_His Victim's Trouble_
Yet he could not help pondering on the words of old Harding. Bill
Gregg had been a strange patient. He had never repeated his first
offer to tell his story. He remained sullen and silent, with his
brooding eyes fixed on the blank wall before him, and nothing could
permanently cheer him. Some inward gloom seemed to possess the man.
The first day after the shooting he had insisted on scrawling a
painfully written letter, while Ronicky propped a writing board in
front of him, as he lay flat on his back in the bed, but that was his
only act. Thereafter he remained silent and brooding. Perhaps it
was hatred for Ronicky that was growing in him, as the sense of
disappointment increased, for Ronicky, after all, had kept him from
reaching that girl when the train passed through Stillwater. Perhaps,
for all Ronicky knew, his bullet had ruined the happiness of two
lives. He shrugged that disagreeable thought away, and, reaching the
hotel, he went straight up to the room of the sick man.
"Bill," he said gently, "have you been spending all your time hating
me? Is that what keeps you thin and glum? Is it because you sit here
all day blaming me for all the things that have happened to you?"
The dark flush and the uneasy flicker of Gregg's glance gave a
sufficient answer. Ronicky Doone sighed and shook his head, but not in
anger.
"You don't have to talk," he said. "I see that I'm right. And I don't
blame you, Bill, because, maybe, I've spoiled things pretty generally
for you."
At first the silence of Bill Gregg admitted that he felt the same way
about the matter, yet he finally said aloud: "I don't blame you. Maybe
you thought I was a hoss thief. But the thing is done, Ronicky, and it
won't never be undone!"
"Gregg," said Ronicky, "d'you know what you're going to do now?"
"I dunno."
"You're going to sit there and roll a cigarette and tell me the whole
yarn. You ain't through with this little chase. Not if I have to drag
you along with me. But first just figure that I'm your older brother
or something like that and get rid of the whole yarn. Got to have the
ore specimens before you can assay 'em. Besides, it'll help you a pile
to get the poison out of your system. If you feel like cussing me
hearty when the time comes go ahead and cuss, but I got to hear that
story."
"Maybe it would help," said Gregg, "but it's a fool story to tell."
"Leave that to me to say whether it's a fool story or not. You start
the talking."
Gregg shifted himself to a more comfortable position, as is the
immemorial custom of story tellers, and his glance misted a little
with the flood of recollections.
"Started along back about a year ago," he said. "I was up to the
Sullivan Mountains working a claim. There wasn't much to it, just
enough to keep me going sort of comfortable. I pegged away at it
pretty steady, leading a lonely life and hoping every day that I'd cut
my way down to a good lead. Well, the fine ore never showed up.
"Meantime I got pretty weary of them same mountains, staring me in the
face all the time. I didn't have even a dog with me for conversation,
so I got to thinking. Thinking is a bad thing, mostly, don't you
agree, Ronicky?"
"It sure is," replied Ronicky Doone instantly. "Not a bit of a doubt
about it."
"It starts you doubting things," went on Gregg bitterly, "and pretty
soon you're even doubting yourself." Here he cast an envious glance at
the smooth brow of his companion. "But I guess that never happened to
you, Ronicky?"
"You'd be surprised if I told you," said Ronicky.
"Well," went on Bill Gregg, "I got so darned tired of my own thoughts
and of myself that I decided something had ought to be done; something
to give me new things to think about. So I sat down and went over the
whole deal.
"I had to get new ideas. Then I thought of what a gent had told me
once. He'd got pretty interested in mining and figured he wanted to
know all about how the fancy things was done. So he sent off to some
correspondence schools. Well, they're a great bunch. They say: 'Write
us a lot of letters and ask us your questions. Before you're through
you'll know something you want to know.' See?"
"I see."
"I didn't have anything special I wanted to learn except how to use
myself for company when I got tired of solitaire. So I sat down and
wrote to this here correspondence school and says: 'I want to do
something interesting. How d'you figure that I had better begin?' And
what d'you think they answered back?"
"I dunno," said Ronicky, his interest steadily increasing.
"Well, sir, the first thing they wrote back was: 'We have your letter
and think that in the first place you had better learn how to write.'
That was a queer answer, wasn't it?"
"It sure was." Ronicky swallowed a smile.
"Every time I looked at that letter it sure made me plumb mad. And I
looked at it a hundred times a day and come near tearing it up every
time. But I didn't," continued Bill.
"Why not?"
"Because it was a woman that wrote it. I told by the hand, after a
while!"
"A woman? Go on, Bill. This story sure sounds different from most."
"It ain't even started to get different yet," said Bill gloomily.
"Well, that letter made me so plumb mad that I sat down and wrote
everything I could think of that a gent would say to a girl to let her
know what I thought about her. And what d'you think happened?"
