The Lone Star Ranger - Softcover

Grey, Zane

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0786033045 ISBN 13: 9780786033041

Publisher: Pinnacle Books,U.S., 2013

Synopsis

The premier chronicler of the American West, legendary storyteller Zane Grey has captivated millions of readers with his timeless adventures of life, death, gunfire, and justice. This is the Old West in all its glory and grandeur. Forged in blood. Enflamed by passion. Emblazoned with bullets. . .

In the law of the gun, a man must shoot his way to innocence. At least that's how Captain McKelly of the Texas Rangers puts it to Buck Duane. On the run for killing a man to save his own skin, Duane must now infiltrate the deadly Chelsedine gang. These ruthless rustlers are running amok in Texas and it's going to take a matchless gunfighter to stop their rampage. With the legendary Rangers providing firepower, Duane has more than a fighting chance. Or so he thinks. When he uncovers a secret that could destroy them all, the bullet storm is biblical--and a legend rises out of the dust.

"In a changing world it is comforting. . .and entertaining to spend a little while in the company of Zane Grey." --New York Times

"Zane Grey epitomized the mythical West that should have been." --True West

"Grey was a champion of the American wilderness and the men and women who tamed the Old West."--Booklist

About this title

About the Author

Zane Grey is noted for his careful research and accurate portrayal of the American West. Grey's first book was published in 1904, and he went on to write more than 50 novels, most of them tales of adventure with a Western setting, including The Last of the Plainsmen (1908), Riders of the Purple Sage (1912), The Thundering Herd (1925), Code of the West (1934), and West of the Pecos (1937). His nonfiction works includeTales of Fishing (1925). Many of Grey's novels continue to be extremely popular, and several have been adapted into motion pictures.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The LONE STAR RANGER

By ZANE GREY

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

Copyright © 2013 Kensington Publishing Corp.
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-7860-3304-1

Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

So it was in him, then—an inherited fighting instinct, a drivingintensity to kill. He was the last of the Duanes, that oldfighting stock of Texas. But not the memory of his dead father,nor the pleading of his soft-voiced mother, nor the warningof this uncle who stood before him now, had brought toBuck Duane so much realization of the dark passionatestrain in his blood. It was the recurrence, a hundredfold increasedin power, of a strange emotion that for the last threeyears had arisen in him.

"Yes, Cal Bain's in town, full of bad whisky an' huntin'for you," repeated the elder man, gravely.

"It's the second time," muttered Duane, as if to himself.

"Son, you can't avoid a meetin'. Leave town till Calsobers up. He ain't got it in for you when he's not drinkin'."

"But what's he want me for?" demanded Duane. "To insultme again? I won't stand that twice."

"He's got a fever that's rampant in Texas these days, myboy. He wants gun-play. If he meets you he'll try to kill you."

Here it stirred in Duane again, that bursting gush of blood,like a wind of flame shaking all his inner being, and subsidingto leave him strangely chilled.

"Kill me! What for?" he asked.

"Lord knows there ain't any reason. But what's that to dowith most of the shootin' these days? Didn't five cowboysover to Everall's kill one another dead all because they got tojerkin' at a quirt among themselves? An' Cal has no reasonto love you. His girl was sweet on you."

"I quit when I found out she was his girl."

"I reckon she ain't quit. But never mind her or reasons.

Cal's here, just drunk enough to be ugly. He's achin' to killsomebody. He's one of them four-flush gun-fighters. He'dlike to be thought bad. There's a lot of wild cowboys who 'reambitious for a reputation. They talk about how quick theyare on the draw. They ape Bland, an' King Fisher, an' Hardin,an' all the big outlaws. They make threats about joinin' thegangs along the Rio Grande. They laugh at the sheriffs an'brag about how they'd fix the rangers. Cal's sure not muchfor you to bother with, if you only keep out of his way."

"You mean for me to run?" asked Duane, in scorn.

"I reckon I wouldn't put it that way. Just avoid him. Buck,I'm not afraid Cal would get you if you met down there intown. You've your father's eye an' his slick hand with a gun.What I'm most afraid of is that you'll kill Bain."

Duane was silent, letting his uncle's earnest words sinkin, trying to realize their significance.

