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"After all, maybe those awful stories Joe Harper told about you were true." "They sure were," I declared with great relief. "And now to forget ourselves. I'm more than sorry I distressed Miss Sampson; more than sorry because what I said wasn't on the square. Blome, no doubt, has come to Linrock after Steele. His intention is to kill him.
Steele had cowed him. If Blome had been heated by drink, or mad, or anythin' but what he was just then, maybe he might have throwed a gun. But he didn't. I've heard of really brave men gettin' panicked like that, an' after seein' Steele I didn't wonder at Blome. "'You see, Blome, you don't want to meet me, for all your talk, went on the Ranger.
I replied with impatience. "You see, I haven't ever lived long in a rustler-run county. Who heads the gang anyway?" Frank Morton looked at me with a curiously-amused smile. "I hear lots about Jack Blome and Snecker. Everybody calls them out and out bad. Do they head this mysterious gang?" "Russ, I opine Blome an' Snecker parade themselves off boss rustlers same as gun throwers.
Among the more venerable sources of information on this subject is that valuable history of the American possessions, written by Master Richard Blome, in 1687, wherein it is called the Manhadaes and Manahanent; nor must I forget the excellent little book, full of precious matter, of that authentic historian, John Josselyn, gent., who expressly calls it Manadaes.
Evidently this was now a social call on Sampson. He set out cigars and liquors for his guests, and a general conversation ensued, differing little from what might have been indulged in by neighborly ranchers. There was not a word spoken that would have caused suspicion. Blome was genial, gay, and he talked the most. Wright alone seemed uncommunicative and unsociable.
He meant to do it. I would have to kill him. "Sampson, listen!" I cried, very swiftly. "The game's up! You're done! But think of your daughter! I'll spare your life, I'll give you freedom on one condition. For her sake! I've got you nailed all the proofs. It was I behind the wall the other night. Blome, Hilliard, Pickens, Bo Snecker, are dead. I killed Bo Snecker on the way up here.
All the others failed him, as he had guessed they would fail. Low curses and exclamations were uttered by men sliding and pressing back, but the principals were mute. I was thinking hard, yet I had no time to get to Steele's side. I, like the rest, was held fast. But I kept my eyes sweeping around, then back again to that center pair. "Blome slowly rose. I think he did it instinctively.
"Then the instant was plain when he realized this was no ghost of Steele, but the Ranger in the flesh. Blome's whole frame rippled as thought jerked him out of his trance. His comrades sat stone-still. Then Hilliard and Pickens dived without rising from the table. Their haste broke the spell. "I wish I could tell it as quick as it happened. But Bo Snecker, turning white as a sheet, stuck to Blome.
Snecker a second later flashed into movement. "Steele blurred in my sight. His action couldn't be followed. But I saw his gun, waving up, flame red once twice and the reports almost boomed together. "Blome bent forward, arm down, doubled up, and fell over the table and slid to the floor. "But Snecker's gun cracked with Steele's last shot. I heard the bullet strike Steele.
I've seen a man dead-set to kill another, all dark, sullen, restless. But Blome wasn't that way. He didn't seem at all like a bloody devil. He was vain, cocksure. He was revelin' in the effect he made. I had him figured all right. "Blome sat on the edge of a table an' he faced the door.
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