by Max Brand
“Then start for the house—and hurry!”
“Run away and leave you here?”
The dust cloud and the figure of the rider in it were sweeping rapidly down on the grove in the hollow, where Lefty waited. And the girl was torn between three emotions: Joy at the coming of the adventurer, fear for him, terror at the thought of his meeting with Mark.
“It would be murder, John! I’ll go with you if you’ll start now!”
“No,” he said quietly, “I won’t run. Besides it is impossible for him to take you from me.”
“Impossible?” she asked. “What do you mean?”
“When the time comes you’ll see! Now he’s nearly there—watch!”
The rider was in full view now, driving his horse at a stretching gallop. There was no doubt about the identity of the man. They could not make out his face, of course, at that distance, but something in the careless dash of his seat in the saddle, something about the slender, erect body cried out almost in words that this was Ronicky Doone. A moment later the first treetops of the grove brushed across him, and he was lost from view.
The girl buried her face in her hands, then she looked up. By this time he must have reached Lefty, and yet there was no sound of shooting. Had Lefty found discretion the better part of valor and let him go by unhindered? But, in that case, the swift gallop of the horse would have borne the rider through the grove by this time.
“What’s happened?” she asked of John Mark. “What can have happened down there?”
“A very simple story,” said Mark. “Lefty, as I feared, has been more chivalrous than wise. He has stepped out into the road and ordered Ronicky to stop, and Ronicky has stopped. Now he is sitting in his saddle, looking down to Lefty, and they are holding a parley—very like two knights of the old days, exchanging compliments before they try to cut each other’s throats.”
But, even as he spoke, there was the sound of a gun exploding, and then a silence.
“One shot—one revolver shot,” said John Mark in his deadly calm voice. “It is as I said. They drew at a signal, and one of them proved far the faster. It was a dead shot, for only one was needed to end the battle. One of them is standing, the other lies dead under the shadow of that grove, my dear. Which is it?”
“Which is it?” asked the girl in a whisper. Then she threw up her hands with a joyous cry: “Ronicky Doone! Ronicky, Ronicky Doone!”
A horseman was breaking into view through the grove, and now he rode out into full view below them—unmistakably Ronicky Doone! Even at that distance he heard the cry, and, throwing up his hand with a shout that tingled faintly up to them, he spurred straight up the slope toward them. Ruth Tolliver started forward, but a hand closed over her wrist with a biting grip and brought her to a sudden halt. She turned to find John Mark, an automatic hanging loosely in his other hand.
His calm had gone, and in his dead-white face the eyes were rolling and gleaming, and his set lips trembled. “You were right,” he said, “I cannot face him. Not that I fear death, but there would be a thousand damnations in it if I died knowing that he would have you after my eyes were closed. I told you he could not take you—not living, my dear. Dead he may have us both.”
“John!” said the girl, staring and bewildered. “In the name of pity, John, in the name of all the goodness you have showed me, don’t do it.”
He laughed wildly. “I am about to lose the one thing on earth I have ever cared for, and still I can smile. I am about to die by my own hand, and still I can smile. For the last time, will you stand up like your old brave self?”
“Mercy!” she cried. “In Heaven’s name—”
“Then have it as you are!” he said, and she saw the sun flash on the steel, and he raised the gun.
She closed her eyes—waited—heard the distant drumming of hoofs on the turf of the hillside. Then she caught the report of a gun.
But it was strangely far away, that sound. She thought at first that the bullet must have numbed, as it struck her. Presently a shooting pain would pass through her body—then death.
Opening her bewildered eyes she beheld John Mark staggering, the automatic lying on the ground, his hands clutching at his breast. Then glancing to one side she saw the form of Ronicky Doone riding as fast as spur would urge his horse, the long Colt balanced in his hand. That, then, was the shot she had heard—a long-range chance shot when he saw what was happening on top of the hill.
So swift was Doone’s coming that, by the time she had reached her feet again, he was beside her, and they leaned over John Mark together. As they did so Mark’s eyes opened, then they closed again, as if with pain. When he looked again his sight was clear.
