We tarried long enough in the little hamlet of Sampson for Steele to get letters from reliable ranchers.  He wanted a number of references to verify the Ranger report he had to turn in to Captain Neal.  This precaution he took so as to place in Neal’s hands all the evidence needed to convince Governor Smith.  And now, as Steele returned to us and entered the stage, he spoke of this report.  “It’s the longest and the best I ever turned in,” he said, with a gray flame in his eyes.  “I shan’t let Russ read it.  He’s peevish because I want his part put on record.  And listen, Diane.  There’s to be a blank line in this report.  Your father’s name will never be recorded.  Neither the Governor, nor the adjutant-general, nor Captain Neal, nor any one back Austin way will ever know who this mysterious leader of the Pecos gang might have been.

“Even out here very few know.  Many supposed, but few knew.  I’ve shut the mouths of those few.  That blank line in the report is for a supposed and mysterious leader who vanished.  Jack Blome, the reputed leader, and all his lawless associates are dead.  Linrock is free and safe now, its future in the hands of roused, determined, and capable men.”

We were all silent after Steele ceased talking.  I did not believe Diane could have spoken just then.  If sorrow and joy could be perfectly blended in one beautiful expression, they were in her face.  By and by I dared to say:  “And Vaughn Steele, Lone Star Ranger, has seen his last service!”

“Yes,” he replied with emotion.

Sally stirred and turned a strange look upon us all.  “In that case, then, if I am not mistaken, there were two Lone Star Rangers—­and both have seen their last service!” Sally’s lips were trembling, the way they trembled when it was impossible to tell whether she was about to laugh or cry.  The first hint of her old combative spirit or her old archness!  A wave of feeling rushed over me, too much for me in my weakened condition.  Dizzy, racked with sudden shooting pains, I closed my eyes; and the happiness I embraced was all the sweeter for the suffering it entailed.  Something beat into my ears, into my brain, with the regularity and rapid beat of pulsing blood—­not too late!  Not too late!

From that moment the ride grew different, even as I improved with leaps and bounds.  Sanderson behind us, the long gray barren between Sanderson and the Rio Grande behind us, Del Rio for two days, where I was able to sit up, all behind us—­and the eastward trail to Uvalde before us!  We were the only passengers on the stage from Del Rio to Uvalde.  Perhaps Steele had so managed the journey.  Assuredly he had become an individual with whom traveling under the curious gaze of strangers would have been embarrassing.  He was most desperately in love.  And Diane, all in a few days, while riding these long, tedious miles, ordinarily so fatiguing, had renewed her bloom, had gained what she had lost.  She, too, was desperately in love, though she remembered her identity occasionally, and that she was in the company of a badly shot-up young man and a broken-hearted cousin.