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

The Curtains Dropped And The Face Disappeared.

The Sergeant Fingered The Gun And Cahill Folded His Arms Defiantly.

"Well?" He Said.

"Well?" Asked The Sergeant.

"I Should Think You Could See How It Is," Said Cahill,  "Without My

Having To Tell You."

"You Mean You Don't Want She Should Know?"

"My God,  No! Not Even That I Kept A Bar."

"Well,  I Don't Know Nothing. I Don't Mean To Tell Nothing,  Anyway,  So

If You'll Promise To Be Good I'll Call This Off."

For The First Time In The History Of Fort Crockett,  Cahill Was Seen

To Smile. "May I Reach Under The Counter Now?" He Asked.

The Sergeant Grinned Appreciatively,  And Shifted His Gun. "Yes,  But

I'll Keep This Out Until I'm Sure It's A Bottle," He Said,  And

Laughed Boisterously.

For An Instant,  Under The Cover Of The Counter,  Cahill's Hand Touched

Longingly Upon The Gun That Lay There,  And Then Passed On To The

Bottle Beside It. He Drew It Forth,  And There Was The Clink Of

Glasses.

In The Other Room Mary Cahill Winked At The Major,  But That Officer

Pretended To Be Both Deaf To The Clink Of The Glasses And Blind To

The Wink. And So The Incident Was Closed. Had It Not Been For The

Folly Of Lieutenant Ranson It Would Have Remained Closed.

A Week Before This Happened A Fire Had Started In The Willow Bottoms

Among The Tepees Of Some Kiowas,  And The Prairie,  As Far As One Could

See,  Was Bruised And Black. From The Post It Looked As Though The Sky

Had Been Raining Ink. At The Time All Of The Regiment But G And H

Troops Was Out On A Practice-March,  Experimenting With A New-Fangled

Tabloid-Ration. As Soon As It Turned The Buttes It Saw From Where The

Light In The Heavens Came And The Practice-March Became A Race.

At The Post The Men Had Doubled Out Under Lieutenant Ranson With Wet

Horse-Blankets,  And While He Led G Troop To Fight The Flames,  H

Troop,  Under Old Major Stickney,  Burned A Space Around The Post,

Across Which The Men Of G Troop Retreated,  Stumbling,  With Their Ears

And Shoulders Wrapped In The Smoking Blankets. The Sparks Beat Upon

Them And The Flames Followed So Fast That,  As They Ran,  The Blazing

Grass Burned Their Lacings,  And They Kicked Their Gaiters Ahead Of

Them.

When The Regiment Arrived It Found Everybody At Fort Crockett Talking

Enthusiastically Of Ranson's Conduct And Resentfully Of The Fact That

He Had Regarded The Fire As One Which Had Been Started For His

Especial Amusement.

"I Assure You," Said Mrs. Bolland To The Colonel,  "If It Hadn't Been

For Young Ranson We Would Have Been Burned In Our Beds; But He Was

Most Aggravating. He Treated It As Though It Were Fourth Of July

Fireworks. It Is The Only Entertainment We Have Been Able To Offer

Him Since He Joined In Which He Has Shown The Slightest Interest."

Nevertheless,  It Was Generally Admitted That Ranson Had Saved The

Post. He Had Been Ubiquitous. He Had Been Seen Galloping Into The

Advancing Flames Like A Stampeded Colt,  He Had Reappeared Like A

Wraith In Columns Of Black,  Whirling Smoke,  At The Same Moment His

Voice Issued Orders From Twenty Places. One Instant He Was Visible

Beating Back The Fire With A Wet Blanket,  Waving It Above Him

Jubilantly,  Like A Substitute At The Army-Navy Game When His Side

Scores,  And The Next Staggering From Out Of The Furnace Dragging An

Asphyxiated Trooper By The Collar,  And Shrieking,  "Hospital-Steward,

Hospital-Steward! Here's A Man On Fire. Put Him Out,  And Send Him

Back To Me,  Quick!"

Those Who Met Him In The Whirlwind Of Smoke And Billowing Flame

Related That He Chuckled Continuously. "Isn't This Fun?" He Yelled At

Them. "Say,  Isn't This The Best Ever? I Wouldn't Have Missed This For

A Trip To New York!"

When The Colonel,  Having Visited The Hospital And Spoken Cheering

Words To Those Who Were Sans Hair,  Sans Eyebrows And With Bandaged

Hands,  Complimented Lieutenant Ranson On The Parade-Ground Before The

Assembled Regiment,  Ranson Ran To His Hut Muttering Strange And

Fearful Oaths.

That Night At Mess He Appealed To Mary Cahill For Sympathy.

"Goodness,  Mighty Me!" He Cried,  "Did You Hear Him? Wasn't It Awful?

If I'd Thought He Was Going To Hand Me That I'd Have Deserted. What's

The Use Of Spoiling The Only Fun We've Had That Way? Why,  If I'd

Known You Could Get That Much Excitement Out Of This Rank Prairie I'd

Have Put A Match To It Myself Three Months Ago. It's The Only Fun

I've Had,  And He Goes And Preaches A Funeral Oration At Me."

