Books: Ranson\'s Folly
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Richard Harding Davis >> Ranson\'s Folly
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"How are we to prove that?" demanded Carr. "Where's your alibi? Where
were you after the first hold-up?"
"I was making for home as fast as I could cut," said Ranson. He
suddenly stopped in his walk up and down the room and confronted his
counsel sternly. "Captain," he demanded, "I wish you to instruct me
on a point of law."
Carr's brow relaxed. He was relieved to find that Ranson had awakened
to the seriousness of the charges against him.
"That's what I'm here for," he said, encouragingly.
"Well, captain," said Ranson, "if an officer is under arrest as I am
and confined to his quarters, is he or is he not allowed to send to
the club for a bottle of champagne?"
"Really, Ranson!" cried the captain, angrily, "you are impossible."
"I only want to celebrate," said Ranson, meekly. "I'm a very happy
man; I'm the happiest man on earth. I want to ride across the prairie
shooting off both guns and yelling like a cowboy. Instead of which I
am locked up indoors and have to talk to you about a highway robbery
which does not amuse me, which does not concern me--and of which I
know nothing and care less. Now, YOU are detailed to prove me
innocent. That's your duty, and you ought to do your duty, But don't
drag me in. I've got much more important things to think about."
Bewilderment, rage, and despair were written upon the face of the
captain.
"Ranson!" he roared. "Is this a pose, or are you mad? Can't you
understand that you came very near to being hanged for murder and
that you are in great danger of going to jail for theft? Let me put
before you the extremely unpleasant position in which you have been
ass enough to place yourself. You don't quite seem to grasp it. You
tell two brother-officers that you are going to rob the stage. To do
so you disguise yourself in a poncho and a red handkerchief, and you
remove the army-stirrups from your stirrup-leathers. You then do rob
this coach, or at least hold it up, and you are recognized. A few
minutes later, in the same trail and in the same direction you have
taken, there is a second hold-up, this time of the paymaster. The man
who robs the paymaster wears a poncho and a red kerchief, and he has
no stirrups in his stirrup-leathers. The two hold-ups take place
within a half-mile of each other, within five minutes of each other.
Now, is it reasonable to believe that last night two men were hiding
in the buttes intent upon robbery, each in an army poncho, each
wearing a red bandanna handkerchief, and each riding without
stirrups? Between believing in such a strange coincidence and that
you did it, I'll be hanged if I don't believe you did it."
"I don't blame you," said Ranson. "What can I do to set your mind at
rest?"
"Well, tell me exactly what persons knew that you meant to hold up
the stage."
"Curtis and Crosby; no one else."
"Not even Cahill?"
"No, Cahill came in just before I said I would stop the stage, but I
remember particularly that before I spoke I waited for him to get
back to the exchange."
"And Crosby tells me," continued Carr, "that the instant you had gone
he looked into the exchange and saw Cahill at the farthest corner
from the door. He could have heard nothing."
"If you ask me, I think you've begun at the wrong end," said Ranson.
"If I were looking for the Red Rider I'd search for him in Kiowa
City."
"Why?"
"Because, at this end no one but a few officers knew that the
paymaster was coming, while in Kiowa everybody in the town knew it,
for they saw him start. It would be very easy for one of those
cowboys to ride ahead and lie in wait for him in the buttes. There
are several tough specimens in Kiowa. Any one of them would rob a man
for twenty dollars--let alone ten thousand. There's 'Abe' Fisher and
Foster King, and the Chase boys, and I believe old 'Pop' Henderson
himself isn't above holding up one of his own stages."
"He's above shooting himself in the lungs," said Carr. "Nonsense. No,
I am convinced that someone followed you from this post, and perhaps
Cahill can tell us who that was. I sent for him this morning, and
he's waiting at my quarters now. Suppose I ask him to step over here,
so that we can discuss it together."
Before he answered, Ranson hesitated, with his eyes on the ground. He
had no way of knowing whether Mary Cahill had told her father
anything of what he had said to her that morning. But if she had done
so, he did not want to meet Cahill in the presence of a third party
for the first time since he had learned the news.
"I'll tell you what I wish you would do," he said. "I wish you'd let
me see Cahill first, by myself. What I want to see him about has
nothing to do with the hold-up," he added. "It concerns only us two,
but I'd like to have it out of the way before we consult him as a
witness."
Carr rose doubtfully. "Why, certainly," he said; "I'll send him over,
and when you're ready for me step out on the porch and call. I'll be
sitting on my veranda. I hope you've had no quarrel with Cahill--I
mean I hope this personal matter is nothing that will prejudice him
against you."