"If Texas ever recovers from that fool war an' kills offthese outlaws, why, a young man will have a lookout," wenton the uncle. "You're twenty-three now, an' a powerful sightof a fine fellow, barrin' your temper. You've a chance in life.But if you go gun-fightin', if you kill a man, you're ruined.Then you'll kill another. It'll be the same old story. An' therangers would make you an outlaw. The rangers mean lawan' order for Texas. This even-break business doesn't workwith them. If you resist arrest they'll kill you. If you submitto arrest, then you go to jail, an' mebbe you hang."

"I'd never hang," muttered Duane, darkly.

"I reckon you wouldn't," replied the old man. "You'd belike your father. He was ever ready to draw—too ready. Intimes like these, with the Texas rangers enforcin' the law,your dad would have been driven to the river. An', son, I'mafraid you're a chip off the old block. Can't you hold in—keepyour temper—run away from trouble? Because it'llonly result in you gettin' the worst of it in the end. Your fatherwas killed in a street-fight. An' it was told of him that heshot twice after a bullet had passed through his heart. Thinkof the terrible nature of a man to be able to do that. If youhave any such blood in you, never give it a chance."

"What you say is all very well, uncle," returned Duane,"but the only way out for me is to run, and I won't do it. CalBain and his outfit have already made me look like a coward.He says I'm afraid to come out and face him. A man simplycan't stand that in this country. Besides, Cal would shoot mein the back someday if I didn't face him."

"Well, then, what 're you goin' to do?" inquired the elderman.

"I haven't decided—yet."

"No, but you're comin' to it mighty fast. That damnedspell is workin' in you. You're different today. I rememberhow you used to be moody an' lose your temper an' talkwild. Never was much afraid of you then. But now you'regettin' cool an' quiet, an' you think deep, an' I don't like thelight in your eye. It reminds me of your father."

"I wonder what Dad would say to me today' if he werealive and here," said Duane.

"What do you think? What could you expect of a manwho never wore a glove on his right hand for twenty years?"

"Well, he'd hardly have said much. Dad never talked. Buthe would have done a lot. And I guess I'll go downtown andlet Cal Bain find me."

Then followed a long silence, during which Duane satwith downcast eyes, and the uncle appeared lost in sadthought of the future. Presently he turned to Duane with anexpression that denoted resignation, and yet a spirit whichshowed wherein they were of the same blood.

"You've got a fast horse—the fastest I know of in thiscountry. After you meet Bain hurry back home. I'll have asaddle-bag packed for you and the horse ready."

With that he turned on his heel and went into the house,leaving Duane to revolve in his mind his singular speech.Buck wondered presently if he shared his uncle's opinion ofthe result of a meeting between himself and Bain. His thoughtswere vague. But on the instant of final decision, when he hadsettled with himself that he would meet Bain, such a stormof passion assailed him that he felt as if he was being shakenwith ague. Yet it was all internal, inside his breast, for hishand was like a rock and, for all he could see, not a muscleabout him quivered. He had no fear of Bain or of any otherman; but a vague fear of himself, of this strange force inhim, made him ponder and shake his head. It was as if hehad not all to say in this matter. There appeared to have beenin him a reluctance to let himself go, and some voice, somespirit from a distance, something he was not accountable for,had compelled him. That hour of Duane's life was like yearsof actual living, and in it he became a thoughtful man.

He went into the house and buckled on his belt and gun.The gun was a Colt .45, six-shot, and heavy, with an ivoryhandle. He had packed it, on and off, for five years. Beforethat it had been used by his father. There were a number ofnotches filed in the bulge of the ivory handle. This gun wasthe one his father had fired twice after being shot throughthe heart, and his hand had stiffened so tightly upon it in thedeath-grip that his fingers had to be pried open. It had neverbeen drawn upon any man since it had come into Duane'spossession. But the cold, bright polish of the weapon showedhow it had been used. Duane could draw it with inconceivablerapidity, and at twenty feet he could split a card pointingedgewise toward him.

Duane wished to avoid meeting his mother. Fortunately,as he thought, she was away from home. He went out anddown the path toward the gate. The air was full of the fragranceof blossoms and the melody of birds. Outside in theroad a neighbor woman stood talking to a countryman in awagon; they spoke to him; and he heard, but did not reply.Then he began to stride down the road toward the town.

