Ranson's Folly (Fiscle Part 3) by Richard Harding Davis (best black authors .TXT) ๐
- Author: Richard Harding Davis
Book online ยซRanson's Folly (Fiscle Part 3) by Richard Harding Davis (best black authors .TXT) ๐ยป. Author Richard Harding Davis
Part I
The Junior Officers Of Fort Crockett Had Organized A Mess At The
Post-Trader's. "And A Mess It Certainly Is," Said Lieutenant Ranson.
The Dining-Table Stood Between Hogsheads Of Molasses And A Blazing
Log-Fire, The Counter Of The Store Was Their Buffet, A Pool-Table
With A Cloth, Blotted Like A Map Of The Great Lakes, Their Sideboard,
And Indian Pete Acted As Butler. But None Of These Things Counted
Against The Great Fact That Each Evening Mary Cahill, The Daughter Of
The Post-Trader, Presided Over The Evening Meal, And Turned It Into A
Banquet. From Her High Chair Behind The Counter, With The Cash-
Register On Her One Side And The Weighing-Scales On The Other, She
Gave Her Little Senate Laws, And Smiled Upon Each And All With The
Kind Impartiality Of A Comrade.
At Least, At One Time She Had Been Impartial. But Of Late She Smiled
Part 3 Title 1 (Ranson's Folly) Pg 2Upon All Save Lieutenant Ranson. When He Talked, She Now Looked At
The Blazing Log-Fire, And Her Cheeks Glowed And Her Eyes Seemed To
Reflect The Lifting Flame.
For Five Years, Ever Since Her Father Brought Her From The Convent At
St. Louis, Mary Cahill Had Watched Officers Come And Officers Go. Her
Knowledge Concerning Them, And Their Public And Private Affairs, Was
Vast And Miscellaneous. She Was Acquainted With The Traditions Of
Every Regiment, With Its War Record, With Its Peace-Time Politics,
Its Nicknames, Its Scandals, Even With The Earnings Of Each Company-
Canteen. At Fort Crockett, Which Lay Under Her Immediate Observation,
She Knew More Of What Was Going Forward Than Did The Regimental
Adjutant, More Even Than Did The Colonel's Wife. If Trumpeter Tyler
Flatted On Church Call, If Mrs. Stickney Applied To The Quartermaster
For Three Feet Of Stovepipe, If Lieutenant Curtis Were Granted Two
Days' Leave For Quail-Shooting, Mary Cahill Knew It; And If Mrs.
"Captain" Stairs Obtained The Post-Ambulance For A Drive To Kiowa
City, When Mrs. "Captain" Ross Wanted It For A Picnic, She Knew What
Words Passed Between Those Ladies, And Which Of The Two Wept. She
Knew All Of These Things, For Each Evening They Were Retailed To Her
By Her "Boarders." Her Boarders Were Very Loyal To Mary Cahill. Her
Position Was A Difficult One, And Had It Not Been That The Boy-
Officers Were So Understanding, It Would Have Been Much More
Difficult. For The Life Of A Regimental Post Is As Circumscribed As
The Life On A Ship-Of-War, And It Would No More Be Possible For The
Ship's Barber To Rub Shoulders With The Admiral's Epaulets Than That
A Post-Trader's Child Should Visit The Ladies On The "Line," Or That
The Wives Of The Enlisted Men Should Dine With The Young Girl From
Whom They "Took In" Washing.
So, Between The Upper And The Nether Grindstones, Mary Cahill Was
Left Without The Society Of Her Own Sex, And Was Of Necessity Forced
To Content Herself With The Society Of The Officers. And The Officers
Played Fair. Loyalty To Mary Cahill Was A Tradition At Fort Crockett,
Which It Was The Duty Of Each Succeeding Regiment To Sustain.
Moreover, Her Father, A Dark, Sinister Man, Alive Only To Money-
Making, Was Known To Handle A Revolver With The Alertness Of A Town-
Marshal.
Since The Day She Left The Convent Mary Cahill Had Held But Two
Affections: One For This Grim, Taciturn Parent, Who Brooded Over Her
As Jealously As A Lover, And The Other For The Entire United States
Army. The Army Returned Her Affection Without The Jealousy Of The
Father, And With Much More Than His Effusiveness. But When Lieutenant
Ranson Arrived From The Philippines, The Affections Of Mary Cahill
Became Less Generously Distributed, And Her Heart Fluttered Hourly
Between Trouble And Joy.
There Were Two Rooms On The First Floor Of The Post-Trader's--This
Big One, Which Only Officers And Their Women-Folk Might Enter, And
The Other, The Exchange Of The Enlisted Men. The Two Were Separated
By A Partition Of Logs And Hung With Shelves On Which Were Displayed
Calicoes, Tinned Meats, And Patent Medicines. A Door, Cut In One End
Of The Partition, With Buffalo-Robes For Portieres, Permitted Cahill
Part 3 Title 1 (Ranson's Folly) Pg 3To Pass From Behind The Counter Of One Store To Behind The Counter Of
The Other. On One Side Mary Cahill Served The Colonel's Wife With
Many Yards Of Silk Ribbons To Be Converted Into German Favors, On The
Other Her Father Weighed Out Bears' Claws (Manufactured In Hartford,
Conn., From Turkey-Bones) To Make A Necklace For Red Wing, The Squaw
Of The Arrephao Chieftain. He Waited Upon Everyone With Gravity, And
In Obstinate Silence. No One Had Ever Seen Cahill Smile. He Himself
Occasionally Joked With Others In A Grim And Embarrassed Manner. But
No One Had Ever Joked With Him. It Was Reported That He Came From New
York, Where, It Was Whispered, He Had Once Kept Bar On The Bowery For
Mcturk.
