Books: Ranson\'s Folly

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Mrs. Truesdall fell into a fresh panic. "What is it now?" she called,
miserably.

Before he answered, Hunk Smith threw a quick glance toward the column
of moving dust. He was apparently reassured.

"The brake," he grunted. "The darned thing's stuck!"

The road agent was tugging at the stone beneath which he had slipped
his bridle. "Can I help?" he asked, politely. But before he reached
the stage, he suddenly stopped with an imperative sweep of his arm
for silence. He stood motionless, his body bent to the ground,
leaning forward and staring down the trail. Then he sprang upright.
"You old fox!" he roared, "you're gaining time, are you?"

With a laugh he tore free his bridle and threw himself across his
horse. His legs locked under it, his hands clasped its mane, and with
a cowboy yell he dashed past the stage in the direction of Kiowa
City, his voice floating back in shouts of jeering laughter. From
behind him he heard Hunk Smith's voice answering his own in a cry for
"Help!" and from a rapidly decreasing distance the throb of many
hoofs. For an instant he drew upon his rein, and then, with a defiant
chuckle, drove his spurs deep into his horse's side.

Mrs. Truesdall also heard the pounding of many hoofs, as well as Hunk
Smith's howls for help, and feared a fresh attack. "Oh, what is it?"
she begged

"Soldiers from the fort," Hunk called, excitedly, and again raised
his voice in a long, dismal howl.

"Sounds cheery, doesn't it?" said the salesman; "referring to the
soldiers," he explained. It was his first coherent remark since the
Red Rider had appeared and disappeared.

"Oh, I hope they won't--" began Miss Post, anxiously.

The hoof-beats changed to thunder, and with the pounding on the dry
trail came the jangle of stirrups and sling-belts. Then a voice, and
the coach was surrounded by dust-covered troopers and horses
breathing heavily. Lieutenant Crosby pulled up beside the window of
the stage. "Are you there, Colonel Patten?" he panted. He peered
forward into the stage, but no one answered him. "Is the paymaster in
here?" he demanded.

The voice of Lieutenant Curtis shouted in turn at Hunk Smith. "Is the
paymaster in there, driver?"

"Paymaster? No!" Hunk roared. "A drummer and three ladies. We've been
held up. The Red Rider--" He rose and waved his whip over the top of
the coach. "He went that way. You can ketch him easy."

Sergeant Clancey and half a dozen troopers jerked at their bridles.
But Crosby, at the window, shouted "Halt!"

"What's your name?" he demanded of the salesman.

"Myers," stammered the drummer. "I'm from the Hancock Uniform--"

Curtis had spurred his horse beside that of his brother officer. "Is
Colonel Patten at Kiowa?" he interrupted.

"I can't give you any information as to that," replied Mr. Myers,
importantly; "but these ladies and I have just been held up by the
Red Rider. If you'll hurry you'll--"

The two officers pulled back their horses from the stage and, leaning
from their saddles, consulted in eager whispers. Their men fidgeted
with their reins, and stared with amazed eyes at their officers.
Lieutenant Crosby was openly smiling, "He's got away with it," he
whispered. "Patten missed the stage, thank God, and he's met nothing
worse than these women."

"We MUST make a bluff at following him," whispered Curtis.

"Certainly not! Our orders are to report to Colonel Patten, and act
as his escort."

"But he's not at Kiowa; that fellow says so."

"He telegraphed the Colonel from Kiowa," returned Crosby. "How could
he do that if he wasn't there?" He turned upon Hunk Smith. "When did
you leave Henderson's?" he demanded.

"Seven o'clock," answered Hunk Smith, sulkily. "Say, if you young
fellows want to catch--"

"And Patten telegraphed at eight," cried Crosby. "That's it. He
reached Kiowa after the stage had gone. Sergeant Clancey!" he called.

The Sergeant pushed out from the mass of wondering troopers.

"When did the paymaster say he was leaving Kiowa?"

"Leaving at once, the telegram said," answered Clancey.

"'Meet me with escort before I reach the buttes.' That's the message
I was told to give the lieutenant."

Hunk Smith leaned from the box-seat. "Mebbe Pop's driving him over
himself in the buckboard," he volunteered. "Pop often takes 'em over
that way if they miss the stage."

"That's how it is, of course," cried Crosby. "He's on his way now in
the buckboard."

Hunk Smith surveyed the troopers dismally and shook his head. "If he
runs up against the Red Rider, it's 'good-by' your pay, boys," he
cried.

