He seemed to have no thoughts of bullets. I could not hold him back, and
it was hard to keep pace with him. How many times he was shot at I had
no idea, but it was many. He dragged forth this and that rustler, and
turned them all over to Morton to be guarded. More than once he
protected a craven rustler from the summary dealing Morton wanted to see
in order.
I told Miss Sampson particularly how Steele appeared to me, what his
effect was on these men, how toward the end of the fight rustlers were
appealing to him to save them from these new-born vigilantes. I believed
I drew a picture of the Ranger that would live forever in her heart of
hearts. If she were a hero-worshiper she would have her fill.
One thing that was strange to me--leaving fight, action, blood, peril
out of the story--the singular exultation, for want of some better term,
that I experienced in recalling Steele's look, his wonderful cold,
resistless, inexplicable presence, his unquenchable spirit which was at
once deadly and merciful. Other men would have killed where he saved. I
recalled this magnificent spiritual something about him, remembered it
strongest in the ring of his voice as he appealed to Bo Snecker not to
force him to kill.
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