The Lone Star Ranger and the Mysterious Rider Read Free

spirit. It had slipped his mind—the consequence of his act. But sight of the horse and the look of his uncle recalled the fact that he must now become a fugitive. An unreasonable anger took hold of him.
    â€œThe damned fool!” he exclaimed, hotly. “Meeting Bain wasn’t much, Uncle Jim. He dusted my boots, that’s all. And for that I’ve got to go on the dodge.”
    â€œSon, you killed him—then?” asked the uncle, huskily.
    â€œYes. I stood over him—watched him die. I did as I would have been done by.”
    â€œI knew it. Long ago I saw it comin’. But now we can’t stop to cry over spilt blood. You’ve got to leave town an’ this part of the country.”
    â€œMother!” exclaimed Duane.
    â€œShe’s away from home. You can’t wait. I’ll break it to her—what she always feared.”
    Suddenly Duane sat down and covered his face with his hands.
    â€œMy God! Uncle, what have I done?” His broad shoulders shook.
    â€œListen, son, an’ remember what I say,” replied the elder man, earnestly. “Don’t ever forget. You’re not to blame. I’m glad to see you take it this way, because maybe you’ll never grow hard an’ callous. You’re not to blame. This is Texas. You’re your father’s son. These are wild times. The law as the rangers are laying it down now can’t change life all in a minute. Even your mother, who’s a good, true woman, has had her share in making you what you are this moment. For she was one of the pioneers—the fightin’ pioneers of this state. Those years of wild times, before you was born, developed in her instinct to fight, to save her life, her children, an’ that instinct has cropped out in you. It will be many years before it dies out of the boys born in Texas.”
    â€œI’m a murderer,” said Duane, shuddering.
    â€œNo, son, you’re not. An’ you never will be. But you’ve got to be an outlaw till time makes it safe for you to come home.”
    â€œAn outlaw?”
    â€œI said it. If we had money an’ influence we’d risk a trial. But we’ve neither. An’ I reckon the scaffold or jail is no place for Buckley Duane. Strike for the wild country, an’ wherever you go an’ whatever you do—be a man. Live honestly, if that’s possible. If it isn’t, be as honest as you can. If you have to herd with outlaws try not to become bad. There are outlaws who ’re not all bad—many who have been driven to the river by such a deal as this you had. When you get among these men avoid brawls. Don’t drink; don’t gamble. I needn’t tell you what to do if it comes to gun-play, as likely it will. You can’t come home. When this thing is lived down, if that time ever comes, I’ll get word into the unsettled country. It’ll reach you some day. That’s all. Remember, be a man. Good-by.”
    Duane, with blurred sight and contracting throat, gripped his uncle’s hand and bade him a wordless farewell. Then he leaped astride the black and rode out of town.
    As swiftly as was consistent with a care for his steed, Duane put a distance of fifteen or eighteen miles behind him. With that he slowed up, and the matter of riding did not require all his faculties. He passed several ranches and was seen by men. This did not suit him, and he took an old trail across country. It was a flat region with a poor growth of mesquite and prickly-pear cactus. Occasionally he caught a glimpse of low hills in the distance. He had hunted often in that section, and knew where to find grass and water. When he reached this higher ground he did not, however, halt at the first favorable camping-spot, but went on and on. Once he came out upon the brow of a hill and saw a considerable stretch of country beneath him. It had the gray sameness characterizing all that he had traversed. He seemed to