with feeling. “After a moment's thought no one will be influenced by them. Do not worry, George, tell papa not to worry. Surely after all these years he can't be injured in reputation by—by an adventurer.”
“Yes, he can be injured,” replied George quickly. “The frontier is a queer place. There are many bitter men here, men who have failed at ranching. And your father has been wonderfully successful. Steele has dropped some poison, and it'll spread.”
Then followed a silence, during which, evidently, the worried Wright bestrode the floor.
“Cousin George, what became of Steele and his prisoner?” suddenly asked Sally.
How like her it was, with her inquisitive bent of mind and shifting points of view, to ask a question the answering of which would be gall and wormwood to Wright!
It amused while it thrilled me. Sally might be a flirt, but she was no fool.
“What became of them? Ha! Steele bluffed the whole town—at least all of it who had heard the mayor's order to discharge Snell,” growled Wright. “He took Snell—rode off for Del Rio to jail him.”
“George!” exclaimed Diane. “Then, after all, this Ranger was able to arrest Snell, the innocent man father discharged, and take him to jail?”
“Exactly. That's the toughest part....” Wright ended abruptly, and then broke out fiercely: “But, by God, he'll never come back!”
Wright's slow pacing quickened and he strode from the parlor, leaving behind him a silence eloquent of the effect of his sinister prediction.
“Sally, what did he mean?” asked Diane in a low voice.
“Steele will be killed,” replied Sally, just as low-voiced.
“Killed! That magnificent fellow! Ah, I forgot. Sally, my wits are sadly mixed. I ought to be glad if somebody kills my father's defamer. But, oh, I can't be!
“This bloody frontier makes me sick. Papa doesn't want me to stay for good. And no wonder. Shall I go back? I hate to show a white feather.
“Do you know, Sally, I was—a little taken with this Texas Ranger. Miserably, I confess. He seemed so like in spirit to the grand stature of him. How can so splendid a man be so bloody, base at heart? It's hideous. How little we know of men! I had my dream about Vaughn Steele. I confess because it shames me—because I hate myself!”
Next morning I awakened with a feeling that I was more like my old self. In the experience of activity of body and mind, with a prospect that this was merely the forerunner of great events, I came round to my own again.
Sally was not forgotten; she had just become a sorrow. So perhaps my downfall as a lover was a precursor of better results as an officer.
I held in abeyance my last conclusion regarding Sampson and Wright, and only awaited Steele's return to have fixed in mind what these men were.
Wright's remark about Steele not returning did not worry me. I had heard many such dark sayings in reference to Rangers.
Rangers had a trick of coming back. I did not see any man or men on the present horizon of Linrock equal to the killing of Steele.
As Miss Sampson and Sally had no inclination to ride, I had even more freedom. I went down to the town and burst, cheerily whistling, into Jim Hoden's place.
Jim always made me welcome there, as much for my society as for the money I spent, and I never neglected being free with both. I bought a handful of cigars and shoved some of them in his pocket.
“How's tricks, Jim?” I asked cheerily.
“Reckon I'm feelin' as well as could be expected,” replied Jim. His head was circled by a bandage that did not conceal the lump where he had been struck. Jim looked a little pale, but he was bright enough.
“That was a hell of a biff Snell gave you, the skunk,” I remarked with the same cheery assurance.
“Russ, I ain't accusin' Snell,” remonstrated Jim with eyes that made me thoughtful.
“Sure, I know you're too good a sport to send a fellow up. But Snell deserved what he got. I saw his face when he made his talk to Sampson's court. Snell lied. And I'll tell you what, Jim, if it'd been me instead of that Ranger, Bud Snell would have got settled.”
Jim appeared to be agitated by my forcible intimation of friendship.
“Jim, that's between ourselves,” I went on. “I'm no fool. And much as I blab when I'm hunky, it's all air. Maybe you've noticed that about me. In some parts of Texas it's policy to be close-mouthed. Policy and healthy. Between ourselves, as friends, I want you to know I lean some on Steele's side of the fence.”
As I lighted a cigar I saw, out of the corner of my eye, how Hoden gave a quick start. I expected some kind of a startling idea to flash into his mind.
Presently I turned and frankly met his gaze. I had startled him out of his habitual set taciturnity, but even as I looked the light that might have been amaze and joy faded out of his face, leaving it the same old mask.
Still I had seen enough. Like a bloodhound, I had a scent. “Thet's funny, Russ, seein' as you drift with the gang Steele's bound to fight,” remarked Hoden.
“Sure. I'm a sport. If I can't gamble with gentlemen I'll gamble with rustlers.”
Again he gave a slight start, and this time he hid his eyes.
“Wal, Russ, I've heard you was slick,” he said.
“You tumble, Jim. I'm a little better on the draw.”
