promise you.'
'Miss Longstreth, that's fine!' exclaimed Duane. 'It's what I'd have–expected of you.'
It must have been sweet praise to her, for the whiteness of her face burned out in a beautiful blush.
'And it's good of you, too, Miss Herbert, to come,' added Duane. 'Let me thank you both. I'm glad I have you girls as allies in part of my lonely task here. More than glad for the sake of this good woman and the little ones. But both of you be careful about coming here alone. There's risk. And now I'll be going. Good-by, Mrs. Laramie. I'll drop in again to-night. Good-by.'
'Mr. Ranger, wait!' called Miss Longstreth, as he went out. She was white and wonderful. She stepped out of the door close to him.
'I have wronged your' she said, impulsively.
'Miss Longstreth! How can you say that?' he returned.
'I believed what my father and Floyd Lawson said about you. Now I see–I wronged you.'
'You make me very glad. But, Miss Longstreth, please don't speak of wronging me. I have been a–a gunman, I am a ranger– and much said of me is true. My duty is hard on others–sometimes on those who are innocent, alas! But God knows that duty is hard, too, on me.'
'I did wrong you. If you entered my home again I would think it an honor. I–'
'Please–please don't, Miss Longstreth,' interrupted Duane.
'But, sir, my conscience flays me,' she went on. There was no other sound like her voice. 'Will you take my hand? Will you forgive me?'
She gave it royally, while the other was there pressing at her breast. Duane took the proffered hand. He did not know what else to do.
Then it seemed to dawn upon him that there was more behind this white, sweet, noble intensity of her than just the making amends for a fancied or real wrong. Duane thought the man did not live on earth who could have resisted her then.
'I honor you for your goodness to this unfortunate woman,' she said, and now her speech came swiftly. 'When she was all alone and helpless you were her friend. It was the deed of a man. But Mrs. Laramie isn't the only unfortunate woman in the world. I, too, am unfortunate. Ah, how I may soon need a friend! Will you be my friend? I'm so alone. I'm terribly worried. I fear–I fear–Oh, surely I'll need a friend soon–soon. Oh, I'm afraid of what you'll find out sooner or later. I want to help you. Let us save life if not honor. Must I stand alone–all alone? Will you–will you be–' Her voice failed.
It seemed to Duane that she must have discovered what he had begun to suspect–that her father and Lawson were not the honest ranchers they pretended to be. Perhaps she knew more! Her appeal to Duane shook him deeply. He wanted to help her more than he had ever wanted anything. And with the meaning of the tumultuous sweetness she stirred in him there came realization of a dangerous situation.
'I must be true to my duty,' he said, hoarsely.
'If you knew me you'd know I could never ask you to be false to it.'
'Well, then–I'll do anything for you.'
'Oh, thank you! I'm ashamed that I believed my cousin Floyd! He lied–he lied. I'm all in the dark, strangely distressed. My father wants me to go back home. Floyd is trying to keep me here. They've quarreled. Oh, I know something dreadful will happen. I know I'll need you if–if–Will you help me?'
'Yes,' replied Duane, and his look brought the blood to her face.
Chapter XIX
After supper Duane stole out for his usual evening's spying. The night was dark, without starlight, and a stiff wind rustled the leaves. Duane bent his steps toward the Longstreth's ranchhouse. He had so much to think about that he never knew where the time went. This night when he reached the edge of the shrubbery he heard Lawson's well-known footsteps and saw Longstreth's door open, flashing a broad bar of light in the darkness. Lawson crossed the threshold, the door closed, and all was dark again outside. Not a ray of light escaped from the window.
Little doubt there was that his talk with Longstreth would be interesting to Duane. He tiptoed to the door and listened, but could hear only a murmur of voices. Besides, that position was too risky. He went round the corner of the house.
This side of the big adobe house was of much older construction than the back and larger part. There was a narrow passage between the houses, leading from the outside through to the patio.
This passage now afforded Duane an opportunity, and he decided to avail himself of it in spite of the very great danger. Crawling on very stealthily, he got under the shrubbery to the entrance of the passage. In the blackness a faint streak of light showed the location of a crack in the wall. He had to slip in sidewise. It was a tight squeeze, but he entered without the slightest noise. As he progressed the passage grew a very little wider in that direction, and that fact gave rise to the thought that in case of a necessary and hurried exit he would do best by working toward the patio. It seemed a good deal of time was consumed in reaching a vantage-point. When he did get there the crack he had marked was a foot over his head. There was nothing to do but find toe-holes in the crumbling walls, and by bracing knees on one side, back against the other, hold himself up Once with his eye there he did not care what risk he ran. Longstreth appeared disturbed; he sat stroking his mustache; his brow was clouded. Lawson's face seemed darker, more sullen, yet lighted by some indomitable resolve.
'We'll settle both deals to-night,' Lawson was saying. 'That's what I came for.'
'But suppose I don't choose to talk here?' protested Longstreth, impatiently. 'I never before made my house a place to–'
'We've waited long enough. This place's as good as any. You've lost your nerve since that ranger hit the town. First now, will you give Ray to me?'
'Floyd; you talk like a spoiled boy. Give Ray to you! Why, she's a woman, and I'm finding out that she's got a mind of her own. I told you I was willing for her to marry you. I tried to persuade her. But Ray hasn't any use for you now. She liked you at first. But now she doesn't. So what can I do?'
'You can make her marry me,' replied Lawson.
'Make that girl do what she doesn't want to? It couldn't be done even if I tried. And I don't believe I'll try. I haven't the highest opinion of you as a prospective son-in-law, Floyd. But if Ray loved you I would consent. We'd all go away together before this damned miserable business is out. Then she'd never know. And maybe you might be more like you used to be before the West ruined you. But as matters stand, you fight your own game with her. And I'll tell you now you'll lose.'
'What'd you want to let her come out here for?' demanded Lawson, hotly. 'It was a dead mistake. I've lost my head over her. I'll have her or die. Don't you think if she was my wife I'd soon pull myself together? Since she came we've none of us been right. And the gang has put up a holler. No, Longstreth, we've got to settle things to- night.'
'Well, we can settle what Ray's concerned in, right now,' replied Longstreth, rising. 'Come on; we'll ask her. See where you stand.'
They went out, leaving the door open. Duane dropped down to rest himself and to wait. He would have liked to hear Miss Longstreth's answer. But he could guess what it would be. Lawson appeared to be all Duane had thought him, and he believed he was going to find out presently that he was worse.
The men seemed to be absent a good while, though that feeling might have been occasioned by Duane's thrilling interest and anxiety. Finally he heard heavy steps. Lawson came in alone. He was leaden-faced, humiliated. Then something abject in him gave place to rage. He strode the room; he cursed. Then Longstreth returned, now appreciably calmer. Duane could not but decide that he felt relief at the evident rejection of Lawson's proposal.
'Don't fuss about it, Floyd,' he said. 'You see I can't help it. We're pretty wild out here, but I can't rope my daughter and give her to you as I would an unruly steer.'
'Longstreth, I can MAKE her marry me,' declared Lawson, thickly.
'How?'
'You know the hold I got on you–the deal that made you boss of this rustler gang?'
'It isn't likely I'd forget,' replied Longstreth, grimly.
'I can go to Ray, tell her that, make her believe I'd tell it broadcast–tell this ranger–unless she'd marry me.'
Lawson spoke breathlessly, with haggard face and shadowed eyes. He had no shame. He was simply in the
