To
  CAPTAIN JOHN HUGHES
  and his Texas Rangers

    It may seem strange
           to you
         that out of
               all the stories
         I heard
               on the Rio Grande
         I should choose as first
           that of Buck Duane
          --outlaw and gunman.

    But,
           indeed,
         Ranger Coffee's story
               of the last
             of the Duanes
            has haunted me,
           and I
              have given full rein
                   to imagination
                  and have retold it
                       in my own way.

    It deals
           with the old law
         --the old border days--
           therefore it is better first.

    Soon,
           perchance,
         I shall have the pleasure
               of writing
             of the border of to-day,
        which in Joe Sitter's
              laconic speech,
         "Shore is 'most
            as bad an' wild
                  as ever!"

    In the North and East
        there is a popular idea
         that the frontier
               of the West
            is a thing long past,
           and remembered
              now only in stories.

    As I think of this
         I remember Ranger Sitter
           when he made that remark,
           while he grimly
              stroked an unhealed bullet wound.

    And I
          remember the giant Vaughn,
           that typical son
               of stalwart Texas,
         sitting there quietly
               with bandaged head,
           his thoughtful eye
               boding ill to the outlaw
             who had ambushed him.

    Only a few months
          have passed since then
         --when I
            had my memorable
                  sojourn with you--
           and yet,
         in that short time,
         Russell and Moore
              have crossed the Divide,
           like Rangers.

    Gentlemen,
         --I have the honor
              to dedicate this book
                   to you,
               and the hope
                 that it
                    shall fall to my lot
                          to tell
                               the world the truth
                             about a strange,
             unique,
               and misunderstood body of men--
           the Texas Rangers
          --who made
            the great Lone Star
                State habitable,
           who never
              know peaceful rest and sleep,
         who are passing,
           who surely
            will not be forgotten
                and will some day
                      come into their own.

    ZANE
        GREY

 
  BOOK 1 THE OUTLAW

 
  CHAPTER I

    So it was in him,
           then
          --an inherited fighting instinct,
           a driving intensity to kill.

    He was the last
           of the Duanes,
         that old fighting
               stock of Texas.

    But not the memory
           of his dead father,
         nor the pleading
               of his soft-voiced mother,
         nor the warning
               of this uncle
             who stood
               before him now,
           had brought
               to Buck Duane
                   so much realization
                 of the dark passionate strain
               in his blood.

    It was the recurrence,
           a hundred-fold increased in power,
         of a strange emotion
             that for
                   the last three years
                had arisen in him.

    "Yes,
           Cal Bain's in town,
      full of bad whisky
            an' huntin'
               for you,"
              repeated the elder man,
           gravely.

    "It's the second time,"
        muttered Duane,
           as if to himself.

    "Son,
           you can't avoid a meetin'.

    Leave town
         till Cal sobers up.

    He ain't
        got it in for you
         when he's not drinkin'."

    "But what's
         he want me for?"

    demanded Duane.

    "To insult me again?

    I won't stand that twice."

    "He's got a fever
        that's rampant
               in Texas these days,
           my boy.

    He wants gun-play.

    If he meets you
        he'll try to kill you."

    Here it
          stirred in Duane again,
           that bursting gush of blood,
         like a wind of flame
               shaking all his inner being,
           and subsiding
              to leave him strangely chilled.

    "Kill me!

    What for?"