“This Texas Star Ranger was the feller who took me in.  I’d of died like a poisoned coyote but fer him.  An’ he talked to me.  He gave me money to git out of Pecos.  Mebbe everybody’ll think he helped me because he wanted me to squeal.  To squeal who’s who round these rustler diggin’s.  Wal, he never asked me.  Mebbe he seen I wasn’t a squealer.  But I’m thinkin’ he wouldn’t ask a feller thet nohow.

“An’ here’s my hunch.  Steele has spotted the outfit.  Thet ain’t so much, mebbe.  But I’ve been with him, an’ I’m old figgerin’ men.  Jest as sure as God made little apples he’s a goin’ to put thet outfit through—­or he’s a-goin’ to kill them!”

Chapter 6

ENTER JACK BLOME

Strange that the narrating of this incident made Diane Sampson unhappy.

When I told her she exhibited one flash of gladness, such as any woman might have shown for a noble deed and then she became thoughtful, almost gloomy, sad.  I could not understand her complex emotions.  Perhaps she contrasted Steele with her father; perhaps she wanted to believe in Steele and dared not; perhaps she had all at once seen the Ranger in his true light, and to her undoing.

She bade me take Sally for a ride and sought her room.  I had my misgivings when I saw Sally come out in that trim cowgirl suit and look at me as if to say this day would be my Waterloo.

But she rode hard and long ahead of me before she put any machinations into effect.  The first one found me with a respectful demeanor but an internal conflict.

“Russ, tighten my cinch,” she said when I caught up with her.

Dismounting, I drew the cinch up another hole and fastened it.

“My boot’s unlaced, too,” she added, slipping a shapely foot out of the stirrup.

To be sure, it was very much unlaced.  I had to take off my gloves to lace it up, and I did it heroically, with bent head and outward calm, when all the time I was mad to snatch the girl out of the saddle and hold her tight or run off with her or do some other fool thing.

“Russ, I believe Diane’s in love with Steele,” she said soberly, with the sweet confidence she sometimes manifested in me.

“Small wonder.  It’s in the air,” I replied.

She regarded me doubtfully.

“It was,” she retorted demurely.

“The fickleness of women is no new thing to me.  I didn’t expect Waters to last long.”

“Certainly not when there are nicer fellows around.  One, anyway, when he cares.”

A little brown hand slid out of its glove and dropped to my shoulder.

“Make up.  You’ve been hateful lately.  Make up with me.”

It was not so much what she said as the sweet tone of her voice and the nearness of her that made a tumult within me.  I felt the blood tingle to my face.

“Why should I make up with you?” I queried in self defense.  “You are only flirting.  You won’t—­you can’t ever be anything to me, really.”