Books: Ranson\'s Folly
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Richard Harding Davis >> Ranson\'s Folly
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Ranson, humbly, gratefully, took the girl's hand and led her gently
to the veranda and closed the door upon her. Then he came down the
room and regarded his prospective father-in-law with an expression of
amused exasperation. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his
riding-breeches and nodded his head. "Well," he exclaimed, "you've
made a damned pretty mess of it, haven't you?"
Cahill had sunk heavily into a chair and was staring at Ranson with
the stupid, wondering gaze of a dumb animal in pain. During the
moments in which the two men eyed each other Ranson's smile
disappeared. Cahill raised himself slowly as though with a great
effort.
"I done it," said Cahill, "for her. I done it to make her happy."
"That's all right," said Ranson, briskly. "She's going to be happy.
We're all going to be happy."
"An' all I did," Cahill continued, as though unconscious of the
interruption, "was to disgrace her." He rose suddenly to his feet.
His mental sufferings were so keen that his huge body trembled. He
recognized how truly he had made "a mess of it." He saw that all he
had hoped to do for his daughter by crime would have been done for
her by this marriage with Ranson, which would have made her a "lady,"
made her rich, made her happy. Had it not been for his midnight raids
she would have been honored, loved, and envied, even by the wife of
the colonel herself. But through him disgrace had come upon her,
sorrow and trouble. She would not be known as the daughter of Senator
Ranson, but of Cahill, an ex-member of the Whyo gang, a highway
robber, as the daughter of a thief who was serving his time in State
prison. At the thought Cahill stepped backward unsteadily as though
he had been struck. He cried suddenly aloud. Then his hand whipped
back to his revolver, but before he could use it Ranson had seized
his wrist with both hands. The two struggled silently and fiercely.
The fact of opposition brought back to Cahill all of his great
strength.
"No, you don't!" Ranson muttered. "Think of your daughter, man. Drop
it!"
"I shall do it," Cahill panted. "I am thinking of my daughter. It's
the only way out. Take your hands off me--I shall!"
With his knuckles Ranson bored cruelly into the wounded hand, and it
opened and the gun dropped from it; but as it did so it went off with
a report that rang through the building. There was an instant rush of
feet upon the steps of the veranda, and at the sound the two men
sprang apart, eyeing each other sheepishly like two discovered
truants. When Sergeant Clancey and the guard pushed through the door
Ranson stood facing it, spinning the revolver in cowboy fashion
around his fourth finger. He addressed the sergeant in a tone of
bitter irony.
"Oh, you've come at last," he demanded. "Are you deaf? Why didn't you
come when I called?" His tone showed he considered he had just cause
for annoyance.
"The gun brought me, I--" began Clancey.
"Yes, I hoped it might. That's why I fired it," snapped Ranson. "I
want two whiskey-and-sodas. Quick now!"
"Two--" gasped Clancey.
"Whiskey-and-sodas. See how fast one of you can chase over to the
club and get 'em. And next time I want a drink don't make me wake the
entire garrison."
As the soldiers retreated Ranson discovered Miss Cahill's white face
beyond them. He ran and held the door open by a few inches.
"It's all right," he whispered, reassuringly. "He's nearly persuaded.
Wait just a minute longer and he'll be giving us his blessing."
"But the pistol-shot?" she asked.
"I was just calling the guard. The electric bell's broken, and your
father wanted a drink. That's a good sign, isn't it? Shows he's
friendly, What kind did you say you wanted, Mr. Cahill--Scotch was
it, or rye?" Ranson glanced back at the sombre, silent figure of
Cahill, and then again opened the door sufficiently for him to stick
out his head. "Sergeant," he called, "make them both Scotch--long
ones."
He shut the door and turned upon the post-trader. "Now, then, father-
in-law," he said, briskly, "you've got to cut and run, and you've got
to run quick. We'll tell 'em you're going to Fort Worth to buy the
engagement ring, because I can't, being under arrest. But you go to
Duncan City instead, and from there take the cars, to--"
"Run away!" Cahill repeated, dazedly. "But you'll be court-
martialled."
"There won't be any court-martial!"
Cahill glanced around the room quickly. "I see," he cried. In his
eagerness he was almost smiling. "I'm to leave a confession and give
it to you."
"Confession! What rot!" cried Ranson.
"They can't prove anything against me. Everyone knows by now that
there were two men on the trail, but they don't know who the other
man was, and no one ever must know--especially Mary."
