The Max Brand Megapack (250 page)

Ronicky Doone was saying: “I want you to hark back to what you been saying about me, Loring. I want you to remember what you been saying about how I tried to sneak up behind you and murder you with your back turned to me, Loring. And how, when you turned around and knocked me down, I crawled to you and begged you not to shoot! Keep thinking about that, Loring. Because the rest of the folks in Twin Springs are thinking about it now. They’re all thinking; they’re keeping it in mind, that yarn that you spun about me. And if they believe it, then I’m a fool!”

Loring moistened his dry, white lips, and he could not answer. And it seemed to Curly, though the idea was so strange that he never dared to mention it to another soul so long as he lived, that big, blond Charlie Loring was actually in fear; at least his face was the white mask of fear and rage commingled.

Then the dog barked.

Blondy Loring with a gasping intake of breath—a gasp of actual joy, as the moment for action came upon him—grasped at his weapon and brought it out with the skill of one who has practised the movement until the execution of it is perfected to the last detail. But Ronicky Doone whipped out his gun almost carelessly and without even coming to an erect position from his slouching pose. The gun exploded, but Blondy Loring’s gun did not.

It was not yet raised to the level when the slug from Ronicky’s gun struck him. And with a sweep of his arm he flung his unexploded gun from him, clutched at his breast, and fell.

Ronicky Doone did not stir. He stood staring scornfully down at his victim. When the others ran in they found that the bullet had cut straight through the body of big Blondy. He was no better than dead, to all appearances.

Most amazing had been that fall. And more amazing still were the words which they heard the stricken man murmuring: “Thank God that it’s over!”

CHAPTER XIX

WAITING

They carried him into the h
otel and placed him in the proprietor’s own room. Nothing was too good for a dying man. They brought the doctor, he who had pronounced Oliver Hopkins dead before his time. But on this occasion he did not jump to conclusions. He had been shamed in the eyes of the entire town by his mistake of a few days before. Now he would make certain not to fall into the same error. He would recall what had been drummed ceaselessly into his brain during his first year in the West—that men toughened by a constant life in the wind and all weathers are sure to die hard.

And, while they waited for the doctor’s verdict, the men of Twin Springs came around Ronicky Doone and congratulated him, and Al Jenkins apologized frankly and humbly for the insults which in the near past he had heaped upon the head of Ronicky. But the warmth of the townsmen received somewhat of a damper from the bearing of Ronicky Doone. He was smoking again in the most nonchalant manner. He received their congratulations with modesty—with more than modesty—indifference. And such coldness was a terrible thing to see. They began to draw back from him.

In short he was too deadly a marksman to be altogether pleasant company. When a man is so sure with his weapons that he kills another between smokes, without lifting an eyebrow or changing color, he is not altogether a comfortable companion. Yet the utter indifference of Ronicky Doone to the thing he had done continued until big Curly broke through the group and drew Ronicky to one side.

“Ronicky,” he said, “if you pull a gun on me for what I’m going to tell you, I won’t blame you. Nobody would blame you.”

“Go ahead,” said Ronicky. “I ain’t a gun-fighter every day of my life. Go ahead, Curly.”

“Well,” said the wretched Curly, “from what I’ve found out, you were figuring on using fake slugs on Blondy—you were figuring on using wooden slugs that would just knock him down if they were planted right. Is that the straight of it?”

“Who told you that?” asked Ronicky. “Who’s been spreading that sort of talk around about me?”

“You were seen to dump ’em out of your gun,” said Curly. “I got one in my pocket now. But the point is this—that you dumped out them wooden slugs after I talked to you. And what I want to know, Ronicky, is: Did you dump ’em out because of what I said to you?” Ronicky paused. Then the cigarette crumpled between his fingers. He caught Curly by the shoulder with fingers that gripped deep in his flesh.

“Curly,” he gasped, “don’t tell me that what you said ain’t the truth. Don’t tell me that!” But Curly dropped his head.

“Being sorry ain’t a help—it’s that wagging tongue of mine. I can’t stop it when it gets started, Doone.”

If he expected denunciation or violence from Ronicky, however, he was mistaken. The smaller man merely glided past him like a ghost and fled through the door of the hotel.

