The Lone Star Ranger, Zane Grey [best ereader for pc TXT] 📗

to try to convince this man. Talking had not increased his calmness, and he now showed more than impatience. A dull glint gleamed deep in his eyes.

“Your stock and property will last a long time—do you lots of good when this ranger—”

“Bah!” hoarsely croaked Lawson. The ranger’s name was a match applied to powder. “Haven’t I told you he’d be dead soon—any time—same as Laramie is?”

“Yes, you mentioned the—the supposition,” replied Longstreth, sarcastically. “I inquired, too, just how that very desired event was to be brought about.”

“The gang will lay him out.”

“Bah!” retorted Longstreth, in turn. He laughed contemptuously.

“Floyd, don’t be a fool. You’ve been on the border for ten years. You’ve packed a gun and you’ve used it. You’ve been with rustlers when they killed their men. You’ve been present at many fights. But you never in all that time saw a man like this ranger. You haven’t got sense enough to see him right if you had a chance. Neither have any of you. The only way to get rid of him is for the gang to draw on him, all at once. Then he’s going to drop some of them.”

“Longstreth, you say that like a man who wouldn’t care much if he did drop some of them,” declared Lawson; and now he was sarcastic.

“To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t,” returned the other, bluntly. “I’m pretty sick of this mess.”

Lawson cursed in amazement. His emotions were all out of proportion to his intelligence. He was not at all quick-witted. Duane had never seen a vainer or more arrogant man.

“Longstreth, I don’t like your talk,” he said.

“If you don’t like the way I talk you know what you can do,” replied Longstreth, quickly. He stood up then, cool and quiet, with flash of eyes and set of lips that told Duane he was dangerous.

“Well, after all, that’s neither here nor there,” went on Lawson, unconsciously cowed by the other. “The thing is, do I get the girl?”

“Not by any means except her consent.”

“You’ll not make her marry me?”

“No. No,” replied Longstreth, his voice still cold, low-pitched.

“All right. Then I’ll make her.”

Evidently Longstreth understood the man before him so well that he wasted no more words. Duane knew what Lawson never dreamed of, and that was that Longstreth had a gun somewhere within reach and meant to use it. Then heavy footsteps sounded outside tramping upon the porch. Duane might have been mistaken, but he believed those footsteps saved Lawson’s life.

“There they are,” said Lawson, and he opened the door.

Five masked men entered. They all wore coats hiding any weapons. A big man with burly shoulders shook hands with Longstreth, and the others stood back.

The atmosphere of that room had changed. Lawson might have been a nonentity for all he counted. Longstreth was another man—a stranger to Duane. If he had entertained a hope of freeing himself from this band, of getting away to a safer country, he abandoned it at the very sight of these men. There was power here, and he was bound.

The big man spoke in low, hoarse whispers, and at this all the others gathered around him close to the table. There were evidently some signs of membership not plain to Duane. Then all the heads were bent over the table. Low voices spoke, queried, answered, argued. By straining his ears Duane caught a word here and there. They were planning, and they were brief. Duane gathered they were to have a rendezvous at or near Ord.

Then the big man, who evidently was the leader of the present convention, got up to depart. He went as swiftly as he had come, and was followed by his comrades. Longstreth prepared for a quiet smoke. Lawson seemed uncommunicative and unsociable. He smoked fiercely and drank continually. All at once he straightened up as if listening.

“What’s that?” he called, suddenly.

Duane’s strained ears were pervaded by a slight rustling sound.

“Must be a rat,” replied Longstreth.

The rustle became a rattle.

“Sounds like a rattlesnake to me,” said Lawson.

Longstreth got up from the table and peered round the room.

Just at that instant Duane felt an almost inappreciable movement of the adobe wall which supported him. He could scarcely credit his senses. But the rattle inside Longstreth’s room was mingling with little dull thuds of falling dirt. The adobe wall, merely dried mud, was crumbling. Duane distinctly felt a tremor pass through it. Then the blood gushed back to his heart.

“What in the hell!” exclaimed Longstreth.

“I smell dust,” said Lawson, sharply.

That was the signal for Duane to drop down from his perch, yet despite his care he made a noise.

“Did you hear a step?” queried Longstreth.

No one answered. But a heavy piece of the adobe wall fell with a thud. Duane heard it crack, felt it shake.

“There’s somebody between the walls!” thundered Longstreth.

Then a section of the wall fell inward with a crash. Duane began to squeeze his body through the narrow passage toward the patio.

“Hear him!” yelled Lawson. “This side!”

“No, he’s going that way,” yelled Longstreth.

The tramp of heavy boots lent Duane the strength of desperation. He was not shirking a fight, but to be cornered like a trapped coyote was another matter. He almost tore his clothes off in that passage. The dust nearly stifled him. When he burst into the patio it was not a single instant too soon. But one deep gasp of breath revived him and he was up, gun in hand, running for the outlet into the court. Thumping footsteps turned him back. While there was a chance to get away he did not want to fight. He thought he heard someone running into the patio from the other end. He stole along, and coming to a door, without any idea of where it might lead, he softly pushed it open a little way and slipped in.