Ranson's Folly (Fiscle Part 3), Richard Harding Davis [best novel books to read TXT] 📗
- Author: Richard Harding Davis
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Into The Fire, Her Eyes Lighting And Her Lips Smiling. They Would Be
Pleasant Memories, He Was Sure. But Once Back Again In The Whirl And
Rush Of The Great World Outside Of Fort Crockett, Even As Memories
They Would Pass Away.
Mary Cahill Made No Outward Answer To The Rebellious Utterance Of
Lieutenant Ranson. She Only Bent Her Eyes On Her Book And Tried To
Think What The Post Would Hold For Her When He Had Carried Out His
Threat And Betaken Himself Into The World And Out Of Her Life
Forever. Night After Night She Had Sat Enthroned Behind Her Barrier
And Listened To His Talk, Wondering Deeply. He Had Talked Of A World
She Knew Only In Novels, In History, And In Books Of Travel. His View
Of It Was Not An Educational One: He Was No Philosopher, Nor Trained
Observer. He Remembered London--To Her The Capital Of The World--
Chiefly By Its Restaurants, Cairo On Account Of Its Execrable Golf-
Links. He Lived Only To Enjoy Himself. His View Was That Of A Boy,
Hearty And Healthy And Seeking Only Excitement And Mischief. She Had
Heard His Tales Of His Brief Career At Harvard, Of The Reunions At
Henry's American Bar, Of The Futurity, The Suburban, The Grand Prix,
Of A Yachting Cruise Which Apparently Had Encountered Every Form Of
Adventure, From The Rescuing Of A Stranded Opera-Company To The
Ramming Of A Slaver's Dhow. The Regret With Which He Spoke Of These
Free Days, Which Was The Regret Of An Exile Marooned Upon A Desert
Island, Excited All Her Sympathy For An Ill She Had Never Known. His
Discourteous Scorn Of The Social Pleasures Of The Post, From Which
She Herself Was Excluded, Rilled Her With Speculation. If He Could
Forego These Functions, How Full And Gay She Argued His Former Life
Must Have Been. His Attitude Helped Her To Bear The Deprivations More
Easily. And She, As A Loyal Child Of The Army, Liked Him Also Because
He Was No "Cracker-Box" Captain, But A Fighter, Who Had Fought With
No Morbid Ideas As To The Rights Or Wrongs Of The Cause, But For The
Fun Of Fighting.
And One Night, After He Had Been Telling The Mess Of A Filipino
Officer Who Alone Had Held Back His Men And Himself, And Who At Last
Died In His Arms Cursing Him, She Went To Sleep Declaring To Herself
That Lieutenant Ranson Was Becoming Too Like The Man She Had Pictured
For Her Husband Than Was Good For Her Peace Of Mind. He Had Told The
Story As His Tribute To A Brave Man Fighting For His Independence And
With Such Regret That Such A One Should Have Died So Miserably, That,
Part 3 Title 1 (Ranson's Folly) Pg 10To The Embarrassment Of The Mess, The Tears Rolled Down His Cheeks.
But He Wiped Them Away With His Napkin As Unconcernedly As Though
They Were Caused By The Pepper-Box, And Said Simply, "He Had Sporting
Blood, He Had. I've Never Felt So Bad About Anything As I Did About
That Chap. Whenever I Think Of Him Standing Up There With His Back To
The Cathedral All Shot To Pieces, But Giving Us What For Until He
Died, It Makes Me Cry. So," He Added, Blowing His Nose Vigorously, "I
Won't Think Of It Any More."
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."
Part 3 Title 1 (Ranson's Folly) Pg 11
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!
Part 3 Title 1 (Ranson's Folly) Pg 12They'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.
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