash cowboy! Steele vowed I was a born actor.
But I never divulged the fact that had it not been for my infatuation for
Sally, I never could have carried on that part, not to save the Ranger
service, or the whole State of Texas.
The hardest part had not been the establishing of a reputation. The
scorn of cowboys, the ridicule of gamblers, the badinage of the young
bucks of the settlement--these I had soon made dangerous procedures
for any one. I was quick with tongue and fist and gun.
There had been fights and respect was quickly earned, though the
constant advent of strangers in Linrock always had me in hot water.
Moreover, instead of being difficult, it was fun to spend all the time I
could in the hotels and resorts, shamming a weakness for drink,
gambling, lounging, making friends among the rough set, when all the
time I was a cool, keen registering machine.
The hard thing was the lie I lived in the eyes of Diane Sampson and
Sally Langdon.

I had indeed won the sincere regard of my employer. Her father, her
cousin George, and new-made friends in town had come to her with
tales of my reckless