The Lone Star Ranger and the Mysterious Rider by Zane Grey Page A

this outlaw den if I have to kill Bland, Alloway, Rugg—anybody who stands in my path. You were dragged here. You are good—I know it. There’s happiness for you somewhere—a home among good people who will care for you. Just wait till—”
    His voice trailed off and failed from excess of emotion. Kate Bland closed her eyes and leaned her head on his breast. Duane felt her heart beat against his, and conscience smote him a keen blow. If she loved him so much! But memory and understanding of her character hardened him again, and he gave her such commiseration as was due her sex, and no more.
    â€œBoy, that’s good of you,” she whispered, “but it’s too late. I’m done for. I can’t leave Bland. All I ask is that you love me a little and stop your gun-throwing.”
    The moon had risen over the eastern bulge of dark mountain, and now the valley was flooded with mellow light, and shadows of cottonwoods wavered against the silver.
    Suddenly the clip-clop, clip-clop of hoofs caused Duane to raise his head and listen. Horses were coming down the road from the head of the valley. The hour was unusual for riders to come in. Presently the narrow, moonlit lane was crossed at its far end by black moving objects. Two horses Duane discerned.
    â€œIt’s Bland!” whispered the woman, grasping Duane with shaking hands. “You must run! No, he’d see you. That ’d be worse. It’s Bland! I know his horse’s trot.”
    â€œBut you said he wouldn’t mind my calling here,” protested Duane. “Euchre’s with me. It ’ll be all right.”
    â€œMaybe so,” she replied, with visible effort at self-control. Manifestly she had a great fear of Bland. “If I could only think!”
    Then she dragged Duane to the door, pushed him in.
    â€œEuchre, come out with me! Duane, you stay with the girl! I’ll tell Bland you’re in love with her. Jen, if you give us away I’ll wring your neck.”
    The swift action and fierce whisper told Duane that Mrs. Bland was herself again. Duane stepped close to Jennie, who stood near the window. Neither spoke, but her hands were outstretched to meet his own. They were small, trembling hands, cold as ice. He held them close, trying to convey what he felt—that he would protect her. She leaned against him, and they looked out of the window. Duane felt calm and sure of himself. His most pronounced feeling besides that for the frightened girl was a curiosity as to how Mrs. Bland would rise to the occasion. He saw the riders dismount down the lane and wearily come forward. A boy led away the horses. Euchre, the old fox, was talking loud and with remarkable ease, considering what he claimed was his natural cowardice.
    â€œâ€”that was way back in the sixties, about the time of the war,” he was saying. “Rustlin’ cattle wasn’t nuthin’ then to what it is now. An’ times is rougher these days. This gun-throwin’ has come to be a disease. Men have an itch for the draw same as they used to have fer poker. The only real gambler outside of Mexicans we ever had here was Bill, an’ I presume Bill is burnin’ now.”
    The approaching outlaws, hearing voices, halted a rod or so from the porch. Then Mrs. Bland uttered an exclamation, ostensibly meant to express surprise, and hurried out to meet them. She greeted her husband warmly and gave welcome to the other man. Duane could not see well enough in the shadow to recognize Bland’s companion, but he believed it was Alloway.
    â€œDog-tired we are and starved,” said Bland, heavily. “Who’s here with you?”
    â€œThat’s Euchre on the porch. Duane is inside at the window with Jen,” replied Mrs. Bland.
    â€œDuane!” he exclaimed. Then he whispered low—something Duane could not catch.
    â€œWhy, I asked him to come,” said the chief’s wife. She spoke easily and