The Lone Star Ranger: A Romance of the BorderGrey, Zane
General
The Lone Star Ranger: A Romance of the Border
Grey, Zane
Mexican-American Border Region -- Fiction; Western stories
When he looked up it was to find the night strangely luminous with
fires. There was a bonfire on the extreme end of the bluff, another
a hundred paces beyond. A great flare extended over the brake in that
direction. Duane heard a roaring on the wind, and he knew his pursuers
had fired the willows. He did not believe that would help them much.
The brake was dry enough, but too green to burn readily. And as for the
bonfires he discovered that the men, probably having run out of wood,
were keeping up the light with oil and stuff from the village. A dozen
men kept watch on the bluff scarcely fifty paces from where Duane lay
concealed by the willows. They talked, cracked jokes, sang songs, and
manifestly considered this outlaw-hunting a great lark. As long as the
bright light lasted Duane dared not move. He had the patience and the
endurance to wait for the breaking of the storm, and if that did not
come, then the early hour before dawn when the gray fog and gloom were
over the river.
Escape was now in his grasp. He felt it. And with that in his mind he
waited, strong as steel in his conviction, capable of withstanding any
strain endurable by the human frame.
The wind blew in puffs, grew wilder, and roared through the willows,
carrying bright sparks upward. Thunder rolled down over the river, and
lightning began to flash. Then the rain fell in heavy sheets, but
not steadily. The flashes of lightning and the broad flares played so
incessantly that Duane could not trust himself out on the open river.
Certainly the storm rather increased the watchfulness of the men on
the bluff. He knew how to wait, and he waited, grimly standing pain and
cramp and chill. The storm wore away as desultorily as it had come,
and the long night set in. There were times when Duane thought he was
paralyzed, others when he grew sick, giddy, weak from the strained
posture. The first paling of the stars quickened him with a kind of wild
joy. He watched them grow paler, dimmer, disappear one by one. A shadow
hovered down, rested upon the river, and gradually thickened. The
bonfire on the bluff showed as through a foggy veil. The watchers were
mere groping dark figures.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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