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

It had been fitted up comfortably enough, and Ronicky could have looked forward without dread to a stay of a few days in the cabin had it not been that the time was wearing on and that he was needed to help in the fight against Al Jenkins for the sake of Elsie Bennett. The purpose of Curly became apparent almost at once. Curly would win the undying gratitude of Al Jenkins by removing from the scene of battle the chief man among the enemy, until the ruin of Bennett had been accomplished. Then he could turn Ronicky loose.

“And when I turn you loose,” said Curly, “you may be tolerable mad, but you ain’t going to be raving to kill, because you’ll have lived here with me for quite a spell before that happens, and a gent like you, that ain’t plumb unreasonable, can’t hang out with another gent like me, that ain’t plumb poisonous, without getting to sort of see that he ain’t all bad. You’ll be sort of used to me before I turn you loose, Ronicky. All I got to do in the meantime is to see that you don’t turn a trick on me and take me by surprise.”

Ronicky made no answer. In his heart of hearts he felt that what he wanted to do most in all the world was to have this man under the cover of his gun and make him beg for mercy. But again he told himself that he must resign himself to patience, for surely the time would quickly come when he could free himself from his bonds. He might burn them in two. He might find an opportunity to get a knife edge against them and shear them apart. Any of these opportunities was most likely to come his way before he had been twenty-four hours in the house.

But twenty-four hours dragged themselves along, and still no chance had been shown to him. He had reckoned without his host. Several times he had a few minutes to himself when Curly was outside tending to the horses in the little shed, but, before he could accomplish anything of importance, Curly was always back in the one room of the shack. And neither knife nor fire was ever exposed.

In the meantime Ronicky’s hands were kept behind his back, saving for a few moments every day when he was allowed to exercise the stiffening muscles. And each day was an eternity to Ronicky. The first, the second, the third sunset followed. Finally he knew that within twenty-four hours Al Jenkins would loose his men against poor Bennett, and there would be an end of the war. His ranch swept clean of cattle, Bennett would be the victim of the first of his creditors who chose to foreclose upon him. And that meant dire poverty for Elsie Bennett.

More than this, it meant that his own promise to the rancher was going for nothing. It meant that all his force was being bottled and made useless by Curly, the shiftless, careless, good-natured liar. He writhed in an agony of humiliation and rage when he thought of this.

But though he hounded himself with savage energy all the day, striving to come to some sort of solution of the problem, he could find none. And so the morning as last dawned above him, and he was twenty-four hours from the finish still held fast in Curly’s grasp.

Curly himself had not yet wakened. He lay sleeping, heavily snoring. Indeed, it was this snoring which had wakened Ronicky before his usual hour. He hunched himself up awkwardly, bracing his shoulders against the wall and taking no care to keep from waking the sleeper. What difference did it make? The more trouble he could inflict upon Curly the better, for he was beginning to realize that, in spite of all his early vows of undying vengeance, Curly had been right. Their life together had made Ronicky so familiar with the jovial, carefree fellow that he could not hate him.

He looked across the room, in this dull morning light, and saw Curly prone on his back in his blankets. His mouth was open and his features were relaxed in utter sleep. It suddenly came to Ronicky that this was by no means the face which he was accustomed to associating with the voice of Curly. The eyes were surrounded by great hollows; the checks were somewhat fallen; there were lines about the mouth. Altogether it was a face expressing great exhaustion.

And another thing occurred to Ronicky as strange. What he had first noticed during his captivity was that his captor never slept soundly. The least stir on Ronicky’s part had always been sufficient to open the eyes of Curly. At first Ronicky had taken it for granted that Curly was simply a marvelously light sleeper by nature. But now, as he stared at the worn face of the cow-puncher, another explanation was suggested to him — that it was only by the immense effort of his will that Curley had been able to keep guard during his sleep. He had filled his mind so full of the determination to watch Ronicky that there was a subconscious mind forever on guard and warning him the instant that Ronicky made a move, day or night.

This was the meaning, also, of the great quantities of coffee which Curly had been drinking. In every possible manner he had been filing his nerves to the point of highest sensibility. But gradually his strength had been giving way, and though for five days he had been strung on a hair trigger, now he had given way and was sleeping like one stunned by a blow.

All of this Ronicky noted without at first taking any comfort to himself. But, as he worked himself to his sitting posture and then continued by climbing to his feet, he was given a thrill of sudden hope by the sight of the eyes of the sleeper, still closed. He took a step. The floor creaked heavily beneath him. And still the snoring of the other continued uninterrupted.

What this liberty of the moment could gain for him he could not tell. There was no manner of escaping from the cabin. The window was too small for him to work his way through it. The door was heavily bolted and locked, and there was no way for him to get the key unless he could reach under the shoulders of the sleeper who slept upon the guns and the key.

Nothing in the cabin showed any sign of life. There was nothing to catch the light of the increasing day except the chimney of the lantern. But even this gave Ronicky his first hope, combined as the sight of it was, with the heavy sleep of Curly.

He went to the side of the cabin. On a small shelf there was a bunch of sulphur matches. He worked off one of the matches with his teeth. Then, using his teeth again, he lifted the lantern from its peg to the floor. He knelt with his back to it, and by careful manipulation he managed to work off the chimney. Once the glass squeaked against one of the guards, but the sleeper still slept.

Then he crouched still more, picked up the matches, and went across the room to the stove. He turned his back to it and strove to scratch a match. But the process, which was so simple when he had a free hand, now proved strangely difficult. He could give no easy, smooth flexion of hand and wrist to make the match travel swiftly over a surface and by the friction ignite the head. The match broke under his hand, and he had to cross the room and work off another match with his teeth.

He returned to the stove. The surface of this was at once smooth and rough enough to give him a promise of igniting the match. Finally it succeeded. The flame spurted, and Ronicky hurried back toward the lantern. But his haste set up a current of air in which the match went out.

Again he returned and repeated the performance; an agony of suspense