Ronicky Doone's Reward, Max Brand [android e book reader .txt] 📗

Of all the winged things in the world, there is nothing that flies so fast as rumor, and of all rumors there is none so fleet as bad news.

Ronicky Doone reached Twin Springs late, very late. And he slept till noon at the hotel. When he wakened he found that the town knew more about his adventure of the night before than he knew himself. He could tell by the first face he confronted down the stairs that all was known — at least from the viewpoint of Blondy Loring.

Another man would have lost all appetite for the day when he confronted that expression of sneering disgust on the face of the hotel keeper. But Ronicky Doone merely drew the belt of his trousers tighter and walked into the dining room for lunch.

He ate it in profound silence. Not a man spoke to him except one or two who happened to catch his eye full upon them, and they favored him with a muffled grunt. Plainly he was in the deepest disgrace into which it is possible for a man to fall; at least in the West.

He finished his lunch slowly, however, admirable testimony that his nerve was as cold as steel in a crisis, and he looked up unabashed when the proprietor of the hotel paused at his table in his round of the room to inquire after the comfort of his guests.

“Look here,” said the proprietor, looking out the window above the head of Ronicky, so that he might not be forced to encounter the eyes of the despicable gunman who stole upon his victims from behind. “Look here, Doone, I got a terrible rush of business coming, and when I looked over the list I seen how I’d reserved all the rooms. I’ll have to use your place tonight, so I guess you’ll be moseying along to-day.” And he turned his back without further explanation. But the hand of Ronicky shot out and touched his arm.

“Turn around,” said Ronicky.

The other turned a quarter of the way.

“Look me in the eye,” said Ronicky.

Reluctantly it was done.

“I’ll stay till I’m good and ready to go,” said Ronicky. “You write that down in red and start betting on it. I’ll stay here till I can’t pay for my room no more. That’s final.”

The proprietor started to hurl a loud protest upon Ronicky’s head. But apparently he found something in the eye of Ronicky that was in sharp contrast with the reports of Ronicky’s meeting with Blondy Loring, which had been retailed throughout the town during the morning. At any rate the host retreated to a corner, muttering like a dog over a bone.

And Ronicky rose, stretched himself, carelessly picked up every disgusted, scornful eye that dwelt upon him, and then sauntered out of the room.

As on the day before, he selected the one, large, easy chair on the veranda and bore it to the edge of the shadow, where he stretched out luxuriously in the sun; and while the heat seeped through his tissues and filled him with a pleasant drowsiness, he smoked a cigarette and watched the smoke drift up, blue-brown in the sun, rising sometimes a considerable distance until it vanished in a touch of the wind.

In the meantime Ronicky was thinking, buried in the most profound reflection. He was picking up one idea at a time and turning it and examining it, as an expert raises and turns a jewel, criticizing every tiny facet. And all this he did with a sleepy face. For the brow of a philosopher is never wrinkled.

The other men began to troop out. He heard the jingling of their spurs as from a great distance. Loud laughter somewhere jarred on his ear; and the murmur of other voices made a smooth current bearing one on toward sleep. Ronicky Doone regarded them not. He was forgetting the village of Twin Springs rapidly. He was totally occupied with the more vitally engrossing problem of how he could draw to him big Blondy.

For it stood to reason that Charlie Loring would never come to meet him. For some reason the big fellow had wished to avoid a man-to-man conflict with Ronicky. No matter what that reason was — and Ronicky could not discover it — if it had made Charlie take the risk of being shot while he sprang barehanded upon Ronicky in the barn, it would make him resort to other and stranger methods to avoid the conflict. Since Ronicky could not hunt him down on Blondy’s own range, Ronicky must induce his quarry to come to his place.

He was still struggling with this great problem when a heavy foot crunched on the boards near him, and a cloud of smoke billowed across him. Ronicky turned and saw big Al Jenkins standing there, and the look on Al’s face was by no means an invitation to cordial talk.

“I been hearing things,” was what Jenkins said, “and the things that I been hearing about you, stranger, is enough to turn a man’s hair gray. It seems that you ain’t Ronicky Doone at all. It seems that you just been wandering around and using his name promiscuous without being him at all!”

Ronicky covered a yawn. He turned his head a little and considered Jenkins with solemn gravity. But he did not speak, and this silence caused the lower jaw of Jenkins to thrust out. He even made a motion with his big hands, as though he were about to grasp Ronicky and break him like a stick of kindling. He gathered himself into control after a moment, and he went on: “I suppose that that don’t mean much in your life, son. But around Twin Springs we’re a queer lot of people. And we take every man for what he says he is. That’s why, when we hear that a gent has been telling a flock of lies about himself, it riles us, son — it sure riles us terrible!”

And he waited, grinding his teeth with increasing fury. Here Ronicky Doone yawned again, and this caused Jenkins to stamp with such convulsive energy that the board beneath his heel cracked loudly. He had to shift to one side to avoid a possible fall through the broken flooring.

“D’you hear me talk?” he roared at last. “D’you hear what I’m saying to you?”

“Yes,” said Ronicky gently.

“And what d’you think about it?”

The voice of Ronicky was more gentle than ever.

“You’re too old,” he said, “for me to tell you what I think. That’s all.”

Al Jenkins, the fearless, the battle-hardened, the man-breaker, was struck purple. His face swelled. Dark veins stood out on the temples.

“You insulting young rat!” he thundered. “I got a mind to tear the hide off of you and — “

He paused. Ronicky Doone had swung to a sitting posture. It was amazing to watch him. A cat does not glide from deep sleep to wakefulness more suddenly or completely. One second her eyes are dull; the next they are balls of baleful fire. And the change in the face of Ronicky Doone was hardly less.

“Back up,” he said. “You’re right on the edge of a cliff. Back up and start pawing for a good road,” said Ronicky. “Now tell me what you want.”

In fact the rich man gave back a short step in his astonishment. He had