THE LONE STAR RANGER By Zane Grey To CAPTAIN JOHN HUGHES and his Texas Rangers It may seem strange to you that out of all the stories I heard on the Rio Grande I should choose as first that of Buck Duane--outlaw and gunman. But, indeed, Ranger Coffee's story of the last of the Duanes has haunted me, and I have given full rein to imagination and have retold it in my own way. It deals with the old law--the old border days--therefore it is better first. Soon, perchance, I shall have the pleasure of writing of the border of to-day, which in Joe Sitter's laconic speech, “Shore is 'most as bad an' wild as ever!” In the North and East there is a popular idea that the frontier of the West is a thing long past, and remembered now only in stories. As I think of this I remember Ranger Sitter when he made that remark, while he grimly stroked an unhealed bullet wound. And I remember the giant Vaughn, that typical son of stalwart Texas, sitting there quietly with bandaged head, his thoughtful eye boding ill to the outlaw who had ambushed him. Only a few months have passed since then--when I had my memorable sojourn with you--and yet, in that short time, Russell and Moore have crossed the Divide, like Rangers. Gentlemen,--I have the honor to dedicate this book to you, and the hope that it shall fall to my lot to tell the world the truth about a strange, unique, and misunderstood body of men--the Texas Rangers--who made the great Lone Star State habitable, who never know peaceful rest and sleep, who are passing, who surely will not be forgotten and will some day come into their own. ZANE GREY BOOK I. THE OUTLAW CHAPTER I So it was in him, then--an inherited fighting instinct, a driving intensity to kill. He was the last of the Duanes, that old fighting stock of Texas. But not the memory of his dead father, nor the pleading of his soft-voiced mother, nor the warning of this uncle who stood before him now, had brought to Buck Duane so much realization of the dark passionate strain in his blood. It was the recurrence, a hundred-fold increased in power, of a strange emotion that for the last three years 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 Cal sobers up. He ain't got it in for you when he's not drinkin'.” “But what's he want me for?” demanded Duane. “To insult me again? I won't stand that twice.” “He's got a fever that's rampant in Texas these days, my boy. 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 subsiding to leave him strangely chilled. “Kill me! What for?” he asked.