_At Stillwater_
The true story was, of course, known almost at once, but, since
Ronicky Doone swore that he would tackle the first man who accused him
of having shot down Bill Gregg, the talk was confined to whispers. In
the meantime Stillwater rejoiced in its possession of Ronicky Doone.
Beyond one limited section of the mountain desert he was not as
yet known, but he had one of those personalities which are called
electric. Whatever he did seemed greater because he, Ronicky Doone,
had done it.
Not that he had done a great many things as yet. But there was a
peculiar feeling in the air that Ronicky Doone was capable of great
and strange performances. Men older than he were willing to accept him
as their leader; men younger than he idolized him.
Ronicky Doone, then, the admired of all beholders, is leaning in the
doorway of Stillwater's second and best hotel. His bandanna today is
a terrific yellow, set off with crimson half-moon and stars strewn
liberally on it. His shirt is merely white, but it is given some
significance by having nearly half of a red silk handkerchief falling
out of the breast pocket. His sombrero is one of those works of art
which Mexican families pass from father to son, only his was new and
had not yet received that limp effect of age. And, like the gaudiest
Mexican head piece, the band of this sombrero was of purest gold,
beaten into the forms of various saints. Ronicky Doone knew nothing at
all about saints, but he approved very much of the animation of the
martyrdom scenes and felt reasonably sure that his hatband could not
be improved upon in the entire length and breadth of Stillwater, and
the young men of the town agreed with him, to say nothing of the
girls.
They also admired his riding gloves which, a strange affectation in a
country of buckskin, were always the softest and the smoothest and the
most comfortable kid that could be obtained.
Truth to tell, he did not handle a rope. He could not tell the noose
end of a lariat from the straight end, hardly. Neither did Ronicky
Doone know the slightest thing about barbed wire, except how to cut
it when he wished to ride through. Let us look closely at the hands
themselves, as Ronicky stands in the door of the hotel and stares at
the people walking by. For he has taken off his gloves and he now
rolls a cigarette.
They are very long hands. The fingers are extremely slender and
tapering. The wrists are round and almost as innocent of sinews as the
wrists of a woman, save when he grips something, and then how they
stand out. But, most remarkable of all, the skin of the palms of those
hands is amazingly soft. It is truly as soft as the skin of the hand
of a girl.
There were some who shook their heads when they saw those hands. There
were some who inferred that Ronicky Doone was little better than a
scapegrace, and that, in reality, he had never done a better or more
useful thing than handle cards and swing a revolver. In both of which
arts it was admitted that he was incredibly dexterous. As a matter
of fact, since there was no estate from which he drew an income, and
since he had never been known in the entire history of his young life
to do a single stroke of productive work of any kind, the bitter
truth was that Ronicky Doone was no better and no worse than a common
gambler.
Indeed, if to play a game of chance is to commit a sin, Ronicky Doone
was a very great sinner. Yet it should be remarked that he lacked the
fine art of taking the money of other less clever fellows when they
were intoxicated, and he also lacked the fine hardness of mind which
enables many gamblers to enjoy taking the last cent from an opponent.
Also, though he knew the entire list of tricks in the repertoire of
a crooked gambler, he had never been known to employ tricking.
He trusted in a calm head, a quick judgment, an ability to read
character. And, though he occasionally met with crooked professionals
who were wolves in the guise of sheep, no one had ever been known to
play more than one crooked trick at cards when playing against Ronicky
Doone. So, on the whole, he made a very good living.
What he had he gave or threw away in wild spending or loaned to
friends, of whom he had a vast number. All of which goes to explain
the soft hands of Ronicky Doone and his nervous, swift-moving fingers,
as he stood at the door of the hotel. For he who plays long with cards
or dice begins to have a special sense developed in the tips of his
fingers, so that they seem to be independent intelligences.
He crossed his feet. His boots were the finest leather, bench-made by
the best of bootmakers, and they fitted the high-arched instep with
the elastic smoothness of gloves. The man of the mountain desert
dresses the extremities and cares not at all for the mid sections.
The moment Doone was off his horse those boots had to be dressed and
rubbed and polished to softness and brightness before this luxurious
gambler would walk about town. From the heels of the boots extended a
long pair of spurs--surely a very great vanity, for never in her life
had his beautiful mare, Lou, needed even the touch of a spur.
But Ronicky Doone could not give up this touch of luxury. The spurs
were plated heavily with gold, and they swept up and out in a long,
exquisite curve, the hub of the rowel set with diamonds.
In a word Ronicky Doone was a dandy, but he had this peculiarity,
that he seemed to dress to please himself rather than the rest of the
world. His glances never roved about taking account of the admiration
of others. As he leaned there in the door of the hotel he was the type
of the young, happy, genuine and carefree fellow, whose mind is no
heavier with a thousand dollars or a thousand cents in his pocket.
Suddenly he started from his lounging place, caught his hat more
firmly over his eyes, threw away his unlighted cigarette and hurried
across the veranda of the hotel. Had he seen an enemy to chastise,
or an old friend to greet, or a pretty girl? No, it was only old Jud
Harding, the blacksmith, whose hand had lost its strength, but who
still worked iron as others mold putty, simply because he had the
genius for his craft. He was staggering now under a load of boards
which he had shouldered to carry to his shop. In a moment that load
was shifted to the shoulder of Ronicky Doone, and they went on down
the street, laughing and talking together until the load was dropped
on the floor of Harding's shop.
"And how's the sick feller coming?" asked Harding.
"Coming fine," answered Ronicky. "Couple of days and I'll have him out
for a little exercise. Lucky thing it was a clean wound and didn't
nick the bone. Soon as it's healed over he'll never know he was
plugged."
Harding considered his young friend with twinkling eyes. "Queer thing
to me," he said, "is how you and this gent Gregg have hit it off so
well together. Might almost say it was like you'd shot Gregg and now
was trying to make up for it. But, of course, that ain't the truth."
"Of course not," said Ronicky gravely and met the eye of Harding
without faltering.
"Another queer thing," went on the cunning old smith. "He was fooling
with that gun while he was in the saddle, which just means that the
muzzle must of been pretty close to his skin. But there wasn't any
sign of a powder burn, the doc says."
"But his trousers was pretty bad burned, I guess," said Ronicky.
"H-m," said the blacksmith, "that's the first time I've heard about
it." He went on more seriously: "I got something to tell you, Ronicky.
Ever hear the story about the gent that took pity on the snake that
was stiff with cold and brought the snake in to warm him up beside the
fire? The minute the snake come to life he sunk his fangs in the gent
that had saved him."
"Meaning," said Ronicky, "that, because I've done a good turn for
Gregg, I'd better look out for him?"
"Meaning nothing," said Harding, "except that the reason the snake bit
the gent was because he'd had a stone heaved at him by the same man
one day and hadn't forgot it."
But Ronicky Doone merely laughed and turned back toward the hotel.