“What did you do to bring him to life?” asked some one. “What yarn did you tell him this time, Curly?”

But the miserable Curly went away trailing his feet in the deep, soft dust and answering nothing.

Outside the door of the proprietor’s room Ronicky confronted the doctor, as that worthy came out. And there was something ominous in the softness with which he closed the door.

“What’s the news?” asked Ronicky sharply.

But the doctor raised his hand, as one who protests against too much noise in a holy place. And the cold dread came to Ronicky that it was the nearness of death which had awed the doctor.

“I fear,” said the doctor sadly, “that there is no hope. Where—”

“You lie!” groaned Ronicky.

“Young man?” queried the doctor sternly. “Where, I was about to say, can we get in touch with his family?”

Ronicky started for the door, but the doctor barred the way.

“No one must enter. He is now in a state of coma. If he wakens from that condition, then we may begin to hope. But I fear—I greatly fear he will never waken.”

“Carry the news out to the Bennett place, then,” said some one softly. “He done this thing for the sake of old Bennett—in a way. Bennett sure had ought to take care of him.”

“You don’t know him!” snarled Al Jenkins in answer. “But I’ll see that the boy is cared for. If there’s a bunch of bills, send ’em to me. I ain’t no friend to Bennett nor none of them that fight for him, but when they get past fighting for him and are flat on their backs, they’ll find that I ain’t as hard as they think.”

He was as good as his word. Not a penny was another person allowed to contribute to the care of Charlie Loring. In the meantime two men were chosen to go to the Bennett Ranch bearing the news that Loring had fallen in battle.

And Ronicky Doone sat down to wait in the lobby, regardless of the men around him, though nearly all of them strove to draw him into conversation. He was waiting on the reports which were sent out from the sick room. On the whole they told a steady story of decline, or else there was “no change.”

Ronicky had paid the doctor liberally to have these ten-minute reports sent out. And once, when the physician himself came out and walked up and down, not displeased at his opportunity to allow the world to see him engaged in the battle with death, Ronicky went up to the good man and inquired again.

“It’s just as I sent you word,” said the doctor. “There is little use in watching him closely. The bullet entered adjacent to the—”

But Ronicky waved the technical details away. He had heard them rehearsed three or four times before, because the description contained several large words which the doctor was fond of turning over his tongue’s tip.

“I don’t give a hang about the facts. I just want to know what’s in your mind?”

“Facts—you don’t care—my mind?” stammered the doctor. “My boy—”

“Listen to me,” said Ronicky, and at the same time he stuffed his entire stock of money into the coat pocket of the doctor. “You are going back into that room, and you’re going to stick with Blondy Loring until there ain’t a chance left for him. And every minute that you’re in there you’re going to keep hammering the same thought at him; that he’s going to get well!”

“But, Doone, he can’t hear a word—he’s senseless.”

“He’ll feel your thinking. He can’t help it. And, besides, if you go in there to watch a man die, you’re going to see him die. But if you go in there to keep a man from dying, you got half a chance in ten of bringing him through. Go on back!”

And the doctor went. It was not altogether the money that persuaded him. His heart was kindly enough and generous enough, but now and then most of us need to be shaken together, so to speak, and brought to a crisper sense of things. And this was what Ronicky had done for the doctor. He sent the good man back in a fighting humor, and for half an hour no message came out of the room.

In the meantime the townsmen were baffled by the change in Ronicky. They had seen him perfectly indifferent one moment and wildly anxious the next. They had seen him sneering at the man who lay bleeding at his feet. And now they saw him pacing nervously up and down through the lobby, throwing himself into a chair, rising, and pacing again, and never stopping movement of one kind or another.

He offered no explanation. And Curly waited wretchedly until he was sure that Ronicky would not speak of the lie which had been told him. When Curly was sure that this explanation was not forthcoming he offered one of his own to the others.

“He looked like he was taking everything easy,” said Curly. “He was even rolling a cigarette with Blondy dying at his feet. But all the time there wasn’t really nothing going on inside of his head. It was just misty in there. But after a while the mist cleared off. He seen what he’d done. He heard that Blondy was dying, and then he come out of it with a jump and got the way you see him now.”

This explanation had to pass.

