Ranson's Folly (Fiscle Part 3) by Richard Harding Davis (dar e dil novel online reading TXT) 📕

To Crosby And Curtis To Prove You Did It. But When I Reached The

Coach You Were There Ahead Of Me,  And I Rode Away And Put In My Time

At The Indian Village. I Never Saw The Paymaster's Cart,  Never Heard

Of It Till This Morning. But What With Mame Missing The Poncho Out Of

Our Shop And The Wound In My Hand I Guessed They'd All Soon Suspect

Me. I Saw You Did. So I Thought I'd Just Confess To What I Meant To

Do,  Even If I Didn't Do It."

Ranson Surveyed His Father-In-Law With A Delighted Grin. "How Did You

Get That Bullet-Hole In Your Hand?" He Asked.

Cahill Laughed Shamefacedly. "I Hate To Tell You That," He Said. "I

Got It Just As I Said I Did. My New Gun Went Off While I Was Fooling

With It,  With My Hand Over The Muzzle. And Me The Best Shot In The

Territory! But When I Heard The Paymaster Claimed He Shot The Red

Rider Through The Palm I Knew No One Would Believe Me If I Told The

Truth. So I Lied."

Ranson Glanced Down At The Written Confession,  And Then Tore It

Slowly Into Pieces. "And You Were Sure I Robbed The Stage,  And Yet

You Believed That I'd Use This? What Sort Of A Son-In-Law Do You

Think You've Got?"

"You Thought _I_ Robbed The Stage,  Didn't You?"

"Yes."

"And You Were Going To Stand For Robbing It Yourself,  Weren't You?

Well,  That's The Sort Of Son-In-Law I've Got!"

The Two Men Held Out Their Hands At The Same Instant.

Mary Cahill,  Her Face Glowing With Pride And Besieged With Blushes,

Came Toward Them From The Veranda. She Was Laughing And Radiant,  But

She Turned Her Eyes On Ranson With A Look Of Tender Reproach.

"Why Did You Desert Me?" She Said. "It Was Awful. They Are Calling

You Now. They Are Playing 'The Conquering Hero.'"

"Mr. Cahill," Commanded Ranson,  "Go Out There And Make A Speech." He

Turned To Mary Cahill And Lifted One Of Her Hands In Both Of His.

"Well,  I Am The Conquering Hero," He Said. "I've Won The Only Thing

Worth Winning,  Dearest," He Whispered; "We'll Run Away From Them In A

Minute,  And We'll Ride To The Waterfall And The Lover's Leap." He

Looked Down At Her Wistfully. "Do You Remember?"

Mary Cahill Raised Her Head And Smiled. He Leaned Toward Her

Breathlessly.

"Why,  Did It Mean That To You,  Too?" He Asked.

She Smiled Up At Him In Assent.

"But I Didn't Say Anything,  Did I?" Whispered Ranson. "I Hardly Knew

You Then. But I Knew That Day That I--That I Would Marry You Or

Nobody Else. And Did You Think--That You--"

"Yes," Mary Cahill Whispered.

He Bent His Head And Touched Her Hand With His Lips.

"Then We'll Go Back This Morning To The Waterfall," He Said,  "And

Tell It That It's All Come Right. And Now,  We'll Bow To Those Crazy

People Out There,  Those Make-Believe Dream-People,  Who Don't Know

That There Is Nothing Real In This World But Just You And Me,  And

That We Love Each Other."

A Dishevelled Orderly Bearing A Tray With Two Glasses Confronted

Ranson At The Door. "Here's The Scotch And Sodas,  Lieutenant," He

Panted. "I Couldn't Get 'Em Any Sooner. The Men Wanted To Take 'Em

Off Me--To Drink Miss Cahill's Health."

"So They Shall," Said Ranson. "Tell Them To Drink The Canteen Dry And

Charge It To Me. What's A Little Thing Like The Regulations Between

Friends? They Have Taught Me My Manners. Mr. Cahill," He Called.

The Post-Trader Returned From The Veranda.

Ranson Solemnly Handed Him A Glass And Raised The Other In The Air.

"Here's Hoping That The Red Rider Rides On His Raids No More," He

Said; "And To The Future Mrs. Ranson--To Mary Cahill,  God Bless Her!"

He Shattered The Empty Glass In The Grate And Took Cahill's Hand.

"Father-In-Law," Said Ranson,  "Let's Promise Each Other To Lead A New

And A Better Life."

The Bar Sinister

Part I

The Master Was Walking Most Unsteady,  His Legs Tripping Each Other.

After The Fifth Or Sixth Round,  My Legs Often Go The Same Way.

But Even When The Master's Legs Bend And Twist A Bit,  You Mustn't

Think He Can't Reach You. Indeed,  That Is The Time He Kicks Most

Frequent. So I Kept Behind Him In The Shadow,  Or Ran In The Middle Of

The Street. He Stopped At Many Public-Houses With Swinging Doors,

Those Doors That Are Cut So High From The Sidewalk That You Can Look

In Under Them,  And See If The Master Is Inside. At Night When I Peep

Beneath Them The Man At The Counter Will See Me First And Say,

"Here's The Kid,  Jerry,  Come To Take You Home. Get A Move On You,"

And The Master Will Stumble Out And Follow Me. It's Lucky For Us I'm

So White,  For No Matter How Dark The Night,  He Can Always See Me

Ahead,  Just Out Of Reach Of His Boot. At Night The Master Certainly

Does See Most Amazing. Sometimes He Sees Two Or Four Of Me,  And Walks

In A Circle,  So That I Have To Take Him By The Leg Of His Trousers

And Lead Him Into The Right Road. One Night,  When He Was Very Nasty-

Tempered And I Was Coaxing Him Along,  Two Men Passed Us And One Of

Them Says,  "Look At That Brute!" And The Other Asks "Which?" And They

Both Laugh. The Master,  He Cursed Them Good And Proper.