“As I expected,” he said dryly, “I see your faces together—both together, and actually wasting sympathy on me? Tush, tush! So rich in happiness that you can waste time on me?”
“John,” said the girl on her knees and weeping beside him, “you know that I have always cared for you, but as a brother, John, and not—”
“Really,” he said calmly, “you are wasting emotion. I am not going to die, and I wish you would put a bandage around me and send for some of the men at the house to carry me up there. That bullet of yours—by Harry, a very pretty snap shot—just raked across my breast, as far as I can make out. Perhaps it broke a bone or two, but that’s all. Yes, I am to have the pleasure of living.”
His smile was ghastly thing, and, growing suddenly weak, as if for the first time in his life he allowed his indomitable spirit to relax, his head fell to one side, and he lay in a limp faint.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Hope Deferred
Time in six months brought the year to the early spring, that time when even the mountain desert forgets its sternness for a month or two. Six months had not made Bill Gregg rich from his mine, but it had convinced him, on the contrary, that a man with a wife must have a sure income, even if it be a small one.
He squatted on a small piece of land, gathered a little herd, and, having thrown up a four-room shack, he and Caroline lived as happily as king and queen. Not that domains were very large, but, from their hut on the hill, they could look over a fine sweep of country, which did not all belong to them, to be sure, but which they constantly promised themselves should one day be theirs.
It was the dull period of the afternoon, the quiet, waiting period which comes between three or four o’clock and the sunset, and Bill and his wife sat in the shadow of the mighty silver spruce before their door. The great tree was really more of a home for them than the roof they had built to sleep under.
Presently Caroline stood up and pointed. “She’s coming,” she said, and, looking down the hillside, she smiled in anticipation.
The rider below them, winding up the trail, looked up and waved, then urged her horse to a full gallop for the short remnant of the distance before her. It was Ruth Tolliver who swung down from the saddle, laughing and joyous from the ride.
A strangely changed Ruth she was. She had turned to a brown beauty in the wind and the sun of the West, a more buoyant and more graceful beauty. She had accepted none of the offers of John Mark, but, leaving her old life entirely behind her, as Ronicky Doone had suggested, she went West to make her own living. With Caroline and Bill Gregg she had found a home, and her work was teaching the valley school, half a dozen miles away.
“Any mail?” asked Bill, for she passed the distant group of mail boxes on her way to the school.
At that the face of the girl darkened. “One letter,” she said, “and I want you to read it aloud, Caroline. Then we’ll all put our heads together and see if we can make out what it means.” She handed the letter to Caroline, who shook it out. “It’s from Ronicky,” she exclaimed.
“It’s from Ronicky,” said Ruth Tolliver gravely, so gravely that the other two raised their heads and cast silent glances at her.
Caroline read aloud: “Dear Ruth, I figure that I’m overdue back at Bill’s place by about a month—”
&nb
sp; “By two months,” corrected Ruth soberly.
“And I’ve got to apologize to them and you for being so late. Matter of fact I started right pronto to get back on time, but something turned up. You see, I went broke.”
Caroline dropped the letter with an exclamation. “Do you think he’s gone back to gambling, Ruth?”
“No,” said the girl. “He gave me his promise never to play for money again, and a promise from Ronicky Doone is as good as minted gold.”
“It sure is,” agreed Bill Gregg.
Caroline went on with the letter: “I went broke because Pete Darnely was in a terrible hole, having fallen out with his old man, and Pete needed a lift. Which of course I gave him pronto, Pete being a fine gent.”
There was an exclamation of impatience from Ruth Tolliver.
“Isn’t that like Ronicky? Isn’t that typical?”
“I’m afraid it is,” said the other girl with a touch of sadness. “Dear old Ronicky, but such a wild man!”
She continued in the reading: “But I’ve got a scheme on now by which I’ll sure get a stake and come back, and then you and me can get married, as soon as you feel like saying the word. The scheme is to find a lost mine—”
“A lost mine!” shouted Bill Gregg, his practical miner’s mind revolting at this idea. “My guns, is Ronicky plumb nutty? That’s all he’s got to do—just find a ‘lost mine?’ Well, if that ain’t plenty, may I never see a yearling ag’in!”