Cahill struck the table with his fist. "I won't stand for it!" he
cried. "I got you into this and I'm goin'--"
"Yes, going to jail," retorted Ranson. "You'll look nice behind the
bars, won't you? Your daughter will be proud of you in a striped
suit. Don't talk nonsense. You're going to run and hide some place,
somewhere, where Mary and I can come and pay you a visit. Say--
Canada. No, not Canada. I'd rather visit you in jail than in a
Montreal hotel. Say Tangier, or Buenos Ayres, or Paris. Yes, Paris is
safe enough--and so amusing."
Cahill seated himself heavily. "I trapped you into this fix, Mr.
Ranson," he said, "you know I did, and now I mean to get you out of
it. I ain't going to leave the man my Mame wants to marry with a
cloud on him. I ain't going to let her husband be jailed."
Ranson had run to his desk and from a drawer drew forth a roll of
bills. He advanced with them in his hand.
"Yes, Paris is certainly the place," he said. "Here's three hundred
dollars. I'll cable you the rest. You've never been to Paris, have
you? It's full of beautiful sights--Henry's American Bar, for
instance, and the courtyard of the Grand Hotel, and Maxim's. All good
Americans go to Paris when they die and all the bad ones while they
are alive. You'll find lots of both kinds, and you'll sit all day on
the sidewalk and drink Bock and listen to Hungarian bands. And Mary
and I will join you there and take you driving in the Bois. Now, you
start at once. I'll tell her you've gone to New York to talk it over
with father, and buy the ring. Then I'll say you've gone on to Paris
to rent us apartments for the honeymoon. I'll explain it somehow.
That's better than going to jail, isn't it, and making us bow our
heads in grief?"
Cahill, in his turn, approached the desk and, seating himself before
it, began writing rapidly.
"What is it?" asked Ranson.
"A confession," said Cahill, his pen scratching.
"I won't take it," Ranson said, "and I won't use it."
"I ain't going to give it to you," said Cahill, over his shoulder. "I
know better than that. But I don't go to Paris unless I leave a
confession behind me. Call in the guard," he commanded; "I want two
witnesses."
"I'll see you hanged first," said Ranson.
Cahill crossed the room to the door and, throwing it open, called,
"Corporal of the guard!"
As he spoke, Captain Carr and Mrs. Bolland, accompanied by Miss Post
and her aunt, were crossing the parade-ground. For a moment the post-
trader surveyed them doubtfully, and then, stepping out upon the
veranda, beckoned to them.
"Here's a paper I've signed, captain," he said; "I wish you'd witness
my signature. It's my testimony for the court-martial."
"Then someone else had better sign it," said Carr. "Might look
prejudiced if I did." He turned to the ladies. "These ladies are
coming in to see Ranson now. They'll witness it."
Miss Cahill, from the other end of the veranda, and the visitors
entered the room together.
"Mrs. Truesdale!" cried Ranson. "You are pouring coals of fire upon
my head. And Miss Post! Indeed, this is too much honor. After the way
I threatened and tried to frighten you last night I expected you to
hang me, at least, instead of which you have, I trust, come to tea."
"Nothing of the sort," said Mrs. Bolland, sternly. "These ladies
insisted on my bringing them here to say how sorry they are that they
talked so much and got you into this trouble. Understand, Mr.
Ranson," the colonel's wife added, with dignity, "that I am not here
officially as Mrs. Bolland, but as a friend of these ladies."
"You are welcome in whatever form you take, Mrs. Bolland," cried
Ranson, "and, believe me, I am in no trouble--no trouble, I assure
you. In fact, I am quite the most contented man in the world. Mrs.
Bolland, in spite of the cloud, the temporary cloud which rests upon
my fair name, I take great pride in announcing to you that this young
lady has done me the honor to consent to become my wife. Her father,
a very old and dear friend, has given his consent. And I take this
occasion to tell you of my good fortune, both in your official
capacity and as my friend."
There was a chorus of exclamations and congratulations in which Mrs.
Bolland showed herself to be a true wife and a social diplomatist. In
the post-trader's daughter she instantly recognized the heiress to
the Ranson millions, and the daughter of a Senator who also was the
chairman of the Senate Committee on Brevets and Promotions. She fell
upon Miss Cahill's shoulder and kissed her on both cheeks. Turning
eagerly upon Mrs. Truesdale, she said, "Alice, you can understand how
I feel when I tell you that this child has always been to me like one
of my own."
Carr took Ranson's hand and wrung it. Sergeant Clancey grew purple
with pleasure and stole back to the veranda, where he whispered
joyfully to a sentry. In another moment a passing private was seen
racing delightedly toward the baseball field.
At the same moment Lieutenants Crosby and Curtis and the regimental
adjutant crossed the parade ground from the colonel's quarters and
ran up the steps of Ranson's hut. The expressions of good-will, of
smiling embarrassment and general satisfaction which Lieutenant
Crosby observed on the countenances of those present seemed to give
him a momentary check.
