That night at the post there was little sleep for any one. The feet
of hurrying orderlies beat upon the parade-ground, the windows of the
Officers' Club blazed defiantly, and from the darkened quarters of the
enlisted men came the sound of voices snarling in violent vituperation.
At midnight, half of Ranson's troop, having attacked the rest of
the regiment with cavalry-boots, were marched under arrest to the
guard-house. As they passed Ranson's hut, where he still paced the
veranda, a burning cigarette attesting his wakefulness, they cheered him
riotously. At two o'clock it was announced from the hospital that both
patients were out of danger; for it had developed that, in his hurried
diagnosis, Sergeant Clancey had located Henderson's heart six inches
from where it should have been.
When one of the men who guarded Ranson reported this good news the
prisoner said, “Still, I hope they'll hang whoever did it. They
shouldn't hang a man for being a good shot and let him off because he's
a bad one.”
At the time of the hold-up Mary Cahill had been a half-mile distant from
the post at the camp of the Kiowas, where she had gone in answer to the
cry of Lightfoot's squaw. When she returned she found Indian Pete in
charge of the exchange. Her father, he told her, had ridden to the
Indian village in search of her. As he spoke the post-trader appeared.
“I'm sorry I missed you,” his daughter called to him.
At the sound Cahill pulled his horse sharply toward the corral. “I had
a horse-deal on--with the chief,” he answered over his shoulder. “When I
got to Lightfoot's tent you had gone.”
After he had dismounted, and was coming toward her, she noted that his
right hand was bound in a handkerchief, and exclaimed with apprehension.
“It is nothing,” Cahill protested. “I was foolin' with one of the new
regulation revolvers, with my hand over the muzzle. Ball went through
the palm.”
Miss Cahill gave a tremulous cry and caught the injured hand to her
lips.
Her father snatched it from her roughly.
“Let go!” he growled. “It serves me right.”
A few minutes later Mary Cahill, bearing liniment for her father's hand,
knocked at his bedroom and found it empty. When she peered from the top
of the stairs into the shop-window below she saw him busily engaged with
his one hand buckling the stirrup-straps of his saddle.
When she called, he sprang upright with an oath. He had faced her so
suddenly that it sounded as though he had sworn, not in surprise, but at
her.
“You startled me,” he murmured. His eyes glanced suspiciously from her
to the saddle. “These stirrup-straps--they're too short,” he announced.
“Pete or somebody's been using my saddle.”
“I came to bring you this 'first-aid' bandage for your hand,” said his
daughter.
Cahill gave a shrug of impatience.
“My hand's all right,” he said; “you go to bed. I've got to begin taking
account of stock.”
“To-night?”
“There's no time by day. Go to bed.”
For nearly an hour Miss Cahill lay awake listening to her father moving
about in the shop below. Never before had he spoken roughly to her, and
she, knowing how much the thought that he had done so would distress
him, was herself distressed.
In his lonely vigil on the veranda, Ranson looked from the post down
the hill to where the light still shone from Mary Cahill's window. He
wondered if she had heard the news, and if it were any thought of him
that kept sleep from her.
“You ass! you idiot!” he muttered. “You've worried and troubled her. She
believes one of her precious army is a thief and a murderer.” He cursed
himself picturesquely, but the thought that she might possibly be
concerned on his account, did not, he found, distress him as greatly
as it should. On the contrary, as he watched the light his heart glowed
warmly. And long after the light went out he still looked toward the
home of the post-trader, his brain filled with thoughts of his return
to his former life outside the army, the old life to which he vowed he
would not return alone.
The next morning Miss Cahill learned the news when the junior officer
came to mess and explained why Ranson was not with them. Her only
comment was to at once start for his quarters with his breakfast in a
basket. She could have sent it by Pete, but, she argued, when one of her
officers was in trouble that was not the time to turn him over to the
mercies of a servant. No, she assured herself, it was not because
the officer happened to be Ranson. She would have done as much, or as
little, for any one of them. When Curtis and Haines were ill of the
grippe, had she not carried them many good things of her own making?
But it was not an easy sacrifice. As she crossed the parade-ground she
recognized that over-night Ranson's hut, where he was a prisoner in his
own quarters, had become to the post the storm-centre of interest,
and to approach it was to invite the attention of the garrison. At
head-quarters a group of officers turned and looked her way, there was a
flutter among the frocks on Mrs. Bolland's porch, and the enlisted men,
smoking their pipes on the rail of the barracks, whispered together.
When she reached Ranson's hut over four hundred pairs of eyes were upon
her, and her cheeks were flushing. Ranson came leaping to the gate,
and lifted the basket from her arm as though he were removing an
opera-cloak. He set it upon the gate-post, and nervously clasped the
palings of the gate with both hands. He had not been to bed, but that
fact alone could not explain the strangeness of his manner. Never before
had she seen him disconcerted or abashed.
“You shouldn't have done it,” he stammered. “Indeed, indeed, you are
much too good. But you shouldn't have come.”
His voice shook slightly.
“Why not?” asked Mary Cahill. “I couldn't let you go hungry.”
“You know it isn't that,” he said; “it's your coming here at all. Why,
only three of the fellows have been near me this morning. And they
only came from a sense of duty. I know they did--I could feel it. You
shouldn't have come here. I'm not a proper person; I'm an outlaw. You
might think this was a pest-house, you might think I was a leper.
Why, those Stickney girls have been watching me all morning through a
field-glass.” He clasped and unclasped his fingers around the palings.
“They believe I did it,” he protested, with the bewildered accents of a
child. “They all believe it.”
Miss Cahill laughed. The laugh was quieting and comforting. It brought
him nearer to earth, and her next remark brought him still further.
“Have you had any breakfast?” she asked.
“Breakfast!” stammered Ranson. “No. The guard brought some, but I
couldn't eat it. This thing has taken the life out of me--to think sane,
sensible people--my own people--could believe that I'd steal, that I'd
kill a man for money.”
“Yes, I know,” said Miss Cahill soothingly; “but you've not had any
sleep, and you need your coffee.” She lifted the lid of the basket.
“It's getting cold,” she said. “Don't you worry about what people think.
You must remember you're a prisoner now under arrest. You can't expect
the officers to run over here as freely as they used to. What do you
want?” she laughed. “Do you think the colonel should parade the band and
give you a serenade?” For a moment Ranson stared at her dully, and then
his sense of proportion returned to him. He threw back his head and
laughed with her joyfully.
