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

Breakin' A Trace Is All The Danger There Is,  Anyway," He Added,

Cheerfully,  "So Don't Fret."

Miss Post Could Not Resist Saying To Mrs. Truesdall: "I Told You He

Was Joking."

The Stage Had Proceeded For Two Hours. Sometimes It Dropped With

Locked Wheels Down Sheer Walls Of Clay,  Again It Was Dragged,

Careening Drunkenly,  Out Of Fathomless Pits. It Pitched And Tossed,

Slid And Galloped,  Danced Grotesquely From One Wheel To Another,  From

One Stone To Another,  Recoiled Out Of Ruts,  Butted Against Rocks,  And

Swept Down And Out Of Swollen Streams That Gurgled Between The

Spokes.

"If Ever I Leave Fort Crockett," Gasped Mrs. Truesdall Between Jolts,

"I Shall Either Wait Until They Build A Railroad Or Walk."

They Had All But Left The Hills,  And Were Approaching The Level

Prairie. That They Might See The Better The Flaps Had Been Rolled Up,

And The Soft Dry Air Came Freely Through The Open Sides. The Mules

Were Straining Over The Last Hill. On Either Side Only A Few Of The

Buttes Were Still Visible. They Stood Out In The Moonlight As Cleanly

Cut As The Bows Of Great Battleships. The Trail At Last Was Level.

Mrs. Truesdall's Eyes Closed. Her Head Fell Forward. But Miss Post,

Weary As She Was In Body,  Could Not Sleep. To Her The Night-Ride Was

Full Of Strange And Wonderful Mysteries. Gratefully She Drank In The

Dry Scent Of The Prairie-Grass,  And,  Holding By The Frame Of The

Window,  Leaned Far Out Over The Wheel. As She Did So,  A Man Sprang

Into The Trail From Behind A Wall Of Rock,  And Shouted Hoarsely. He

Was Covered To His Knees With A Black Mantle. His Face Was Hidden By

A Blood-Red Mask.

"Throw Up Your Hands!" He Commanded. There Was A Sharp Creaking As

The Brakes Locked,  And From The Driver's Seat An Amazed Oath. The

Stage Stopped With A Violent Jerk,  And Mrs. Truesdall Pitched Gently

Forward Toward Her Niece.

"I Really Believe I Was Asleep,  Helen," She Murmured. "What Are We

Waiting For?"

"I Think We Are Held Up," Said Miss Post.

The Stage Had Halted Beyond The Wall Of Rock,  And Miss Post Looked

Behind It,  But No Other Men Were Visible,  Only A Horse With His

Bridle Drawn Around A Stone. The Man In The Mask Advanced Upon The

Stage,  Holding A Weapon At Arm's-Length. In The Moonlight It Flashed

And Glittered Evilly. The Man Was But A Few Feet From Miss Post,  And

The Light Fell Full Upon Her. Of Him She Could See Only Two Black

Eyes That Flashed As Evilly As His Weapon. For A Period Of Suspense,

Which Seemed Cruelly Prolonged,  The Man Stood Motionless,  Then He

Lowered His Weapon. When He Opened His Lips The Mask Stuck To Them,

And His Words Came From Behind It,  Broken And Smothered. "Sorry To

Trouble You,  Miss," The Mask Said,  "But I Want That Man Beside You To

Get Out."

Miss Post Turned To The Travelling Salesman. "He Wants You To Get

Out," She Said.

"Wants Me!" Exclaimed The Drummer. "I'm Not Armed,  You Know." In A

Louder Voice He Protested,  Faintly: "I Say,  I'm Not Armed."

"Come Out!" Demanded The Mask.

The Drummer Precipitated Himself Violently Over The Knees Of The

Ladies Into The Road Below,  And Held His Hands High Above Him. "I'm

Not Armed," He Said; "Indeed I'm Not."

"Stand Over There,  With Your Back To That Rock," The Mask Ordered.

For A Moment The Road Agent Regarded Him Darkly,  Pointing His Weapon

Meditatively At Different Parts Of The Salesman's Person. He

Suggested A Butcher Designating Certain Choice Cuts. The Drummer's

Muscles Jerked Under The Torture As Though His Anatomy Were Being

Prodded With An Awl.

"I Want Your Watch," Said The Mask. The Drummer Reached Eagerly For

His Waistcoat.

"Hold Up Your Hands!" Roared The Road Agent. "By The Eternal,  If You

Play Any Rough-House Tricks On Me I'll--" He Flourished His Weapon

Until It Flashed Luminously.

An Exclamation From Hunk Smith,  Opportunely Uttered,  Saved The

Drummer From What Was Apparently Instant Annihilation. "Say,  Rider,"

Cried The Driver,  "I Can't Hold My Arms Up No Longer. I'm Going To

Put 'Em Down. But You Leave Me Alone,  An' I'll Leave You Alone. Is

That A Bargain?" The Shrouded Figure Whirled His Weapon Upon The

Speaker. "Have I Ever Stopped You Before,  Hunk?" He Demanded.

Hunk,  At This Recognition Of Himself As A Public Character,  Softened

Instantly. "I Dunno Whether 'Twas You Or One Of Your Gang,  But--"

"Well,  You've Still Got Your Health,  Haven't You?"

"Yes."

"Then Keep Quiet," Snarled The Mask.