"She wrote you back the prettiest letter you ever seen," suggested
Ronicky, "saying as how she'd never meant to make you mad and that if
you--"
"Say," broke in Bill Gregg, "did I show that letter to you?"
"Nope; I just was guessing at what a lot of women would do. You see?"
"No, I don't. I could never figure them as close as that. Anyway
that's the thing she done, right enough. She writes me a letter that
was smooth as oil and suggests that I go on with a composition course
to learn how to write."
"Going to have you do books, Bill?"
"I ain't a plumb fool, Ronicky. But I thought it wouldn't do me no
harm to unlimber my pen and fire out a few words a day. So I done it.
I started writing what they told me to write about, the things that
was around me, with a lot of lessons about how you can't use the same
word twice on one page, and how terrible bad it is to use too many
passive verbs."
"What's a passive verb, Bill?"
"I didn't never figure it out, exactly. However, it seems like they're
something that slows you up the way a muddy road slows up a hoss.
And then she begun talking about the mountains, and then she begun
asking--
"About you!" suggested Ronicky with a grin.
"Confound you," said Bill Gregg. "How come you guessed that?"
"I dunno. I just sort of scented what was coming."
"Well, anyways, that's what she done. And pretty soon she sent me a
snapshot of herself. Well--"
"Lemme see it," said Ronicky Doone calmly.
"I dunno just where it is, maybe," replied Bill Gregg.
"Ill tell you. It's right around your neck, in that nugget locket you
wear there."
For a moment Bill Gregg hated the other with his eyes, and then he
submitted with a sheepish grin, took off the locket, which was made of
one big nugget rudely beaten into shape, and opened it for the benefit
of Ronicky Doone. It showed the latter not a beautiful face, but a
pretty one with a touch of honesty and pride that made her charming.
"Well, as soon as I got that picture," said Bill Gregg, as he took
back the locket, "I sure got excited. Looked to me like that girl was
made for me. A lot finer than I could ever be, you see, but simple; no
fancy frills, no raving beauty, maybe, but darned easy to look at.
"First thing I done I went in and got a copy of my face made and
rushed it right back at her and then--" He stopped dolefully. "What
d'you think, Ronicky?"
"I dunno," said Ronicky; "what happened then?"
"Nothing, not a thing. Not a word came back from her to answer that
letter I'd sent along."
"Maybe you didn't look rich enough to suit her, Bill."
"I thought that, and I thought it was my ugly face that might of made
her change her mind. I thought of pretty near everything else that was
bad about me and that she might of read in my face. Sure made me sick
for a long time. Somebody else was correcting my lessons, and that
made me sicker than ever.
"So I sat down and wrote a letter to the head of the school and told
him I'd like to get the address of that first girl. You see, I didn't
even know her name. But I didn't get no answer."
Ronicky groaned. "It don't look like the best detective in the world
could help you to find a girl when you don't know her name." He added
gently: "But maybe she don't want you to find her?"
"I thought that for a long time. Then, a while back, I got a letter
from San Francisco, saying that she was coming on a train through
these parts and could I be in Stillwater because the train stopped
there a couple of minutes. Most like she thought Stillwater was just
sort of across the street from me. Matter of fact, I jumped on a hoss,
and it took me three days of breaking my neck to get near Stillwater
and then--" He stopped and cast a gloomy look on his companion.
"I know," said Ronicky. "Then I come and spoiled the whole party. Sure
makes me sick to think about it."
"And now she's plumb gone," muttered Bill Gregg. "I thought maybe the
reason I didn't have her correcting my lessons any more was because
she'd had to leave the schools and go West. So, right after I got this
drilling through the leg, you remember, I wrote a letter?"
"Sure."
"It was to her at the schools, but I didn't get no answer. I guess she
didn't go back there after all. She's plumb gone, Ronicky."
The other was silent for a moment. "How much would you give to find
her?" he asked suddenly.
"Half my life," said Bill Gregg solemnly.
"Then," said Ronicky, "we'll make a try at it. I got an idea how we
can start on the trail. I'm going to go with you, partner. I've messed
up considerable, this little game of yours; now I'm going to do what
I can to straighten it out. Sometimes two are better than one. Anyway
I'm going to stick with you till you've found her or lost her for
good. You see?"
Bill Gregg sighed. "You're pretty straight, Ronicky," he said, "but
what good does it do for two gents to look for a needle in a haystack?
How could we start to hit the trail?"
"This way. We know the train that she took. Maybe we could find the
Pullman conductor that was on it, and he might remember her. They got
good memories, some of those gents. We'll start to find him, which had
ought to be pretty easy."
"Ronicky, I'd never of thought of that in a million years!"
"It ain't thinking that we want now, it's acting. When can you start
with me?"
"I'll be fit tomorrow."
"Then tomorrow we start."