Steele was the driving wedge that had begun to split Linrock—­split the honest from dominance by the dishonest.  To be sure, Steele might be killed at any moment, and that contingency was voiced in the growl of one sullen man who said:  “Wot the hell are we up against?  Ain’t somebody goin’ to plug this Ranger?”

It was then that the thing for which Steele stood, the Ranger Service—­to help, to save, to defend, to punish, with such somber menace of death as seemed embodied in his cold attitude toward resistance—­took hold of Linrock and sunk deep into both black and honest hearts.

It was what was behind Steele that seemed to make him more than an officer—­a man.

I could feel how he began to loom up, the embodiment of a powerful force—­the Ranger Service—­the fame of which, long known to this lawless Pecos gang, but scouted as a vague and distant thing, now became an actuality, a Ranger in the flesh, whose surprising attributes included both the law and the enforcement of it.

When I reached the ranch the excitement had preceded me.  Miss Sampson and Sally, both talking at once, acquainted me with the fact that they had been in a store on the main street a block or more from Martin’s place.

They had seen the crowd, heard the uproar; and, as they had been hurriedly started toward home by their attendant Dick, they had encountered Steele stalking by.

“He looked grand!” exclaimed Sally.

Then I told the girls the whole story in detail.

“Russ, is it true, just as you tell it?” inquired Diane earnestly.

“Absolutely.  I know Mrs. Price went to Steele with her trouble.  I was in Martin’s place when he entered.  Also I was playing in the crooked game.  And I saw him wreck Martin’s place.  Also, I heard him forbid Martin to start another place in Linrock.”

“Then he does do splendid things,” she said softly, as if affirming to herself.

I walked on then, having gotten a glimpse of Colonel Sampson in the background.  Before I reached the corrals Sally came running after me, quite flushed and excited.

“Russ, my uncle wants to see you,” she said.  “He’s in a bad temper.  Don’t lose yours, please.”

She actually took my hand.  What a child she was, in all ways except that fatal propensity to flirt.  Her statement startled me out of any further thought of her.  Why did Sampson want to see me?  He never noticed me.  I dreaded facing him—­not from fear, but because I must see more and more of the signs of guilt in Diane’s father.

He awaited me on the porch.  As usual, he wore riding garb, but evidently he had not been out so far this day.  He looked worn.  There was a furtive shadow in his eyes.  The haughty, imperious temper, despite Sally’s conviction, seemed to be in abeyance.

“Russ, what’s this I hear about Martin’s saloon being cleaned out?” he asked.  “Dick can’t give particulars.”