"Oh," he exclaimed, disappointedly, "someone has told you!"
Ranson laughed and took the hand which Crosby held doubtfully toward
him. "No one has told me," he said. "I've been telling them."
"Then you haven't heard?" Crosby cried, delightedly. "That's good. I
begged to be the first to let you know, because I felt so badly at
having doubted you. You must let me congratulate you. You are free."
"Free?" smiled Ranson.
"Yes, relieved from arrest," Crosby cried, joyfully. He turned and
took Ranson's sword from the hands of the adjutant. "And the
colonel's let your troop have the band to give you a serenade."
But Ranson's face showed no sign of satisfaction.
"Wait!" he cried. "Why am I relieved from arrest?"
"Why? Because the other fellow has confessed."
Ranson placed himself suddenly in front of Mary Cahill as though to
shield her. His eyes stole stealthily towards Cahill's confession.
Still unread and still unsigned, it lay unopened upon the table.
Cahill was gazing upon Ranson in blank bewilderment.
Captain Carr gasped a sigh of relief that was far from complimentary
to his client.
"Who confessed?" he cried.
"'Pop' Henderson," said Crosby.
"'Pop' Henderson!" shouted Cahill. Unmindful of his wound, he struck
the table savagely with his fist. For the first time in the knowledge
of the post he exhibited emotion. "'Pop' Henderson, by the eternal!"
he cried. "And I never guessed it!"
"Yes," said Crosby, eagerly. "Abe Fisher was in it. Henderson
persuaded the paymaster to make the trip alone with him. Then he
dressed up Fisher to represent the Red Rider and sent him on ahead to
hold him up. They were to share the money afterward. But Fisher fired
on 'Pop' to kill, so as to have it all, and 'Pop's' trying to get
even. And what with wanting to hurt Fisher, and thinking he is going
to die, and not wishing to see you hanged, he's told the truth. We
wired Kiowa early this morning and arrested Fisher. They've found the
money, and he has confessed, too."
"But the poncho and the red kerchief?" protested Carr. "And he had no
stirrups!"
"Oh, Fisher had the make-up all right," laughed Crosby; "Henderson
says Fisher's the 'only, original' Red Rider. And as for the
stirrups, I'm afraid that's my fault. I asked the colonel if the man
wasn't riding without stirrups, and I guess the wish was father to
the fact. He only imagined he hadn't seen any stirrups. The colonel
was rattled. So, old man," he added, turning to Ranson, "here's your
sword again, and God bless you."
Already the post had learned the news from the band and the verandas
of the enlisted men overflowed with delighted troopers. From the
stables and the ball field came the sound of hurrying feet, and a
tumult of cheers and cowboy yells. Across the parade-ground the
regimental band bore down upon Ranson's hut, proclaiming to the
garrison that there would be a hot time in the old town that night.
But Sergeant Clancey ran to meet the bandmaster, and shouted in his
ear. "He's going to marry Mary Cahill," he cried. "I heard him tell
the colonel's wife. Play 'Just Because She Made Them Goo-goo Eyes.'"
"Like hell!" cried the bandmaster, indignantly, breaking in on the
tune with his baton. "I know my business! Now, then, men," he
commanded, "'I'll Leave My Happy Home for You.'"
As Mrs. Bolland dragged Miss Cahill into view of the assembled
troopers Ranson pulled his father-in-law into a far corner of the
room. He shook the written confession in his face.
"Now, will you kindly tell me what that means?" he demanded. "What
sort of a gallery play were you trying to make?"
Cahill shifted his sombrero guiltily. "I was trying to get you out of
the hole," he stammered. "I--I thought you done it."
"You thought I done it!"
"Sure. I never thought nothing else."
"Then why do you say here that YOU did it?"
"Oh, because," stammered Cahill, miserably, "'cause of Mary, 'cause
she wanted to marry you--'cause you were going to marry her."
"Well--but--what good were you going to do by shooting yourself?"
"Oh, then?" Cahill jerked back his head as though casting out an
unpleasant memory. "I thought you'd caught me, you, too--between
you!"
"Caught you! Then you did--?"
"No, but I tried to. I heard your plan, and I did follow you in the
poncho and kerchief, meaning to hold up the stage first, and leave it
to Crosby and Curtis to prove you did it. But when I reached the
coach you were there ahead of me, and I rode away and put in my time
at the Indian village. I never saw the paymaster's cart, never heard
of it till this morning. But what with Mame missing the poncho out of
our shop and the wound in my hand I guessed they'd all soon suspect
me. I saw you did. So I thought I'd just confess to what I meant to
do, even if I didn't do it."