"Fall in there!" shouted Crosby. "Corporal Tynan, fall out with two
men and escort these ladies to the fort." He touched his hat to Miss
Post, and, with Curtis at his side, sprang into the trail. "Gallop!
March!" he commanded.

"Do you think he'll tackle the buckboard, too?" whispered Curtis.

Crosby laughed joyously and drew a long breath of relief.

"No, he's all right now," he answered. "Don't you see, he doesn't
know about Patten or the buckboard. He's probably well on his way to
the post now. I delayed the game at the stage there on purpose to
give him a good start. He's safe by now."

"It was a close call," laughed the other. "He's got to give us a
dinner for helping him out of this."

"We'd have caught him red-handed," said Crosby, "if we'd been five
minutes sooner. Lord!" he gasped. "It makes me cold to think of it.
The men would have shot him off his horse. But what a story for those
women! I hope I'll be there when they tell it. If Ranson can keep his
face straight, he's a wonder." For some moments they raced silently
neck by neck, and then Curtis again leaned from his saddle. "I hope
he HAS turned back to the post," he said. "Look at the men how
they're keeping watch for him. They're scouts, all of them."

"What if they are?" returned Crosby, easily. "Ranson's in uniform--
out for a moonlight canter. You can bet a million dollars he didn't
wear his red mask long after he heard us coming."

"I suppose he'll think we've followed to spoil his fun. You know you
said we would."

"Yes, he was going to shoot us," laughed Crosby. "I wonder why he
packs a gun. It's a silly thing to do."

The officers fell apart again, and there was silence over the
prairie, save for the creaking of leather and the beat of the hoofs.
And then, faint and far away, there came the quick crack of a
revolver, another, and then a fusillade. "My God!" gasped Crosby. He
threw himself forwards digging his spurs into his horse, and rode as
though he were trying to escape from his own men.

No one issued an order, no one looked a question; each, officer and
enlisted man, bowed his head and raced to be the first.

The trail was barricaded by two struggling horses and an overturned
buckboard. The rigid figure of a man lay flat upon his back staring
at the moon, another white-haired figure staggered forward from a
rock. "Who goes there?" it demanded.

"United States troops. Is that you, Colonel Patten?"

"Yes."

Colonel Patten's right arm was swinging limply at his side. With his
left hand he clasped his right shoulder. The blood, black in the
moonlight, was oozing between his fingers.

"We were held up," he said. "He shot the driver and the horses. I
fired at him, but he broke my arm. He shot the gun out of my hand.
When he reached for the satchel I tried to beat him off with my left
arm, but he threw me into the road. He went that way--toward Kiowa."

Sergeant Clancey, who was kneeling by the figure in the trail, raised
his hand in salute. "Pop Henderson, lieutenant," he said. "He's shot
through the heart. He's dead."

"He took the money, ten thousand dollars," cried Colonel Patten. "He
wore a red mask and a rubber poncho. And I saw that he had no
stirrups in his stirrup-straps."

Crosby dodged, as though someone had thrown a knife, and then raised
his hand stiffly and heavily.

"Lieutenant Curtis, you will remain here with Colonel Patten," he
ordered. His voice was without emotion. It fell flat and dead.
"Deploy as skirmishers," he commanded. "G Troop to the fight of the
trail, H Troop to the left. Stop anyone you see--anyone. If he tries
to escape, cry 'Halt!' twice and then fire--to kill. Forward! Gallop!
March! Toward the post."

"No!" shouted Colonel Patten. "He went toward Kiowa."

Crosby replied in the same dead voice: "He doubled after he left you,
colonel. He has gone to the post."

Colonel Patten struggled from the supporting arms that held him and
leaned eagerly forward. "You know him, then?" he demanded.

"Yes," cried Crosby, "God help him! Spread out there, you, in open
order--and ride like hell!"

Just before the officers' club closed for the night Lieutenant Ranson
came in and, seating himself at the piano, picked out "The Queen of
the Philippine Islands" with one finger. Major Stickney and others
who were playing bridge were considerably annoyed. Ranson then
demanded that everyone present should drink his health in champagne
for the reason that it was his birthday and that he was glad he was
alive, and wished everyone else to feel the same way about it. "Or,
for any other reason why," he added generously. This frontal attack
upon the whist-players upset the game entirely, and Ranson, enthroned
upon the piano-stool, addressed the room. He held up a buckskin
tobacco-bag decorated with beads.

"I got this down at the Indian village to-night," he said. "That old
squaw, Red Wing, makes 'em for two dollars. Crosby paid five dollars
for his in New Mexico, and it isn't half as good. What do you think?
I got lost coming back, and went all the way round by the buttes
before I found the trail, and I've only been here six months. They
certainly ought to make me chief of scouts."

