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

country. They’ll all want your game. An’ every town you ride into will scare up some cowpuncher full of booze or a long-haired four-flush gunman or a sheriff—an’ these men will be playin’ to the crowd an’ yellin’ for your blood. Thet’s the Texas of it. You’ll have to hide fer ever in the brakes or you’ll have to kill such men. Buck, I reckon this ain’t cheerful news to a decent chap like you. I’m only tellin’ you because I’ve taken a likin’ to you, an’ I seen right off thet you ain’t border-wise. Let’s eat now, an’ afterward we’ll go out so the gang can see you’re not hidin’.”
    *   *   *
    When Duane went out with Euchre the sun was setting behind a blue range of mountains across the river in Mexico. The valley appeared to open to the southwest. It was a tranquil, beautiful scene. Somewhere in a house near at hand a woman was singing. And in the road Duane saw a little Mexican boy driving home some cows, one of which wore a bell. The sweet, happy voice of a woman and a whistling barefoot boy—these seemed utterly out of place here.
    Euchre presently led to the square and the row of rough houses Duane remembered. He almost stepped on a wide imprint in the dust where Bosomer had confronted him. And a sudden fury beset him that he should be affected strangely by the sight of it.
    â€œLet’s have a look in here,” said Euchre.
    Duane had to bend his head to enter the door. He found himself in a very large room inclosed by adobe walls and roofed with brush. It was full of rude benches, tables, seats. At one corner a number of kegs and barrels lay side by side in a rack. A Mexican boy was lighting lamps hung on posts that sustained the log rafters of the roof.
    â€œThe only feller who’s goin’ to put a close eye on you is Benson,” said Euchre. “He runs the place an’ sells drinks. The gang calls him Jackrabbit Benson, because he’s always got his eye peeled an’ his ear cocked. Don’t notice him if he looks you over, Buck. Benson is scared to death of every newcomer who rustles into Bland’s camp. An’ the reason, I take it, is because he’s done somebody dirt. He’s hidin’. Not from a sheriff or ranger! Men who hide from them don’t act like Jackrabbit Benson. He’s hidin’ from some guy who’s huntin’ him to kill him. Wal, I’m always expectin’ to see some feller ride in here an’ throw a gun on Benson. Can’t say I’d be grieved.”
    Duane casually glanced in the direction indicated, and he saw a spare, gaunt man with a face strikingly white beside the red and bronze and dark skins of the men around him. It was a cadaverous face. The black mustache hung down; a heavy lock of black hair dropped down over the brow; deep-set, hollow, staring eyes looked out piercingly. The man had a restless, alert, nervous manner. He put his hands on the board that served as a bar and stared at Duane. But when he met Duane’s glance he turned hurriedly to go on serving out liquor.
    â€œWhat have you got against him?” inquired Duane, as he sat down beside Euchre. He asked more for something to say than from real interest. What did he care about a mean, haunted, craven-faced criminal?
    â€œWal, mebbe I’m cross-grained,” replied Euchre, apologetically. “Shore an outlaw an’ rustler such as me can’t be touchy. But I never stole nothin’ but cattle from some rancher who never missed ’em anyway. Thet sneak Benson—he was the means of puttin’ a little girl in Bland’s way.”
    â€œGirl?” queried Duane, now with real attention.
    â€œShore. Bland’s great on women. I’ll tell you about this girl when we get out of here. Some of the gang are goin’ to be sociable, an’ I can’t talk about the chief.”
    During the ensuing