Ranson Came Into The Army At The Time Of The Spanish War Because It

Promised A New Form Of Excitement,  And Because Everybody Else He Knew

Had Gone Into It Too. As The Son Of His Father He Was Made An

Adjutant-General Of Volunteers With The Rank Of Captain,  And Unloaded

On The Staff Of A Southern Brigadier,  Who Was Slated Never To Leave

Charleston. But Ranson Suspected This,  And,  After Telegraphing His

Father For Three Days,  Was Attached To The Philippines Contingent And

Sailed From San Francisco In Time To Carry Messages Through The Surf

When The Volunteers Moved Upon Manila. More Cabling At The Cost Of

Many Mexican Dollars Caused Him To Be Removed From The Staff,  And

Given A Second Lieutenancy In A Volunteer Regiment,  And For Two Years

He Pursued The Little Brown Men Over The Paddy Sluices,  Burned

Villages,  Looted Churches,  And Collected Bolos And Altar-Cloths With

That Irresponsibility And Contempt For Regulations Which Is Found

Table Mountain And The Bloody Angle. He Doesn't Know The Civil War's

Over. I Tell You,  If I Can't Get Excitement On Tap I've Got To Make

It,  And If I Make It Out Here They'll Court-Martial Me. So There's

Nothing For It But To Resign."

"You'd Better Wait Till The End Of The Week," Said Crosby,  Grinning.

"It's Going To Be Full Of Gayety. Thursday,  Paymaster's Coming Out

With Our Cash,  And To-Night That Miss Post From New York Arrives In

The Up Stage. She's To Visit The Colonel,  So Everybody Will Have To

Give Her A Good Time."

"Yes,  I Certainly Must Wait For That," Growled Ranson; "There

Probably Will Be Progressive Euchre Parties All Along The Line,  And

We'll Sit Up As Late As Ten O'clock And Stick Little Gilt Stars On

Ourselves."

Crosby Laughed Tolerantly.

"I See Your Point Of View," He Said. "I Remember When My Father Took

Me To Monte Carlo I Saw You At The Tables With Enough Money In Front

Of You To Start A Bank. I Remember My Father Asked The Croupiers Why

They Allowed A Child Of Your Age To Gamble. I Was Just A Kid Then,

And So Were You,  Too. I Remember I Thought You Were The Devil Of A

Fellow."

Ranson Looked Sheepishly At Miss Cahill And Laughed. "Well,  So I Was-

-Then," He Said. "Anybody Would Be A Devil Of A Fellow Who'd Been

Brought Up As I Was,  With A Doting Parent Who Owns A Trust And

Doesn't Know The Proper Value Of Money. And Yet You Expect Me To Be

Happy With A Fifty-Cent Limit Game,  And Twenty Miles Of Burned

Prairie. I Tell You I've Never Been Broken To It. I Don't Know What

Not Having Your Own Way Means. And Discipline! Why,  Every Time I Have

To Report One Of My Men To The Colonel I Send For Him Afterward And

Give Him A Drink And Apologize To Him. I Tell You The Army Doesn't

Mean Anything To Me Unless There's Something Doing,  And As There Is

No Fighting Out Here I'm For The Back Room Of The Holland House And A

Rubber-Tired Automobile. Little Old New York Is Good Enough For Me!"

As He Spoke These Fateful Words Of Mutiny Lieutenant Ranson Raised

His Black Eyes And Snatched A Swift Side-Glance At The Face Of Mary

Cahill. It Was Almost As Though It Were From Her He Sought His

Answer. He Could Not Himself Have Told What It Was He Would Have Her

Say. But Ever Since The Idea Of Leaving The Army Had Come To Him,

Mary Cahill And The Army Had Become Interchangeable And Had Grown To

Mean One And The Same Thing. He Fought Against This Condition Of Mind

Fiercely. He Had Determined That Without Active Service The Army Was

Intolerable; But That Without Mary Cahill Civil Life Would Also Prove

Intolerable,  He Assured Himself Did Not At All Follow. He Had Laughed

At The Idea. He Had Even Argued It Out Sensibly. Was It Reasonable To

Suppose,  He Asked Himself,  That After Circling The Great Globe Three

Times He Should Find The One Girl On It Who Alone Could Make Him

Happy,  Sitting Behind A Post-Trader's Counter On The Open Prairie?

His Interest In Miss Cahill Was The Result Of Propinquity,  That Was

All. It Was Due To The Fact That There Was No One Else At Hand,

Because He Was Sorry For Her Loneliness,  Because Her Absurd Social

Ostracism Had Touched His Sympathy. How Long After He Reached New

York Would He Remember The Little Comrade With The Brave,  Boyish Eyes

Set In The Delicate,  Feminine Head,  With Its Great Waves Of Gorgeous

Hair? It Would Not Be Long,  He Guessed. He Might Remember The Way She

Rode Her Pony,  How She Swung From Her Mexican Saddle And Caught Up A

Gauntlet From The Ground. Yes,  He Certainly Would Remember That,  And

He Would Remember The Day He Had Galloped After Her And Ridden With

Her Through The Indian Village,  And Again That Day When They Rode To

The Water-Fall And The Lover's Leap. And He Would Remember Her Face

At Night As It Bent Over The Books He Borrowed For Her,  Which She

Read While They Were At Mess,  Sitting In Her High Chair With Her Chin

Resting In Her Palms,  Staring Down At The Book Before Her. And The

Trick She Had,  Whenever He Spoke,  Of Raising Her