Ranson smiled. "I hope not, too," he said. "No, we've not quarrelled-
-yet," he added.
Carr still lingered. "Cahill is like to be a very important witness
for the other side--"
"I doubt it," said Ranson, easily. "Cahill's a close-mouthed chap,
but when he does talk he talks to the point and he'll tell the truth.
That can't hurt us."
As Cahill crossed the parade-ground from Captain Carr's quarters on
his way to Ranson's hut his brain was crowded swiftly with doubts,
memories, and resolves. For him the interview held no alarms. He had
no misgivings as to its outcome. For his daughter's sake he was
determined that he himself must not be disgraced in her eyes and that
to that end Ranson must be sacrificed. It was to make a lady of her,
as he understood what a lady should be, that on six moonlit raids he
had ventured forth in his red mask and robbed the Kiowa stage. That
there were others who roamed abroad in the disguise of the Red Rider
he was well aware. There were nights the stage was held up when he
was innocently busy behind his counter in touch with the whole
garrison. Of these nights he made much. They were alibis furnished by
his rivals. They served to keep suspicion from himself, and he,
working for the same object, was indefatigable in proclaiming that
all the depredations of the Red Rider showed the handiwork of one and
the same individual.
"He comes from Kiowa of course," he would point out. "Some feller who
lives where the stage starts, and knows when the passengers carry
money. You don't hear of him holding up a stage full of recruits or
cow-punchers. It's always the drummers and the mine directors that
the Red Rider lays for. How does he know they're in the stage if he
don't see 'em start from Kiowa? Ask 'Pop' Henderson. Ask 'Abe'
Fisher. Mebbe they know more than they'd care to tell."
The money which at different times Cahill had taken from the Kiowa
stage lay in a New York bank, and the law of limitation made it now
possible for him to return to that city and claim it. Already his
savings were sufficient in amount to support both his daughter and
himself in one of those foreign cities, of which she had so often
told him and for which he knew she hungered. And for the last five
years he had had no other object in living than to feed her wants.
Through some strange trick of the mind he remembered suddenly and
vividly a long-forgotten scene in the back room of McTurk's, when he
was McTurk's bouncer. The night before a girl had killed herself in
this same back room; she made the third who had done so in the month.
He recalled the faces of the reporters eyeing McTurk in cold distaste
as that terror of the Bowery whimpered before them on his knees. "But
my daughters will read it," he had begged. "Suppose they believe I'm
what you call me. Don't go and give me a bad name to them, gentlemen.
It ain't my fault the girl's died here. You wouldn't have my
daughters think I'm to blame for that? They're ladies, my daughters,
they're just out of the convent, and they don't know that there is
such women in the world as come to this place. And I can't have 'em
turned against their old pop. For God's sake, gentlemen, don't let my
girls know!"
Cahill remembered the contempt he had felt for his employer as he
pulled him to his feet, but now McTurk's appeal seemed just and
natural. His point of view was that of the loving and considerate
parent. In Cahill's mind there was no moral question involved. If to
make his girl rich and a lady, and to lift her out of the life of the
Exchange, was a sin the sin was his own and he was willing to "stand
for it." And, like McTurk, he would see that the sin of the father
was not visited upon the child. Ranson was rich, foolishly, selfishly
rich; his father was a United States Senator with influence enough,
and money enough, to fight the law--to buy his son out of jail.
Sooner than his daughter should know that her father was one of those
who sometimes wore the mask of the Red Rider, Ranson, for all he
cared, could go to jail, or to hell. With this ultimatum in his mind,
Cahill confronted his would-be son-in-law with a calm and assured
countenance.
Ranson greeted him with respectful deference, and while Cahill seated
himself, Ranson, chatting hospitably, placed cigars and glasses
before him. He began upon the subject that touched him the most
nearly.
"Miss Cahill was good enough to bring up my breakfast this morning,"
he said. "Has she told you of what I said to her?"
Cahill shook his head. "No, I haven't seen her. We've been taking
account of stock all morning."
"Then--then you've heard nothing from her about me?" said Ranson.
The post trader raised his head in surprise. "No. Captain Carr spoke
to me about your arrest, and then said you wanted to see me first
about something private." The post trader fixed Ranson with his keen,
unwavering eyes. "What might that be?" he asked.
"Well, it doesn't matter now," stammered Ranson; "I'll wait until
Miss Cahill tells you."
"Any complaint about the food?" inquired the post trader.
