A Texas Ranger (Western Classic). William MacLeod Raine

Of course it’s necessary. Think I’m going to buy a hawss I’ve never seen?” he asked, with deep innocence.

      “I’ll bring it here.”

      “In Texas, ma’am, we wait on the ladies. Still, it’s your say-so when you’re behind that big gun.”

      He said it laughing, and she threw the weapon angrily into the seat of the rig.

      “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll amble down and see what’s behind the hill.”

      By the flinch in her eyes he tested his center shot and knew it true. Her breast was rising and falling tumultuously. A shiver ran through her.

      “No—no. I’m not hiding—anything,” she gasped.

      “Then if you’re not you can’t object to my going there.”

      She caught her hands together in despair. There was about him something masterful that told her she could not prevent him from investigating; and it was impossible to guess how he would act after he knew. The men she had known had been bound by convention to respect a woman’s wishes, but even her ignorance of his type made guess that this steel-eyed, close-knit young Westerner—or was he a Southerner?—would be impervious to appeals founded upon the rules of the society to which she had been accustomed. A glance at his stone-wall face, at the lazy confidence of his manner, made her dismally aware that the data gathered by her experience of the masculine gender were insufficient to cover this specimen.

      “You can’t go.”

      But her imperative refusal was an appeal. For though she hated him from the depths of her proud, untamed heart for the humiliation he had put upon her, yet for the sake of that ferocious hunted animal she had left lying under a cottonwood she must bend her spirit to win him.

      “I’m going to sit in this game and see it out,” he said, not unkindly.

      “Please!”

      Her sweet slenderness barred the way about as electively as a mother quail does the road to her young. He smiled, put his big hands on her elbows, and gently lifted her to one side. Then he strode forward lightly, with the long, easy, tireless stride of a beast of prey, striking direct for his quarry.

      A bullet whizzed by his ear, and like a flash of light his weapon was unscabbarded and ready for action. He felt a flame of fire scorch his cheek and knew a second shot had grazed him.

      “Hands up! Quick!” ordered the traveler.

      Lying on the ground before him was a man with close-cropped hair and a villainous scarred face. A revolver in his hand showed the source of the bullets.

      Eye to eye the men measured strength, fighting out to the last ditch the moral battle which was to determine the physical one. Sullenly, at the last, the one on the ground shifted his gaze and dropped his gun with a vile curse.

      “Run to earth,” he snarled, his lip lifting from the tobacco-stained upper teeth in an ugly fashion.

      The girl ran toward the Westerner and caught at his arm. “Don’t shoot,” she implored.

      Without moving his eyes from the man on the ground he swept her back.

      “This outfit is too prevalent with its hardware,” he growled. “Chew out an explanation, my friend, or you’re liable to get spoiled.”

      It was the girl that spoke, in a low voice and very evidently under a tense excitement.

      “He is my brother and he has—hurt himself. He can’t ride any farther and we have seventy miles still to travel. We didn’t know what to do, and so—”

      “You started out to be a road-agent and he took a pot-shot at the first person he saw. I’m surely obliged to you both for taking so much interest in me, or rather in my team. Robbery and murder are quite a family pastime, ain’t they?”

      The girl went white as snow, seemed to shrink before his sneer as from a deadly weapon; and like a flash of light some divination of the truth pierced the Westerner’s brain. They were fugitives from justice, making for the Mexican line. That the man was wounded a single glance had told him. It was plain to be seen that the wear and tear of keeping the saddle had been too much for him.

      “I acted on an impulse,” the girl explained in the same low tone. “I saw you coming and I didn’t know—hadn’t money enough to buy the team—besides—”

      He took the words out of her mouth when she broke down.

      “Besides, I might have happened to be a sheriff. I might be, but then I’m not.”

      The traveler stepped forward and kicked the wounded man’s revolver beyond his reach, then swiftly ran a hand over him to make sure he carried no other gun.

      The fellow on the ground eyed him furtively. “What are you going to do with me?” he growled.

      The other addressed himself to the girl, ignoring him utterly.

      “What has this man done?”

      “He has—broken out from—from prison.”

      “Where?”

      “At Yuma.”

      “Damn you, you’re snitching,” interrupted the criminal in a scream that was both wheedling and threatening.

      The young man put his foot on the burly neck and calmly ground it into the dust. Otherwise he paid no attention to him, but held the burning eyes of the girl that stared at him from a bloodless face.

      “What was he in for?”

      “For holding up a train.”

      She had answered in spite of herself, by reason of something compelling in him that drew the truth from her.

      “How long has he been in the penitentiary?”

      “Seven years.” Then, miserably, she added: “He was weak and fell into bad company. They led him into it.”

      “When did he escape?”

      “Two days ago. Last night he knocked at my window—at the window of the room where I lodge in Fort Lincoln. I had not heard of his escape, but I took him in. There were horses in the barn. One of them was mine. I saddled, and after I had dressed his wound we started. He couldn’t get any farther than this.”

      “Do you live in Fort Lincoln?”

      “I came there to teach school. My home was in Wisconsin before.”

      “You came out here to be near him?”

      “Yes. That is, near as I could get a school. I was to have got in the Tucson schools next year. That’s much nearer.”

      “You visited him at the penitentiary?”

      “No. I was going to during the Thanksgiving vacation. Until last night I had not seen him since he left home. I was a child of seven then.”

      The Texan looked down at the ruffian under his feet.

      “Do you know the road to Mexico by the Arivaca cut-off?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then climb into my rig and hit the trail hard—burn it up till you’ve crossed the line.”

      The fellow began to whine thanks, but the man above would have none of them, “I’m giving you this chance for your sister’s sake. You won’t make anything of it. You’re born for meanness and deviltry. I know your kind from El Paso to Dawson. But she’s game and she’s white clear through, even if she is your sister and a plumb little fool. Can you walk to the road?” he ended abruptly.

      “I think so. It’s in my ankle. Some hell-hound gave it me while we were getting over the wall,” the fellow growled.

      “Don’t blame him. His intentions were good. He meant to blow out your brains.”

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