Free The Lone Star Ranger and the Mysterious Rider by Zane Grey Page B

outlaw’s wife liked Euchre, for her keen glance rested with amusement upon him.
    â€œAs for Jen, I’ll tell you her story some day,” went on the woman. “It’s a common enough story along this river. Euchre here is a tender-hearted old fool, and Jen has taken him in.”
    â€œWal, seein’ as you’ve got me figgered correct,” replied Euchre, dryly, “I’ll go in an’ talk to Jennie, if I may.”
    â€œCertainly. Go ahead. Jen calls you her best friend,” said Mrs. Bland, amiably. “You’re always fetching some Mexican stuff, and that’s why, I guess.”
    When Euchre had shuffled into the house Mrs. Bland turned to Duane with curiosity and interest in her gaze.
    â€œBland told me about you.”
    â€œWhat did he say?” queried Duane, in pretended alarm.
    â€œOh, you needn’t think he’s done you dirt. Bland’s not that kind of a man. He said: ‘Kate, there’s a young fellow in camp—rode in here on the dodge. He’s no criminal, and he refused to join my band. Wish he would. Slickest hand with a gun I’ve seen for many a day! I’d like to see him and Chess meet out there in the road.’ Then Bland went on to tell how you and Bosomer came together.”
    â€œWhat did you say?” inquired Duane, as she paused.
    â€œMe? Why, I asked him what you looked like,” she replied, gayly.
    â€œWell?” went on Duane.
    â€œMagnificent chap, Bland said. Bigger than any man in the valley. Just a great blue-eyed, sunburned boy!”
    â€œHumph!” exclaimed Duane. “I’m sorry he led you to expect somebody worth seeing.”
    â€œBut I’m not disappointed,” she returned, archly. “Duane, are you going to stay long here in camp?”
    â€œYes, till I run out of money and have to move. Why?”
    Mrs. Bland’s face underwent one of the singular changes. The smiles and flushes and glances, all that had been coquettish about her, had lent her a certain attractiveness, almost beauty and youth. But with some powerful emotion she changed and instantly became a woman of discontent, Duane imagined, of deep, violent nature.
    â€œI’ll tell you, Duane,” she said, earnestly, “I’m sure glad if you mean to bide here awhile. I’m a miserable woman, Duane. I’m an outlaw’s wife, and I hate him and the life I have to lead. I come of a good family in Brownsville. I never knew Bland was an outlaw till long after he married me. We were separated at times, and I imagined he was away on business. But the truth came out. Bland shot my own cousin, who told me. My family cast me off, and I had to flee with Bland. I was only eighteen then. I’ve lived here since. I never see a decent woman or man. I never hear anything about my old home or folks or friends. I’m buried here—buried alive with a lot of thieves and murderers. Can you blame me for being glad to see a young fellow—a gentleman—like the boys I used to go with? I tell you it makes me feel full—I want to cry. I’m sick for somebody to talk to. I have no children, thank God! If I had I’d not stay here. I’m sick of this hole. I’m lonely—”
    There appeared to be no doubt about the truth of all this. Genuine emotion checked, then halted the hurried speech. She broke down and cried. It seemed strange to Duane that an outlaw’s wife—and a woman who fitted her consort and the wild nature of their surroundings—should have weakness enough to weep. Duane believed and pitied her.
    â€œI’m sorry for you,” he said.
    â€œDon’t be sorry for me,” she said. “That only makes me see the—the difference between you and me. And don’t pay any attention to what these outlaws say about me. They’re ignorant. They couldn’t understand me. You’ll hear that Bland killed men who ran after me. But that’s