Ranson laughed nervously. "No, it's not that," he said. He rose, and,
to protect what Miss Cahill evidently wished to remain a secret,
changed the subject. "You see you've lived in these parts so long,
Mr. Cahill," he explained, "and you know so many people, I thought
maybe you could put me on the track or give me some hint as to which
of that Kiowa gang really did rob the paymaster." Ranson was pulling
the cork from the whiskey bottle, and when he asked the question
Cahill pushed his glass from him and shook his head. Ranson looked up
interrogatively and smiled. "You mean you think I did it myself?" he
asked.
"I didn't understand from Captain Carr," the post trader began in
heavy tones, "that it's my opinion you're after. He said I might be
wanted to testify who was present last night in my store."
"Certainly, that's all we want," Ranson answered, genially. "I only
thought you might give me a friendly pointer or two on the outside.
And, of course, if it's your opinion I did the deed we certainly
don't want your opinion. But that needn't prevent your taking a drink
with me, need it? Don't be afraid. I'm not trying to corrupt you. And
I'm not trying to poison a witness for the other fellows, either.
Help yourself."
Cahill stretched out his left hand. His right remained hidden in the
side pocket of his coat. "What's the matter with your right hand?"
Ranson asked. "Are you holding a gun on me? Really, Mr. Cahill,
you're not taking any chances, are you?" Ranson gazed about the room
as though seeking an appreciative audience. "He's such an important
witness," he cried, delightedly, "that first he's afraid I'll poison
him and he won't drink with me, and now he covers me with a gun."
Reluctantly, Cahill drew out his hand. "I was putting the bridle on
my pony last night," he said. "He bit me."
Ranson exclaimed sympathetically, "Oh, that's too bad," he said.
"Well, you know you want to be careful. A horse's teeth really are
poisonous." He examined his own hands complacently. "Now, if I had a
bandage like that on my right hand they would hang me sure, no matter
whether it was a bite, or a burn, or a bullet."
Cahill raised the glass to his lips and sipped the whiskey
critically. "Why?" he asked.
"Why? Why, didn't you know that the paymaster boasted last night to
the surgeons that he hit this fellow in the hand? He says--"
Cahill snorted scornfully. "How'd he know that? What makes him think
so?"
"Well, never mind, let him think so," Ranson answered, fervently.
"Don't discourage him. That's the only evidence I've got on my side.
He says he fired to disarm the man, and that he saw him shift his gun
to his left hand. It was the shot that the man fired when he held his
gun in his left that broke the colonel's arm. Now, everybody knows I
can't hit a barn with my left. And as for having any wounds concealed
about my person"--Ranson turned his hands like a conjurer to show the
front and back--"they can search me. So, if the paymaster will only
stick to that story--that he hit the man--it will help me a lot."
Ranson seated himself on the table and swung his leg. "And of course
it would be a big help, too, if you could remember who was in your
Exchange when I was planning to rob the coach. For someone certainly
must have overheard me, someone must have copied my disguise, and
that someone is the man we must find. Unless he came from Kiowa."
Cahill shoved his glass from him across the table and, placing his
hands on his knees, stared at his host coldly and defiantly. His
would-be son-in-law observed the aggressiveness of his attitude, but,
in his fuller knowledge of their prospective relations, smiled
blandly.
"Mr. Ranson," began Cahill, "I've no feelings against you personally.
I've a friendly feeling for all of you young gentlemen at my mess.
But you're not playing fair with me. I can see what you want, and I
can tell you that you and Captain Carr are not helping your case by
asking me up here to drink and smoke with you, when you know that I'm
the most important witness they've got against you."
Ranson stared at his father-in-law-elect in genuine amazement, and
then laughed lightly.
"Why, dear Mr. Cahill," he cried, "I wouldn't think of bribing you
with such a bad brand of whiskey as this. And I didn't know you were
such an important witness as all that. But, of course, I know
whatever you say in this community goes, and if your testimony is
against me, I'm sorry for it, very sorry. I suppose you will testify
that there was no one in the Exchange who could have heard my plan?"
Cahill nodded.
"And, as it's not likely two men at exactly the same time should have
thought of robbing the stage in exactly the same way, I must have
robbed it myself."
Cahill nursed his bandaged hand with the other. "That's the court's
business," he growled; "I mean to tell the truth."
"And the truth is?" asked Ransom
"The truth is that last night there was no one in the Exchange but
you officers and me. If anybody'd come in on the store side you'd
have seen him, wouldn't you? and if he'd come into the Exchange I'd
have seen him. But no one come in. I was there alone--and certainly I
didn't hear your plan, and I didn't rob the stage. When you fellows
left I went down to the Indian village. Half the reservation can
prove I was there all the evening--so of the four of us, that lets me
out. Crosby and Curtis were in command of the pay escort--that's
their alibi--and as far as I can see, lieutenant, that puts it up to
you."
