here seemed more than ordinarily difficult.
MacNelly must have felt that.
He looked long and earnestly at Duane, and his quick, nervous manner changed to grave thoughtfulness.
'I've lots to say, but where to begin,' he mused. 'Duane, you've had a hard life since you went on the dodge. I never met you before, don't know what you looked like as a boy. But I can see what–well, even ranger life isn't all roses.'
He rolled his cigar between his lips and puffed clouds of smoke.
'Ever hear from home since you left Wellston?' he asked, abruptly.
'No.'
'Never a word?'
'Not one,' replied Duane, sadly.
'That's tough. I'm glad to be able to tell you that up to just lately your mother, sister, uncle–all your folks, I believe–were well. I've kept posted. But haven't heard lately.'
Duane averted his face a moment, hesitated till the swelling left his throat, and then said, 'It's worth what I went through to-day to hear that.'
'I can imagine how you feel about it. When I was in the war– but let's get down to the business of this meeting.'
He pulled his chair close to Duane's.
'You've had word more than once in the last two years that I wanted to see you?'
'Three times, I remember,' replied Duane.
'Why didn't you hunt me up?'
'I supposed you imagined me one of those gun-fighters who couldn't take a dare and expected me to ride up to your camp and be arrested.'
'That was natural, I suppose,' went on MacNelly. 'You didn't know me, otherwise you would have come. I've been a long time getting to you. But the nature of my job, as far as you're concerned, made me cautious. Duane, you're aware of the hard name you bear all over the Southwest?'
'Once in a while I'm jarred into realizing,' replied Duane.
'It's the hardest, barring Murrell and Cheseldine, on the Texas border. But there's this difference. Murrell in his day was known to deserve his infamous name. Cheseldine in his day also. But I've found hundreds of men in southwest Texas who're your friends, who swear you never committed a crime. The farther south I get the clearer this becomes. What I want to know is the truth. Have you ever done anything criminal? Tell me the truth, Duane. It won't make any difference in my plan. And when I say crime I mean what I would call crime, or any reasonable Texan.'
'That way my hands are clean,' replied Duane.
'You never held up a man, robbed a store for grub, stole a horse when you needed him bad–never anything like that?'
'Somehow I always kept out of that, just when pressed the hardest.'
'Duane, I'm damn glad!' MacNelly exclaimed, gripping Duane's hand. 'Glad for you mother's sakel But, all the same, in spite of this, you are a Texas outlaw accountable to the state. You're perfectly aware that under existing circumstances, if you fell into the hands of the law, you'd probably hang, at least go to jail for a long term.'
'That's what kept me on the dodge all these years,' replied Duane.
'Certainly.' MacNelly removed his cigar. His eyes narrowed and glittered. The muscles along his brown cheeks set hard and tense. He leaned closer to Duane, laid sinewy, pressing fingers upon Duane's knee.
'Listen to this,' he whispered, hoarsely. 'If I place a pardon in your hand–make you a free, honest citizen once more, clear your name of infamy, make your mother, your sister proud of you–will you swear yourself to a service, ANY service I demand of you?'
Duane sat stock still, stunned.
Slowly, more persuasively, with show of earnest agitation, Captain MacNelly reiterated his startling query.
'My God!' burst from Duane. 'What's this? MacNelly, you CAN'T be in earnest!'
'Never more so in my life. I've a deep game. I'm playing it square. What do you say?'
He rose to his feet. Duane, as if impelled, rose with him. Ranger and outlaw then locked eyes that searched each other's souls. In MacNelly's Duane read truth, strong, fiery purpose, hope, even gladness, and a fugitive mounting assurance of victory.
Twice Duane endeavored to speak, failed of all save a hoarse, incoherent sound, until, forcing back a flood of speech, he found a voice.
'Any service? Every service! MacNelly, I give my word,' said Duane.
A light played over MacNelly's face, warming out all the grim darkness. He held out his hand. Duane met it with his in a clasp that men unconsciously give in moments of stress.
When they unclasped and Duane stepped back to drop into a chair MacNelly fumbled for another cigar–he had bitten the other into shreds–and, lighting it as before, he turned to his visitor, now calm and cool. He had the look of a man who had justly won something at considerable cost. His next move was to take a long leather case from his pocket and extract from it several folded papers.
'Here's your pardon from the Governor,' he said, quietly. 'You'll see, when you look it over, that it's conditional. When you sign this paper I have here the condition will be met.'
He smoothed out the paper, handed Duane a pen, ran his forefinger along a dotted line.
Duane's hand was shaky. Years had passed since he had held a pen. It was with difficulty that he achieved his signature. Buckley Duane–how strange the name looked!
'Right here ends the career of Buck Duane, outlaw and gunfighter,' said MacNelly; and, seating himself, he took the pen from Duane's fingers and wrote several lines in several places upon the paper. Then with a smile he handed it to Duane.
'That makes you a member of Company A, Texas Rangers.'
'So that's it!' burst out Duane, a light breaking in upon his bewilderment. 'You want me for ranger service?'
'Sure. That's it,' replied the Captain, dryly. 'Now to hear what that service is to be. I've been a busy man since I took this job, and, as you may have heard, I've done a few things. I don't mind telling you that political influence put me in here and that up Austin way there's a good deal of friction in the Department of State in regard to whether or not the ranger service is any good–whether it should be discontinued or not. I'm on the party side who's defending the ranger service. I contend that it's made Texas habitable. Well, it's been up to me to produce results. So far I have been successful. My great ambition is to break up the outlaw gangs along the river. I have never ventured in there yet because I've been waiting to get the lieutenant I needed. You, of course, are the man I had in mind. It's my idea to start way up the Rio Grande and begin with Cheseldine. He's the strongest, the worst outlaw of the times. He's more than rustler. It's Cheseldine and his gang who are operating on the banks. They're doing bank-robbing. That's my private opinion, but it's not been backed up by any evidence. Cheseldine doesn't leave evidences. He's intelligent, cunning. No one seems to have seen him–to know what he looks like. I assume, of course, that you are a stranger to the country he dominates. It's five hundred miles west of your ground. There's a little town over there called Fairdale. It's the nest of a rustler gang. They rustle and murder at will. Nobody knows who the leader is. I want you to find out. Well, whatever way you decide is best you will proceed to act upon. You are your own boss. You know such men and how they can be approached. You will take all the time needed, if it's months. It will be necessary for you to communicate with me, and that will be a difficult matter. For Cheseldine dominates several whole counties. You must find some way to let me know when I and my rangers are needed. The plan is to break up Cheseldine's gang. It's the toughest job on the border. Arresting him alone isn't to be heard of. He couldn't be brought out. Killing him isn't much better, for his select men, the ones he operates with, are as dangerous to the community as he is. We want to kill or jail this choice selection of robbers and break up the rest of the gang. To find them, to get among them somehow, to learn their movements, to lay your trap for us rangers to spring–that, Duane, is your service to me, and God knows it's a great one!'
'I have accepted it,' replied Duane.