From verandas, barracks, and headquarters, the four hundred pairs of
eyes noted this evidence of heartlessness with varied emotions. But,
unmindful of them, Ranson now leaned forward, the eager, searching look
coming back into his black eyes. They were so close to Mary Cahill's
that she drew away. He dropped his voice to a whisper and spoke swiftly.
“Miss Cahill, whatever happens to me I won't forget this. I won't forget
your coming here and throwing heart into me. You were the only one who
did. I haven't asked you if you believe that I--”
She raised her eyes reproachfully and smiled. “You know you don't have
to do that,” she said.
The prisoner seized the palings as though he meant to pull apart the
barrier between them. He drew a long breath like one inhaling a draught
of clean morning air.
“No,” he said, his voice ringing, “I don't have to do that.”
He cast a swift glance to the left and right. The sentry's bayonet was
just disappearing behind the corner of the hut. To the four hundred
other eyes around the parade-ground Lieutenant Ranson's attitude
suggested that he was explaining to Cahill's daughter what he wanted
for his luncheon. His eyes held her as firmly as though the palings he
clasped were her two hands.
“Mary,” he said, and the speaking of her name seemed to stop the
beating of his heart. “Mary,” he whispered, as softly as though he were
beginning a prayer, “you're the bravest, the sweetest, the dearest girl
in all the world. And I've known it for months, and now you must know.
And there'll never be any other girl in my life but you.”
Mary Cahill drew away from him in doubt and wonder.
“I didn't mean to tell you just yet,” he whispered, “but now that I've
seen you I can't help it. I knew it last night when I stood back there
and watched your windows, and couldn't think of this trouble, nor of
anything else, but just you. And you've got to promise me, if I get out
of this all right--you must--must promise me--”
Mary Cahill's eyes, as she raised them to his, were moist and glowing.
They promised him with a great love and tenderness. But at the sight
Ranson protested wildly.
“No,” he whispered, “you mustn't promise--anything. I shouldn't have
asked it. After I'm out of this, after the court-martial, then you've
got to promise that you'll never, never leave me.”
Miss Cahill knit her hands together and turned away her head. The
happiness in her heart rose to her throat like a great melody and choked
her. Before her, exposed in the thin spring sunshine, was the square
of ugly brown cottages, the bare parade-ground, in its centre Trumpeter
Tyler fingering his bugle, and beyond on every side an ocean of
blackened prairie. But she saw nothing of this. She saw instead a
beautiful world opening its arms to her, a world smiling with sunshine,
glowing with color, singing with love and content.
She turned to him with all that was in her heart showing in her face.
“Don't!” he begged, tremblingly, “don't answer. I couldn't bear it--if
you said 'no' to me.” He jerked his head toward the men who guarded him.
“Wait until I'm tried, and not in disgrace.” He shook the gate between
them savagely as though it actually held him a prisoner.
Mary Cahill raised her head proudly.
“You have no right. You've hurt me,” she whispered. “You hurt me.”
“Hurt you?” he cried.
She pressed her hands together. It was impossible to tell him, it was
impossible to speak of what she felt; of the pride, of the trust and
love, to disclose this new and wonderful thing while the gate was
between them, while the sentries paced on either side, while the curious
eyes of the garrison were fastened upon her.
“Oh, can't you see?” she whispered. “As though I cared for a
court-martial! I KNOW you. You are just the same. You are just what you
have always been to me--what you always will be to me.”
She thrust her hand toward him and he seized it in both of his, and then
released it instantly, and, as though afraid of his own self-control,
backed hurriedly from her, and she turned and walked rapidly away.
Captain Carr, who had been Ranson's captain in the Philippines, and
who was much his friend, had been appointed to act as his counsel. When
later that morning he visited his client to lay out a line of defence he
found Ranson inclined to treat the danger which threatened him with the
most arrogant flippancy. He had never seen him in a more objectionable
mood.
“You can call the charge 'tommy-rot' if you like,” Carr protested,
sharply. “But, let me tell you that's not the view any one else takes
of it, and if you expect the officers of the court-martial and the civil
authorities to take that view of it you've got to get down to work and
help me prove that it IS 'tommy rot.' That Miss Post, as soon as she got
here, when she thought it was only a practical joke, told them that the
road agent threatened her with a pair of shears. Now, Crosby and Curtis
will testify that you took a pair of shears from Cahill's, and from what
Miss Post saw of your ring she can probably identify that, too; so--”
“Oh, we concede the shears,” declared Ranson, waving his hand grandly.
“We admit the first hold-up.”
“The devil we do!” returned Carr. “Now, as your counsel, I advise
nothing of the sort.”
“You advise me to lie?”
“Sir!” exclaimed Carr. “A plea of not guilty is only a legal form. When
you consider that the first hold-up in itself is enough to lose you your
commission--”
“Well, it's MY commission,” said Ranson. “It was only a silly joke,
anyway. And the War Department must have some sense of humor or it
wouldn't have given me a commission in the first place. Of course, we'll
admit the first hold-up, but we won't stand for the second one. I had no
more to do with that than with the Whitechapel murders.”
“How are we to prove that?” demanded Carr. “Where's your alibi? Where
were you after the first hold-up?”
“I was making for home as fast as I could cut,” said Ranson. He suddenly
stopped in his walk up and down the room and confronted his counsel
sternly. “Captain,” he demanded, “I wish you to instruct me on a point
of law.”
Carr's brow relaxed. He was relieved to find that Ranson had awakened to
the seriousness of the charges against him.
“That's what I'm here for,” he said, encouragingly.
“Well, captain,” said Ranson, “if an officer is under arrest as I am and
confined to his quarters, is he or is he not allowed to send to the club
for a bottle of champagne?”
“Really, Ranson!” cried the captain, angrily, “you are impossible.”
“I only want to celebrate,” said Ranson, meekly. “I'm a very happy
man; I'm the happiest man on earth. I want to ride across the prairie
shooting off both guns and yelling like a cowboy. Instead of which I am
locked up indoors and have to talk to you about a highway robbery
which does not amuse me, which does not concern me--and of which I
know nothing and care less. Now, YOU are detailed to prove me innocent.
That's your duty, and you ought to do your duty, But don't drag me in.
I've got much more important things to think about.”
Bewilderment, rage, and despair were written upon the face of the
captain.
