Ranson's Folly (Fiscle Part 3) - Richard Harding Davis (reading diary .txt) 📗
- Author: Richard Harding Davis
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Breakin' A Trace Is All The Danger There Is, Anyway," He Added,
Cheerfully, "So Don't Fret."
Miss Post Could Not Resist Saying To Mrs. Truesdall: "I Told You He
Was Joking."
The Stage Had Proceeded For Two Hours. Sometimes It Dropped With
Locked Wheels Down Sheer Walls Of Clay, Again It Was Dragged,
Careening Drunkenly, Out Of Fathomless Pits. It Pitched And Tossed,
Slid And Galloped, Danced Grotesquely From One Wheel To Another, From
One Stone To Another, Recoiled Out Of Ruts, Butted Against Rocks, And
Swept Down And Out Of Swollen Streams That Gurgled Between The
Spokes.
"If Ever I Leave Fort Crockett," Gasped Mrs. Truesdall Between Jolts,
"I Shall Either Wait Until They Build A Railroad Or Walk."
They Had All But Left The Hills, And Were Approaching The Level
Prairie. That They Might See The Better The Flaps Had Been Rolled Up,
And The Soft Dry Air Came Freely Through The Open Sides. The Mules
Were Straining Over The Last Hill. On Either Side Only A Few Of The
Buttes Were Still Visible. They Stood Out In The Moonlight As Cleanly
Cut As The Bows Of Great Battleships. The Trail At Last Was Level.
Mrs. Truesdall's Eyes Closed. Her Head Fell Forward. But Miss Post,
Weary As She Was In Body, Could Not Sleep. To Her The Night-Ride Was
Full Of Strange And Wonderful Mysteries. Gratefully She Drank In The
Dry Scent Of The Prairie-Grass, And, Holding By The Frame Of The
Window, Leaned Far Out Over The Wheel. As She Did So, A Man Sprang
Into The Trail From Behind A Wall Of Rock, And Shouted Hoarsely. He
Was Covered To His Knees With A Black Mantle. His Face Was Hidden By
A Blood-Red Mask.
"Throw Up Your Hands!" He Commanded. There Was A Sharp Creaking As
The Brakes Locked, And From The Driver's Seat An Amazed Oath. The
Stage Stopped With A Violent Jerk, And Mrs. Truesdall Pitched Gently
Forward Toward Her Niece.
Part 3 Title 1 (Ranson's Folly) Pg 17
"I Really Believe I Was Asleep, Helen," She Murmured. "What Are We
Waiting For?"
"I Think We Are Held Up," Said Miss Post.
The Stage Had Halted Beyond The Wall Of Rock, And Miss Post Looked
Behind It, But No Other Men Were Visible, Only A Horse With His
Bridle Drawn Around A Stone. The Man In The Mask Advanced Upon The
Stage, Holding A Weapon At Arm's-Length. In The Moonlight It Flashed
And Glittered Evilly. The Man Was But A Few Feet From Miss Post, And
The Light Fell Full Upon Her. Of Him She Could See Only Two Black
Eyes That Flashed As Evilly As His Weapon. For A Period Of Suspense,
Which Seemed Cruelly Prolonged, The Man Stood Motionless, Then He
Lowered His Weapon. When He Opened His Lips The Mask Stuck To Them,
And His Words Came From Behind It, Broken And Smothered. "Sorry To
Trouble You, Miss," The Mask Said, "But I Want That Man Beside You To
Get Out."
Miss Post Turned To The Travelling Salesman. "He Wants You To Get
Out," She Said.
"Wants Me!" Exclaimed The Drummer. "I'm Not Armed, You Know." In A
Louder Voice He Protested, Faintly: "I Say, I'm Not Armed."
"Come Out!" Demanded The Mask.
The Drummer Precipitated Himself Violently Over The Knees Of The
Ladies Into The Road Below, And Held His Hands High Above Him. "I'm
Not Armed," He Said; "Indeed I'm Not."
"Stand Over There, With Your Back To That Rock," The Mask Ordered.
For A Moment The Road Agent Regarded Him Darkly, Pointing His Weapon
Meditatively At Different Parts Of The Salesman's Person. He
Suggested A Butcher Designating Certain Choice Cuts. The Drummer's
Muscles Jerked Under The Torture As Though His Anatomy Were Being
Prodded With An Awl.
"I Want Your Watch," Said The Mask. The Drummer Reached Eagerly For
His Waistcoat.
"Hold Up Your Hands!" Roared The Road Agent. "By The Eternal, If You
Play Any Rough-House Tricks On Me I'll--" He Flourished His Weapon
Until It Flashed Luminously.
An Exclamation From Hunk Smith, Opportunely Uttered, Saved The
Drummer From What Was Apparently Instant Annihilation. "Say, Rider,"
Cried The Driver, "I Can't Hold My Arms Up No Longer. I'm Going To
Put 'Em Down. But You Leave Me Alone, An' I'll Leave You Alone. Is
That A Bargain?" The Shrouded Figure Whirled His Weapon Upon The
Speaker. "Have I Ever Stopped You Before, Hunk?" He Demanded.
Hunk, At This Recognition Of Himself As A Public Character, Softened
Instantly. "I Dunno Whether 'Twas You Or One Of Your Gang, But--"
Part 3 Title 1 (Ranson's Folly) Pg 18
"Well, You've Still Got Your Health, Haven't You?"
"Yes."
"Then Keep Quiet," Snarled The Mask.