Sergeant Clancey, Of G Troop, Was The Authority For This. But When,
Presuming On That Supposition, He Claimed Acquaintanceship With
Cahill, The Post-Trader Spread Out His Hands On The Counter And
Stared At The Sergeant With Cold And Disconcerting Eyes. "I Never
Kept Bar Nowhere," He Said. "I Never Been On The Bowery, Never Been
In New York, Never Been East Of Denver In My Life. What Was It You
Ordered?"
"Well, Mebbe I'm Wrong," Growled The Sergeant.
But A Month Later, When A Coyote Howled Down Near The Indian Village,
The Sergeant Said Insinuatingly, "Sounds Just Like The Cry Of The
Whyos, Don't It?" And Cahill, Who Was Listening To The Wolf,
Unthinkingly Nodded His Head.
The Sergeant Snorted In Triumph. "Yah, I Told You So!" He Cried, "A
Man That's Never Been On The Bowery, And Knows The Call Of The Whyo
Gang! The Drinks Are On You, Cahill."
The Post-Trader Did Not Raise His Eyes, But Drew A Damp Cloth Up And
Down The Counter, Slowly And Heavily, As A Man Sharpens A Knife On A
Whetstone.
That Night, As The Sergeant Went Up The Path To The Post, A Bullet
Passed Through His Hat. Clancey Was A Forceful Man, And Forceful Men,
Unknown To Themselves, Make Enemies, So He Was Uncertain As To
Whether This Came From A Trooper He Had Borne Upon Too Harshly, Or
Whether, In The Darkness, He Had Been Picked Off For Someone Else.
The Next Night, As He Passed In The Full Light Of The Post-Trader's
Windows, A Shot Came From Among The Dark Shadows Of The Corral, And
When He Immediately Sought Safety In Numbers Among The Indians,
Cowboys, And Troopers In The Exchange, He Was In Time To See Cahill
Enter It From The Other Store, Wrapping Up A Bottle Of Pain-Killer
For Mrs. Stickney's Cook. But Clancey Was Not Deceived. He Observed
With Satisfaction That The Soles And The Heels Of Cahill's Boots Were
Wet With The Black Mud Of The Corral.
The Next Morning, When The Exchange Was Empty, The Post-Trader Turned
From Arranging Cans Of Condensed Milk Upon An Upper Shelf To Face The
Sergeant's Revolver. He Threw Up His Hands To The Level Of His Ears
As Though Expressing Sharp Unbelief, And Waited In Silence. The
Sergeant Advanced Until The Gun Rested On The Counter, Its Muzzle
Part 3 Title 1 (Ranson's Folly) Pg 4Pointing At The Pit Of Cahill's Stomach. "You Or Me Has Got To Leave
This Post," Said The Sergeant, "And I Can't Desert, So I Guess It's
Up To You."
"What Did You Talk For?" Asked Cahill. His Attitude Was Still That Of
Shocked Disbelief, But His Tone Expressed A Full Acceptance Of The
Situation And A Desire To Temporize.
"At First I Thought It Might Be That New 'Cruity' In F Troop,"
Explained The Sergeant "You Came Near Making Me Kill The Wrong Man.
What Harm Did I Do You By Saying You Kept Bar For Mcturk? What's
There In That To Get Hot About?"
"You Said I Run With The Whyos."
"What The H--L Do I Care What You've Done!" Roared The Sergeant. "I
Don't Kmow Nothing About You, But I Don't Mean You Should Shoot Me In
The Back. I'm Going To Tell This To My Bunky, An' If I Get Shot Up,
The Troop'll Know Who Done It, And You'll Hang For It. Now, What Are
You Going To Do?"
Cahill Did Not Tell What He Would Do; For, From The Other Store, The
Low Voice Of Mary Cahill Called, "Father! Oh, Father!"
The Two Men Dodged, And Eyed Each Other Guiltily. The Sergeant Gazed
At The Buffalo-Robe Portieres With Wide-Opened Eyes. Cahill's Hands
Dropped From The Region Of His Ears, And Fell Flat Upon The Counter.
When Miss Mary Cahill Pushed Aside The Portieres Sergeant Clancey, Of
G Troop, Was Showing Her Father The Mechanism Of The New Regulation-
Revolver. He Apparently Was Having Some Difficulty With The Cylinder,
For His Face Was Red. Her Father Was Eying The Gun With The Critical
Approval Of An Expert.
"Father," Said Miss Cahill Petulantly, "Why Didn't You Answer? Where
Is The Blue Stationery--The Sort Major Ogden Always Buys? He's
Waiting."
The Eyes Of The Post-Trader Did Not Wander From The Gun Before Him.
"Next To The Blank Books, Mame," He Said. "On The Second Shelf."
Miss Cahill Flashed A Dazzling Smile At The Big Sergeant, And
Whispered, So That The Officer In The Room Behind Her Might Not
Overhear, "Is He Trying To Sell You Government Property, Dad? Don't
You Touch It. Sergeant, I'm Surprised At You Tempting My Poor
Father." She Pulled The Two Buffalo-Robes Close Around Her Neck So
That Her Face Only Showed Between Them. It Was A Sweet, Lovely Face,
With Frank, Boyish Eyes.
"When The Major's Gone, Sergeant," She Whispered, "Bring Your Gun
Around My Side Of The Store And I'll Buy It From You."
The Sergeant Nodded In Violent Assent, Laughing Noiselessly And
Slapping His Knee In A Perfect Ecstasy Of Delight.
Comments (0)