“Find a lost mine,” went on Caroline, her voice trembling between tears and laughter, “and sink a new shaft, a couple of hundred feet to find where the old vein—”
“Sink a shaft a couple of hundred feet!” said Bill Gregg. “And him broke! Where’ll he get the money to sink the shaft?”
“When we begin to take out the pay dirt,” went on Caroline, “I’ll either come or send for you and—”
“Hush up!” said Bill Gregg softly.
Caroline looked up and saw the tears streaming down the face of Ruth Tolliver. “I’m so sorry, poor dear!” she whispered, going to the other girl. But Ruth Tolliver shook her head.
“I’m only crying,” she said, “because it’s so delightfully and beautifully and terribly like Ronicky to write such a letter and tell of such plans. He’s given away a lot of money to help some spendthrift, and now he’s gone to get more money by finding a lost mine!’ But do you see what it means, Caroline? It means that he doesn’t love me—really!”
“Don’t love you?” asked Bill Gregg. “Then he’s a plumb fool. Why—”
“Hush, Bill,” put in Caroline. “You mustn’t say that,” she added to Ruth. “Of course you have reason to be sad about it and angry, too.”
“Sad, perhaps, but not angry,” said Ruth Tolliver. “How could I ever be really angry with Ronicky? Hasn’t he given me a chance to live a clean life? Hasn’t he given me this big free open West to live in? And what would I be without Ronicky? What would have happened to me in New York? Oh, no, not angry. But I’ve simply waked up, Caroline. I see now that Ronicky never cared particularly about me. He was simply in love with the danger of my position. As a matter of fact I don’t think he ever told me in so many words that he loved me. I simply took it for granted because he did such things for me as even a man in love would not have done. After the danger and uniqueness were gone Ronicky simply lost interest.”
“Don’t say such things!” exclaimed Caroline.
“It’s true,” said Ruth steadily. “If he really wanted to come here—well, did you ever hear of anything Ronicky wanted that he didn’t get?”
“Except money,” suggested Bill Gregg. “Well, he even gets that, but most generally he gives it away pretty pronto.”
“He’d come like a bullet from a gun if he really wanted me,” said Ruth. “No, the only way I can bring Ronicky is to surround myself with new dangers, terrible dangers, make myself a lost cause again. Then Ronicky would come laughing and singing, eager as ever. Oh, I think I know him!”
“And what are you going to do?” asked Caroline.
“The only thing I can do,” said the other girl. “I’m going to wait.”
* * * *
Far, far north two horsemen came at that same moment to a splitting of the trail they rode. The elder, bearded man, pointed ahead.
“That’s the roundabout way,” he said, “but it’s sure the only safe way. We’ll travel there, Ronicky, eh?”
Ronicky Doone lifted his head, and his bay mare lifted her head at the same instant. The two were strangely in touch with one another.
“I dunno,” he said, “I ain’t heard of anybody taking the short cut for years—not since the big slide in the canyon. But I got a feeling I’d sort of like to try it. Save a lot of time and give us a lot of fun.”
“Unless it breaks our necks.”
“Sure,” said Ronicky, “but you don’t enjoy having your neck safe and sound, unless you take a chance of breaking it, once in a while.”
RONICKY DOONE AND THE COSLETT TREASURE (1922)
CHAPTER ONE
Strange Company
Snow had already fallen above timber line, and the horseman, struggling over the summit, looked eagerly down into the broad valleys below, dark with evergreens. There was half an hour more of sunshine, but by the time he had ridden through the belt of lodge-pole pines, those stubborn marchers up to the mountaintops, a stiffening north wind had sheeted the sky from horizon to horizon with clouds.
Even before the rain began he put on his slicker to turn the edge of the gale, but, as he came out of the pines and into the more open and gently rolling lands beyond, the rain was beginning to drive down the valley. The lower he dropped toward the bottom lands the lower dropped the storm clouds above him, until the summits were quite lost in rolling gray masses and a mist of thin rain slanted across the trail.