Wellston was a small town, but important in that unsettledpart of the great state because it was the trading-centerof several hundred miles of territory. On the main streetthere were perhaps fifty buildings, some brick, some frame,mostly adobe, and one-third of the lot, and by far the mostprosperous, saloons. From the road Duane turned into thisstreet. It was a wide thoroughfare lined by hitching-rails andsaddled horses and vehicles of various kinds. Duane's eyeranged down the street, taking in all at a glance, particularlypersons moving leisurely up and down. Not a cowboy was insight. Duane slackened his stride, and by the time he reachedSol White's place, which was the first saloon, he was walkingslowly. Several people spoke to him and turned to lookback after they had passed. He paused at the door of White'ssaloon, took a sharp survey of the interior, then stepped inside.

The saloon was large and cool, full of men and noise andsmoke. The noise ceased upon his entrance, and the silenceensuing presently broke to the clink of Mexican silver dollarsat a monte table. Sol White, who was behind the bar,straightened up when he saw Duane; then, without speaking,he bent over to rinse a glass. All eyes except those of theMexican gamblers were turned upon Duane; and these glanceswere keen, speculative, questioning. These men knew Bainwas looking for trouble; they probably had heard his boasts.But what did Duane intend to do? Several of the cowboysand ranchers present exchanged glances. Duane had beenweighed by unerring Texas instinct, by men who all packedguns. The boy was the son of his father. Whereupon theygreeted him and returned to their drinks and cards. SolWhite stood with his big red hands out upon the bar; he wasa tall, raw-boned Texan with a long mustache waxed to sharppoints.

"Howdy, Buck," was his greeting to Duane. He spokecarelessly and averted his dark gaze for an instant. "Howdy,Sol," replied Duane, slowly. "Say, Sol, I hear there's a gent intown looking for me bad."

"Reckon there is, Buck," replied White. "He came inheah aboot an hour ago. Shore he was some riled an'a-roarin' for gore. Told me confidential a certain party hadgiven you a white silk scarf, an' he was hell-bent on wearin'it home spotted red."

"Anybody with him?" queried Duane.

"Burt an' Sam Outcalt an' a little cowpuncher I neverseen before. They-all was coaxin' him to leave town. Buthe's looked on the flowin' glass, Buck, an' he's heah forkeeps."

"Why doesn't Sheriff Oaks lock him up if he's that bad?"

"Oaks went away with the rangers. There's been anotherraid at Flesher's ranch. The King Fisher gang, likely. An' sothe town's shore wide open."

Duane stalked outdoors and faced down the street. Hewalked the whole length of the long block, meeting manypeople—farmers, ranchers, clerks, merchants, Mexicans, cowboys,and women. It was a singular fact that when he turned,to retrace his steps the street was almost empty. He had notreturned a hundred yards on his way when the street waswholly deserted. A few heads protruded from doors andaround corners. That main street of Wellston saw some suchsituation every few days. If it was an instinct for Texans tofight, it was also instinctive for them to sense with remarkablequickness the signs of a coming gun-play. Rumor couldnot fly so swiftly. In less than ten minutes everybody whohad been on the street or in the shops knew that Buck Duanehad come forth to meet his enemy.

Duane walked on. When he came to within fifty paces ofa saloon he swerved out into the middle of the street, stoodthere for a moment, then, went ahead and back to the sidewalk.He passed on in this way the length of the block. SolWhite was standing in the door of his saloon.

"Buck, I'm a-tippin' you off," he said, quick and low-voiced."Cal Bain's over at Everall's. If he's a-huntin' youbad, as he brags, he'll show there."

Duane crossed the street and started down, NotwithstandingWhite's statement Duane was wary and slow at everydoor. Nothing happened, and he traversed almost the wholelength of the block without seeing a person. Everall's placewas on the corner.

Duane knew himself to be cold, steady. He was consciousof a strange fury that made him want to leap ahead. Heseemed to long for this encounter more than anything he hadever wanted. But, vivid as were his sensations, he felt as if ina dream.

Before he reached Everall's he heard loud voices, one ofwhich was raised high. Then the short door swung outwardas if impelled by a vigorous hand. A bow-legged cowboywearing woolly chaps burst out upon the sidewalk. At sightof Duane he seemed to bound into the air, and he uttered asavage roar.

Duane stopped in his tracks at the outer edge of the sidewalk,perhaps a dozen rods from Everall's door.