This Night,  Whenever We Stopped At A Public-House,  The Master's Pals

Left It And Went On With Us To The Next. They Spoke Quite Civil To

Me,  And When The Master Tried A Flying Kick,  They Gives Him A Shove.

"Do You Want We Should Lose Our Money?" Says The Pals.

I Had Had Nothing To Eat For A Day And A Night,  And Just Before We

Set Out The Master Gives Me A Wash Under The Hydrant. Whenever I Am

Locked Up Until All The Slop-Pans In Our Alley Are Empty,  And Made To

Take A Bath,  And The Master's Pals Speak Civil,  And Feel My Ribs,  I

Know Something Is Going To Happen. And That Night,  When Every Time

They See A Policeman Under A Lamp-Post,  They Dodged Across The

Street,  And When At The Last One Of Them Picked Me Up And Hid Me

Under His Jacket,  I Began To Tremble; For I Knew What It Meant. It

Meant That I Was To Fight Again For The Master.

I Don't Fight Because I Like It. I Fight Because If I Didn't The

Other Dog Would Find My Throat,  And The Master Would Lose His Stakes,

And I Would Be Very Sorry For Him And Ashamed. Dogs Can Pass Me And I

Can Pass Dogs,  And I'd Never Pick A Fight With None Of Them. When I

See Two Dogs Standing On Their Hind-Legs In The Streets,  Clawing Each

Other's Ears,  And Snapping For Each Other's Windpipes,  Or Howling And

Swearing And Rolling In The Mud,  I Feel Sorry They Should Act So,  And

Pretend Not To Notice. If He'd Let Me,  I'd Like To Pass The Time Of

Day With Every Dog I Meet. But There's Something About Me That No

Nice Dog Can Abide. When I Trot Up To Nice Dogs,  Nodding And

Grinning,  To Make Friends,  They Always Tell Me To Be Off. "Go To The

Devil!" They Bark At Me; "Get Out!" And When I Walk Away They Shout

"Mongrel," And "Gutter-Dog," And Sometimes,  After My Back Is Turned,

They Rush Me. I Could Kill Most Of Them With Three Shakes,  Breaking

The Back-Bone Of The Little Ones,  And Squeezing The Throat Of The Big

Ones. But What's The Good? They Are Nice Dogs; That's Why I Try To

Make Up To Them,  And Though It's Not For Them To Say It,  I Am A

Street-Dog,  And If I Try To Push Into The Company Of My Betters,  I

Suppose It's Their Right To Teach Me My Place.

Of Course,  They Don't Know I'm The Best Fighting Bull-Terrier Of My

Weight In Montreal. That's Why It Wouldn't Be Right For Me To Take No

Notice Of What They Shout. They Don't Know That If I Once Locked My

Jaws On Them I'd Carry Away Whatever I Touched. The Night I Fought

Kelley's White Rat,  I Wouldn't Loosen Up Until The Master Made A

Noose In My Leash And Strangled Me,  And If The Handlers Hadn't Thrown

Red Pepper Down My Nose,  I Never Would Have Let Go Of That Ottawa

Dog. I Don't Think The Handlers Treated Me Quite Right That Time,  But

Maybe They Didn't Know The Ottawa Dog Was Dead. I Did.

I Learned My Fighting From My Mother When I Was Very Young. We Slept

In A Lumber-Yard On The River-Front,  And By Day Hunted For Food Along

The Wharves. When We Got It,  The Other Tramp-Dogs Would Try To Take

It Off Us,  And Then It Was Wonderful To See Mother Fly At Them,  And

Drive Them Away. All I Know Of Fighting I Learned From Mother,

Watching Her Picking The Ash-Heaps For Me When I Was Too Little To

Fight For Myself. No One Ever Was So Good To Me As Mother. When It

Snowed And The Ice Was In The St. Lawrence She Used To Hunt Alone,

And Bring Me Back New Bones,  And She'd Sit And Laugh To See Me Trying

To Swallow 'Em Whole. I Was Just A Puppy Then,  My Teeth Was Falling

Out. When I Was Able To Fight We Kept The Whole River-Range To

Ourselves,  I Had The Genuine Long,  "Punishing" Jaw,  So Mother Said,

And There Wasn't A Man Or A Dog That Dared Worry Us. Those Were Happy

Days,  Those Were; And We Lived Well,  Share And Share Alike,  And When

We Wanted A Bit Of Fun,  We Chased The Fat Old Wharf-Rats. My! How

They Would Squeal!

Then The Trouble Came. It Was No Trouble To Me. I Was Too Young To

Care Then. But Mother Took It So To Heart That She Grew Ailing,  And

Wouldn't Go Abroad With Me By Day. It Was The Same Old Scandal That

They're Always Bringing Up Against Me. I Was So Young Then That I

Didn't Know. I Couldn't See Any Difference Between Mother--And Other

Mothers.

But One