Ranson's Folly (Fiscle Part 3) - Richard Harding Davis (reading diary .txt) 📗

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Part I

 

 

 

 

 

The Junior Officers Of Fort Crockett Had Organized A Mess At The

Post-Trader's. "And A Mess It Certainly Is," Said Lieutenant Ranson.

The Dining-Table Stood Between Hogsheads Of Molasses And A Blazing

Log-Fire,  The Counter Of The Store Was Their Buffet,  A Pool-Table

With A Cloth,  Blotted Like A Map Of The Great Lakes,  Their Sideboard,

And Indian Pete Acted As Butler. But None Of These Things Counted

Against The Great Fact That Each Evening Mary Cahill,  The Daughter Of

The Post-Trader,  Presided Over The Evening Meal,  And Turned It Into A

Banquet. From Her High Chair Behind The Counter,  With The Cash-

Register On Her One Side And The Weighing-Scales On The Other,  She

Gave Her Little Senate Laws,  And Smiled Upon Each And All With The

Kind Impartiality Of A Comrade.

 

At Least,  At One Time She Had Been Impartial. But Of Late She Smiled

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Upon All Save Lieutenant Ranson. When He Talked,  She Now Looked At

The Blazing Log-Fire,  And Her Cheeks Glowed And Her Eyes Seemed To

Reflect The Lifting Flame.

 

For Five Years,  Ever Since Her Father Brought Her From The Convent At

St. Louis,  Mary Cahill Had Watched Officers Come And Officers Go. Her

Knowledge Concerning Them,  And Their Public And Private Affairs,  Was

Vast And Miscellaneous. She Was Acquainted With The Traditions Of

Every Regiment,  With Its War Record,  With Its Peace-Time Politics,

Its Nicknames,  Its Scandals,  Even With The Earnings Of Each Company-

Canteen. At Fort Crockett,  Which Lay Under Her Immediate Observation,

She Knew More Of What Was Going Forward Than Did The Regimental

Adjutant,  More Even Than Did The Colonel's Wife. If Trumpeter Tyler

Flatted On Church Call,  If Mrs. Stickney Applied To The Quartermaster

For Three Feet Of Stovepipe,  If Lieutenant Curtis Were Granted Two

Days' Leave For Quail-Shooting,  Mary Cahill Knew It; And If Mrs.

"Captain" Stairs Obtained The Post-Ambulance For A Drive To Kiowa

City,  When Mrs. "Captain" Ross Wanted It For A Picnic,  She Knew What

Words Passed Between Those Ladies,  And Which Of The Two Wept. She

Knew All Of These Things,  For Each Evening They Were Retailed To Her

By Her "Boarders." Her Boarders Were Very Loyal To Mary Cahill. Her

Position Was A Difficult One,  And Had It Not Been That The Boy-

Officers Were So Understanding,  It Would Have Been Much More

Difficult. For The Life Of A Regimental Post Is As Circumscribed As

The Life On A Ship-Of-War,  And It Would No More Be Possible For The

Ship's Barber To Rub Shoulders With The Admiral's Epaulets Than That

A Post-Trader's Child Should Visit The Ladies On The "Line," Or That

The Wives Of The Enlisted Men Should Dine With The Young Girl From

Whom They "Took In" Washing.

 

So,  Between The Upper And The Nether Grindstones,  Mary Cahill Was

Left Without The Society Of Her Own Sex,  And Was Of Necessity Forced

To Content Herself With The Society Of The Officers. And The Officers

Played Fair. Loyalty To Mary Cahill Was A Tradition At Fort Crockett,

Which It Was The Duty Of Each Succeeding Regiment To Sustain.

Moreover,  Her Father,  A Dark,  Sinister Man,  Alive Only To Money-

Making,  Was Known To Handle A Revolver With The Alertness Of A Town-

Marshal.

 

Since The Day She Left The Convent Mary Cahill Had Held But Two

Affections: One For This Grim,  Taciturn Parent,  Who Brooded Over Her

As Jealously As A Lover,  And The Other For The Entire United States

Army. The Army Returned Her Affection Without The Jealousy Of The

Father,  And With Much More Than His Effusiveness. But When Lieutenant

Ranson Arrived From The Philippines,  The Affections Of Mary Cahill

Became Less Generously Distributed,  And Her Heart Fluttered Hourly

Between Trouble And Joy.

 

There Were Two Rooms On The First Floor Of The Post-Trader's--This

Big One,  Which Only Officers And Their Women-Folk Might Enter,  And

The Other,  The Exchange Of The Enlisted Men. The Two Were Separated

By A Partition Of Logs And Hung With Shelves On Which Were Displayed

Calicoes,  Tinned Meats,  And Patent Medicines. A Door,  Cut In One End

Of The Partition,  With Buffalo-Robes For Portieres,  Permitted Cahill

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To Pass From Behind The Counter Of One Store To Behind The Counter Of

The Other. On One Side Mary Cahill Served The Colonel's Wife With

Many Yards Of Silk Ribbons To Be Converted Into German Favors,  On The

Other Her Father Weighed Out Bears' Claws (Manufactured In Hartford,

Conn.,  From Turkey-Bones) To Make A Necklace For Red Wing,  The Squaw

Of The Arrephao Chieftain. He Waited Upon Everyone With Gravity,  And

In Obstinate Silence. No One Had Ever Seen Cahill Smile. He Himself

Occasionally Joked With Others In A Grim And Embarrassed Manner. But

No One Had Ever Joked With Him. It Was Reported That He Came From New

York,  Where,  It Was Whispered,  He Had Once Kept Bar On The Bowery For

Mcturk.

