Ronicky Doone

Unhappy Freedom

Once out in the street Caroline had cast one glance of terror over her shoulder at the towering facade of the house of John Mark, then she fled, as fast as her feet would carry her, straight across the street and up the steps of the rooming house and frantically up the stairs, a panic behind her.

Presently she was tapping hurriedly and loudly on a door, while, with her head turned, she watched for the coming of some swift-avenging figure from behind.  John Mark had given her up, but it was impossible for John Mark to give up anything.  When would he strike?  That was the only question.

Then the door opened.  The very light that poured out into the dim hall was like the reach of a friendly hand, and there was Ronicky Doone laughing for pure joy—­and there was Bill Gregg’s haggard face, as if he saw a ghost.

“I told you, Bill, and here she is!”

After that she forgot Ronicky Doone and the rest of the world except Gregg, as he took her in his arms and asked over and over:  “How did it come about?  How did it come about?”

And over and over she answered:  “It was Ronicky, Bill.  We owe everything to him and Ruth Tolliver.”

This brought from Ronicky a sudden question:  “And what of her?  What of Ruth Tolliver?  She wouldn’t come?”

It pricked the bubble of Caroline’s happiness, that question.  Staring at the frowning face of Ronicky Doone her heart for a moment misgave her.  How could she tell the truth?  How could she admit her cowardice which had accepted Ruth’s great sacrifice?

“No,” she said at last, “Ruth stayed.”

“Talk about that afterward, Ronicky,” pleaded Bill Gregg.  “I got about a million things to say to Caroline.”

“I’m going to talk now,” said Ronicky gravely.  “They’s something queer about the way Caroline said that.  Will you let me ask you a few more questions?”

“Won’t you wait?” asked Caroline, in an agony of remorse and shame.  “Won’t you wait till the morning?”

Ronicky Doone walked up and down the room for a moment.  He had no wish to break in upon the long delayed happiness of these two.  While he paced he heard Bill Gregg saying that they must start at once and put three thousand miles between them and that devil, John Mark; and he heard Caroline say that there was no longer anything to fear—­the claws of the devil had been trimmed, and he would not reach after them—­he had promised.  At that Ronicky whirled sharply on them again.

“What made Mark change his mind about you?” he asked.  “He isn’t the sort to change his mind without a pretty good reason.  What bought him off?  Nothing but a price would change him, I guess.”

And she had to admit:  “It was Ruth.”

“She paid the price?” he asked harshly.  “How, Caroline?”

“She promised to marry him, Ronicky.”

The bitter truth was coming now, and she cringed as she spoke it.  The tall body of Ronicky Doone was trembling with excitement.

“She made that promise so that you could go free, Caroline?”

“No, no!” exclaimed Bill Gregg.

“It’s true,” said the girl.  “We were about to leave together when John Mark stopped us.”

“Ruth was coming with you?” asked Ronicky.

“Yes.”

“And when Mark stopped you she offered herself in exchange for your freedom?”

“Y-yes!”

Both she and Bill Gregg looked apprehensively at the dark face of Ronicky Doone, where a storm was gathering.

But he restrained his anger with a mighty effort.  “She was going to cut away from that life and start over—­is that straight, Caroline?”

“Yes.”

“Get the police, Ronicky,” said Bill Gregg.  “They sure can’t hold no woman agin’ her will in this country.”

“Don’t you see that it is her will?” asked Ronicky Doone darkly.  “Ain’t she made a bargain?  Don’t you think she’s ready and willing to live up to it?  She sure is, son, and she’ll go the limit to do what she’s said she’ll do.  You stay here—­I’ll go out and tackle the job.”

“Then I go, too,” said Bill Gregg stoutly.  “You been through enough for me.  Here’s where I go as far as you go.  I’m ready when you’re ready, Ronicky.”

It was so just an offer that even Caroline dared not cry out against it, but she sat with her hands clasped close together, her eyes begging Ronicky to let the offer go.  Ronicky Doone nodded slowly.

“I hoped you’d say that, Bill,” he said.  “But I’ll tell you what:  you stay here for a while, and I’ll trot down and take a look around and try to figure out what’s to be done.  Can’t just walk up and rap at the front door of the house, you know.  And I can’t go in the way I went before.  No doubt about that.  I got to step light.  So let me go out and look around, will you, Bill?  Then I’ll come back and tell you what I’ve decided.”

