Ronicky Doone's Reward, Max Brand [android e book reader .txt] 📗
- Author: Max Brand
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Assistance must come from the shore, and already she was rods down the stream toward the fall. Ronicky rose and labored toward the top of the slope, for he could not progress along the shore of the stream. He must first gain the firmer footing above, on the trail from which they had fallen. He gained the top, or nearly the top, when a treacherous stone slipped under his foot and rolled him down again; when he recovered and stopped his fall, he was halfway toward the water.
He looked in a horror of fear toward the mare and saw at a glance that it was too late. He could never reach her in time to save her. Should he shoot her rather than let her be mangled in the rocks below the fall? He jerked his gun into his hand and poised it, but the sight of that gallant head in the water, where she labored still with undaunted courage, unnerved him. He put the gun away and with a breaking heart turned to climb the slope again, knowing it was vain to attempt to come to her, and yet unable to endure the inaction of waiting for her death.
So, groaning and panting with the effort, he staggered up to the trail and whirled to race downstream. But the current was even more terrible in its speed than he had suspected. Lou was struggling, so it seemed, on the verge of the falling water, where the current was pulled out slick and flat, without a fleck of foam.
He saw that in the first glance, and the second look was called up the bank by a heartening shout. He could not believe that which he saw. Yonder down the trail stood the little gray horse, his head hanging from the terrific labors through which he had passed. And now, down the bank slid big Blondy, with his rope coiled in his hand. He was giving up his own chance for life and liberty for the sake of rescuing the horse from the water. And the heart of Ronicky Doone literally stood still.
He saw the big cow-puncher reach the edge of the water, saw him plant and brace his feet on the rocks, and then the rope shot out from his hand toward the head of the mare. It struck true on its target, but the current swung it on past the head of Lou.
Ronicky Doone closed his eyes. When he looked again, expecting to see an empty stretch of water and the horror ended, he was amazed to see the courageous mare still near to the verge, but not yet swept over. Perhaps she had struck shallows and was dragging at the yielding sand with her hoofs. At any rate now was her last moment.
The rope shot again from the hand of Blondy. It poised in the air at the end of the throw, then it shot down. Heavy with the water, the noose struck true around the head of Lou and disappeared under the surface. And then Blondy began to pull back. At once the rope was whipped above the river; the noose had tightened around the neck of the mare, and she was saved.
Saved, at least, if they could draw her to the bank before she was drowned or strangled.
It seemed to Ronicky afterward that his feet were rooted deep in the ground, and that he could hardly move in that nightmare, and run to the help of big Blondy. As a matter of fact he literally flung himself over the intervening distance and reached the bank and the side of the rescuer.
Swiftly, with their combined strength, pursued and pursuer, tugged on the rope and swept the bay closer to the shore, dragged her in the lee of it to still water, and then of one accord they both leaped, found the water not higher than their breasts, loosed the strangling knot from the neck of Lou, and raised her head above the water.
And for a moment, deafened by the roar of the waterfall, they waited until they were sure. But it was only an instant before the glazed eyes cleared and the breathing recommenced. And the two opened their mouths and shouted with all their power, a faint, small sound in the infernal uproar of the fall.
After that they turned their attention to getting her up the bank, but this proved a smaller matter than they had expected; for Lou was quickly herself again, and with her own unaided strength she clambered up to the dry land, shook herself like a dog, and then struggled up to the trail above.
She was touching friendly noses with the gray when the two weary, dripping men dragged themselves to the same place and faced each other. And not until that moment did they realize what had happened — the fugitive with the charge of murder on his head shaking hands with one of his pursuers whom he had insulted mortally with words and with a blow.
“Partner,” Ronicky Doone was saying, “I’ve seen gents do some fine things in my time, but never one that was cleaner from the heart than what you done right now.”
“It’s nothing,” Blondy was answering. “You’d have done the same if you’d seen my ‘Jack,’ yonder, in the same sort of a mess.”
“I dunno,” said Ronicky. “I’d like to think that I would, but if I was streaking it with a bunch like that behind me I — “
He paused, and big Blondy drew back. They had both remembered all that went before, and both their faces had darkened, Blondy’s with pride, and Ronicky Doone’s with savagery.