Ranson laughed and shook his head. "Yes, it certainly looks that
way," he said. "Only I can't see why you need be so damned pleased
about it." He grinned wickedly. "If you weren't such a respectable
member of Fort Crockett society I might say you listened at the door,
and rode after me in one of your own ponchos. As for the Indian
village, that's no alibi. A Kiowa swear his skin's as white as yours
if you give him a drink."
"And is that why I get this one?" Cahill demanded. "Am I a Kiowa?"
Ranson laughed and shoved the bottle toward his father-in-law-elect.
"Oh, can't you take a joke?" he said. "Take another drink, then."
The voice outside the hut was too low to reach the irate Cahill, but
Ranson heard it and leaped to his feet.
"Wait," he commanded. He ran to the door, and met Sergeant Clancey at
the threshold.
"Miss Cahill, lieutenant," said the sergeant, "wants to see her
father."
Cahill had followed Ranson to the door, "You want to see me, Mame?
"he asked.
"Yes," Miss Cahill cried; "and Mr. Ransom, too, if I may." She caught
her father eagerly by the arm, but her eyes were turned joyfully upon
Ranson. They were laughing with excitement. Her voice was trembling
and eager.
"It is something I have discovered," she cried; "I found it out just
now, and I think--oh, I hope!--it is most important. I believe it
will clear Mr. Ranson!" she cried, happily. "At least it will show
that last night someone went out to rob the coach and went dressed as
he was."
Cahill gave a short laugh. "What's his name?" he asked, mockingly.
"Have you seen him?"
"I didn't see him and I don't know his name, but--"
Cahill snorted, and picked up his sombrero from the table. "Then it's
not so very important after all," he said. "Is that all that brought
you here?"
"The main thing is that she is here," said Ranson; "for which the
poor prisoner is grateful--grateful to her and to the man she hasn't
seen, in the mask and poncho, whose name she doesn't know. Mr.
Cahill, bad as it is, I insist on your finishing your whiskey. Miss
Cahill, please sit down."
He moved a chair toward her and, as he did so, looked full into her
face with such love and happiness that she turned her eyes away.
"Well?" asked Cahill.
"I must first explain to Lieutenant Ranson, father," said his
daughter, "that to-day is the day we take account of stock."
"Speaking of stock," said Ranson, "don't forget that I owe you for a
red kerchief and a rubber poncho. You can have them back, if you
like. I won't need a rain coat where I am going."
"Don't," said Miss Cahill. "Please let me go on. After I brought you
your breakfast here, I couldn't begin to work just at once. I was
thinking about--something else. Everyone was talking of you--your
arrest, and I couldn't settle down to take account of stock." She
threw a look at Ranson which asked for his sympathy. "But when I did
start I began with the ponchos and the red kerchiefs, and then I
found out something." Cahill was regarding his daughter in strange
distress, but Ranson appeared indifferent to her words, and intent
only on the light and beauty in her face. But he asked, smiling, "And
that was?"
"You see," continued Miss Cahill, eagerly, "I always keep a dozen of
each article, and as each one is sold I check it off in my day-book.
Yesterday Mrs. Bolland bought a poncho for the colonel. That left
eleven ponchos. Then a few minutes later I gave Lightfoot a red
kerchief for his squaw. That left eleven kerchiefs."
"Stop!" cried Ranson. "Miss Cahill," he began, severely, "I hope you
do not mean to throw suspicion on the wife of my respected colonel,
or on Mrs. Lightfoot, 'the Prairie Flower.' Those ladies are my
personal friends; I refuse to believe them guilty. And have you ever
seen Mrs. Bolland on horseback? You wrong her. It is impossible."
"Please," begged Miss Cahill, "please let me explain. When you went
to hold up the stage you took a poncho and a kerchief. That should
have left ten of each. But when I counted them this morning there
were nine red kerchiefs and nine ponchos."
Ranson slapped his knee sharply. "Good!" he said. "That is
interesting."
"What does it prove?" demanded Cahill.
"It proves nothing, or it proves everything," said Miss Cahill. "To
my mind it proves without any doubt that someone overheard Mr.
Ranson's plan, that he dressed like him to throw suspicion on him,
and that this second person was the one who robbed the paymaster.
Now, father, this is where you can help us. You were there then. Try
to remember. It is so important. Who came into the store after the
others had gone away?"
Cahill tossed his head like an angry bull.
"There are fifty places in this post," he protested, roughly, "where
a man can get a poncho. Every trooper owns his slicker."