There was the polite laugh which is granted to any remark made by the
one who is paying for the champagne.

"Oh, that's where you were, was it?" said the post-adjutant,
genially. "The colonel sent Clancey after you and Crosby. Clancey
reported that he couldn't find you. So we sent Curtis. They went to
act as escort for Colonel Patten and the pay. He's coming up to-night
in the stage." Ranson was gazing down into his glass. Before he
raised his head he picked several pieces of ice out of it and then
drained it.

"The paymaster, hey?" he said. "He's in the stage to-night, is he?"

"Yes," said the adjutant; and then as the bugle and stamp of hoofs
sounded from the parade outside, "and that's him now, I guess," he
added.

Ranson refilled his glass with infinite care, and then, in spite of a
smile that twitched at the corners of his mouth, emptied it slowly.

There was the jingle of spurs and a measured tramp on the veranda of
the club-house, and for the first time in its history four enlisted
men, carrying their Krags, invaded its portals. They were led by
Lieutenant Crosby; his face was white under the tan, and full of
suffering. The officers in the room received the intrusion in amazed
silence. Crosby strode among them, looking neither to the left nor
right, and touched Lieutenant Ranson upon the shoulder.

"The colonel's orders, Lieutenant Ranson," he said. "You are under
arrest."

Ranson leaned back against the music-rack and placed his glass upon
the keyboard. One leg was crossed over the other, and he did not
remove it.

"Then you can't take a joke," he said in a low tone. "You had to run
and tell." He laughed and raised his voice so that all in the club
might hear, "What am I arrested for, Crosby?" he asked.

The lines in Crosby's face deepened, and only those who sat near
could hear him. "You are under arrest for attempting to kill a
superior officer, for the robbery of the government pay-train--and
for murder."

Ranson jumped to his feet. "My God, Crosby!" he cried.

"Silence! Don't talk!" ordered Crosby. "Come along with me."

The four troopers fell in in rear of Lieutenant Crosby and their
prisoner. He drew a quick, frightened breath, and then, throwing back
his shoulders, fell into step, and the six men tramped from the club
and out into the night.

PART III

That night at the post there was little sleep for any one. The feet
of hurrying orderlies beat upon the parade-ground, the windows of the
Officers' Club blazed defiantly, and from the darkened quarters of
the enlisted men came the sound of voices snarling in violent
vituperation. At midnight, half of Ranson's troop, having attacked
the rest of the regiment with cavalry-boots, were marched under
arrest to the guard-house. As they passed Ranson's hut, where he
still paced the veranda, a burning cigarette attesting his
wakefulness, they cheered him riotously. At two o'clock it was
announced from the hospital that both patients were out of danger;
for it had developed that, in his hurried diagnosis, Sergeant Clancey
had located Henderson's heart six inches from where it should have
been.

When one of the men who guarded Ranson reported this good news the
prisoner said, "Still, I hope they'll hang whoever did it. They
shouldn't hang a man for being a good shot and let him off because
he's a bad one."

At the time of the hold-up Mary Cahill had been a half-mile distant
from the post at the camp of the Kiowas, where she had gone in answer
to the cry of Lightfoot's squaw. When she returned she found Indian
Pete in charge of the exchange. Her father, he told her, had ridden
to the Indian village in search of her. As he spoke the post-trader
appeared. "I'm sorry I missed you," his daughter called to him.

At the sound Cahill pulled his horse sharply toward the corral. "I
had a horse-deal on--with the chief," he answered over his shoulder.
"When I got to Lightfoot's tent you had gone."

After he had dismounted, and was coming toward her, she noted that
his right hand was bound in a handkerchief, and exclaimed with
apprehension.

"It is nothing," Cahill protested. "I was foolin' with one of the new
regulation revolvers, with my hand over the muzzle. Ball went through
the palm."

Miss Cahill gave a tremulous cry and caught the injured hand to her
lips.

Her father snatched it from her roughly.

"Let go!" he growled. "It serves me right."

A few minutes later Mary Cahill, bearing liniment for her father's
hand, knocked at his bedroom and found it empty. When she peered from
the top of the stairs into the shop-window below she saw him busily
engaged with his one hand buckling the stirrup-straps of his saddle.

When she called, he sprang upright with an oath. He had faced her so
suddenly that it sounded as though he had sworn, not in surprise, but
at her.

"You startled me," he murmured. His eyes glanced suspiciously from
her to the saddle. "These stirrup-straps--they're too short," he
announced. "Pete or somebody's been using my saddle."

