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

Into The Fire,  Her Eyes Lighting And Her Lips Smiling. They Would Be

Pleasant Memories,  He Was Sure. But Once Back Again In The Whirl And

Rush Of The Great World Outside Of Fort Crockett,  Even As Memories

They Would Pass Away.

Mary Cahill Made No Outward Answer To The Rebellious Utterance Of

Lieutenant Ranson. She Only Bent Her Eyes On Her Book And Tried To

Think What The Post Would Hold For Her When He Had Carried Out His

Threat And Betaken Himself Into The World And Out Of Her Life

Forever. Night After Night She Had Sat Enthroned Behind Her Barrier

And Listened To His Talk,  Wondering Deeply. He Had Talked Of A World

She Knew Only In Novels,  In History,  And In Books Of Travel. His View

Of It Was Not An Educational One: He Was No Philosopher,  Nor Trained

Observer. He Remembered London--To Her The Capital Of The World--

Chiefly By Its Restaurants,  Cairo On Account Of Its Execrable Golf-

Links. He Lived Only To Enjoy Himself. His View Was That Of A Boy,

Hearty And Healthy And Seeking Only Excitement And Mischief. She Had

Heard His Tales Of His Brief Career At Harvard,  Of The Reunions At

Henry's American Bar,  Of The Futurity,  The Suburban,  The Grand Prix,

Of A Yachting Cruise Which Apparently Had Encountered Every Form Of

Adventure,  From The Rescuing Of A Stranded Opera-Company To The

Ramming Of A Slaver's Dhow. The Regret With Which He Spoke Of These

Free Days,  Which Was The Regret Of An Exile Marooned Upon A Desert

Island,  Excited All Her Sympathy For An Ill She Had Never Known. His

Discourteous Scorn Of The Social Pleasures Of The Post,  From Which

She Herself Was Excluded,  Rilled Her With Speculation. If He Could

Forego These Functions,  How Full And Gay She Argued His Former Life

Must Have Been. His Attitude Helped Her To Bear The Deprivations More

Easily. And She,  As A Loyal Child Of The Army,  Liked Him Also Because

He Was No "Cracker-Box" Captain,  But A Fighter,  Who Had Fought With

No Morbid Ideas As To The Rights Or Wrongs Of The Cause,  But For The

Fun Of Fighting.

And One Night,  After He Had Been Telling The Mess Of A Filipino

Officer Who Alone Had Held Back His Men And Himself,  And Who At Last

Died In His Arms Cursing Him,  She Went To Sleep Declaring To Herself

That Lieutenant Ranson Was Becoming Too Like The Man She Had Pictured

For Her Husband Than Was Good For Her Peace Of Mind. He Had Told The

Story As His Tribute To A Brave Man Fighting For His Independence And

With Such Regret That Such A One Should Have Died So Miserably,  That,

To The Embarrassment Of The Mess,  The Tears Rolled Down His Cheeks.

But He Wiped Them Away With His Napkin As Unconcernedly As Though

They Were Caused By The Pepper-Box,  And Said Simply,  "He Had Sporting

Blood,  He Had. I've Never Felt So Bad About Anything As I Did About

That Chap. Whenever I Think Of Him Standing Up There With His Back To

The Cathedral All Shot To Pieces,  But Giving Us What For Until He

Died,  It Makes Me Cry. So," He Added,  Blowing His Nose Vigorously,  "I

Won't Think Of It Any More."

Tears Are Properly A Woman's Weapon,  And When A Man Makes Use Of

Them,  Even In Spite Of Himself,  He Is Taking An Advantage Over The

Other Sex Which Is Unfair And Outrageous. Lieutenant Ranson Never

Knew The Mischief The Sympathy He Had Shown For His Enemy Caused In

The Heart Of Mary Cahill,  Nor That From That Moment She Loved Him

Deeply.

