Ranson's Folly. Richard Harding Davis
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.
“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—”
“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.
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