The Lone Star Ranger: A Romance of the Border, Zane Grey [free ebook reader for iphone .txt] 📗
- Author: Zane Grey
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“Isn't this the court? Aren't you the Mayor of Fairdale?” interrogated Duane. His voice was clear and loud, almost piercing.
“Yes,” replied Longstreth. Like flint he seemed, yet Duane felt his intense interest.
“I've arrested a criminal,” said Duane.
“Arrested a criminal!” ejaculated Longstreth. “You? Who're you?”
“I'm a ranger,” replied Duane.
A significant silence ensued.
“I charge Snecker with assault on Laramie and attempted robbery—if not murder. He's had a shady past here, as this court will know if it keeps a record.”
“What's this I hear about you, Bo? Get up and speak for yourself,” said Longstreth, gruffly.
Snecker got up, not without a furtive glance at Duane, and he had shuffled forward a few steps toward the Mayor. He had an evil front, but not the boldness even of a rustler.
“It ain't so, Longstreth,” he began, loudly. “I went in Laramie's place fer grub. Some feller I never seen before come in from the hall an' hit Laramie an' wrestled him on the floor. I went out. Then this big ranger chased me an' fetched me here. I didn't do nothin'. This ranger's hankerin' to arrest somebody. Thet's my hunch, Longstreth.”
Longstreth said something in an undertone to Judge Owens, and that worthy nodded his great bushy head.
“Bo, you're discharged,” said Longstreth, bluntly. “Now the rest of you clear out of here.”
He absolutely ignored the ranger. That was his rebuff to Duane—his slap in the face to an interfering ranger service. If Longstreth was crooked he certainly had magnificent nerve. Duane almost decided he was above suspicion. But his nonchalance, his air of finality, his authoritative assurance—these to Duane's keen and practiced eyes were in significant contrast to a certain tenseness of line about his mouth and a slow paling of his olive skin. In that momentary lull Duane's scrutiny of Longstreth gathered an impression of the man's intense curiosity.
Then the prisoner, Snecker, with a cough that broke the spell of silence, shuffled a couple of steps toward the door.
“Hold on!” called Duane. The call halted Snecker, as if it had been a bullet.
“Longstreth, I saw Snecker attack Laramie,” said Duane, his voice still ringing. “What has the court to say to that?”
“The court has this to say. West of the Pecos we'll not aid any ranger service. We don't want you out here. Fairdale doesn't need you.”
“That's a lie, Longstreth,” retorted Duane. “I've letters from Fairdale citizens all begging for ranger service.”
Longstreth turned white. The veins corded at his temples. He appeared about to burst into rage. He was at a loss for quick reply.
Floyd Lawson rushed in and up to the table. The blood showed black and thick in his face; his utterance was incoherent, his uncontrollable outbreak of temper seemed out of all proportion to any cause he should reasonably have had for anger. Longstreth shoved him back with a curse and a warning glare.
“Where's your warrant to arrest Snecker?” shouted Longstreth.
“I don't need warrants to make arrests. Longstreth, you're ignorant of the power of Texas Rangers.”
“You'll come none of your damned ranger stunts out here. I'll block you.”
That passionate reply of Longstreth's was the signal Duane had been waiting for. He had helped on the crisis. He wanted to force Longstreth's hand and show the town his stand.
Duane backed clear of everybody.
“Men! I call on you all!” cried Duane, piercingly. “I call on you to witness the arrest of a criminal prevented by Longstreth, Mayor of Fairdale. It will be recorded in the report to the Adjutant-General at Austin. Longstreth, you'll never prevent another arrest.”
Longstreth sat white with working jaw.
“Longstreth, you've shown your hand,” said Duane, in a voice that carried far and held those who heard. “Any honest citizen of Fairdale can now see what's plain—yours is a damn poor hand! You're going to hear me call a spade a spade. In the two years you've been Mayor you've never arrested one rustler. Strange, when Fairdale's a nest for rustlers! You've never sent a prisoner to Del Rio, let alone to Austin. You have no jail. There have been nine murders during your office—innumerable street-fights and holdups. Not one arrest! But you have ordered arrests for trivial offenses, and have punished these out of all proportion. There have been lawsuits in your court-suits over water-rights, cattle deals, property lines. Strange how in these lawsuits you or Lawson or other men close to you were always involved! Strange how it seems the law was stretched to favor your interest!”
Duane paused in his cold, ringing speech. In the silence, both outside and inside the hall, could be heard the deep breathing of agitated men. Longstreth was indeed a study. Yet did he betray anything but rage at this interloper?
“Longstreth, here's plain talk for you and Fairdale,” went on Duane. “I don't accuse you and your court of dishonesty. I say STRANGE! Law here has been a farce. The motive behind all this laxity isn't plain to me—yet. But I call your hand!”
CHAPTER XVII
Duane left the hall, elbowed his way through the crowd, and went down the street. He was certain that on the faces of some men he had seen ill-concealed wonder and satisfaction. He had struck some kind of a hot trait, and he meant to see where it led. It was by no means unlikely that Cheseldine might be at the other end. Duane controlled a mounting eagerness. But ever and anon it was shot through with a remembrance of Ray Longstreth. He suspected her father of being not what he pretended. He might, very probably would, bring sorrow and shame to this young woman. The thought made him smart with pain. She began to haunt him, and then he was thinking more of her beauty and sweetness than of the disgrace he might bring upon her. Some strange emotion, long locked inside Duane's heart, knocked to be heard, to be let out. He was troubled.
Upon returning to the inn he found Laramie there, apparently none the worse for his injury.
“How are you, Laramie?” he asked.
“Reckon I'm feelin' as well as could be expected,” replied Laramie. His head was circled by a bandage that did not conceal the lump where he had been struck. He looked pale, but was bright enough.
“That was a good crack Snecker gave you,” remarked Duane.
“I ain't accusin' Bo,” remonstrated Laramie, with eyes that made Duane thoughtful.
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