Ranson's Folly. Richard Harding Davis
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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, stooping, pulled at it, but the wheels did not move.
Mrs. Truesdall fell into a fresh panic. “What is it now?” she called, miserably.
Before he answered, Hunk Smith threw a quick glance toward the column of moving dust. He was apparently reassured.
“The brake,” he grunted. “The darned thing's stuck!”
The road agent was tugging at the stone beneath which he had slipped his bridle. “Can I help?” he asked, politely. But before he reached the stage, he suddenly stopped with an imperative sweep of his arm for silence. He stood motionless, his body bent to the ground, leaning forward and staring down the trail. Then he sprang upright. “You old fox!” he roared, “you're gaining time, are you?”
With a laugh he tore free his bridle and threw himself across his horse. His legs locked under it, his hands clasped its mane, and with a cowboy yell he dashed past the stage in the direction of Kiowa City, his voice floating back in shouts of jeering laughter. From behind him he heard Hunk Smith's voice answering his own in a cry for “Help!” and from a rapidly decreasing distance the throb of many hoofs. For an instant he drew upon his rein, and then, with a defiant chuckle, drove his spurs deep into his horse's side.
Mrs. Truesdall also heard the pounding of many hoofs, as well as Hunk Smith's howls for help, and feared a fresh attack. “Oh, what is it?” she begged.
“Soldiers from the fort,” Hunk called, excitedly, and again raised his voice in a long, dismal howl.
“Sounds cheery, doesn't it?” said the salesman; “referring to the soldiers,” he explained. It was his first coherent remark since the Red Rider had appeared and disappeared.
“Oh, I hope they won't—” began Miss Post, anxiously.
The hoof-beats changed to thunder, and with the pounding on the dry trail came the jangle of stirrups and sling-belts. Then a voice, and the coach was surrounded by dust-covered troopers and horses breathing heavily. Lieutenant Crosby pulled up beside the window of the stage. “Are you there, Colonel Patten?” he panted. He peered forward into the stage, but no one answered him. “Is the paymaster in here?” he demanded.
The voice of Lieutenant Curtis shouted in turn at Hunk Smith. “Is the paymaster in there, driver?”
“Paymaster? No!” Hunk roared. “A drummer and three ladies. We've been held up. The Red Rider—” He rose and waved his whip over the top of the coach. “He went that way. You can ketch him easy.”
Sergeant Clancey and half a dozen troopers jerked at their bridles. But Crosby, at the window, shouted “Halt!”
“What's your name?” he demanded of the salesman.
“Myers,” stammered the drummer. “I'm from the Hancock Uniform—”
Curtis had spurred his horse beside that of his brother officer. “Is Colonel Patten at Kiowa?” he interrupted.
“I can't give you any information as to that,” replied Mr. Myers, importantly; “but these ladies and I have just been held up by the Red Rider. If you'll hurry you'll—”
The two officers pulled back their horses from the stage and, leaning from their saddles, consulted in eager whispers. Their men fidgeted with their reins, and stared with amazed eyes at their officers. Lieutenant Crosby was openly smiling, “He's got away with it,” he whispered. “Patten missed the stage, thank God, and he's met nothing worse than these women.”
“We MUST make a bluff at following him,” whispered Curtis.
“Certainly not! Our orders are to report to Colonel Patten, and act as his escort.”
“But he's not at Kiowa; that fellow says so.”
“He telegraphed the Colonel from Kiowa,” returned Crosby. “How could he do that if he wasn't there?” He turned upon Hunk Smith. “When did you leave Henderson's?” he demanded.
“Seven o'clock,” answered Hunk Smith, sulkily. “Say, if you young fellows want to catch—”
“And Patten telegraphed at eight,” cried Crosby. “That's it. He reached Kiowa after the stage had gone. Sergeant Clancey!” he called.
The Sergeant pushed out from the mass of wondering troopers.
“When did the paymaster say he was leaving Kiowa?”
“Leaving at once, the telegram said,” answered Clancey.
“'Meet me with escort before I reach the buttes.' That's the message I was told to give the lieutenant.”
Hunk Smith leaned from the box-seat. “Mebbe Pop's driving him over himself in the buckboard,” he volunteered. “Pop often takes 'em over that way if they miss the stage.”
“That's how it is, of course,” cried Crosby. “He's on his way now in the buckboard.”
Hunk Smith surveyed the troopers dismally and shook his head. “If he runs up against the Red Rider, it's 'good-by' your pay, boys,” he cried.
“Fall in there!” shouted Crosby. “Corporal Tynan, fall out with two men and escort these ladies to the fort.” He touched his hat to Miss Post, and, with Curtis at his side, sprang into the trail. “Gallop! March!” he commanded.
“Do you think he'll tackle the buckboard, too?” whispered Curtis.
Crosby laughed joyously and drew a long breath of relief.
“No, he's all right now,” he answered. “Don't you see, he doesn't know about Patten or the buckboard. He's probably well on his way to the post now. I delayed the game at the stage there on purpose to give him a good start. He's safe by now.”
“It was a close call,” laughed the other. “He's got to give us a dinner for helping him out of this.”
“We'd have caught him red-handed,” said Crosby, “if we'd been five minutes sooner. Lord!” he gasped. “It makes me cold to think of it. The men would have shot him off his horse. But what a story for those women! I hope I'll be there when they tell it. If Ranson can keep his face straight, he's a wonder.” For some moments they raced silently neck by neck, and then Curtis again leaned from his saddle. “I hope he HAS turned back to the post,” he said. “Look at the men how they're keeping watch for him. They're scouts, all of them.”
“What if they are?” returned Crosby, easily. “Ranson's in uniform—out for a moonlight canter. You can bet a million dollars he didn't wear his red mask long after he heard us coming.”
“I suppose he'll think we've followed to spoil his fun. You know you said we would.”
“Yes, he was going to shoot us,” laughed Crosby. “I wonder why he packs a gun. It's a silly thing to do.”
The officers fell apart again, and there was silence over the prairie, save for the creaking of leather and the beat of the hoofs. And then, faint and far away, there came the quick crack of a revolver, another, and then a fusillade. “My God!” gasped Crosby. He threw himself forwards digging his spurs into his horse, and rode as though he were trying to escape from his own men.
No one issued an order, no one looked a question; each, officer and enlisted man,