The Essential Max Brand - 29 Westerns in One Edition. Max Brand
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was growing in him, as the sense of disappointment increased, for Ronicky, after all, had kept him from reaching that girl when the train passed through Stillwater. Perhaps, for all Ronicky knew, his bullet had ruined the happiness of two lives. He shrugged that disagreeable thought away, and, reaching the hotel, he went straight up to the room of the sick man.
“Bill,” he said gently, “have you been spending all your time hating me? Is that what keeps you thin and glum? Is it because you sit here all day blaming me for all the things that have happened to you?”
The dark flush and the uneasy flicker of Gregg’s glance gave a sufficient answer. Ronicky Doone sighed and shook his head, but not in anger.
“You don’t have to talk,” he said. “I see that I’m right. And I don’t blame you, Bill, because, maybe, I’ve spoiled things pretty generally for you.”
At first the silence of Bill Gregg admitted that he felt the same way about the matter, yet he finally said aloud: “I don’t blame you. Maybe you thought I was a hoss thief. But the thing is done, Ronicky, and it won’t never be undone!”
“Gregg,” said Ronicky, “d’you know what you’re going to do now?”
“I dunno.”
“You’re going to sit there and roll a cigarette and tell me the whole yarn. You ain’t through with this little chase. Not if I have to drag you along with me. But first just figure that I’m your older brother or something like that and get rid of the whole yarn. Got to have the ore specimens before you can assay ‘em. Besides, it’ll help you a pile to get the poison out of your system. If you feel like cussing me hearty when the time comes go ahead and cuss, but I got to hear that story.”
“Maybe it would help,” said Gregg, “but it’s a fool story to tell.”
“Leave that to me to say whether it’s a fool story or not. You start the talking.”
Gregg shifted himself to a more comfortable position, as is the immemorial custom of story tellers, and his glance misted a little with the flood of recollections.
“Started along back about a year ago,” he said. “I was up to the Sullivan Mountains working a claim. There wasn’t much to it, just enough to keep me going sort of comfortable. I pegged away at it pretty steady, leading a lonely life and hoping every day that I’d cut my way down to a good lead. Well, the fine ore never showed up.
“Meantime I got pretty weary of them same mountains, staring me in the face all the time. I didn’t have even a dog with me for conversation, so I got to thinking. Thinking is a bad thing, mostly, don’t you agree, Ronicky?”
“It sure is,” replied Ronicky Doone instantly. “Not a bit of a doubt about it.”
“It starts you doubting things,” went on Gregg bitterly, “and pretty soon you’re even doubting yourself.” Here he cast an envious glance at the smooth brow of his companion. “But I guess that never happened to you, Ronicky?”
“You’d be surprised if I told you,” said Ronicky.
“Well,” went on Bill Gregg, “I got so darned tired of my own thoughts and of myself that I decided something had ought to be done; something to give me new things to think about. So I sat down and went over the whole deal.
“I had to get new ideas. Then I thought of what a gent had told me once. He’d got pretty interested in mining and figured he wanted to know all about how the fancy things was done. So he sent off to some correspondence schools. Well, they’re a great bunch. They say: ‘Write us a lot of letters and ask us your questions. Before you’re through you’ll know something you want to know.’ See?”
“I see.”
“I didn’t have anything special I wanted to learn except how to use myself for company when I got tired of solitaire. So I sat down and wrote to this here correspondence school and says: ‘I want to do something interesting. How d’you figure that I had better begin?’ And what d’you think they answered back?”
“I dunno,” said Ronicky, his interest steadily increasing.
“Well, sir, the first thing they wrote back was: ‘We have your letter and think that in the first place you had better learn how to write.’ That was a queer answer, wasn’t it?”
“It sure was.” Ronicky swallowed a smile.
“Every time I looked at that letter it sure made me plumb mad. And I looked at it a hundred times a day and come near tearing it up every time. But I didn’t,” continued Bill.
“Why not?”
“Because it was a woman that wrote it. I told by the hand, after a while!”
“A woman? Go on, Bill. This story sure sounds different from most.”
“It ain’t even started to get different yet,” said Bill gloomily. “Well, that letter made me so plumb mad that I sat down and wrote everything I could think of that a gent would say to a girl to let her know what I thought about her. And what d’you think happened?”
“She wrote you back the prettiest letter you ever seen,” suggested Ronicky, “saying as how she’d never meant to make you mad and that if you —”
“Say,” broke in Bill Gregg, “did I show that letter to you?”
“Nope; I just was guessing at what a lot of women would do. You see?”
“No, I don’t. I could never figure them as close as that. Anyway that’s the thing she done, right enough. She writes me a letter that was smooth as oil and suggests that I go on with a composition course to learn how to write.”
“Going to have you do books, Bill?”
“I ain’t a plumb fool, Ronicky. But I thought it wouldn’t do me no harm to unlimber my pen and fire out a few words a day. So I done it. I started writing what they told me to write about, the things that was around me, with a lot of lessons about how you can’t use the same word twice on one page, and how terrible bad it is to use too many passive verbs.”
“What’s a passive verb, Bill?”
“I didn’t never figure it out, exactly. However, it seems like they’re something that slows you up the way a muddy road slows up a hoss. And then she begun talking about the mountains, and then she begun asking—
“About you!” suggested Ronicky with a grin.
“Confound you,” said Bill Gregg. “How come you guessed that?”
“I dunno. I just sort of scented what was coming.”
“Well, anyways, that’s what she done. And pretty soon she sent me a snapshot of herself. Well—”
“Lemme see it,” said Ronicky Doone calmly.
“I dunno just where it is, maybe,” replied Bill Gregg.
“Ill tell you. It’s right around your neck, in that nugget locket you wear there.”
For a moment Bill Gregg hated the other with his eyes, and then he submitted with a sheepish grin, took off the locket, which was made of one big nugget rudely beaten into shape, and opened it for the benefit of Ronicky Doone. It showed the latter not a beautiful face, but a pretty one with a touch of honesty and pride that made her charming.
“Well, as soon as I got that picture,” said Bill Gregg, as he took back the locket, “I sure got excited. Looked to me like that girl was made for me. A lot finer than I could ever be, you see, but simple; no fancy frills, no raving beauty, maybe, but darned easy to look at.
“First thing I done I went in and got a copy of my face made and rushed it right back at her and then—” He stopped dolefully. “What d’you think, Ronicky?”
“I dunno,” said Ronicky; “what happened then?”
“Nothing, not a thing.