Ranson's Folly. Richard Harding Davis
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“Yes.”
Colonel Patten's right arm was swinging limply at his side. With his left hand he clasped his right shoulder. The blood, black in the moonlight, was oozing between his fingers.
“We were held up,” he said. “He shot the driver and the horses. I fired at him, but he broke my arm. He shot the gun out of my hand. When he reached for the satchel I tried to beat him off with my left arm, but he threw me into the road. He went that way—toward Kiowa.”
Sergeant Clancey, who was kneeling by the figure in the trail, raised his hand in salute. “Pop Henderson, lieutenant,” he said. “He's shot through the heart. He's dead.”
“He took the money, ten thousand dollars,” cried Colonel Patten. “He wore a red mask and a rubber poncho. And I saw that he had no stirrups in his stirrup-straps.”
Crosby dodged, as though someone had thrown a knife, and then raised his hand stiffly and heavily.
“Lieutenant Curtis, you will remain here with Colonel Patten,” he ordered. His voice was without emotion. It fell flat and dead. “Deploy as skirmishers,” he commanded. “G Troop to the fight of the trail, H Troop to the left. Stop anyone you see—anyone. If he tries to escape, cry 'Halt!' twice and then fire—to kill. Forward! Gallop! March! Toward the post.”
“No!” shouted Colonel Patten. “He went toward Kiowa.”
Crosby replied in the same dead voice: “He doubled after he left you, colonel. He has gone to the post.”
Colonel Patten struggled from the supporting arms that held him and leaned eagerly forward. “You know him, then?” he demanded.
“Yes,” cried Crosby, “God help him! Spread out there, you, in open order—and ride like hell!”
Just before the officers' club closed for the night Lieutenant Ranson came in and, seating himself at the piano, picked out “The Queen of the Philippine Islands” with one finger. Major Stickney and others who were playing bridge were considerably annoyed. Ranson then demanded that everyone present should drink his health in champagne for the reason that it was his birthday and that he was glad he was alive, and wished everyone else to feel the same way about it. “Or, for any other reason why,” he added generously. This frontal attack upon the whist-players upset the game entirely, and Ranson, enthroned upon the piano-stool, addressed the room. He held up a buckskin tobacco-bag decorated with beads.
“I got this down at the Indian village to-night,” he said. “That old squaw, Red Wing, makes 'em for two dollars. Crosby paid five dollars for his in New Mexico, and it isn't half as good. What do you think? I got lost coming back, and went all the way round by the buttes before I found the trail, and I've only been here six months. They certainly ought to make me chief of scouts.”
There was the polite laugh which is granted to any remark made by the one who is paying for the champagne.
“Oh, that's where you were, was it?” said the post-adjutant, genially. “The colonel sent Clancey after you and Crosby. Clancey reported that he couldn't find you. So we sent Curtis. They went to act as escort for Colonel Patten and the pay. He's coming up to-night in the stage.” Ranson was gazing down into his glass. Before he raised his head he picked several pieces of ice out of it and then drained it.
“The paymaster, hey?” he said. “He's in the stage to-night, is he?”
“Yes,” said the adjutant; and then as the bugle and stamp of hoofs sounded from the parade outside, “and that's him now, I guess,” he added.
Ranson refilled his glass with infinite care, and then, in spite of a smile that twitched at the corners of his mouth, emptied it slowly.
There was the jingle of spurs and a measured tramp on the veranda of the club-house, and for the first time in its history four enlisted men, carrying their Krags, invaded its portals. They were led by Lieutenant Crosby; his face was white under the tan, and full of suffering. The officers in the room received the intrusion in amazed silence. Crosby strode among them, looking neither to the left nor right, and touched Lieutenant Ranson upon the shoulder.
“The colonel's orders, Lieutenant Ranson,” he said. “You are under arrest.”
Ranson leaned back against the music-rack and placed his glass upon the keyboard. One leg was crossed over the other, and he did not remove it.
“Then you can't take a joke,” he said in a low tone. “You had to run and tell.” He laughed and raised his voice so that all in the club might hear, “What am I arrested for, Crosby?” he asked.
The lines in Crosby's face deepened, and only those who sat near could hear him. “You are under arrest for attempting to kill a superior officer, for the robbery of the government pay-train—and for murder.”
Ranson jumped to his feet. “My God, Crosby!” he cried.
“Silence! Don't talk!” ordered Crosby. “Come along with me.”
The four troopers fell in in rear of Lieutenant Crosby and their prisoner. He drew a quick, frightened breath, and then, throwing back his shoulders, fell into step, and the six men tramped from the club and out into the night.
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