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The Lone Star Ranger-Part47_Zane Gray(1872-1939)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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There was no excitement in the street. He crossed to the bank

corner. A clock inside pointed the hour of two. He went through



the door into the vestibule, looked around, passed up the steps

into the bank. The clerks were at their desks, apparently busy.



But they showed nervousness. The cashier paled at sight of

Duane. There were men--the rangers--crouching down behind the



low partition. All the windows had been removed from the iron

grating before the desks. The safe was closed. There was no



money in sight. A customer came in, spoke to the cashier, and

was told to come to-morrow.



Duane returned to the door. He could see far down the street,

out into the country. There he waited, and minutes were



eternities. He saw no person near him; he heard no sound. He

was insulated in his unnatural strain.



At a few minutes before half past two a dark, compact body of

horsemen appeared far down, turning into the road. They came at



a sharp trot--a group that would have attracted attention

anywhere at any time. They came a little faster as they entered



town; then faster still; now they were four blocks away, now

three, now two. Duane backed down the middle of the vestibule,



up the steps, and halted in the center of the wide doorway.

There seemed to be a rushing in his ears through which pierced



sharp, ringing clip-clop of iron hoofs. He could see only the

corner of the street. But suddenly into that shot lean-limbed



dusty bay horses. There was a clattering of nervous hoofs

pulled to a halt.



Duane saw the tawny Poggin speak to his companions. He

dismounted quickly. They followed suit. They had the manner of



ranchers about to conduct some business. No guns showed. Poggin

started leisurely for the bank door, quickening step a little.



The others, close together, came behind him. Blossom Kane had a

bag in his left hand. Jim Fletcher was left at the curb, and he



had already gathered up the bridles.

Poggin entered the vestibule first, with Kane on one side,



Boldt on the other, a little in his rear.

As he strode in he saw Duane.



"HELL'S FIRE!" he cried.

Something inside Duane burst, piercing all of him with cold.



Was it that fear?

"BUCK DUANE!" echoed Kane.



One instant Poggin looked up and Duane looked down.

Like a striking jaguar Poggin moved. Almost as quickly Duane



threw his arm.

The guns boomed almost together.



Duane felt a blow just before he pulled trigger. His thoughts

came fast, like the strange dots before his eyes. His rising



gun had loosened in his hand. Poggin had drawn quicker! A

tearing agony encompassed his breast. He pulled--pulled--at



random. Thunder of booming shots all about him! Red flashes,

jets of smoke, shrill yells! He was sinking. The end; yes, the



end! With fading sight he saw Kane go down, then Boldt. But

supreme torture, bitterer than death, Poggin stood, mane like a



lion's, back to the wall, bloody-faced, grand, with his guns

spouting red!



All faded, darkened. The thunder deadened. Duane fell, seemed

floating. There it drifted--Ray Longstreth's sweet face, white,



with dark, tragic eyes, fading from his sight . . . fading . .

. fading . . .



CHAPTER XXV

Light shone before Duane's eyes--thick, strange light that came



and went. For a long time dull and booming sounds rushed by,

filling all. It was a dream in which there was nothing; a



drifting under a burden; darkness, light, sound, movement; and

vague, obscure sense of time--time that was very long. There



was fire--creeping, consuming fire. A dark cloud of flame

enveloped him, rolled him away.



He saw then, dimly, a room that was strange, strange people

moving about over him, with faint voices, far away, things in a



dream. He saw again, clearly, and consciousness returned, still

unreal, still strange, full of those vague and far-away things.



Then he was not dead. He lay stiff, like a stone, with a weight

ponderous as a mountain upon him and all his bound body racked



in slow, dull-beating agony.

A woman's face hovered over him, white and tragic-eyed, like



one of his old haunting phantoms, yet sweet and eloquent. Then

a man's face bent over him, looked deep into his eyes, and






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