“Ranson!” he roared. “Is this a pose, or are you mad? Can't you
understand that you came very near to being hanged for murder and that
you are in great danger of going to jail for theft? Let me put before
you the extremely unpleasant position in which you have been ass enough
to place yourself. You don't quite seem to grasp it. You tell two
brother-officers that you are going to rob the stage. To do so you
disguise yourself in a poncho and a red handkerchief, and you remove the
army-stirrups from your stirrup-leathers. You then do rob this coach, or
at least hold it up, and you are recognized. A few minutes later, in the
same trail and in the same direction you have taken, there is a second
hold-up, this time of the paymaster. The man who robs the paymaster
wears a poncho and a red kerchief, and he has no stirrups in his
stirrup-leathers. The two hold-ups take place within a half-mile of
each other, within five minutes of each other. Now, is it reasonable to
believe that last night two men were hiding in the buttes intent
upon robbery, each in an army poncho, each wearing a red bandanna
handkerchief, and each riding without stirrups? Between believing in
such a strange coincidence and that you did it, I'll be hanged if I
don't believe you did it.”
“I don't blame you,” said Ranson. “What can I do to set your mind at
rest?”
“Well, tell me exactly what persons knew that you meant to hold up the
stage.”
“Curtis and Crosby; no one else.”
“Not even Cahill?”
“No, Cahill came in just before I said I would stop the stage, but I
remember particularly that before I spoke I waited for him to get back
to the exchange.”
“And Crosby tells me,” continued Carr, “that the instant you had gone he
looked into the exchange and saw Cahill at the farthest corner from the
door. He could have heard nothing.”
“If you ask me, I think you've begun at the wrong end,” said Ranson. “If
I were looking for the Red Rider I'd search for him in Kiowa City.”
“Why?”
“Because, at this end no one but a few officers knew that the paymaster
was coming, while in Kiowa everybody in the town knew it, for they saw
him start. It would be very easy for one of those cowboys to ride ahead
and lie in wait for him in the buttes. There are several tough specimens
in Kiowa. Any one of them would rob a man for twenty dollars--let alone
ten thousand. There's 'Abe' Fisher and Foster King, and the Chase boys,
and I believe old 'Pop' Henderson himself isn't above holding up one of
his own stages.”
“He's above shooting himself in the lungs,” said Carr. “Nonsense. No,
I am convinced that someone followed you from this post, and perhaps
Cahill can tell us who that was. I sent for him this morning, and he's
waiting at my quarters now. Suppose I ask him to step over here, so that
we can discuss it together.”
Before he answered, Ranson hesitated, with his eyes on the ground. He
had no way of knowing whether Mary Cahill had told her father anything
of what he had said to her that morning. But if she had done so, he did
not want to meet Cahill in the presence of a third party for the first
time since he had learned the news.
“I'll tell you what I wish you would do,” he said. “I wish you'd let me
see Cahill first, by myself. What I want to see him about has nothing to
do with the hold-up,” he added. “It concerns only us two, but I'd like
to have it out of the way before we consult him as a witness.”
Carr rose doubtfully. “Why, certainly,” he said; “I'll send him over,
and when you're ready for me step out on the porch and call. I'll be
sitting on my veranda. I hope you've had no quarrel with Cahill--I mean
I hope this personal matter is nothing that will prejudice him against
you.”
Ranson smiled. “I hope not, too,” he said. “No, we've not
quarrelled--yet,” he added.
Carr still lingered. “Cahill is like to be a very important witness for
the other side--”
“I doubt it,” said Ranson, easily. “Cahill's a close-mouthed chap, but
when he does talk he talks to the point and he'll tell the truth. That
can't hurt us.”
As Cahill crossed the parade-ground from Captain Carr's quarters on his
way to Ranson's hut his brain was crowded swiftly with doubts, memories,
and resolves. For him the interview held no alarms. He had no misgivings
as to its outcome. For his daughter's sake he was determined that he
himself must not be disgraced in her eyes and that to that end Ranson
must be sacrificed. It was to make a lady of her, as he understood what
a lady should be, that on six moonlit raids he had ventured forth in his
red mask and robbed the Kiowa stage. That there were others who roamed
abroad in the disguise of the Red Rider he was well aware. There were
nights the stage was held up when he was innocently busy behind his
counter in touch with the whole garrison. Of these nights he made much.
They were alibis furnished by his rivals. They served to keep suspicion
from himself, and he, working for the same object, was indefatigable
in proclaiming that all the depredations of the Red Rider showed the
handiwork of one and the same individual.
“He comes from Kiowa of course,” he would point out. “Some feller who
lives where the stage starts, and knows when the passengers carry
money. You don't hear of him holding up a stage full of recruits or
cow-punchers. It's always the drummers and the mine directors that the
Red Rider lays for. How does he know they're in the stage if he don't
see 'em start from Kiowa? Ask 'Pop' Henderson. Ask 'Abe' Fisher. Mebbe
they know more than they'd care to tell.”
The money which at different times Cahill had taken from the Kiowa stage
lay in a New York bank, and the law of limitation made it now possible
for him to return to that city and claim it. Already his savings were
sufficient in amount to support both his daughter and himself in one of
those foreign cities, of which she had so often told him and for which
he knew she hungered. And for the last five years he had had no other
object in living than to feed her wants. Through some strange trick of
the mind he remembered suddenly and vividly a long-forgotten scene
in the back room of McTurk's, when he was McTurk's bouncer. The night
before a girl had killed herself in this same back room; she made
the third who had done so in the month. He recalled the faces of the
reporters eyeing McTurk in cold distaste as that terror of the Bowery
whimpered before them on his knees. “But my daughters will read it,”
he had begged. “Suppose they believe I'm what you call me. Don't go and
give me a bad name to them, gentlemen. It ain't my fault the girl's
died here. You wouldn't have my daughters think I'm to blame for that?
They're ladies, my daughters, they're just out of the convent, and they
don't know that there is such women in the world as come to this place.
And I can't have 'em turned against their old pop. For God's sake,
gentlemen, don't let my girls know!”
Cahill remembered the contempt he had felt for his employer as he pulled
him to his feet, but now McTurk's appeal seemed just and natural. His
point of view was that of the loving and considerate parent. In Cahill's
mind there was no moral question involved. If to make his girl rich and
a lady, and to lift her out of the life of the Exchange, was a sin the
sin was his own and he was willing to “stand for it.” And, like McTurk,
he would see that the sin of the father was not visited upon the child.