Ranson surveyed his father-in-law with a delighted grin. "How did you
get that bullet-hole in your hand?" he asked.
Cahill laughed shamefacedly. "I hate to tell you that," he said. "I
got it just as I said I did. My new gun went off while I was fooling
with it, with my hand over the muzzle. And me the best shot in the
Territory! But when I heard the paymaster claimed he shot the Red
Rider through the palm I knew no one would believe me if I told the
truth. So I lied."
Ranson glanced down at the written confession, and then tore it
slowly into pieces. "And you were sure I robbed the stage, and yet
you believed that I'd use this? What sort of a son-in-law do you
think you've got?"
"You thought _I_ robbed the stage, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"And you were going to stand for robbing it yourself, weren't you?
Well, that's the sort of son-in-law I've got!"
The two men held out their hands at the same instant.
Mary Cahill, her face glowing with pride and besieged with blushes,
came toward them from the veranda. She was laughing and radiant, but
she turned her eyes on Ranson with a look of tender reproach.
"Why did you desert me?" she said. "It was awful. They are calling
you now. They are playing 'The Conquering Hero.'"
"Mr. Cahill," commanded Ranson, "go out there and make a speech." He
turned to Mary Cahill and lifted one of her hands in both of his.
"Well, I AM the conquering hero," he said. "I've won the only thing
worth winning, dearest," he whispered; "we'll run away from them in a
minute, and we'll ride to the waterfall and the Lover's Leap." He
looked down at her wistfully. "Do you remember?"
Mary Cahill raised her head and smiled. He leaned toward her
breathlessly.
"Why, did it mean that to you, too?" he asked.
She smiled up at him in assent.
"But I didn't say anything, did I?" whispered Ranson. "I hardly knew
you then. But I knew that day that I--that I would marry you or
nobody else. And did you think--that you--"
"Yes," Mary Cahill whispered.
He bent his head and touched her hand with his lips.
"Then we'll go back this morning to the waterfall," he said, "and
tell it that it's all come right. And now, we'll bow to those crazy
people out there, those make-believe dream-people, who don't know
that there is nothing real in this world but just you and me, and
that we love each other."
A dishevelled orderly bearing a tray with two glasses confronted
Ranson at the door. "Here's the Scotch and sodas, lieutenant," he
panted. "I couldn't get 'em any sooner. The men wanted to take 'em
off me--to drink Miss Cahill's health."
"So they shall," said Ranson. "Tell them to drink the canteen dry and
charge it to me. What's a little thing like the regulations between
friends? They have taught me my manners. Mr. Cahill," he called.
The post-trader returned from the veranda.
Ranson solemnly handed him a glass and raised the other in the air.
"Here's hoping that the Red Rider rides on his raids no more," he
said; "and to the future Mrs. Ranson--to Mary Cahill, God bless her!"
He shattered the empty glass in the grate and took Cahill's hand.
"Father-in-law," said Ranson, "let's promise each other to lead a new
and a better life."
THE BAR SINISTER
PART I
The Master was walking most unsteady, his legs tripping each other.
After the fifth or sixth round, my legs often go the same way.
But even when the Master's legs bend and twist a bit, you mustn't
think he can't reach you. Indeed, that is the time he kicks most
frequent. So I kept behind him in the shadow, or ran in the middle of
the street. He stopped at many public-houses with swinging doors,
those doors that are cut so high from the sidewalk that you can look
in under them, and see if the Master is inside. At night when I peep
beneath them the man at the counter will see me first and say,
"Here's the Kid, Jerry, come to take you home. Get a move on you,"
and the Master will stumble out and follow me. It's lucky for us I'm
so white, for no matter how dark the night, he can always see me
ahead, just out of reach of his boot. At night the Master certainly
does see most amazing. Sometimes he sees two or four of me, and walks
in a circle, so that I have to take him by the leg of his trousers
and lead him into the right road. One night, when he was very nasty-
tempered and I was coaxing him along, two men passed us and one of
them says, "Look at that brute!" and the other asks "Which?" and they
both laugh. The Master, he cursed them good and proper.
This night, whenever we stopped at a public-house, the Master's pals
left it and went on with us to the next. They spoke quite civil to
me, and when the Master tried a flying kick, they gives him a shove.
"Do you want we should lose our money?" says the pals.