“Doone,” said Blondy, “I ain’t ashamed out here by ourselves to say that I’m sorry I knocked you down that way when you were stepping in to keep me out of trouble. But I was seeing black and — “
“Listen, son,” answered Ronicky. “You’ve saved my hoss. And that makes up for the words you said. Yes, it more’n makes up. But it don’t make up for the fist you hit me with.”
He quivered with a sudden influx of wrath.
“I’ve been over quite a pile of country, Blondy. And I’ve had dealings with a whole pile of folks, but I never had anybody do what you’ve done to me.” And he touched the wound and the swelling on his forehead.
Blondy glanced up the mountainside and made out that there was no pursuit in sight.
“Do what you please,” he said coldly. “You don’t have to bust yourself wide open to thank me for getting the mare. I done that for her sake, not for yours!”
“Partner, I’ll write that down and remember it,” said Ronicky. “If you — “
“I’d like to stand and chatter with you,” said Blondy scornfully, “but I ain’t got the time. If you want to do something about that knockdown, start it right now!”
There was an instant when Ronicky was on the verge of accepting the invitation, and then it was that the bay mare touched his shoulder with her nose. And he relented.
“I can’t do it,” he muttered. “You go down your trail, Blondy, and I’ll go back down mine. You start streaking, because the boys will sure be along this way before long. Ride like the wind and get shut of them and this whole section of the country, Blondy. After you’ve done that, then you can start worrying about me and what I might do.”
“Thanks,” said Blondy, still sneering. “I ain’t ever formed the habit of worrying about any man and what he might do!”
“That’s because you’re a kid,” said Ronicky with more calm.
“I aim to be about as old as you, Doone.”
“Years ain’t what count. But let that go. Start on down the trail, Blondy. But, after you’ve got out of this section, you can lay to it that I’m going to come after you; and when we meet up there’ll be trouble to pay. Understand? I’m going to have you where you had me — lying flat on your back, bleeding and helpless. The only thing is that I won’t do just the way you did — I’ll tell you I’m ready to fight when the time comes and give you a chance to get in shape to protect yourself.”
The blow told, for the big man flushed hotly, seemed on the verge of attacking Ronicky, and then changed his mind and swung into the saddle on the gray, which had now had a chance to catch a second wind.
He hesitated again.
“Doone,” he said, “will you tell me if that gent is going to be laid up long with that slug I sent into him?”
“Kind of long,” said Ronicky coldly. “He’s dead.”
“Dead!” gasped Blondy. “My God!”
He lost all vestige of color, rubbed the back of his hand across his face, as though the blow had numbed him, and then turned the gray horse down the trail. His head was sagging. He was as spent in spirit as Jack was spent in wind.
After he had watched the other out of sight, Ronicky then sat down to wait for what he knew must happen. First he stripped Lou of the saddle and turned it up so that the wind and sun might begin to dry the blanket and padding. Lou herself found a grassy place for rolling, and in a trice she was dry and, stripped of both saddle and bridle, had wandered up the slope and was nibbling here and there.
So carefree were they, Ronicky smoking at his ease, and the mare roving as her pleasure dictated, that no one could have surmised that a few moments before poor Lou had been struggling at the very door of death. But now and again Ronicky would turn and look fondly after her, or with a low whistle he brought her to him, as readily as a dog answers a call.
There was a fine, free spirit in the mare. She carried herself with the nonchalance and the gayety and good nature of a man who has no heavy burdens on his conscience. So she would play around Ronicky Doone, and he followed her with a lazy and contented eye through the drifts and hazes of his cigarette smoke. She was all that he wished in the line of horseflesh. And, as he often said to his friends, she was better than most company because she never lost her temper and started talking back and thinking for herself in a crisis when he needed cooperation. So it was with her on this day. And when she strayed near him, his hand would go out and pass in a caress down her silken neck.
They had idled there for some minutes before the sound of hoofs, for which he had been waiting, came up the ravine toward him, and then, around the corner of the valley, there pounded half a dozen riders, all that were left from the horde which started out of Twin Springs. They shouted at the sight of Ronicky Doone, and in another instant they were halting their horses around him. They wanted to know, in a burst of questioning, exactly what had happened, and he told them, while they wondered.
When he ended, they wanted to know why he had not fought it out with the murderer before the latter left. Because, they declared, saving the life of a horse was one thing,
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