The West Point Graduates Before They Answered Ranson's Ultimatum

Smoked Their Cigarettes For Some Time In Silence.

"Oh,  There's Been Fighting Even At Fort Crockett," Said Crosby. "In

The Last Two Years The Men Have Been Ordered Out Seven Times,  Haven't

They,  Miss Cahill? When The Indians Got Out Of Hand,  And Twice After

Cowboys,  And Twice After The Red Rider."

"The Red Rider!" Protested Ranson; "I Don't See Anything Exciting In

Rounding Up One Miserable Horse Thief."

"Only They Don't Round Him Up," Returned Curtis Crossly. "That's Why

It's Exciting. He's The Best In His Business. He's Held Up The Stage

Six Times Now In A Year. Whoever The Fellow Is,  If He's One Man Or A

Gang Of Men,  He's The Nerviest Road-Agent Since The Days Of Abe

Case."

Ranson In His Then Present Mood Was Inclined Toward Pessimism. "It

Doesn't Take Any Nerve To Hold Up A Coach," He Contradicted.

Curtis And Crosby Snorted In Chorus. "That's What You Say," Mocked

Curtis.

"Well,  It Doesn't," Repeated Ranson. "It's All A Game Of Bluff. The

Etiquette Is That The Driver Mustn't Shoot The Road-Agent,  And That

The Road-Agent Mustn't Hurt The Driver,  And The Passengers Are Too

Scared To Move. The Moment They See A Man Rise Out Of The Night They

Throw Up Their Hands. Why,  Even When A Passenger Does Try To Pull His

Gun The Others Won't Let Him. Each Thinks Sure That If There's Any

Firing He Will Be The One To Get Hurt. And,  Besides,  They Don't Know

How Many More Men The Road Agent May Have Behind Him. I Don't---"

A Movement On The Part Of Miss Cahill Caused Him To Pause Abruptly.

Miss Cahill Had Descended From Her Throne And Was Advancing To Meet

The Post-Trader,  Who Came Toward Her From The Exchange.

"Lightfoot's Squaw," He Said. "Her Baby's Worse. She's Sent For You."

Miss Cahill Gave A Gasp Of Sympathy,  Snatched Up Her Hat From The

Counter,  And The Buffalo Robes Closed Behind Her.

Ranson Stooped And Reached For His Sombrero. With The Flight Of Miss

Cahill His Interest In The Courage Of The Red Rider Had Departed

Also.

But Crosby Appealed To The New-Comer,  "Cahill,  You Know," He Said.

"We've Been Talking Of The Man They Call The Red Rider,  The Chap That

Wears A Red Bandanna Over His Face. Ranson Says He Hasn't Any Nerve.

That's Not So,  Is It?"

"I Said It Didn't Take Any Nerve To Hold Up A Stage," Said Ranson;

"And It Doesn't."

The Post-Trader Halted On His Way Back To The Exchange And Rubbed One

Hand Meditatively Over The Other Arm. With Him Speech Was Golden And

Difficult. After A Pause He Said: "Oh,  He Takes His Chances."

"Of Course He Does," Cried Crosby,  Encouragingly. "He Takes The

Chance Of Being Shot By The Passengers,  And Of Being Caught By The

Posse And Lynched,  But This Man's Got Away With It Now Six Times In

The Last Year. And I Say That Takes Nerve."

"Why,  For Fifty Dollars---" Laughed Ranson.

He Checked Himself,  And Glanced Over His Shoulder At The Retreating

Figure Of Cahill. The Buffalo Robes Fell Again,  And The Spurs Of The

Post-Trader Could Be Heard Jangling Over The Earth-Floor Of The

Exchange.

"For Fifty Dollars," Repeated Ranson,  In Brisk,  Businesslike Tones,

"I'll Rob The Up Stage To-Night Myself!"

Previous Knowledge Of His Moods,  The Sudden Look Of Mischief In His

Eyes And A Certain Vibration In His Voice Caused The Two Lieutenants

To Jump Simultaneously To Their Feet. "Ranson!" They Shouted.