In Retort Hunk Smith Muttered Audible Threatenings, But Sank
Obediently Into An Inert Heap. Only His Eyes, Under Cover Of His
Sombrero, Roamed Restlessly. They Noted The Mcclellan Saddle On The
Red Rider's Horse, The White Patch On Its Near Fore-Foot, The Empty
Stirrup-Straps, And At A Great Distance, So Great That The Eyes Only
Of A Plainsman Could Have Detected It, A Cloud Of Dust, Or Smoke, Or
Mist, That Rode Above The Trail And Seemed To Be Moving Swiftly Down
Upon Them.
At The Sight, Hunk Shifted The Tobacco In His Cheek And Nervously
Crossed His Knees, While A Grin Of Ineffable Cunning Passed Across
His Face.
With His Sombrero In His Hand, The Red Rider Stepped To The Wheel Of
The Stage. As He Did So, Miss Post Observed That Above The Line Of
His Kerchief His Hair Was Evenly And Carefully Parted In The Middle.
"I'm Afraid, Ladies," Said The Road Agent, "That I Have Delayed You
Unnecessarily. It Seems That I Have Called Up The Wrong Number." He
Emitted A Reassuring Chuckle, And, Fanning Himself With His Sombrero,
Continued Speaking In A Tone Of Polite Irony: "The Wells, Fargo
Messenger Is The Party I Am Laying For. He's Coming Over This Trail
With A Package Of Diamonds. That's What I'm After. At First I Thought
'Fighting Bob' Over There By The Rock Might Have It On Him; But He
Doesn't Act Like Any Wells, Fargo Express Agent I Have Ever Tackled
Before, And I Guess The Laugh's On Me. I Seem To Have Been Weeping
Over The Wrong Grave." He Replaced His Sombrero On His Head At A
Rakish Angle, And Waved His Hand. "Ladies, You Are At Liberty To
Proceed."
But Instantly He Stepped Forward Again, And Brought His Face So Close
To The Window That They Could See The Whites Of His Eyes. "Before We
Part," He Murmured, Persuasively, "You Wouldn't Mind Leaving Me
Something As A Souvenir, Would You?" He Turned The Skull-Like
Openings Of The Mask Full Upon Miss Post.
Mrs. Truesdall Exclaimed, Hysterically: "Why, Certainly Not!" She
Cried. "Here's Everything I Have, Except What's Sewn Inside My Waist,
Where I Can't Possibly Get At It. I Assure You I Cannot. The
Proprietor Of That Hotel Told Us We'd Probably--Meet You, And So I
Have Everything Ready." She Thrust Her Two Hands Through The Window.
They Held A Roll Of Bills, A Watch, And Her Rings
Miss Post Laughed In An Ecstasy Of Merriment "Oh, No, Aunt," She
Protested, "Don't. No, Not At All. The Gentleman Only Wants A
Keepsake. Something To Remember Us By. Isn't That It?" She Asked. She
Regarded The Blood-Red Mask Steadily With A Brilliant Smile.
Part 3 Title 1 (Ranson's Folly) Pg 19
The Road Agent Did Not At Once Answer. At Her Words He Had Started
Back With Such Sharp Suspicion That One Might Have Thought He
Meditated Instant Flight. Through The Holes In His Mask He Now Glared
Searchingly At Miss Post, But Still In Silence.
"I Think This Will Satisfy Him," Said Miss Post.
Out Of The Collection In Her Aunt's Hands She Picked A Silver Coin
And Held It Forward. "Something To Keep As A Pocket-Piece," She Said,
Mockingly, "To Remind You Of Your Kindness To Three Lone Females In
Distress."
Still Silent, The Road Agent Reached For The Money, And Then Growled
At Her In A Tone Which Had Suddenly Become Gruff And Overbearing. It
Suggested To Miss Post The Voice Of The Head Of The Family Playing
Santa Claus For The Children. "And Now You, Miss," He Demanded.
Miss Post Took Another Coin From The Heap, Studied Its Inscription,
And Passed It Through The Window. "This One Is From Me," She Said.
"Mine Is Dated 1901. The Moonlight," She Added, Leaning Far Forward
And Smiling Out At Him, "Makes It Quite Easy To See The Date; As
Easy," She Went On, Picking Her Words, "As It Is To See Your Peculiar
Revolver And The Coat-Of-Arms On Your Ring." She Drew Her Head Back."
Good-Night," She Cooed, Sweetly.
The Red Rider Jumped From The Door. An Exclamation Which Might Have
Been A Laugh Or An Oath Was Smothered By His Mask. He Turned Swiftly
Upon The Salesman. "Get Back Into The Coach," He Commanded. "And You,
Hunk," He Called, "If You Send A Posse After Me, Next Night I Ketch
You Out Here Alone You'll Lose The Top Of Your Head."
The Salesman Scrambled Into The Stage Through The Door Opposite The
One At Which The Red Rider Was Standing, And The Road Agent Again
Raised His Sombrero With A Sweeping Gesture Worthy Of D'artagnan.
"Good-Night, Ladies," He Said.
"Good-Night, Sir," Mrs. Truesdall Answered, Grimly, But Exuding A
Relieved Sigh. Then, Her Indignation Giving Her Courage, She Leaned
From The Window And Hurled A Parthian Arrow. "I Must Say," She
Protested, "I Think You Might Be In A Better Business."
The Road Agent Waved His Hand To The Young Lady. "Good-By," He Said.
"Au Revoir," Said Miss Post, Pleasantly.
"Good-By, Miss," Stammered The Road Agent,
"I Said 'Au Revoir,'" Repeated Miss Post.
The Road Agent, Apparently Routed By These Simple Words, Fled
Muttering Toward His Horse.
Hunk Smith Was Having Trouble With His Brake. He Kicked At It And,
Part 3 Title 1 (Ranson's Folly) Pg 20
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