Ronicky Doone

The Last Stand

At the same instant she saw what his keener eye had discerned the moment before.  A small trail of dust was blowing down the road, just below the place where the two hills leaned together.  Under it was the dimly discernible, dust-veiled form of a horseman riding at full speed.

“Fate is against me,” said John Mark in his quiet way.  “Why should this dare-devil be destined to hunt me?  I can gain nothing by his death but your hate.  And, if he succeeds in breaking through Lefty, as he has broken through Kruger, even then he shall win nothing.  I swear it!”

As he spoke he looked at her in gloomy resolution, but the girl was on fire—­fear and joy were fighting in her face.  In her ecstasy she was clinging to the man beside her.

“Think of it—­think of it!” she exclaimed.  “He has done what I said he would do.  Ah, I read his mind!  Ronicky Doone, Ronicky Doone, was there ever your like under the wide, wide sky?  He’s brushed Kruger out of his way—­”

“Not entirely,” said John Mark calmly, “not entirely, you see?”

As he spoke they heard again the unmistakable sound of a rifle shot, and then another and another, ringing from the place where the two hills leaned over the road.

“It’s Kruger,” declared John Mark calmly.  “That chivalrous idiot, Doone, apparently shot him down and didn’t wait to finish him.  Very clever work on his part, but very sloppy.  However, he seems to have wounded Kruger so badly that my gunman can’t hit his mark.”

For Ronicky Doone, if it were indeed he, was still galloping down the road, more and more clearly discernible, while the rifle firing behind him ceased.

“Of course that firing will be the alarm for Lefty,” went on John Mark, seeming to enjoy the spectacle before him, as if it were a thing from which he was entirely detached.  “And Lefty can make his choice.  Kruger was his pal.  If he wants to revenge the fall of Kruger he may shoot from behind a tree.  If not, he’ll shoot from the open, and it will be an even fight.”

The terror of it all, the whole realization, sprang up in the girl.  In a moment she was crying:  “Stop him, John—­for Heaven’s sake, find a way to stop him.”

“There is only one power that can turn the trick, I’m afraid,” answered John Mark.  “That power is Lefty.”

“If he shoots Lefty he’ll come straight toward us on his way to the house, and if he sees you—­”

“If he sees me he’ll shoot me, of course,” declared Mark.

She stared at him.  “John,” she said, “I know you’re brave, but you won’t try to face him?”

“I’m fairly expert with a gun.”  He added:  “But it’s good of you to be concerned about me.”

“I am concerned, more than concerned, John.  A woman has premonitions, and I tell you I know, as well as I know I’m standing here, that if you face Ronicky Doone you’ll go down.”

“You’re right,” replied Mark.  “I fear that I have been too much of a specialist, so I shall not face Doone.”

“Then start for the house—­and hurry!”

“Run away and leave you here?”

The dust cloud and the figure of the rider in it were sweeping rapidly down on the grove in the hollow, where Lefty waited.  And the girl was torn between three emotions:  Joy at the coming of the adventurer, fear for him, terror at the thought of his meeting with Mark.

“It would be murder, John!  I’ll go with you if you’ll start now!”

“No,” he said quietly, “I won’t run.  Besides it is impossible for him to take you from me.”

“Impossible?” she asked.  “What do you mean?”

“When the time comes you’ll see!  Now he’s nearly there—­watch!”

The rider was in full view now, driving his horse at a stretching gallop.  There was no doubt about the identity of the man.  They could not make out his face, of course, at that distance, but something in the careless dash of his seat in the saddle, something about the slender, erect body cried out almost in words that this was Ronicky Doone.  A moment later the first treetops of the grove brushed across him, and he was lost from view.

The girl buried her face in her hands, then she looked up.  By this time he must have reached Lefty, and yet there was no sound of shooting.  Had Lefty found discretion the better part of valor and let him go by unhindered?  But, in that case, the swift gallop of the horse would have borne the rider through the grove by this time.

“What’s happened?” she asked of John Mark.  “What can have happened down there?”

“A very simple story,” said Mark.  “Lefty, as I feared, has been more chivalrous than wise.  He has stepped out into the road and ordered Ronicky to stop, and Ronicky has stopped.  Now he is sitting in his saddle, looking down to Lefty, and they are holding a parley—­very like two knights of the old days, exchanging compliments before they try to cut each other’s throats.”

But, even as he spoke, there was the sound of a gun exploding, and then a silence.

“One shot—­one revolver shot,” said John Mark in his deadly calm voice.  “It is as I said.  They drew at a signal, and one of them proved far the faster.  It was a dead shot, for only one was needed to end the battle.  One of them is standing, the other lies dead under the shadow of that grove, my dear.  Which is it?”

“Which is it?” asked the girl in a whisper.  Then she threw up her hands with a joyous cry:  “Ronicky Doone!  Ronicky, Ronicky Doone!”

A horseman was breaking into view through the grove, and now he rode out into full view below them—­unmistakably Ronicky Doone!  Even at that distance he heard the cry, and, throwing up his hand with a shout that tingled faintly up to them, he spurred straight up the slope toward them.  Ruth Tolliver started forward, but a hand closed over her wrist with a biting grip and brought her to a sudden halt.  She turned to find John Mark, an automatic hanging loosely in his other hand.

His calm had gone, and in his dead-white face the eyes were rolling and gleaming, and his set lips trembled.  “You were right,” he said, “I cannot face him.  Not that I fear death, but there would be a thousand damnations in it if I died knowing that he would have you after my eyes were closed.  I told you he could not take you—­not living, my dear.  Dead he may have us both.”

“John!” said the girl, staring and bewildered.  “In the name of pity, John, in the name of all the goodness you have showed me, don’t do it.”

He laughed wildly.  “I am about to lose the one thing on earth I have ever cared for, and still I can smile.  I am about to die by my own hand, and still I can smile.  For the last time, will you stand up like your old brave self?”

“Mercy!” she cried.  “In Heaven’s name—­”

“Then have it as you are!” he said, and she saw the sun flash on the steel, and he raised the gun.

She closed her eyes—­waited—­heard the distant drumming of hoofs on the turf of the hillside.  Then she caught the report of a gun.

But it was strangely far away, that sound.  She thought at first that the bullet must have numbed, as it struck her.  Presently a shooting pain would pass through her body—­then death.

Opening her bewildered eyes she beheld John Mark staggering, the automatic lying on the ground, his hands clutching at his breast.  Then glancing to one side she saw the form of Ronicky Doone riding as fast as spur would urge his horse, the long Colt balanced in his hand.  That, then, was the shot she had heard—­a long-range chance shot when he saw what was happening on top of the hill.

So swift was Doone’s coming that, by the time she had reached her feet again, he was beside her, and they leaned over John Mark together.  As they did so Mark’s eyes opened, then they closed again, as if with pain.  When he looked again his sight was clear.

“As I expected,” he said dryly, “I see your faces together—­both together, and actually wasting sympathy on me?  Tush, tush!  So rich in happiness that you can waste time on me?”

“John,” said the girl on her knees and weeping beside him, “you know that I have always cared for you, but as a brother, John, and not—­”

“Really,” he said calmly, “you are wasting emotion.  I am not going to die, and I wish you would put a bandage around me and send for some of the men at the house to carry me up there.  That bullet of yours—­by Harry, a very pretty snap shot—­just raked across my breast, as far as I can make out.  Perhaps it broke a bone or two, but that’s all.  Yes, I am to have the pleasure of living.”

His smile was ghastly thing, and, growing suddenly weak, as if for the first time in his life he allowed his indomitable spirit to relax, his head fell to one side, and he lay in a limp faint.