 

Sergeant Clancey,  Of G Troop,  Was The Authority For This. But When,

Presuming On That Supposition,  He Claimed Acquaintanceship With

Cahill,  The Post-Trader Spread Out His Hands On The Counter And

Stared At The Sergeant With Cold And Disconcerting Eyes. "I Never

Kept Bar Nowhere," He Said. "I Never Been On The Bowery,  Never Been

In New York,  Never Been East Of Denver In My Life. What Was It You

Ordered?"

 

"Well,  Mebbe I'm Wrong," Growled The Sergeant.

 

But A Month Later,  When A Coyote Howled Down Near The Indian Village,

The Sergeant Said Insinuatingly,  "Sounds Just Like The Cry Of The

Whyos,  Don't It?" And Cahill,  Who Was Listening To The Wolf,

Unthinkingly Nodded His Head.

 

The Sergeant Snorted In Triumph. "Yah,  I Told You So!" He Cried,  "A

Man That's Never Been On The Bowery,  And Knows The Call Of The Whyo

Gang! The Drinks Are On You,  Cahill."

 

The Post-Trader Did Not Raise His Eyes,  But Drew A Damp Cloth Up And

Down The Counter,  Slowly And Heavily,  As A Man Sharpens A Knife On A

Whetstone.

 

That Night,  As The Sergeant Went Up The Path To The Post,  A Bullet

Passed Through His Hat. Clancey Was A Forceful Man,  And Forceful Men,

Unknown To Themselves,  Make Enemies,  So He Was Uncertain As To

Whether This Came From A Trooper He Had Borne Upon Too Harshly,  Or

Whether,  In The Darkness,  He Had Been Picked Off For Someone Else.

The Next Night,  As He Passed In The Full Light Of The Post-Trader's

Windows,  A Shot Came From Among The Dark Shadows Of The Corral,  And

When He Immediately Sought Safety In Numbers Among The Indians,

Cowboys,  And Troopers In The Exchange,  He Was In Time To See Cahill

Enter It From The Other Store,  Wrapping Up A Bottle Of Pain-Killer

For Mrs. Stickney's Cook. But Clancey Was Not Deceived. He Observed

With Satisfaction That The Soles And The Heels Of Cahill's Boots Were

Wet With The Black Mud Of The Corral.

 

The Next Morning,  When The Exchange Was Empty,  The Post-Trader Turned

From Arranging Cans Of Condensed Milk Upon An Upper Shelf To Face The

Sergeant's Revolver. He Threw Up His Hands To The Level Of His Ears

As Though Expressing Sharp Unbelief,  And Waited In Silence. The

Sergeant Advanced Until The Gun Rested On The Counter,  Its Muzzle

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Pointing At The Pit Of Cahill's Stomach. "You Or Me Has Got To Leave

This Post," Said The Sergeant,  "And I Can't Desert,  So I Guess It's

Up To You."

 

"What Did You Talk For?" Asked Cahill. His Attitude Was Still That Of

Shocked Disbelief,  But His Tone Expressed A Full Acceptance Of The

Situation And A Desire To Temporize.

 

"At First I Thought It Might Be That New 'Cruity' In F Troop,"

Explained The Sergeant "You Came Near Making Me Kill The Wrong Man.

What Harm Did I Do You By Saying You Kept Bar For Mcturk? What's

There In That To Get Hot About?"

 

"You Said I Run With The Whyos."

 

"What The H--L Do I Care What You've Done!" Roared The Sergeant. "I

Don't Kmow Nothing About You,  But I Don't Mean You Should Shoot Me In

The Back. I'm Going To Tell This To My Bunky,  An' If I Get Shot Up,

The Troop'll Know Who Done It,  And You'll Hang For It. Now,  What Are

You Going To Do?"

 

Cahill Did Not Tell What He Would Do; For,  From The Other Store,  The

Low Voice Of Mary Cahill Called,  "Father! Oh,  Father!"

 

The Two Men Dodged,  And Eyed Each Other Guiltily. The Sergeant Gazed

At The Buffalo-Robe Portieres With Wide-Opened Eyes. Cahill's Hands

Dropped From The Region Of His Ears,  And Fell Flat Upon The Counter.

 

When Miss Mary Cahill Pushed Aside The Portieres Sergeant Clancey,  Of

G Troop,  Was Showing Her Father The Mechanism Of The New Regulation-

Revolver. He Apparently Was Having Some Difficulty With The Cylinder,

For His Face Was Red. Her Father Was Eying The Gun With The Critical

Approval Of An Expert.

 

"Father," Said Miss Cahill Petulantly,  "Why Didn't You Answer? Where

Is The Blue Stationery--The Sort Major Ogden Always Buys? He's

Waiting."

 

The Eyes Of The Post-Trader Did Not Wander From The Gun Before Him.

"Next To The Blank Books,  Mame," He Said. "On The Second Shelf."

 

Miss Cahill Flashed A Dazzling Smile At The Big Sergeant,  And

Whispered,  So That The Officer In The Room Behind Her Might Not

Overhear,  "Is He Trying To Sell You Government Property,  Dad? Don't

You Touch It. Sergeant,  I'm Surprised At You Tempting My Poor

Father." She Pulled The Two Buffalo-Robes Close Around Her Neck So

That Her Face Only Showed Between Them. It Was A Sweet,  Lovely Face,

With Frank,  Boyish Eyes.

 

"When The Major's Gone,  Sergeant," She Whispered,  "Bring Your Gun

Around My Side Of The Store And I'll Buy It From You."

 

The Sergeant Nodded In Violent Assent,  Laughing Noiselessly And

Slapping His Knee In A Perfect Ecstasy Of Delight.