"But, father, we don't know that theirs are missing," cried Miss
Cahill, "and we do know that those in our store are. Don't think I am
foolish. It seemed such an important fact to me, and I had hoped it
would help."
"It does help--immensely!" cried Ranson.
"I think it's a splendid clue. But, unfortunately, I don't think we
can prove anything by your father, for he's just been telling me that
there was no one in the place but himself. No one came in, and he was
quite alone--" Ranson had begun speaking eagerly, but either his own
words or the intentness with which Cahill received them caused him to
halt and hesitate--"absolutely--alone."
"You see," said Cahill, thickly, "as soon as they had gone I rode to
the Indian village."
"Why, no, father," corrected Miss Cahill. "Don't you remember, you
told me last night that when you reached Lightfoot's tent I had just
gone. That was quite two hours after the others left the store." In
her earnestness Miss Cahill had placed her hand upon her father's arm
and clutched it eagerly. "And you remember no one coming in before
you left?" she asked. "No one?"
Cahill had not replaced the bandaged hand in his pocket, but had
shoved it inside the opening of his coat. As Mary Cahill caught his
arm her fingers sank into the palm of the hand and he gave a slight
grimace of pain.
"Oh, father," Miss Cahill cried, "your hand! I am so sorry. Did I
hurt it? Please--let me see."
Cahill drew back with sudden violence.
"No!" he cried. "Leave it alone! Come, we must be going." But Miss
Cahill held the wounded hand in both her own. When she turned her
eyes to Ranson they were filled with tender concern.
"I hurt him," she said, reproachfully. "He shot himself last night
with one of those new cylinder revolvers."
Her father snatched the hand from her. He tried to drown her voice by
a sudden movement toward the door. "Come!" he called. "Do you hear
me?"
But his daughter in her sympathy continued. "He was holding it so,"
she said, "and it went off, and the bullet passed through here." She
laid the tip of a slim white finger on the palm of her right hand.
"The bullet!" cried Ranson. He repeated, dully, "The bullet!"
There was a sudden, tense silence. Outside they could hear the crunch
of the sentry's heel in the gravel, and from the baseball field back
of the barracks the soft spring air was rent with the jubilant crack
of the bat as it drove the ball. Afterward Ranson remembered that
while one half of his brain was terribly acute to the moment, the
other was wondering whether the runner had made his base. It seemed
an interminable time before Ranson raised his eyes from Miss Cahill's
palm to her father's face. What he read in them caused Cahill to drop
his hand swiftly to his hip.
Ranson saw the gesture and threw out both his hands. He gave a
hysterical laugh, strangely boyish and immature, and ran to place
himself between Cahill and the door. "Drop it!" he whispered. "My
God, man!" he entreated, "don't make a fool of yourself. Mr. Cahill,"
he cried aloud, "you can't go till you know. Can he, Mary? Yes,
Mary." The tone in which he repeated the name was proprietary and
commanding. He took her hand. "Mr. Cahill," he said, joyously, "we've
got something to tell you. I want you to understand that in spite of
all I'VE done--I say in spite of all I'VE done--I mean getting into
this trouble and disgrace, and all that--I've dared to ask your
daughter to marry me." He turned and led Miss Cahill swiftly toward
the veranda. "Oh, I knew he wouldn't like it," he cried. "You see. I
told you so. You've got to let me talk to him alone. You go outside
and wait. I can talk better when you are not here. I'll soon bring
him around."
"Father," pleaded Miss Cahill, timidly. From behind her back Ranson
shook his head at the post-trader in violent pantomime. "She'd better
go outside and wait, hadn't she, Mr. Cahill?" he directed.
As he was bidden, the post-trader raised his head and nodded toward
the door. The onslaught of sudden and new conditions overwhelmed and
paralyzed him.
"Father!" said Miss Cahill, "it isn't just as you think. Mr. Ranson
did ask me to marry him--in a way--At least, I knew what he meant.
But I did not say--in a way--that I would marry him. I mean it was
not settled, or I would have told you. You mustn't think I would have
left you out of this--of my happiness, you who have done everything
to make me happy."
She reproached her father with her eyes fastened on his face. His own
were stern, fixed, and miserable. "You will let it be, won't you,
father?" she begged. "It--it means so much. I--can't tell you--" She
threw out her hand toward Ranson as though designating a superior
being. "Why, I can't tell HIM. But if you are harsh with him or with
me it will break my heart. For as I love you, father, I love him--and
it has got to be. It must be. For I love him so. I have always loved
him. Father," she whispered, "I love him so."
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