The mare turned her head sideways to it, taking the brunt on one flattened ear and from time to time shaking off the drops of moisture. Between her and the rider there existed an almost conversational intimacy, it seemed. He had spread out the skirt of his slicker so as to cover as great a portion of her barrel as possible; as the chill of the rain increased, he encouraged her with talk. She replied with a slight pricking of her ears from time to time and often threw up her head in that way horses have when they wish to see the master the more clearly.
Meanwhile, she descended the precipitous trail with such cat-footed activity that it was plain she had spent her life among the mountains. The rider made little effort to direct her but allowed her to follow her own fancy, as though confident that she would take the quickest way to the bottom of the slope. This, indeed, she did, sometimes slackening her pace for a moment to study the lay of the land ahead, sometimes taking a steep down pitch on braced legs, sometimes wandering in easy loops to one side or the other.
In such a manner she came in the dusk of that late, stormy afternoon to the almost level going of the valley floor. Now it was possible to see her at her best, for she sprang out in a smooth and stretching gallop with such easily working muscles that her gait was deceptively fast. Here, again, the rider simply pointed out the goal and then let her take her own way toward it.
That goal was the only building in sight. Perhaps for miles and miles it was the only structure, and the face of the rider brightened as he made out the sharp angle of the roof. The ears of the mare pricked. Their way across the mountains had been a long one; they had been several hours in the snows above timber line; and this promise of shelter was a golden one.
But it was a deceptive promise, for when they came in the face of the driving storm they found that the tall building was not a ranch house but merely a ruined barn. It had once been a portion of a large establishment of some cattle owner, but the house proper and its outlying structures had melted away with the passage of time and the beating of such storms as that of this day. The sheds were mere crumbling ridges; the house was a ragged mound from which rotting timber ends projected. Only the barn subsisted.<
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It was of vast size. Hundreds of tons of loose hay could have been stored in its mow; scores of horses could have been stalled along its sides. And it had been built with such unusual solidity that, whereas the rest of the buildings had disintegrated, this one kept its original dimensions intact through half of its length. The south front was whole. Only the northern portion of the building had crushed in. But for some reason this combination of ruin and repair was more melancholy than the utter destruction of the rest of the ranch.
The horseman regarded this sight with a shake of the head and then looked again up the valley. But it would be difficult to continue. By this time it must have been sunset, and the storm dimmed the earth to the colors of late twilight. Every moment the wind freshened out of the north, picking up the drifts of rain and whirling them into gray ghost forms. To continue down a blind trail in the face of this gale, with no definite destination, was madness. The horseman resigned himself with a sigh to staying in the ruined barn until dawn.
He rode the mare, therefore, through a fallen section of the south front of the structure and into what had once been the mow. Stale scents of moldy straw still lingered in it.
Once inside, there was barely sufficient light to show the wanderer the dim outlines of the barn, and it was even more imposing in dimensions from within than from without. To the roof was a dizzy rise. A broad space extended on either side to the supporting walls. Half a regiment might bivouac here. Most important of all, the north gable was almost entirely blocked. That end of the building, though fallen, had not yet crumbled to the ground, and the broken roof formed a sort of enormous apron extending against the wind.
As soon as he had discovered this, the wanderer began at once to make systematic preparations for spending the night. He first rode the mare back into the open air to a rain rivulet, where she was allowed to drink. Then he returned, dismounted, gathered some fragments of wood, and lighted a fire.
The first leap of the yellow light transfigured the gloomy place. It started a shudder and dance of great shadows among the network of rafters above and in the corners of the building; it also showed the mare, from which the traveler now removed the saddle and rubbed her down—a bit of work of which most of the other riders of the Rocky Mountains would not have thought. He dried her as well as he could, and, before paying the slightest attention to his own wants, he produced from his saddle bags a mixture of chopped hay and crushed barley, a provision for his horse which he carried with him wherever he went. His glance wandered affectionately over her, for truly she was a beautiful creature.
