LITMIR.BIZ

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he added, blowing his nose vigorously, “I won't think of it any more.”

      Tears are properly a woman's weapon, and when a man makes use of them, even in spite of himself, he is taking an advantage over the other sex which is unfair and outrageous. Lieutenant Ranson never knew the mischief the sympathy he had shown for his enemy caused in the heart of Mary Cahill, nor that from that moment she loved him deeply.

      The West Point graduates before they answered Ranson's ultimatum smoked their cigarettes for some time in silence.

      “Oh, there's been fighting even at Fort Crockett,” said Crosby. “In the last two years the men have been ordered out seven times, haven't they, Miss Cahill? When the Indians got out of hand, and twice after cowboys, and twice after the Red Rider.”

      “The Red Rider!” protested Ranson; “I don't see anything exciting in rounding up one miserable horse thief.”

      “Only they don't round him up,” returned Curtis crossly. “That's why it's exciting. He's the best in his business. He's held up the stage six times now in a year. Whoever the fellow is, if he's one man or a gang of men, he's the nerviest road-agent since the days of Abe Case.”

      Ranson in his then present mood was inclined toward pessimism. “It doesn't take any nerve to hold up a coach,” he contradicted.

      Curtis and Crosby snorted in chorus. “That's what you say,” mocked Curtis.

      “Well, it doesn't,” repeated Ranson. “It's all a game of bluff. The etiquette is that the driver mustn't shoot the road-agent, and that the road-agent mustn't hurt the driver, and the passengers are too scared to move. The moment they see a man rise out of the night they throw up their hands. Why, even when a passenger does try to pull his gun the others won't let him. Each thinks sure that if there's any firing he will be the one to get hurt. And, besides, they don't know how many more men the road agent may have behind him. I don't—”

      A movement on the part of Miss Cahill caused him to pause abruptly. Miss Cahill had descended from her throne and was advancing to meet the post-trader, who came toward her from the exchange.

      “Lightfoot's squaw,” he said. “Her baby's worse. She's sent for you.”

      Miss Cahill gave a gasp of sympathy, snatched up her hat from the counter, and the buffalo robes closed behind her.

      Ranson stooped and reached for his sombrero. With the flight of Miss Cahill his interest in the courage of the Red Rider had departed also.

      But Crosby appealed to the new-comer, “Cahill, YOU know,” he said. “We've been talking of the man they call the Red Rider, the chap that wears a red bandanna over his face. Ranson says he hasn't any nerve. That's not so, is it?”

      “I said it didn't take any nerve to hold up a stage,” said Ranson; “and it doesn't.”

      The post-trader halted on his way back to the exchange and rubbed one hand meditatively over the other arm. With him speech was golden and difficult. After a pause he said: “Oh, he takes his chances.”

      “Of course he does,” cried Crosby, encouragingly. “He takes the chance of being shot by the passengers, and of being caught by the posse and lynched, but this man's got away with it now six times in the last year. And I say that takes nerve.”

      “Why, for fifty dollars—” laughed Ranson.

      He checked himself, and glanced over his shoulder at the retreating figure of Cahill. The buffalo robes fell again, and the spurs of the post-trader could be heard jangling over the earth-floor of the exchange.

      “For fifty dollars,” repeated Ranson, in brisk, businesslike tones, “I'll rob the up stage to-night myself!”

      Previous knowledge of his moods, the sudden look of mischief in his eyes and a certain vibration in his voice caused the two lieutenants to jump simultaneously to their feet. “Ranson!” they shouted.

      Ranson laughed mockingly. “Oh, I'm bored to death,” he cried. “What will you bet I don't?”

      He had risen with them, but, without waiting for their answer, ran to where his horse stood at the open door. He sank on his knees and began tugging violently at the stirrup-straps. The two officers, their eyes filled with concern, pursued him across the room. With Cahill twenty feet away, they dared not raise their voices, but in pantomime they beckoned him vigorously to return. Ranson came at once, flushed and smiling, holding a hooded army-stirrup in each hand. “Never do to have them see these!” he said. He threw the stirrups from him, behind the row of hogsheads. “I'll ride in the stirrup-straps!” He still spoke in the same low, brisk tone.

      Crosby seized him savagely by the arm. “No, you won't!” he hissed. “Look here, Ranson. Listen to me; for Heaven's sake don't be an ass! They'll shoot you, you'll be killed—”

      —“And court-martialed,” panted Curtis.

      “You'll go to Leavenworth for the rest of your life!”

      Ranson threw off the detaining hand, and ran behind the counter. From a lower shelf he snatched a red bandanna kerchief. From another he dragged a rubber poncho, and buttoned it high about his throat. He picked up the steel shears which lay upon the counter, and snipping two holes in the red kerchief, stuck it under the brim of his sombrero. It fell before his face like a curtain. From his neck to his knees the poncho concealed his figure. All that was visible of him was his eyes, laughing through the holes in the red mask.

      “Behold the Red Rider!” he groaned. “Hold up your hands!”

      He pulled the kerchief from his face and threw the poncho over his arm. “Do you see these shears?” he whispered. “I'm going to hold up the stage with 'em. No one ever fires at a road agent. They just shout, 'Don't shoot, colonel, and I'll come down.' I'm going to bring 'em down with these shears.”

      Crosby caught Curtis by the arm, laughing eagerly. “Come to the stables, quick,” he cried. “We'll get twenty troopers after him before he can go a half mile.” He turned on Ranson with a triumphant chuckle. “You'll not be dismissed this regiment, if I can help it,” he cried.

      Ranson gave an ugly laugh, like the snarl of a puppy over his bone. “If you try to follow me, or interfere with me, Lieutenant Crosby,” he said, “I'll shoot you and your troopers!”

      “With a pair of shears?” jeered Crosby.

      “No, with the gun I've got in my pocket. Now you listen to me. I'm not going to use that gun on any stage filled with women, driven by a man seventy years old, but—and I mean it—if you try to stop me, I'll use it on you. I'm going to show you how anyone can bluff a stage full with a pair of tin shears and a red mask for a kicker. And I'll shoot the man that tries to stop me.”

      Ranson sprang to his horse's side, and stuck his toe into the empty stirrup-strap; there was a scattering of pebbles, a scurry of hoofs, and the horse and rider became a gray blot in the moonlight.

      The two lieutenants stood irresolute. Under his breath Crosby was swearing fiercely. Curtis stood staring out of the open door.

      “Will he do it?” he asked.

      “Of course he'll do it.”

      Curtis crossed the room and dropped into a chair. “And what—what had we better do?” he asked. For some time the other made no answer. His brows were knit, and he tramped the room, scowling at the floor. Then with an exclamation of alarm he stepped lightly to the door of the exchange and threw back the curtain. In the other room, Cahill stood at its furthest corner, scooping sugar from a hogshead.

      Crosby's scowl relaxed, and, reseating himself at the table, he rolled a cigarette. “Now, if he pulls it off,” he whispered, “and gets back to quarters, then—it's a case of all's well. But, if he's shot, or caught, and it all comes out, then it's up to us to prove he meant it as a practical joke.”

      “It isn't our duty to report it now, is it?” asked Curtis, nervously.

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