"I came to bring you this 'first-aid' bandage for your hand," said
his daughter.

Cahill gave a shrug of impatience.

"My hand's all right," he said; "you go to bed. I've got to begin
taking account of stock."

"To-night?"

"There's no time by day. Go to bed."

For nearly an hour Miss Cahill lay awake listening to her father
moving about in the shop below. Never before had he spoken roughly to
her, and she, knowing how much the thought that he had done so would
distress him, was herself distressed.

In his lonely vigil on the veranda, Ranson looked from the post down
the hill to where the light still shone from Mary Cahill's window. He
wondered if she had heard the news, and if it were any thought of him
that kept sleep from her.

"You ass! you idiot!" he muttered. "You've worried and troubled her.
She believes one of her precious army is a thief and a murderer." He
cursed himself picturesquely, but the thought that she might possibly
be concerned on his account, did not, he found, distress him as
greatly as it should. On the contrary, as he watched the light his
heart glowed warmly. And long after the light went out he still
looked toward the home of the post-trader, his brain filled with
thoughts of his return to his former life outside the army, the old
life to which he vowed he would not return alone.

The next morning Miss Cahill learned the news when the junior officer
came to mess and explained why Ranson was not with them. Her only
comment was to at once start for his quarters with his breakfast in a
basket. She could have sent it by Pete, but, she argued, when one of
her officers was in trouble that was not the time to turn him over to
the mercies of a servant. No, she assured herself, it was not because
the officer happened to be Ranson. She would have done as much, or as
little, for any one of them. When Curtis and Haines were ill of the
grippe, had she not carried them many good things of her own making?

But it was not an easy sacrifice. As she crossed the parade-ground
she recognized that over-night Ranson's hut, where he was a prisoner
in his own quarters, had become to the post the storm-centre of
interest, and to approach it was to invite the attention of the
garrison. At head-quarters a group of officers turned and looked her
way, there was a flutter among the frocks on Mrs. Bolland's porch,
and the enlisted men, smoking their pipes on the rail of the
barracks, whispered together. When she reached Ranson's hut over four
hundred pairs of eyes were upon her, and her cheeks were flushing.
Ranson came leaping to the gate, and lifted the basket from her arm
as though he were removing an opera-cloak. He set it upon the gate-
post, and nervously clasped the palings of the gate with both hands.
He had not been to bed, but that fact alone could not explain the
strangeness of his manner. Never before had she seen him disconcerted
or abashed.

"You shouldn't have done it," he stammered. "Indeed, indeed, you are
much too good. But you shouldn't have come."

His voice shook slightly.

"Why not?" asked Mary Cahill. "I couldn't let you go hungry."

"You know it isn't that," he said; "it's your coming here at all.
Why, only three of the fellows have been near me this morning. And
they only came from a sense of duty. I know they did--I could feel
it. You shouldn't have come here. I'm not a proper person; I'm an
outlaw. You might think this was a pest-house, you might think I was
a leper. Why, those Stickney girls have been watching me all morning
through a field-glass." He clasped and unclasped his fingers around
the palings. "They believe I did it," he protested, with the
bewildered accents of a child. "They all believe it."

Miss Cahill laughed. The laugh was quieting and comforting. It
brought him nearer to earth, and her next remark brought him still
further.

"Have you had any breakfast?" she asked.

"Breakfast!" stammered Ranson. "No. The guard brought some, but I
couldn't eat it. This thing has taken the life out of me--to think
sane, sensible people--my own people--could believe that I'd steal,
that I'd kill a man for money."

"Yes, I know," said Miss Cahill soothingly; "but you've not had any
sleep, and you need your coffee." She lifted the lid of the basket.
"It's getting cold," she said. "Don't you worry about what people
think. You must remember you're a prisoner now under arrest. You
can't expect the officers to run over here as freely as they used to.
What do you want?" she laughed. "Do you think the colonel should
parade the band and give you a serenade?" For a moment Ranson stared
at her dully, and then his sense of proportion returned to him. He
threw back his head and laughed with her joyfully.

From verandas, barracks, and headquarters, the four hundred pairs of
eyes noted this evidence of heartlessness with varied emotions. But,
unmindful of them, Ranson now leaned forward, the eager, searching
look coming back into his black eyes. They were so close to Mary
Cahill's that she drew away. He dropped his voice to a whisper and
spoke swiftly.

"Miss Cahill, whatever happens to me I won't forget this. I won't
forget your coming here and throwing heart into me. You were the only
one who did. I haven't asked you if you believe that I--"

She raised her eyes reproachfully and smiled. "You know you don't
have to do that," she said.