If Bain was drunk he did not show it in his movement. Heswaggered forward, rapidly closing up the gap. Red, sweaty,disheveled, and hatless, his face distorted and expressive ofthe most malignant intent, he was a wild and sinister figure.He had already killed a man, and this showed in his demeanor.His hands were extended before him, the right handa little lower than the left. At every step he bellowed his rancorin speech mostly curses. Gradually he slowed his walk,then halted. A good twenty-five paces separated the men.

"Won't nothin'make you draw, you—!" he shouted, fiercely.

"I'm waitin' on you, Cal," replied Duane.

Bain's right hand stiffened—moved. Duane threw his gunas a boy throws a ball underhand—a draw his father hadtaught him. He pulled twice, his shots almost as one. Bain'sbig Colt boomed while it was pointed downward and he wasfalling. His bullet scattered dust and gravel at Duane's feet.He fell loosely, without contortion.

In a flash all was reality for Duane. He went forward andheld his gun ready for the slightest movement on the part ofBain. But Bain lay upon his back, and all that moved werehis breast and his eyes. How strangely the red had left hisface—and also the distortion! The devil that had showed inBain was gone. He was sober and conscious. He tried tospeak, but failed. His eyes expressed something pitifully human.They changed—rolled—set blankly.

Duane drew a deep breath and sheathed his gun. He feltcalm and cool, glad the fray was over. One violent expressionburst from him. "The fool!"

When he looked up there were men around him.

"Plumb center," said one.

Another, a cowboy who evidently had just left thegaming-table, leaned down and pulled Bain's shirt. He hadthe ace of spades in his hand. He laid it on Bain's breast, andthe black figure on the card covered the two bullet-holes justover Bain's heart.

Duane wheeled and hurried away. He heard anotherman say:

"Reckon Cal got what he deserved. Buck Duane's firstgun-play. Like father like son!"

CHAPTER 2

A thought kept repeating itself to Duane, and it was that hemight have spared himself concern through his imagininghow awful it would be to kill a man. He had no such feelingnow. He had rid the community of a drunken, bragging,quarrelsome cowboy.

When he came to the gate of his home and saw his unclethere with a mettlesome horse, saddled, with canteen, rope,and bags all in place, a subtle shock pervaded his spirit. Ithad slipped his mind—the consequence of his act. But sightof the horse and the look of his uncle recalled the fact that hemust now become a fugitive. An unreasonable anger tookhold of him.

"The damned fool!" he exclaimed, hotly. "Meeting Bainwasn't much, Uncle Jim. He dusted my boots, that's all. Andfor that I've got to go on the dodge."

"Son, you killed him—then?" asked the uncle, huskily.

"Yes. I stood over him—watched him die. I did as I wouldhave been done by."

"I knew it. Long ago I saw it comin'. But now we can'tstop to cry over spilt blood. You've got to leave town an' thispart of the country."

"Mother!" exclaimed Duane.

"She's away from home. You can't wait. I'll break it toher—what she always feared."

Suddenly Duane sat down and covered his face with hishands.

"My God! Uncle, what have I done?" His broad shouldersshook.

"Listen, an' remember what I say," replied the elder man,earnestly. "Don't ever forget. You're not to blame. I'm gladto see you take it this way, because maybe you'll never growhard an' callous. You're not to blame. This is Texas. You'reyour father's son. These are wild times. The law as therangers are laying it down now can't change life all in aminute. Even your mother, who's a good, true woman, hashad her share in making you what you are this moment. Forshe was one of the pioneers—the fightin' pioneers of thisstate. Those years of wild times, before you was born, developedin her instinct to fight, to save her life, her children, an'that instinct has cropped out in you. It will be many yearsbefore it dies out of the boys born in Texas."

"I'm a murderer," said Duane, shuddering.

"No, son, you're not. An' you never will be. But you'vegot to be an outlaw till time makes it safe for you to comehome."

"An outlaw?"

(Continues...)

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The LONE STAR RANGER by ZANE GREY. Copyright © 2013 by Kensington Publishing Corp.. Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Edition details

• Publisher: Pinnacle Books,U.S.
• Publication date: 2013
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0786033045
• ISBN 13: 9780786033041
• Binding: Mass Market Paperback
• Number of pages: 336