It seemed to me that it might be a good clue for me—the circumstance whether or not Diane Sampson was told the truth. So I waited there in the darkness with patience born of many hours of like duty.
Presently the small lamp was lit—I could tell the difference in light when the big one was burning—and I heard the swish of skirts.
“Something's happened, surely, Sally,” I heard Miss Sampson say anxiously. “Papa just met me in the hall and didn't speak. He seemed pale, worried.”
“Cousin George looked like a thundercloud,” said Sally. “For once, he didn't try to kiss me. Something's happened. Well, Diane, this has been a bad day for me, too.”
Plainly I heard Sally's sigh, and the little pathetic sound brought me vividly out of my sordid business of suspicion and speculation. So she was sorry.
“Bad for you, too?” replied Diane in amused surprise. “Oh, I see—I forgot. You and Russ had it out.”
“Out? We fought like the very old deuce. I'll never speak to him again.”
“So your little—affair with Russ is all over?”
“Yes.” Here she sighed again.
“Well, Sally, it began swiftly and it's just as well short,” said Diane earnestly. “We know nothing at all of Russ.”
“Diane, after to-day I respect him in—in spite of things—even though he seems no good. I—I cared a lot, too.”
“My dear, your loves are like the summer flowers. I thought maybe your flirting with Russ might amount to something. Yet he seems so different now from what he was at first. It's only occasionally I get the impression I had of him after that night he saved me from violence. He's strange. Perhaps it all comes of his infatuation for you. He is in love with you. I'm afraid of what may come of it.”
“Diane, he'll do something dreadful to George, mark my words,” whispered Sally. “He swore he would if George fooled around me any more.”
“Oh, dear. Sally, what can we do? These are wild men. George makes life miserable for me. And he teases you unmer...”
“I don't call it teasing. George wants to spoon,” declared Sally emphatically. “He'd run after any woman.”
“A fine compliment to me, Cousin Sally,” laughed Diane.
“I don't agree,” replied Sally stubbornly. “It's so. He's spoony. And when he's been drinking and tries to kiss me, I hate him.”
“Sally, you look as if you'd rather like Russ to do something dreadful to George,” said Diane with a laugh that this time was only half mirth.
“Half of me would and half of me would not,” returned Sally. “But all of me would if I weren't afraid of Russ. I've got a feeling—I don't know what—something will happen between George and Russ some day.”
There were quick steps on the hall floor, steps I thought I recognized.
“Hello, girls!” sounded out Wright's voice, minus its usual gaiety. Then ensued a pause that made me bring to mind a picture of Wright's glum face.
“George, what's the matter?” asked Diane presently. “I never saw papa as he is to-night, nor you so—so worried. Tell me, what has happened?”
“Well, Diane, we had a jar to-day,” replied Wright, with a blunt, expressive laugh.
“Jar?” echoed both the girls curiously.
“Jar? We had to submit to a damnable outrage,” added Wright passionately, as if the sound of his voice augmented his feeling. “Listen, girls. I'll tell you all about it.”
He coughed, clearing his throat in a way that betrayed he had been drinking.
I sunk deeper in the shadow of my covert, and stiffening my muscles for a protracted spell of rigidity, prepared to listen with all acuteness and intensity.
Just one word from this Wright, inadvertently uttered in a moment of passion, might be the word Steele needed for his clue.
“It happened at the town hall,” began Wright rapidly. “Your father and Judge Owens and I were there in consultation with three ranchers from out of town. First we were disturbed by gunshots from somewhere, but not close at hand. Then we heard the loud voices outside.
“A crowd was coming down street. It stopped before the hall. Men came running in, yelling. We thought there was a fire. Then that Ranger, Steele, stalked in, dragging a fellow by the name of Snell. We couldn't tell what was wanted because of the uproar. Finally your father restored order.
“Steele had arrested Snell for alleged assault on a restaurant keeper named Hoden. It developed that Hoden didn't accuse anybody, didn't know who attacked him. Snell, being obviously innocent, was discharged. Then this—this gun fighting Ranger pulled his guns on the court and halted the proceedings.”
When Wright paused I plainly heard his intake of breath. Far indeed was he from calm.
“Steele held everybody in that hall in fear of death, and he began shouting his insults. Law was a farce in Linrock. The court was a farce. There was no law. Your father's office as mayor should be impeached. He made arrests only for petty offenses. He was afraid of the rustlers, highwaymen, murderers. He was afraid or—he just let them alone. He used his office to cheat ranchers and cattlemen in law-suits.
“All of this Steele yelled for everyone to hear. A damnable outrage! Your father, Diane, insulted in his own court by a rowdy Ranger! Not only insulted, but threatened with death—two big guns thrust almost in his face!”
“Oh! How horrible!” cried Diane, in mingled distress and anger.
“Steele's a Ranger. The Ranger Service wants to rule western Texas,” went on Wright. “These Rangers are all a low set, many of them worse than the outlaws they hunt. Some of them were outlaws and gun fighters before they became Rangers.
“This Steele is one of the worst of the lot. He's keen, intelligent, smooth, and that makes him more to be feared. For he is to be feared. He wanted to kill. He meant to kill. If your father had made the least move Steele would have shot him. He's a cold-nerved devil—the born gunman. My God, any instant I expected to see your father fall dead at my feet!”
“Oh, George! The—the unspeakable ruffian!” cried Diane, passionately.
“You see, Diane, this fellow Steele has failed here in Linrock. He's been here weeks and done nothing. He must have got desperate. He's infamous and he loves his name. He seeks notoriety. He made that play with Snell just for a chance to rant against your father. He tried to inflame all Linrock against him. That about law-suits was the worst! Damn him! He'll make us enemies.”
“What do you care for the insinuations of such a man?” said Diane Sampson, her voice now deep and rich with feeling. “After a moment's thought no one will be influenced by them. Do not worry, George, tell papa not to worry. Surely after all these years he can't be injured in reputation by—by an adventurer.”
“Yes, he can be injured,” replied George quickly. “The frontier is a queer place. There are many bitter men here, men who have failed at ranching. And your father has been wonderfully successful. Steele has dropped some poison, and it'll spread.”
Then followed a silence, during which, evidently, the worried Wright bestrode the floor.