Striking indeed now was the absence of any joking. Steele had showed his
hand, and, as one gambler said: "It's a hard hand to call."
The truth was, this Ranger Service was hateful to the free-and-easy
Texan who lived by anything except hard and honest work, and it was
damnably hateful to the lawless class. Steele's authority, now obvious
to all, was unlimited; it could go as far as he had power to carry it.
From present indications that power might be considerable. The work of
native sheriffs and constables in western Texas had been a farce, an
utter failure. If an honest native of a community undertook to be a
sheriff he became immediately a target for rowdy cowboys and other
vicious elements.
Many a town south and west of San Antonio owed its peace and prosperity
to Rangers, and only to them. They had killed or driven out the
criminals. They interpreted the law for themselves, and it was only such
an attitude toward law--the stern, uncompromising, implacable
extermination of the lawless--that was going to do for all Texas what it
had done for part.
Steele was the driving wedge that had begun to split Linrock--split the
honest from dominance by the dishonest. To be sure, Steele might be
killed at any moment, and that contingency was voiced in the growl of
one sullen man who said: "Wot the hell are we up against? Ain't somebody
goin' to plug this Ranger?"
It was then that the thing for which Steele stood, the Ranger
Service--to help, to save, to defend, to punish, with such somber menace
of death as seemed embodied in his cold attitude toward resistance--took
hold of Linrock and sunk deep into both black and honest hearts.
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