Books: Ranson\'s Folly
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Richard Harding Davis >> Ranson\'s Folly
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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. Under his breath Crosby was
swearing fiercely. Curtis stood staring out of the open door.
"Will he do it?" he asked.
"Of course he'll do it."
Curtis crossed the room and dropped into a chair. "And what--what had
we better do?" he asked. For some time the other made no answer. His
brows were knit, and he tramped the room, scowling at the floor. Then
with an exclamation of alarm he stepped lightly to the door of the
exchange and threw back the curtain. In the other room, Cahill stood
at its furthest corner, scooping sugar from a hogshead.
Crosby's scowl relaxed, and, reseating himself at the table, he
rolled a cigarette. "Now, if he pulls it off," he whispered, "and
gets back to quarters, then--it's a case of all's well. But, if he's
shot, or caught, and it all comes out, then it's up to us to prove he
meant it as a practical joke."
"It isn't our duty to report it now, is it?" asked Curtis, nervously.
"Certainly not! If he chooses to make an ass of himself, that's none
of our business. Unless he's found out, we have heard nothing and
seen nothing. If he's caught, then we've got to stick by him, and
testify that he did it on a bet. He'll probably win out all right.
There is nobody expected on the stage but that Miss Post and her
aunt. And the driver's an old hand. He knows better than to fight."
"There may be some cowboys coming up."
"That's Ranson's lookout. As Cahill says, the Red Rider takes his
chances."
"I wish there was something we could do now," Curtis protested,
petulantly. "I suppose we've just got to sit still and wait for him?"
"That's all," answered Crosby, and then leaped to his feet. "What's
that?" he asked. Out on the parade ground, a bugle-call broke
suddenly on the soft spring air. It rang like an alarm. The noise of
a man running swiftly sounded on the path, and before the officers
reached the doorway Sergeant Clancey entered it, and halted at
attention.
"The colonel's orders," panted the sergeant, "and the lieutenant's
are to take twenty men from G and H Troops, and ride to Kiowa to
escort the paymaster."
"The paymaster!" Crosby cried. "He's not coming till Thursday."
"He's just telegraphed from Kiowa City, lieutenant. He's ahead of his
schedule. He wants an escort for the money. He left Kiowa a few
minutes ago in the up stage."
The two lieutenants sprang forward, and shouted in chorus: "The
stage? He is in the stage!"
Sergeant Clancey stared dubiously from one officer to the other. He
misunderstood their alarm, and with the privilege of long service
attempted to allay it. "The lieutenant knows nothing can happen to
the stage till it reaches the buttes," he said. "There has never been
a hold-up in the open, and the escort can reach the buttes long
before the stage gets here." He coughed consciously. "Colonel's
orders are to gallop, lieutenant."
As the two officers rode knee to knee through the night, the pay
escort pounding the trail behind them, Crosby leaned from his saddle.
"He has only ten minutes' start of us," he whispered. "We are certain
to overtake him. We can't help but do it. We must do it. We MUST! If
we don't, and he tries to stop Colonel Patten and the pay-roll, he'll
die. Two women and a deaf driver, that--that's a joke. But an Indian
fighter like old Patten, and Uncle Sam's money, that means a finish
fight-and his death and disgrace." He turned savagely in his saddle.
"Close up there!" he commanded. "Stop that talking. You keep your
breath till I want it--and ride hard."
After the officers had galloped away from the messroom, and Sergeant
Clancey had hurried after them to the stables, the post-trader
entered it from the exchange and barred the door, which they in their
haste had left open. As he did this, the close observer, had one been
present, might have noted that though his movements were now alert
and eager, they no longer were betrayed by any sound, and that his
spurs had ceased to jangle. Yet that he purposed to ride abroad was
evident from the fact that from a far corner he dragged out a heavy
saddle. He flung this upon the counter, and swiftly stripped it of
its stirrups. These, with more than necessary care, he hid away upon
the highest shelf of the shop, while from the lower shelves he
snatched a rubber poncho and a red kerchief. For a moment, as he
unbarred the door, the post-trader paused and cast a quick glance
before and behind him, and then the door closed and there was
silence. A minute later it was broken by the hoofs of a horse
galloping swiftly along the trail to Kiowa City.