Ranson was rich, foolishly, selfishly rich; his father was a United
States Senator with influence enough, and money enough, to fight the
law--to buy his son out of jail. Sooner than his daughter should know
that her father was one of those who sometimes wore the mask of the Red
Rider, Ranson, for all he cared, could go to jail, or to hell. With this
ultimatum in his mind, Cahill confronted his would-be son-in-law with a
calm and assured countenance.
Ranson greeted him with respectful deference, and while Cahill seated
himself, Ranson, chatting hospitably, placed cigars and glasses before
him. He began upon the subject that touched him the most nearly.
“Miss Cahill was good enough to bring up my breakfast this morning,” he
said. “Has she told you of what I said to her?”
Cahill shook his head. “No, I haven't seen her. We've been taking
account of stock all morning.”
“Then--then you've heard nothing from her about me?” said Ranson.
The post trader raised his head in surprise. “No. Captain Carr spoke
to me about your arrest, and then said you wanted to see me first
about something private.” The post trader fixed Ranson with his keen,
unwavering eyes. “What might that be?” he asked.
“Well, it doesn't matter now,” stammered Ranson; “I'll wait until Miss
Cahill tells you.”
“Any complaint about the food?” inquired the post trader.
Ranson laughed nervously. “No, it's not that,” he said. He rose, and,
to protect what Miss Cahill evidently wished to remain a secret, changed
the subject. “You see you've lived in these parts so long, Mr. Cahill,”
he explained, “and you know so many people, I thought maybe you could
put me on the track or give me some hint as to which of that Kiowa gang
really did rob the paymaster.” Ranson was pulling the cork from the
whiskey bottle, and when he asked the question Cahill pushed his glass
from him and shook his head. Ranson looked up interrogatively and
smiled. “You mean you think I did it myself?” he asked.
“I didn't understand from Captain Carr,” the post trader began in heavy
tones, “that it's my opinion you're after. He said I might be wanted to
testify who was present last night in my store.”
“Certainly, that's all we want,” Ranson answered, genially. “I only
thought you might give me a friendly pointer or two on the outside. And,
of course, if it's your opinion I did the deed we certainly don't want
your opinion. But that needn't prevent your taking a drink with me, need
it? Don't be afraid. I'm not trying to corrupt you. And I'm not trying
to poison a witness for the other fellows, either. Help yourself.”
Cahill stretched out his left hand. His right remained hidden in the
side pocket of his coat. “What's the matter with your right hand?”
Ranson asked. “Are you holding a gun on me? Really, Mr. Cahill, you're
not taking any chances, are you?” Ranson gazed about the room as though
seeking an appreciative audience. “He's such an important witness,” he
cried, delightedly, “that first he's afraid I'll poison him and he won't
drink with me, and now he covers me with a gun.”
Reluctantly, Cahill drew out his hand. “I was putting the bridle on my
pony last night,” he said. “He bit me.”
Ranson exclaimed sympathetically, “Oh, that's too bad,” he said. “Well,
you know you want to be careful. A horse's teeth really are poisonous.”
He examined his own hands complacently. “Now, if I had a bandage like
that on my right hand they would hang me sure, no matter whether it was
a bite, or a burn, or a bullet.”
Cahill raised the glass to his lips and sipped the whiskey critically.
“Why?” he asked.
“Why? Why, didn't you know that the paymaster boasted last night to the
surgeons that he hit this fellow in the hand? He says--”
Cahill snorted scornfully. “How'd he know that? What makes him think
so?”
“Well, never mind, let him think so,” Ranson answered, fervently. “Don't
discourage him. That's the only evidence I've got on my side. He says he
fired to disarm the man, and that he saw him shift his gun to his left
hand. It was the shot that the man fired when he held his gun in his
left that broke the colonel's arm. Now, everybody knows I can't hit
a barn with my left. And as for having any wounds concealed about my
person”--Ranson turned his hands like a conjurer to show the front and
back--“they can search me. So, if the paymaster will only stick to
that story--that he hit the man--it will help me a lot.” Ranson seated
himself on the table and swung his leg. “And of course it would be a
big help, too, if you could remember who was in your Exchange when I was
planning to rob the coach. For someone certainly must have overheard
me, someone must have copied my disguise, and that someone is the man we
must find. Unless he came from Kiowa.”
Cahill shoved his glass from him across the table and, placing his hands
on his knees, stared at his host coldly and defiantly. His would-be
son-in-law observed the aggressiveness of his attitude, but, in his
fuller knowledge of their prospective relations, smiled blandly.
“Mr. Ranson,” began Cahill, “I've no feelings against you personally.
I've a friendly feeling for all of you young gentlemen at my mess. But
you're not playing fair with me. I can see what you want, and I can tell
you that you and Captain Carr are not helping your case by asking me
up here to drink and smoke with you, when you know that I'm the most
important witness they've got against you.”
Ranson stared at his father-in-law-elect in genuine amazement, and then
laughed lightly.
“Why, dear Mr. Cahill,” he cried, “I wouldn't think of bribing you with
such a bad brand of whiskey as this. And I didn't know you were such an
important witness as all that. But, of course, I know whatever you say
in this community goes, and if your testimony is against me, I'm sorry
for it, very sorry. I suppose you will testify that there was no one in
the Exchange who could have heard my plan?”
Cahill nodded.
“And, as it's not likely two men at exactly the same time should have
thought of robbing the stage in exactly the same way, I must have robbed
it myself.”
Cahill nursed his bandaged hand with the other. “That's the court's
business,” he growled; “I mean to tell the truth.”
“And the truth is?” asked Ransom
“The truth is that last night there was no one in the Exchange but you
officers and me. If anybody'd come in on the store side you'd have seen
him, wouldn't you? and if he'd come into the Exchange I'd have seen him.
But no one come in. I was there alone--and certainly I didn't hear your
plan, and I didn't rob the stage. When you fellows left I went down to
the Indian village. Half the reservation can prove I was there all the
evening--so of the four of us, that lets me out. Crosby and Curtis were
in command of the pay escort--that's their alibi--and as far as I can
see, lieutenant, that puts it up to you.”
Ranson laughed and shook his head. “Yes, it certainly looks that way,”
he said. “Only I can't see why you need be so damned pleased about it.”
He grinned wickedly. “If you weren't such a respectable member of Fort
Crockett society I might say you listened at the door, and rode after me
in one of your own ponchos. As for the Indian village, that's no alibi.