Al Jenkins approached Ronicky with an excellent proposal to the effect that Ronicky should come out to his ranch with him and look around until he found a place on it that suited him. Then he was to name his own salary.

“And there you’ll stay,” said the rancher, “until I’m through with Bennett. Maybe you think, lad, that I ain’t a man that remembers. But when you knocked over big Blondy you took the wind out of Bennett’s sails. He’s done for now. And when I clean up the old hound and back him off the range, the same way that he done with me years back, I’ll be thinking that you had a hand in the shaping of the game, son!”

But Ronicky refused to listen to him. He thanked the rancher for the offer. But just now, he declared, he could not think and did not wish to think of anything but the condition of Charlie Loring.

“There’s a pile of ranches in the world,” said Ronicky. “But there ain’t another Charlie Loring. I’ll talk to you to-morrow, maybe, or whenever there’s a decision about Charlie. Up till then my time belongs to him!”

“If you’re that fond of him,” grumbled the rancher, “why did you ever pull a gat on him?”

But Ronicky turned his back and walked away.

In the meantime the hours drifted slowly, wearily past. And still the condition of Charlie Loring was unchanged. And as every hour passed, the hopes of Ronicky increased. For if Charlie had held out as long as this, might he not eventually recover?

The doctor issued again from the room, but this time it was only for an instant.

He was a wonderfully and sadly changed man. There were pouches beneath his eyes. His shoulders were stooped. His every gesture betokened uneasiness. And when he saw Ronicky his face brightened a little.

“It’s a queer thing to see,” he declared in a murmur. “It’s something I wouldn’t believe if I weren’t in there watching. But—come in for yourself! He’s living in spite of everything. God knows what keeps him up!”

He dragged Ronicky through the door and closed it softly. Then he stole across the room to the bedside. Ronicky, following, looked down, cold with horror, on the face of the wounded man.

For there was a strange alteration. It was no longer the rosy-cheeked Charlie Loring—Blondy—who had dazzled Twin Springs with his courage and his headlong taking of chances. Instead it was a thin-featured man that Ronicky saw. The flesh around the mouth had sagged away, making a ghastly caricature of a smile. The temples seemed to have fallen. The nose seemed sharper, thinner. Altogether there was the appearance of one who had been sick for a long time.

“He’s dead!” breathed Ronicky, for it seemed impossible that there could be any life behind that mask of a face.

But the doctor shook his head. “Still living!” he insisted.

“Is there a hope?” whispered Ronicky.

“No—I think not.”

“There is a hope,” said Ronicky, “because there’s
got
to be.”

The doctor made a gesture of abandon. Then there was a light, fluttering tap at the door.

“They’ve got to stop bothering me,” said the doctor. “I can’t work when they’re holding my hands like this.”

“I’ll go,” said Ronicky. “I’ll throw them out, the fools! They’d ought to have better sense!”

He strode to the door and opened it with a jerk, his brow black as thunder, and he found himself glowering at Elsie Bennett.

CHAPTER XX

“ALL AROUND A CIRCLE”

She repaid his scowl with an ind
ignant, scornful glance which said plainly enough, “You here?” And then, as he fell in chagrin and surprise, she stepped into the room. She left Ronicky to close the door behind her. The throwing out of her arms narrowed all the world to what lay before her hands, and that one thing was Charlie Loring.

Ronicky Doone was so fascinated by what followed that he only subconsciously and ineffectually resisted the pressure upon the door from the outside. When the door opened again and another stood beside him, Ronicky made no move to shut out the newcomer. He was too busy filling his eyes with the sight of beautiful Elsie Bennett dropping on her knees by the side of the bed of Charlie Loring. He saw the slender hands cherishing the pale face of Charlie Loring. And Ronicky Doone groaned silently. If they brought a man to this, the work of bullets was not all tragic.

Then he turned his head and saw that he who had just intruded was not Bennett, as he had subconsciously expected, but Al Jenkins himself! The big fellow had settled his shoulders against the door, as though to endure a shock, and with his head thrust forward between his great shoulders he was glaring at Elsie Bennett, as though she were an enemy with a gun pointed at him. Ronicky could see the stiff lips of the man working a little. But the murmur was inaudible. Then the doctor drew Elsie from the bed.