PART II
That winter Miss Post had been going out a great deal more than was
good for her, and when the spring came she broke down. The family
doctor recommended Aiken, but an aunt of Miss Post's, Mrs. Truesdall,
had been at Farmington with Mrs. "Colonel" Bolland, and urged
visiting her instead. The doctor agreed that the climatic conditions
existing at Fort Crockett were quite as health-giving as those at
Aiken, and of the two the invalid decided that the regimental post
would be more of a novelty.
So she and her aunt and the maid changed cars twice after leaving St.
Louis and then staged it to Kiowa City, where, while waiting for
"Pop" Henderson's coach to Fort Crockett, they dined with him on
bacon, fried bread, and alkali water tinged with coffee.
It was at Kiowa City, a city of four hundred houses on blue-print
paper and six on earth, that Miss Post first felt certain that she
was going to enjoy her visit. It was there she first saw, at large
and on his native heath, a blanket Indian. He was a tall, beautiful
youth, with yellow ochre on his thin, brown arms and blue ochre on
his cheekbones, who sat on "Pop's" steps, gazing impassively at the
stars. Miss Post came out with her maid and fell over him. The maid
screamed. Miss Post said: "I beg your pardon"; and the brave
expressed his contempt by gutteral mutterings and by moving haughtily
away. Miss Post was then glad that she had not gone to Aiken. For the
twelve-mile drive through the moonlit buttes to Fort Crockett there
was, besides the women, one other passenger. He was a travelling
salesman of the Hancock Uniform Company, and was visiting Fort
Crockett to measure the officers for their summer tunics. At dinner
he passed Miss Post the condensed milk-can, and in other ways made
himself agreeable. He informed her aunt that he was in the Military
Equipment Department of the Army, but, much to that young woman's
distress, addressed most of his remarks to the maid, who, to his
taste, was the most attractive of the three.
"I take it," he said genially to Miss Post, "that you and the young
lady are sisters."
"No," said Miss Post, "we are not related."
It was eight o'clock, and the moon was full in the heavens when "Pop"
Henderson hoisted them into the stage and burdened his driver, Hunk
Smith, with words of advice which were intended solely for the ears
of the passengers.
"You want to be careful of that near wheeler, Hunk," he said, "or
he'll upset you into a gully. An' in crossing the second ford, bear
to the right; the water's running high, and it may carry youse all
down stream. I don't want that these ladies should be drowned in any
stage of mine. An' if the Red Rider jumps you don't put up no bluff,
but sit still. The paymaster's due in a night or two, an' I've no
doubt at all but that the Rider's laying for him. But if you tell him
that there's no one inside but womenfolk and a tailor, mebbe he won't
hurt youse. Now, ladies," he added, putting his head under the
leather flap, as though unconscious that all he had said had already
reached them, "without wishing to make you uneasy, I would advise
your having your cash and jewelry ready in your hands. With road-
agents it's mostly wisest to do what they say, an' to do it quick. Ef
you give 'em all you've got, they sometimes go away without spilling
blood, though, such being their habits, naturally disappointed." He
turned his face toward the shrinking figure of the military tailor.
"You, being an army man," he said, "will of course want to protect
the ladies, but you mustn't do it. You must keep cool. Ef you pull
your gun, like as not you'll all get killed. But I'm hoping for the
best. Good-night all, an' a pleasant journey."
The stage moved off with many creaks and many cracks of the whip,
which in part smothered Hunk Smith's laughter. But after the first
mile, he, being a man with feelings and a family, pulled the mules to
a halt.
The voice of the drummer could instantly be heard calling loudly from
the darkness of the stage: "Don't open those flaps. If they see us,
they'll fire!"
"I wanted you folks to know," said Hunk Smith, leaning from the box-
seat, "that that talk of Pop's was all foolishness. You're as safe on
this trail as in a Pullman palace-car. That was just his way. Pop
will have his joke. You just go to sleep now, if you can, and trust
to me. I'll get you there by eleven o'clock or break a trace.
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,
stooping, pulled at it, but the wheels did not move.
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