A Kiowa swear his skin's as white as yours if you give him a drink.”
“And is that why I get this one?” Cahill demanded. “Am I a Kiowa?”
Ranson laughed and shoved the bottle toward his father-in-law-elect.
“Oh, can't you take a joke?” he said. “Take another drink, then.”
The voice outside the hut was too low to reach the irate Cahill, but
Ranson heard it and leaped to his feet.
“Wait,” he commanded. He ran to the door, and met Sergeant Clancey at
the threshold.
“Miss Cahill, lieutenant,” said the sergeant, “wants to see her father.”
Cahill had followed Ranson to the door, “You want to see me, Mame?” he
asked.
“Yes,” Miss Cahill cried; “and Mr. Ransom, too, if I may.” She caught
her father eagerly by the arm, but her eyes were turned joyfully upon
Ranson. They were laughing with excitement. Her voice was trembling and
eager.
“It is something I have discovered,” she cried; “I found it out just
now, and I think--oh, I hope!--it is most important. I believe it will
clear Mr. Ranson!” she cried, happily. “At least it will show that last
night someone went out to rob the coach and went dressed as he was.”
Cahill gave a short laugh. “What's his name?” he asked, mockingly. “Have
you seen him?”
“I didn't see him and I don't know his name, but--”
Cahill snorted, and picked up his sombrero from the table. “Then it's
not so very important after all,” he said. “Is that all that brought you
here?”
“The main thing is that she is here,” said Ranson; “for which the poor
prisoner is grateful--grateful to her and to the man she hasn't seen, in
the mask and poncho, whose name she doesn't know. Mr. Cahill, bad as
it is, I insist on your finishing your whiskey. Miss Cahill, please sit
down.”
He moved a chair toward her and, as he did so, looked full into her face
with such love and happiness that she turned her eyes away.
“Well?” asked Cahill.
“I must first explain to Lieutenant Ranson, father,” said his daughter,
“that to-day is the day we take account of stock.”
“Speaking of stock,” said Ranson, “don't forget that I owe you for a
red kerchief and a rubber poncho. You can have them back, if you like. I
won't need a rain coat where I am going.”
“Don't,” said Miss Cahill. “Please let me go on. After I brought you
your breakfast here, I couldn't begin to work just at once. I was
thinking about--something else. Everyone was talking of you--your
arrest, and I couldn't settle down to take account of stock.” She threw
a look at Ranson which asked for his sympathy. “But when I did start
I began with the ponchos and the red kerchiefs, and then I found out
something.” Cahill was regarding his daughter in strange distress, but
Ranson appeared indifferent to her words, and intent only on the light
and beauty in her face. But he asked, smiling, “And that was?”
“You see,” continued Miss Cahill, eagerly, “I always keep a dozen of
each article, and as each one is sold I check it off in my day-book.
Yesterday Mrs. Bolland bought a poncho for the colonel. That left eleven
ponchos. Then a few minutes later I gave Lightfoot a red kerchief for
his squaw. That left eleven kerchiefs.”
“Stop!” cried Ranson. “Miss Cahill,” he began, severely, “I hope you do
not mean to throw suspicion on the wife of my respected colonel, or
on Mrs. Lightfoot, 'the Prairie Flower.' Those ladies are my personal
friends; I refuse to believe them guilty. And have you ever seen Mrs.
Bolland on horseback? You wrong her. It is impossible.”
“Please,” begged Miss Cahill, “please let me explain. When you went to
hold up the stage you took a poncho and a kerchief. That should have
left ten of each. But when I counted them this morning there were nine
red kerchiefs and nine ponchos.”
Ranson slapped his knee sharply. “Good!” he said. “That is interesting.”
“What does it prove?” demanded Cahill.
“It proves nothing, or it proves everything,” said Miss Cahill. “To my
mind it proves without any doubt that someone overheard Mr. Ranson's
plan, that he dressed like him to throw suspicion on him, and that this
second person was the one who robbed the paymaster. Now, father, this
is where you can help us. You were there then. Try to remember. It is so
important. Who came into the store after the others had gone away?”
Cahill tossed his head like an angry bull.
“There are fifty places in this post,” he protested, roughly, “where a
man can get a poncho. Every trooper owns his slicker.”
“But, father, we don't know that theirs are missing,” cried Miss Cahill,
“and we do know that those in our store are. Don't think I am foolish.
It seemed such an important fact to me, and I had hoped it would help.”
“It does help--immensely!” cried Ranson.
“I think it's a splendid clue. But, unfortunately, I don't think we can
prove anything by your father, for he's just been telling me that there
was no one in the place but himself. No one came in, and he was quite
alone--” Ranson had begun speaking eagerly, but either his own words or
the intentness with which Cahill received them caused him to halt and
hesitate--“absolutely--alone.”
“You see,” said Cahill, thickly, “as soon as they had gone I rode to the
Indian village.”
“Why, no, father,” corrected Miss Cahill. “Don't you remember, you told
me last night that when you reached Lightfoot's tent I had just gone.
That was quite two hours after the others left the store.” In her
earnestness Miss Cahill had placed her hand upon her father's arm and
clutched it eagerly. “And you remember no one coming in before you
left?” she asked. “No one?”
Cahill had not replaced the bandaged hand in his pocket, but had shoved
it inside the opening of his coat. As Mary Cahill caught his arm her
fingers sank into the palm of the hand and he gave a slight grimace of
pain.
“Oh, father,” Miss Cahill cried, “your hand! I am so sorry. Did I hurt
it? Please--let me see.”
Cahill drew back with sudden violence.
“No!” he cried. “Leave it alone! Come, we must be going.” But Miss
Cahill held the wounded hand in both her own. When she turned her eyes
to Ranson they were filled with tender concern.
“I hurt him,” she said, reproachfully. “He shot himself last night with
one of those new cylinder revolvers.”
Her father snatched the hand from her. He tried to drown her voice by a
sudden movement toward the door. “Come!” he called. “Do you hear me?”
But his daughter in her sympathy continued. “He was holding it so,” she
said, “and it went off, and the bullet passed through here.” She laid
the tip of a slim white finger on the palm of her right hand.
“The bullet!” cried Ranson. He repeated, dully, “The bullet!”