Once in the street Ronicky looked dubiously across at the opposite house.  He realized that more than an hour had passed since Caroline had left John Mark’s house.  What had happened to Ruth in that hour?  The front of the house was lighted in two or three windows, but those lights could tell him nothing.  From the inside of the house he could locate Ruth’s room again, but from the outside it was impossible for him to do it.

The whole house, of course, was thoroughly guarded against his attack, for attack they knew he would.  The only question was from what angle he would deliver his assault.  In that case, of course, the correct thing was to find the unexpected means.  But how could he outguess a band of trained criminals?  They would have foreseen far greater subtleties than any he could attempt.  They would be so keen that the best way to take them by surprise might be simply to step up to the house, ring the door bell and enter, if the door were opened.

The idea intrigued him at once.  They might be, and no doubt were, guarding every obscure cellar window, every skylight.  To trick them was impossible, but it was always possible to bluff any man—­even John Mark and his followers.

Straight across the street marched Ronicky Doone and up the steps of the opposite house and rang the bell—­not a timid ring, but two sharp pressures, such as would announce a man in a hurry, a brisk man who did not wish to be delayed.

He took only one precaution, pulling his hat down so that the black shadow of the brim would fall like a robber’s mask across the upper part of his face.  Then he waited, as a man both hurried and certain, turning a little away from the door, at an angle which still more effectually concealed him, while he tapped impatiently with one foot.

Presently the door opened, after he made certain that someone had looked out at him from the side window.  How much had they seen?  How much had they guessed as to the identity of this night visitor?  The softness of the opening of the door and the whisper of the wind, as it rushed into the hall beyond, were like a hiss of threatening secrecy.  And then, from the shadow of that meager opening a voice was saying:  “Who’s there?”

The very caution, however, reassured Ronicky Doone.  Had they suspected that it was he they would either have kept the door definitely closed, or else they would have flung it open and boldly invited him in.

“I want to see Harry Morgan—­quick!” he said and stepped close to the door.

At his bold approach the door was closed like the winking of an eye, until it was barely an inch ajar.

“Keep back!” came the warning through this small opening.  “Keep clear, bo!”

“Damnation!” exclaimed Ronicky.  “What’s the idea?  I want Harry, I tell you.”

“Harry ain’t here.”

“Just hand me that piece of paper over there, and I’ll write out the message,” said Ronicky, pointing to the little table just beyond the doorman.  The latter turned with a growl, and the moment he was halfway around Ronicky Doone sprang in.  His right arm fastened around the head of the unlucky warder and, passing down to his throat, crushed it in a strangle hold.  His other hand, darting out in strong precision, caught the right arm of the warder at the wrist and jerked it back between his shoulders.  In an instant he was effectively gagged and bound by those two movements, and Ronicky Doone, pausing for an instant to make sure of himself, heard footsteps in the hall above.

It was too late to do what he had hoped, yet he must take his prize out of the way.  For that purpose he half carried, half dragged his victim through the doorway and into the adjoining room.  There he deposited him on the floor, as near death as life.  Relaxing his hold on the man’s throat, he whipped out his Colt and tucked the cold muzzle under the chin of the other.

“Now don’t stir,” he said; “don’t whisper, don’t move a muscle.  Partner, I’m Ronicky Doone.  Now talk quick.  Where’s Ruth Tolliver?”

“Upstairs.”

“In her room?”

“Yes.”

Ronicky started to rise, then, for there had been a slight fraction of a second’s pause before the victim answered, he changed his mind.  “I ought to smash your head open for that lie,” he said at a random guess.  “Tell me straight, now, where’s Ruth Tolliver?”

“How can I tell, if she ain’t in her room?”

“Look,” said Ronicky Doone, “if anyone comes into the hall before you’ve told me where the girl is, you’re dead, partner.  That’s straight, now talk.”

“She’s with Mark.”

“And where’s he?”

“He’d kill me if I tell.”

“Not if I find him before he finds you.  His killing days are ended!  Where’s Mark and the girl?  Has he run off with her?”

“Yes.”

“They’re married?” asked Ronicky, feeling that it might be a wild-goose chase after all.

“I dunno.”

“But where are they?”

“Heaven help me, then!  Ill tell you.”

He began to whisper swiftly, incoherently, his voice shaking almost to silence, as he reached the heart of his narrative.