I had had nothing to eat for a day and a night, and just before we
set out the Master gives me a wash under the hydrant. Whenever I am
locked up until all the slop-pans in our alley are empty, and made to
take a bath, and the Master's pals speak civil, and feel my ribs, I
know something is going to happen. And that night, when every time
they see a policeman under a lamp-post, they dodged across the
street, and when at the last one of them picked me up and hid me
under his jacket, I began to tremble; for I knew what it meant. It
meant that I was to fight again for the Master.
I don't fight because I like it. I fight because if I didn't the
other dog would find my throat, and the Master would lose his stakes,
and I would be very sorry for him and ashamed. Dogs can pass me and I
can pass dogs, and I'd never pick a fight with none of them. When I
see two dogs standing on their hind-legs in the streets, clawing each
other's ears, and snapping for each other's windpipes, or howling and
swearing and rolling in the mud, I feel sorry they should act so, and
pretend not to notice. If he'd let me, I'd like to pass the time of
day with every dog I meet. But there's something about me that no
nice dog can abide. When I trot up to nice dogs, nodding and
grinning, to make friends, they always tell me to be off. "Go to the
devil!" they bark at me; "Get out!" and when I walk away they shout
"mongrel," and "gutter-dog," and sometimes, after my back is turned,
they rush me. I could kill most of them with three shakes, breaking
the back-bone of the little ones, and squeezing the throat of the big
ones. But what's the good? They are nice dogs; that's why I try to
make up to them, and though it's not for them to say it, I am a
street-dog, and if I try to push into the company of my betters, I
suppose it's their right to teach me my place.
Of course, they don't know I'm the best fighting bull-terrier of my
weight in Montreal. That's why it wouldn't be right for me to take no
notice of what they shout. They don't know that if I once locked my
jaws on them I'd carry away whatever I touched. The night I fought
Kelley's White Rat, I wouldn't loosen up until the Master made a
noose in my leash and strangled me, and if the handlers hadn't thrown
red pepper down my nose, I never would have let go of that Ottawa
dog. I don't think the handlers treated me quite right that time, but
maybe they didn't know the Ottawa dog was dead. I did.
I learned my fighting from my mother when I was very young. We slept
in a lumber-yard on the river-front, and by day hunted for food along
the wharves. When we got it, the other tramp-dogs would try to take
it off us, and then it was wonderful to see mother fly at them, and
drive them away. All I know of fighting I learned from mother,
watching her picking the ash-heaps for me when I was too little to
fight for myself. No one ever was so good to me as mother. When it
snowed and the ice was in the St. Lawrence she used to hunt alone,
and bring me back new bones, and she'd sit and laugh to see me trying
to swallow 'em whole. I was just a puppy then, my teeth was falling
out. When I was able to fight we kept the whole river-range to
ourselves, I had the genuine long, "punishing" jaw, so mother said,
and there wasn't a man or a dog that dared worry us. Those were happy
days, those were; and we lived well, share and share alike, and when
we wanted a bit of fun, we chased the fat old wharf-rats. My! how
they would squeal!
Then the trouble came. It was no trouble to me. I was too young to
care then. But mother took it so to heart that she grew ailing, and
wouldn't go abroad with me by day. It was the same old scandal that
they're always bringing up against me. I was so young then that I
didn't know. I couldn't see any difference between mother--and other
mothers.
But one day a pack of curs we drove off snarled back some new names
at her, and mother dropped her head and ran, just as though they had
whipped us. After that she wouldn't go out with me except in the
dark, and one day she went away and never came back, and though I
hunted for her in every court and alley and back street of Montreal,
I never found her.
One night, a month after mother ran away, I asked Guardian, the old
blind mastiff, whose Master is the night-watchman on our slip, what
it all meant. And he told me.
"Every dog in Montreal knows," he says, "except you, and every Master
knows. So I think it's time you knew."
Then he tells me that my father, who had treated mother so bad, was a
great and noble gentleman from London. "Your father had twenty-two
registered ancestors, had your father," old Guardian says, "and in
him was the best bull-terrier blood of England, the most ancientest,
the most royal; the winning 'blue-ribbon' blood, that breeds
champions. He had sleepy pink eyes, and thin pink lips, and he was as
white all over as his own white teeth, and under his white skin you
could see his muscles, hard and smooth, like the links of a steel
chain. When your father stood still, and tipped his nose in the air,
it was just as though he was saying, 'Oh, yes, you common dogs and
men, you may well stare. It must be a rare treat for you Colonials to
see a real English royalty.' He certainly was pleased with hisself,
was your father. He looked just as proud and haughty as one of them
stone dogs in Victoria Park--them as is cut out of white marble. And
you're like him," says the old mastiff--"by that, of course, meaning
you're white, same as him. That's the only likeness. But, you see,
the trouble is, Kid--well, you see, Kid, the trouble is--your mother-
-"
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