There was a sudden, tense silence. Outside they could hear the crunch of
the sentry's heel in the gravel, and from the baseball field back of the
barracks the soft spring air was rent with the jubilant crack of the bat
as it drove the ball. Afterward Ranson remembered that while one half
of his brain was terribly acute to the moment, the other was wondering
whether the runner had made his base. It seemed an interminable time
before Ranson raised his eyes from Miss Cahill's palm to her father's
face. What he read in them caused Cahill to drop his hand swiftly to his
hip.
Ranson saw the gesture and threw out both his hands. He gave a
hysterical laugh, strangely boyish and immature, and ran to place
himself between Cahill and the door. “Drop it!” he whispered. “My God,
man!” he entreated, “don't make a fool of yourself. Mr. Cahill,” he
cried aloud, “you can't go till you know. Can he, Mary? Yes, Mary.” The
tone in which he repeated the name was proprietary and commanding. He
took her hand. “Mr. Cahill,” he said, joyously, “we've got something to
tell you. I want you to understand that in spite of all I'VE done--I
say in spite of all I'VE done--I mean getting into this trouble and
disgrace, and all that--I've dared to ask your daughter to marry me.”
He turned and led Miss Cahill swiftly toward the veranda. “Oh, I knew he
wouldn't like it,” he cried. “You see. I told you so. You've got to let
me talk to him alone. You go outside and wait. I can talk better when
you are not here. I'll soon bring him around.”
“Father,” pleaded Miss Cahill, timidly. From behind her back Ranson
shook his head at the post-trader in violent pantomime. “She'd better go
outside and wait, hadn't she, Mr. Cahill?” he directed.
As he was bidden, the post-trader raised his head and nodded toward
the door. The onslaught of sudden and new conditions overwhelmed and
paralyzed him.
“Father!” said Miss Cahill, “it isn't just as you think. Mr. Ranson did
ask me to marry him--in a way--At least, I knew what he meant. But I did
not say--in a way--that I would marry him. I mean it was not settled,
or I would have told you. You mustn't think I would have left you out of
this--of my happiness, you who have done everything to make me happy.”
She reproached her father with her eyes fastened on his face. His
own were stern, fixed, and miserable. “You will let it be, won't you,
father?” she begged. “It--it means so much. I--can't tell you--” She
threw out her hand toward Ranson as though designating a superior being.
“Why, I can't tell HIM. But if you are harsh with him or with me it will
break my heart. For as I love you, father, I love him--and it has got to
be. It must be. For I love him so. I have always loved him. Father,” she
whispered, “I love him so.”
Ranson, humbly, gratefully, took the girl's hand and led her gently to
the veranda and closed the door upon her. Then he came down the room
and regarded his prospective father-in-law with an expression of
amused exasperation. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his
riding-breeches and nodded his head. “Well,” he exclaimed, “you've made
a damned pretty mess of it, haven't you?”
Cahill had sunk heavily into a chair and was staring at Ranson with the
stupid, wondering gaze of a dumb animal in pain. During the moments in
which the two men eyed each other Ranson's smile disappeared. Cahill
raised himself slowly as though with a great effort.
“I done it,” said Cahill, “for her. I done it to make her happy.”
“That's all right,” said Ranson, briskly. “She's going to be happy.
We're all going to be happy.”
“An' all I did,” Cahill continued, as though unconscious of the
interruption, “was to disgrace her.” He rose suddenly to his feet.
His mental sufferings were so keen that his huge body trembled. He
recognized how truly he had made “a mess of it.” He saw that all he had
hoped to do for his daughter by crime would have been done for her by
this marriage with Ranson, which would have made her a “lady,” made her
rich, made her happy. Had it not been for his midnight raids she would
have been honored, loved, and envied, even by the wife of the colonel
herself. But through him disgrace had come upon her, sorrow and trouble.
She would not be known as the daughter of Senator Ranson, but of Cahill,
an ex-member of the Whyo gang, a highway robber, as the daughter of a
thief who was serving his time in State prison. At the thought Cahill
stepped backward unsteadily as though he had been struck. He cried
suddenly aloud. Then his hand whipped back to his revolver, but before
he could use it Ranson had seized his wrist with both hands. The two
struggled silently and fiercely. The fact of opposition brought back to
Cahill all of his great strength.
“No, you don't!” Ranson muttered. “Think of your daughter, man. Drop
it!”
“I shall do it,” Cahill panted. “I am thinking of my daughter. It's the
only way out. Take your hands off me--I shall!”
With his knuckles Ranson bored cruelly into the wounded hand, and it
opened and the gun dropped from it; but as it did so it went off with a
report that rang through the building. There was an instant rush of
feet upon the steps of the veranda, and at the sound the two men sprang
apart, eyeing each other sheepishly like two discovered truants. When
Sergeant Clancey and the guard pushed through the door Ranson stood
facing it, spinning the revolver in cowboy fashion around his fourth
finger. He addressed the sergeant in a tone of bitter irony.
“Oh, you've come at last,” he demanded. “Are you deaf? Why didn't you
come when I called?” His tone showed he considered he had just cause for
annoyance.
“The gun brought me, I--” began Clancey.
“Yes, I hoped it might. That's why I fired it,” snapped Ranson. “I want
two whiskey-and-sodas. Quick now!”
“Two--” gasped Clancey.
“Whiskey-and-sodas. See how fast one of you can chase over to the club
and get 'em. And next time I want a drink don't make me wake the entire
garrison.”
As the soldiers retreated Ranson discovered Miss Cahill's white face
beyond them. He ran and held the door open by a few inches.
“It's all right,” he whispered, reassuringly. “He's nearly persuaded.
Wait just a minute longer and he'll be giving us his blessing.”
“But the pistol-shot?” she asked.
“I was just calling the guard. The electric bell's broken, and your
father wanted a drink. That's a good sign, isn't it? Shows he's
friendly, What kind did you say you wanted, Mr. Cahill--Scotch was it,
or rye?” Ranson glanced back at the sombre, silent figure of Cahill, and
then again opened the door sufficiently for him to stick out his head.
“Sergeant,” he called, “make them both Scotch--long ones.”
He shut the door and turned upon the post-trader. “Now, then,
father-in-law,” he said, briskly, “you've got to cut and run, and you've
got to run quick. We'll tell 'em you're going to Fort Worth to buy the
engagement ring, because I can't, being under arrest. But you go to
Duncan City instead, and from there take the cars, to--”
“Run away!” Cahill repeated, dazedly. “But you'll be court-martialled.”
“There won't be any court-martial!”
Cahill glanced around the room quickly. “I see,” he cried. In his
eagerness he was almost smiling. “I'm to leave a confession and give it
to you.”