Ranson Laughed Mockingly. "Oh,  I'm Bored To Death," He Cried. "What

Will You Bet I Don't?"

He Had Risen With Them,  But,  Without Waiting For Their Answer,  Ran To

Where His Horse Stood At The Open Door. He Sank On His Knees And

Began Tugging Violently At The Stirrup-Straps. The Two Officers,

Their Eyes Filled With Concern,  Pursued Him Across The Room. With

Cahill Twenty Feet Away,  They Dared Not Raise Their Voices,  But In

Pantomime They Beckoned Him Vigorously To Return. Ranson Came At

Once,  Flushed And Smiling,  Holding A Hooded Army-Stirrup In Each

Hand. "Never Do To Have Them See These!" He Said. He Threw The

Stirrups From Him,  Behind The Row Of Hogsheads. "I'll Ride In The

Stirrup-Straps!" He Still Spoke In The Same Low,  Brisk Tone.

Crosby Seized Him Savagely By The Arm. "No,  You Won't!" He Hissed.

"Look Here,  Ranson. Listen To Me; For Heaven's Sake Don't Be An Ass!

They'll Shoot You,  You'll Be Killed---"

--"And Court-Martialed," Panted Curtis.

"You'll Go To Leavenworth For The Rest Of Your Life!"

Ranson Threw Off The Detaining Hand,  And Ran Behind The Counter. From

A Lower Shelf He Snatched A Red Bandanna Kerchief. From Another He

Dragged A Rubber Poncho,  And Buttoned It High About His Throat. He

Picked Up The Steel Shears Which Lay Upon The Counter,  And Snipping

Two Holes In The Red Kerchief,  Stuck It Under The Brim Of His

Sombrero. It Fell Before His Face Like A Curtain. From His Neck To

His Knees The Poncho Concealed His Figure. All That Was Visible Of

Him Was His Eyes,  Laughing Through The Holes In The Red Mask.

"Behold The Red Rider!" He Groaned. "Hold Up Your Hands!"

He Pulled The Kerchief From His Face And Threw The Poncho Over His

Arm. "Do You See These Shears?" He Whispered. "I'm Going To Hold Up

The Stage With 'Em. No One Ever Fires At A Road Agent. They Just

Shout,  'Don't Shoot,  Colonel,  And I'll Come Down.' I'm Going To Bring

'Em Down With These Shears."

Crosby Caught Curtis By The Arm,  Laughing Eagerly. "Come To The

Stables,  Quick," He Cried. "We'll Get Twenty Troopers After Him

Before He Can Go A Half Mile." He Turned On Ranson With A Triumphant

Chuckle. "You'll Not Be Dismissed This Regiment,  If I Can Help It,"

He Cried.

Ranson Gave An Ugly Laugh,  Like The Snarl Of A Puppy Over His Bone.

"If You Try To Follow Me,  Or Interfere With Me,  Lieutenant Crosby,"

He Said,  "I'll Shoot You And Your Troopers!"

"With A Pair Of Shears?" Jeered Crosby.

"No,  With The Gun I've Got In My Pocket. Now You Listen To Me. I'm

Not Going To Use That Gun On Any Stage Filled With Women,  Driven By A

Man Seventy Years Old,  But--And I Mean It--If You Try To Stop Me,

I'll Use It On You. I'm Going To Show You How Anyone Can Bluff A

Stage Full With A Pair Of Tin Shears And A Red Mask For A Kicker. And

I'll Shoot The Man That Tries To Stop Me."

Ranson Sprang To His Horse's Side,  And Stuck His Toe Into The Empty

Stirrup-Strap; There Was A Scattering Of Pebbles,  A Scurry Of Hoofs,

And The Horse And Rider Became A Gray Blot In The Moonlight.

The Two Lieutenants Stood Irresolute.