The prisoner seized the palings as though he meant to pull apart the
barrier between them. He drew a long breath like one inhaling a
draught of clean morning air.

"No," he said, his voice ringing, "I don't have to do that."

He cast a swift glance to the left and right. The sentry's bayonet
was just disappearing behind the corner of the hut. To the four
hundred other eyes around the parade-ground Lieutenant Ranson's
attitude suggested that he was explaining to Cahill's daughter what
he wanted for his luncheon. His eyes held her as firmly as though the
palings he clasped were her two hands.

"Mary," he said, and the speaking of her name seemed to stop the
beating of his heart. "Mary," he whispered, as softly as though he
were beginning a prayer, "you're the bravest, the sweetest, the
dearest girl in all the world. And I've known it for months, and now
you must know. And there'll never be any other girl in my life but
you."

Mary Cahill drew away from him in doubt and wonder.

"I didn't mean to tell you just yet," he whispered, "but now that
I've seen you I can't help it. I knew it last night when I stood back
there and watched your windows, and couldn't think of this trouble,
nor of anything else, but just you. And you've got to promise me, if
I get out of this all right--you must--must promise me--"

Mary Cahill's eyes, as she raised them to his, were moist and
glowing. They promised him with a great love and tenderness. But at
the sight Ranson protested wildly.

"No," he whispered, "you mustn't promise--anything. I shouldn't have
asked it. After I'm out of this, after the court-martial, then you've
got to promise that you'll never, never leave me."

Miss Cahill knit her hands together and turned away her head. The
happiness in her heart rose to her throat like a great melody and
choked her. Before her, exposed in the thin spring sunshine, was the
square of ugly brown cottages, the bare parade-ground, in its centre
Trumpeter Tyler fingering his bugle, and beyond on every side an
ocean of blackened prairie. But she saw nothing of this. She saw
instead a beautiful world opening its arms to her, a world smiling
with sunshine, glowing with color, singing with love and content.

She turned to him with all that was in her heart showing in her face.

"Don't!" he begged, tremblingly, "don't answer. I couldn't bear it--
if you said 'no' to me." He jerked his head toward the men who
guarded him. "Wait until I'm tried, and not in disgrace." He shook
the gate between them savagely as though it actually held him a
prisoner.

Mary Cahill raised her head proudly.

"You have no right. You've hurt me," she whispered. "You hurt me."

"Hurt you?" he cried.

She pressed her hands together. It was impossible to tell him, it was
impossible to speak of what she felt; of the pride, of the trust and
love, to disclose this new and wonderful thing while the gate was
between them, while the sentries paced on either side, while the
curious eyes of the garrison were fastened upon her.

"Oh, can't you see?" she whispered. "As though I cared for a court-
martial! I KNOW you. You are just the same. You are just what you
have always been to me--what you always will be to me."

She thrust her hand toward him and he seized it in both of his, and
then released it instantly, and, as though afraid of his own self-
control, backed hurriedly from her, and she turned and walked rapidly
away.

Captain Carr, who had been Ranson's captain in the Philippines, and
who was much his friend, had been appointed to act as his counsel.
When later that morning he visited his client to lay out a line of
defence he found Ranson inclined to treat the danger which threatened
him with the most arrogant flippancy. He had never seen him in a more
objectionable mood.

"You can call the charge 'tommy-rot' if you like," Carr protested,
sharply. "But, let me tell you that's not the view any one else takes
of it, and if you expect the officers of the court-martial and the
civil authorities to take that view of it you've got to get down to
work and help me prove that it IS 'tommy rot.' That Miss Post, as
soon as she got here, when she thought it was only a practical joke,
told them that the road agent threatened her with a pair of shears.
Now, Crosby and Curtis will testify that you took a pair of shears
from Cahill's, and from what Miss Post saw of your ring she can
probably identify that, too; so--"

"Oh, we concede the shears," declared Ranson, waving his hand
grandly. "We admit the first hold-up."

"The devil we do!" returned Carr. "Now, as your counsel, I advise
nothing of the sort."

"You advise me to lie?"

"Sir!" exclaimed Carr. "A plea of not guilty is only a legal form.
When you consider that the first hold-up in itself is enough to lose
you your commission--"

"Well, it's MY commission," said Ranson. "It was only a silly joke,
anyway. And the War Department must have some sense of humor or it
wouldn't have given me a commission in the first place. Of course,
we'll admit the first hold-up, but we won't stand for the second one.
I had no more to do with that than with the Whitechapel murders."

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