“Confession! What rot!” cried Ranson.
“They can't prove anything against me. Everyone knows by now that there
were two men on the trail, but they don't know who the other man was,
and no one ever must know--especially Mary.”
Cahill struck the table with his fist. “I won't stand for it!” he cried.
“I got you into this and I'm goin'--”
“Yes, going to jail,” retorted Ranson. “You'll look nice behind the
bars, won't you? Your daughter will be proud of you in a striped suit.
Don't talk nonsense. You're going to run and hide some place, somewhere,
where Mary and I can come and pay you a visit. Say--Canada. No, not
Canada. I'd rather visit you in jail than in a Montreal hotel. Say
Tangier, or Buenos Ayres, or Paris. Yes, Paris is safe enough--and so
amusing.”
Cahill seated himself heavily. “I trapped you into this fix, Mr.
Ranson,” he said, “you know I did, and now I mean to get you out of it.
I ain't going to leave the man my Mame wants to marry with a cloud on
him. I ain't going to let her husband be jailed.”
Ranson had run to his desk and from a drawer drew forth a roll of bills.
He advanced with them in his hand.
“Yes, Paris is certainly the place,” he said. “Here's three hundred
dollars. I'll cable you the rest. You've never been to Paris, have you?
It's full of beautiful sights--Henry's American Bar, for instance, and
the courtyard of the Grand Hotel, and Maxim's. All good Americans go to
Paris when they die and all the bad ones while they are alive. You'll
find lots of both kinds, and you'll sit all day on the sidewalk and
drink Bock and listen to Hungarian bands. And Mary and I will join you
there and take you driving in the Bois. Now, you start at once. I'll
tell her you've gone to New York to talk it over with father, and buy
the ring. Then I'll say you've gone on to Paris to rent us apartments
for the honeymoon. I'll explain it somehow. That's better than going to
jail, isn't it, and making us bow our heads in grief?”
Cahill, in his turn, approached the desk and, seating himself before it,
began writing rapidly.
“What is it?” asked Ranson.
“A confession,” said Cahill, his pen scratching.
“I won't take it,” Ranson said, “and I won't use it.”
“I ain't going to give it to you,” said Cahill, over his shoulder.
“I know better than that. But I don't go to Paris unless I leave a
confession behind me. Call in the guard,” he commanded; “I want two
witnesses.”
“I'll see you hanged first,” said Ranson.
Cahill crossed the room to the door and, throwing it open, called,
“Corporal of the guard!”
As he spoke, Captain Carr and Mrs. Bolland, accompanied by Miss Post and
her aunt, were crossing the parade-ground. For a moment the post-trader
surveyed them doubtfully, and then, stepping out upon the veranda,
beckoned to them.
“Here's a paper I've signed, captain,” he said; “I wish you'd witness my
signature. It's my testimony for the court-martial.”
“Then someone else had better sign it,” said Carr. “Might look
prejudiced if I did.” He turned to the ladies. “These ladies are coming
in to see Ranson now. They'll witness it.”
Miss Cahill, from the other end of the veranda, and the visitors entered
the room together.
“Mrs. Truesdale!” cried Ranson. “You are pouring coals of fire upon my
head. And Miss Post! Indeed, this is too much honor. After the way I
threatened and tried to frighten you last night I expected you to hang
me, at least, instead of which you have, I trust, come to tea.”
“Nothing of the sort,” said Mrs. Bolland, sternly. “These ladies
insisted on my bringing them here to say how sorry they are that they
talked so much and got you into this trouble. Understand, Mr. Ranson,”
the colonel's wife added, with dignity, “that I am not here officially
as Mrs. Bolland, but as a friend of these ladies.”
“You are welcome in whatever form you take, Mrs. Bolland,” cried Ranson,
“and, believe me, I am in no trouble--no trouble, I assure you. In fact,
I am quite the most contented man in the world. Mrs. Bolland, in spite
of the cloud, the temporary cloud which rests upon my fair name, I take
great pride in announcing to you that this young lady has done me the
honor to consent to become my wife. Her father, a very old and dear
friend, has given his consent. And I take this occasion to tell you of
my good fortune, both in your official capacity and as my friend.”
There was a chorus of exclamations and congratulations in which Mrs.
Bolland showed herself to be a true wife and a social diplomatist. In
the post-trader's daughter she instantly recognized the heiress to the
Ranson millions, and the daughter of a Senator who also was the chairman
of the Senate Committee on Brevets and Promotions. She fell upon Miss
Cahill's shoulder and kissed her on both cheeks. Turning eagerly upon
Mrs. Truesdale, she said, “Alice, you can understand how I feel when I
tell you that this child has always been to me like one of my own.”
Carr took Ranson's hand and wrung it. Sergeant Clancey grew purple with
pleasure and stole back to the veranda, where he whispered joyfully to a
sentry. In another moment a passing private was seen racing delightedly
toward the baseball field.
At the same moment Lieutenants Crosby and Curtis and the regimental
adjutant crossed the parade ground from the colonel's quarters and ran
up the steps of Ranson's hut. The expressions of good-will, of smiling
embarrassment and general satisfaction which Lieutenant Crosby observed
on the countenances of those present seemed to give him a momentary
check.
“Oh,” he exclaimed, disappointedly, “someone has told you!”
Ranson laughed and took the hand which Crosby held doubtfully toward
him. “No one has told me,” he said. “I've been telling them.”
“Then you haven't heard?” Crosby cried, delightedly. “That's good.
I begged to be the first to let you know, because I felt so badly at
having doubted you. You must let me congratulate you. You are free.”
“Free?” smiled Ranson.
“Yes, relieved from arrest,” Crosby cried, joyfully. He turned and took
Ranson's sword from the hands of the adjutant. “And the colonel's let
your troop have the band to give you a serenade.”
But Ranson's face showed no sign of satisfaction.
“Wait!” he cried. “Why am I relieved from arrest?”
“Why? Because the other fellow has confessed.”
Ranson placed himself suddenly in front of Mary Cahill as though to
shield her. His eyes stole stealthily towards Cahill's confession. Still
unread and still unsigned, it lay unopened upon the table. Cahill was
gazing upon Ranson in blank bewilderment.
Captain Carr gasped a sigh of relief that was far from complimentary to
his client.
“Who confessed?” he cried.
“'Pop' Henderson,” said Crosby.