In Retort Hunk Smith Muttered Audible Threatenings,  But Sank

Obediently Into An Inert Heap. Only His Eyes,  Under Cover Of His

Sombrero,  Roamed Restlessly. They Noted The Mcclellan Saddle On The

Red Rider's Horse,  The White Patch On Its Near Fore-Foot,  The Empty

Stirrup-Straps,  And At A Great Distance,  So Great That The Eyes Only

Of A Plainsman Could Have Detected It,  A Cloud Of Dust,  Or Smoke,  Or

Mist,  That Rode Above The Trail And Seemed To Be Moving Swiftly Down

Upon Them.

At The Sight,  Hunk Shifted The Tobacco In His Cheek And Nervously

Crossed His Knees,  While A Grin Of Ineffable Cunning Passed Across

His Face.

With His Sombrero In His Hand,  The Red Rider Stepped To The Wheel Of

The Stage. As He Did So,  Miss Post Observed That Above The Line Of

His Kerchief His Hair Was Evenly And Carefully Parted In The Middle.

"I'm Afraid,  Ladies," Said The Road Agent,  "That I Have Delayed You

Unnecessarily. It Seems That I Have Called Up The Wrong Number." He

Emitted A Reassuring Chuckle,  And,  Fanning Himself With His Sombrero,

Continued Speaking In A Tone Of Polite Irony: "The Wells,  Fargo

Messenger Is The Party I Am Laying For. He's Coming Over This Trail

With A Package Of Diamonds. That's What I'm After. At First I Thought

'Fighting Bob' Over There By The Rock Might Have It On Him; But He

Doesn't Act Like Any Wells,  Fargo Express Agent I Have Ever Tackled

Before,  And I Guess The Laugh's On Me. I Seem To Have Been Weeping

Over The Wrong Grave." He Replaced His Sombrero On His Head At A

Rakish Angle,  And Waved His Hand. "Ladies,  You Are At Liberty To

Proceed."

But Instantly He Stepped Forward Again,  And Brought His Face So Close

To The Window That They Could See The Whites Of His Eyes. "Before We

Part," He Murmured,  Persuasively,  "You Wouldn't Mind Leaving Me

Something As A Souvenir,  Would You?" He Turned The Skull-Like

Openings Of The Mask Full Upon Miss Post.

Mrs. Truesdall Exclaimed,  Hysterically: "Why,  Certainly Not!" She

Cried. "Here's Everything I Have,  Except What's Sewn Inside My Waist,

Where I Can't Possibly Get At It. I Assure You I Cannot. The

Proprietor Of That Hotel Told Us We'd Probably--Meet You,  And So I

Have Everything Ready." She Thrust Her Two Hands Through The Window.

They Held A Roll Of Bills,  A Watch,  And Her Rings

Miss Post Laughed In An Ecstasy Of Merriment "Oh,  No,  Aunt," She

Protested,  "Don't. No,  Not At All. The Gentleman Only Wants A

Keepsake. Something To Remember Us By. Isn't That It?" She Asked. She

Regarded The Blood-Red Mask Steadily With A Brilliant Smile.

The Road Agent Did Not At Once Answer. At Her Words He Had Started

Back With Such Sharp Suspicion That One Might Have Thought He

Meditated Instant Flight. Through The Holes In His Mask He Now Glared

Searchingly At Miss Post,  But Still In Silence.

"I Think This Will Satisfy Him," Said Miss Post.

Out Of The Collection In Her Aunt's Hands She Picked A Silver Coin

And Held It Forward. "Something To Keep As A Pocket-Piece," She Said,

Mockingly,  "To Remind You Of Your Kindness To Three Lone Females In

Distress."

Still Silent,  The Road Agent Reached For The Money,  And Then Growled

At Her In A Tone Which Had Suddenly Become Gruff And Overbearing. It

Suggested To Miss Post The Voice Of The Head Of The Family Playing

Santa Claus For The Children. "And Now You,  Miss," He Demanded.

Miss Post Took Another Coin From The Heap,  Studied Its Inscription,

And Passed It Through The Window. "This One Is From Me," She Said.

"Mine Is Dated 1901. The Moonlight," She Added,  Leaning Far Forward

And Smiling Out At Him,  "Makes It Quite Easy To See The Date; As

Easy," She Went On,  Picking Her Words,  "As It Is To See Your Peculiar

Revolver And The Coat-Of-Arms On Your Ring." She Drew Her Head Back."

Good-Night," She Cooed,  Sweetly.

The Red Rider Jumped From The Door. An Exclamation Which Might Have

Been A Laugh Or An Oath Was Smothered By His Mask. He Turned Swiftly

Upon The Salesman. "Get Back Into The Coach," He Commanded. "And You,

Hunk," He Called,  "If You Send A Posse After Me,  Next Night I Ketch

You Out Here Alone You'll Lose The Top Of Your Head."

The Salesman Scrambled Into The Stage Through The Door Opposite The

One At Which The Red Rider Was Standing,  And The Road Agent Again

Raised His Sombrero With A Sweeping Gesture Worthy Of D'artagnan.

"Good-Night,  Ladies," He Said.

"Good-Night,  Sir," Mrs. Truesdall Answered,  Grimly,  But Exuding A

Relieved Sigh. Then,  Her Indignation Giving Her Courage,  She Leaned

From The Window And Hurled A Parthian Arrow. "I Must Say," She

Protested,  "I Think You Might Be In A Better Business."

The Road Agent Waved His Hand To The Young Lady. "Good-By," He Said.

"Au Revoir," Said Miss Post,  Pleasantly.

"Good-By,  Miss," Stammered The Road Agent,

"I Said 'Au Revoir,'" Repeated Miss Post.

The Road Agent,  Apparently Routed By These Simple Words,  Fled

Muttering Toward His Horse.

Hunk Smith Was Having Trouble With His Brake. He Kicked At It And,