“'Pop' Henderson!” shouted Cahill. Unmindful of his wound, he struck the
table savagely with his fist. For the first time in the knowledge of the
post he exhibited emotion. “'Pop' Henderson, by the eternal!” he cried.
“And I never guessed it!”
“Yes,” said Crosby, eagerly. “Abe Fisher was in it. Henderson persuaded
the paymaster to make the trip alone with him. Then he dressed up Fisher
to represent the Red Rider and sent him on ahead to hold him up. They
were to share the money afterward. But Fisher fired on 'Pop' to kill, so
as to have it all, and 'Pop's' trying to get even. And what with wanting
to hurt Fisher, and thinking he is going to die, and not wishing to see
you hanged, he's told the truth. We wired Kiowa early this morning and
arrested Fisher. They've found the money, and he has confessed, too.”
“But the poncho and the red kerchief?” protested Carr. “And he had no
stirrups!”
“Oh, Fisher had the make-up all right,” laughed Crosby; “Henderson says
Fisher's the 'only, original' Red Rider. And as for the stirrups, I'm
afraid that's my fault. I asked the colonel if the man wasn't riding
without stirrups, and I guess the wish was father to the fact. He only
imagined he hadn't seen any stirrups. The colonel was rattled. So, old
man,” he added, turning to Ranson, “here's your sword again, and God
bless you.”
Already the post had learned the news from the band and the verandas of
the enlisted men overflowed with delighted troopers. From the stables
and the ball field came the sound of hurrying feet, and a tumult of
cheers and cowboy yells. Across the parade-ground the regimental band
bore down upon Ranson's hut, proclaiming to the garrison that there
would be a hot time in the old town that night. But Sergeant Clancey
ran to meet the bandmaster, and shouted in his ear. “He's going to marry
Mary Cahill,” he cried. “I heard him tell the colonel's wife. Play 'Just
Because She Made Them Goo-goo Eyes.'”
“Like hell!” cried the bandmaster, indignantly, breaking in on the tune
with his baton. “I know my business! Now, then, men,” he commanded,
“'I'll Leave My Happy Home for You.'”
As Mrs. Bolland dragged Miss Cahill into view of the assembled troopers
Ranson pulled his father-in-law into a far corner of the room. He shook
the written confession in his face.
“Now, will you kindly tell me what that means?” he demanded. “What sort
of a gallery play were you trying to make?”
Cahill shifted his sombrero guiltily. “I was trying to get you out of
the hole,” he stammered. “I--I thought you done it.”
“You thought I done it!”
“Sure. I never thought nothing else.”
“Then why do you say here that YOU did it?”
“Oh, because,” stammered Cahill, miserably, “'cause of Mary, 'cause she
wanted to marry you--'cause you were going to marry her.”
“Well--but--what good were you going to do by shooting yourself?”
“Oh, then?” Cahill jerked back his head as though casting out an
unpleasant memory. “I thought you'd caught me, you, too--between you!”
“Caught you! Then you did--?”
“No, but I tried to. I heard your plan, and I did follow you in the
poncho and kerchief, meaning to hold up the stage first, and leave it to
Crosby and Curtis to prove you did it. But when I reached the coach you
were there ahead of me, and I rode away and put in my time at the Indian
village. I never saw the paymaster's cart, never heard of it till this
morning. But what with Mame missing the poncho out of our shop and the
wound in my hand I guessed they'd all soon suspect me. I saw you did.
So I thought I'd just confess to what I meant to do, even if I didn't do
it.”
Ranson surveyed his father-in-law with a delighted grin. “How did you
get that bullet-hole in your hand?” he asked.
Cahill laughed shamefacedly. “I hate to tell you that,” he said. “I got
it just as I said I did. My new gun went off while I was fooling with
it, with my hand over the muzzle. And me the best shot in the Territory!
But when I heard the paymaster claimed he shot the Red Rider through the
palm I knew no one would believe me if I told the truth. So I lied.”
Ranson glanced down at the written confession, and then tore it slowly
into pieces. “And you were sure I robbed the stage, and yet you believed
that I'd use this? What sort of a son-in-law do you think you've got?”
“You thought _I_ robbed the stage, didn't you?”
“Yes.”
“And you were going to stand for robbing it yourself, weren't you? Well,
that's the sort of son-in-law I've got!”
The two men held out their hands at the same instant.
Mary Cahill, her face glowing with pride and besieged with blushes,
came toward them from the veranda. She was laughing and radiant, but she
turned her eyes on Ranson with a look of tender reproach.
“Why did you desert me?” she said. “It was awful. They are calling you
now. They are playing 'The Conquering Hero.'”
“Mr. Cahill,” commanded Ranson, “go out there and make a speech.” He
turned to Mary Cahill and lifted one of her hands in both of his. “Well,
I AM the conquering hero,” he said. “I've won the only thing worth
winning, dearest,” he whispered; “we'll run away from them in a minute,
and we'll ride to the waterfall and the Lover's Leap.” He looked down at
her wistfully. “Do you remember?”
Mary Cahill raised her head and smiled. He leaned toward her
breathlessly.
“Why, did it mean that to you, too?” he asked.
She smiled up at him in assent.
“But I didn't say anything, did I?” whispered Ranson. “I hardly knew you
then. But I knew that day that I--that I would marry you or nobody else.
And did you think--that you--”
“Yes,” Mary Cahill whispered.
He bent his head and touched her hand with his lips.
“Then we'll go back this morning to the waterfall,” he said, “and tell
it that it's all come right. And now, we'll bow to those crazy people
out there, those make-believe dream-people, who don't know that there
is nothing real in this world but just you and me, and that we love each
other.”
A dishevelled orderly bearing a tray with two glasses confronted Ranson
at the door. “Here's the Scotch and sodas, lieutenant,” he panted. “I
couldn't get 'em any sooner. The men wanted to take 'em off me--to drink
Miss Cahill's health.”
“So they shall,” said Ranson. “Tell them to drink the canteen dry and
charge it to me. What's a little thing like the regulations between
friends? They have taught me my manners. Mr. Cahill,” he called.
The post-trader returned from the veranda.
Ranson solemnly handed him a glass and raised the other in the air.
“Here's hoping that the Red Rider rides on his raids no more,” he said;
“and to the future Mrs. Ranson--to Mary Cahill, God bless her!”
He shattered the empty glass in the grate and took Cahill's hand.
“Father-in-law,” said Ranson, “let's promise each other to lead a new
and a better life.”