Chapter Three
_At Stillwater_
The true story was, of course, known almost at once, but, sinceRonicky Doone swore that he would tackle the first man who accused himof having shot down Bill Gregg, the talk was confined to whispers. Inthe meantime Stillwater rejoiced in its possession of Ronicky Doone.Beyond one limited section of the mountain desert he was not asyet known, but he had one of those personalities which are calledelectric. Whatever he did seemed greater because he, Ronicky Doone,had done it.
Not that he had done a great many things as yet. But there was apeculiar feeling in the air that Ronicky Doone was capable of greatand strange performances. Men older than he were willing to accept himas their leader; men younger than he idolized him.
Ronicky Doone, then, the admired of all beholders, is leaning in thedoorway of Stillwater's second and best hotel. His bandanna today isa terrific yellow, set off with crimson half-moon and stars strewnliberally on it. His shirt is merely white, but it is given somesignificance by having nearly half of a red silk handkerchief fallingout of the breast pocket. His sombrero is one of those works of artwhich Mexican families pass from father to son, only his was new andhad not yet received that limp effect of age. And, like the gaudiestMexican head piece, the band of this sombrero was of purest gold,beaten into the forms of various saints. Ronicky Doone knew nothing atall about saints, but he approved very much of the animation of themartyrdom scenes and felt reasonably sure that his hatband could notbe improved upon in the entire length and breadth of Stillwater, andthe young men of the town agreed with him, to say nothing of thegirls.
They also admired his riding gloves which, a strange affectation in acountry of buckskin, were always the softest and the smoothest and themost comfortable kid that could be obtained.
Truth to tell, he did not handle a rope. He could not tell the nooseend of a lariat from the straight end, hardly. Neither did RonickyDoone know the slightest thing about barbed wire, except how to cutit when he wished to ride through. Let us look closely at the handsthemselves, as Ronicky stands in the door of the hotel and stares atthe people walking by. For he has taken off his gloves and he nowrolls a cigarette.
They are very long hands. The fingers are extremely slender andtapering. The wrists are round and almost as innocent of sinews as thewrists of a woman, save when he grips something, and then how theystand out. But, most remarkable of all, the skin of the palms of thosehands is amazingly soft. It is truly as soft as the skin of the handof a girl.
There were some who shook their heads when they saw those hands. Therewere some who inferred that Ronicky Doone was little better than ascapegrace, and that, in reality, he had never done a better or moreuseful thing than handle cards and swing a revolver. In both of whicharts it was admitted that he was incredibly dexterous. As a matterof fact, since there was no estate from which he drew an income, andsince he had never been known in the entire history of his young lifeto do a single stroke of productive work of any kind, the bittertruth was that Ronicky Doone was no better and no worse than a commongambler.
Indeed, if to play a game of chance is to commit a sin, Ronicky Doonewas a very great sinner. Yet it should be remarked that he lacked thefine art of taking the money of other less clever fellows when theywere intoxicated, and he also lacked the fine hardness of mind whichenables many gamblers to enjoy taking the last cent from an opponent.Also, though he knew the entire list of tricks in the repertoire ofa crooked gambler, he had never been known to employ tricking.He trusted in a calm head, a quick judgment, an ability to readcharacter. And, though he occasionally met with crooked professionalswho were wolves in the guise of sheep, no one had ever been known toplay more than one crooked trick at cards when playing against RonickyDoone. So, on the whole, he made a very good living.
What he had he gave or threw away in wild spending or loaned tofriends, of whom he had a vast number. All of which goes to explainthe soft hands of Ronicky Doone and his nervous, swift-moving fingers,as he stood at the door of the hotel. For he who plays long with cardsor dice begins to have a special sense developed in the tips of hisfingers, so that they seem to be independent intelligences.
He crossed his feet. His boots were the finest leather, bench-made bythe best of bootmakers, and they fitted the high-arched instep withthe elastic smoothness of gloves. The man of the mountain desertdresses the extremities and cares not at all for the mid sections.The moment Doone was off his horse those boots had to be dressed andrubbed and polished to softness and brightness before this luxuriousgambler would walk about town. From the heels of the boots extended along pair of spurs--surely a very great vanity, for never in her lifehad his beautiful mare, Lou, needed even the touch of a spur.
But Ronicky Doone could not give up this touch of luxury. The spurswere plated heavily with gold, and they swept up and out in a long,exquisite curve, the hub of the rowel set with diamonds.
In a word Ronicky Doone was a dandy, but he had this peculiarity,that he seemed to dress to please himself rather than the rest of theworld. His glances never roved about taking account of the admirationof others. As he leaned there in the door of the hotel he was the typeof the young, happy, genuine and carefree fellow, whose mind is noheavier with a thousand dollars or a thousand cents in his pocket.
Suddenly he started from his lounging place, caught his hat morefirmly over his eyes, threw away his unlighted cigarette and hurriedacross the veranda of the hotel. Had he seen an enemy to chastise,or an old friend to greet, or a pretty girl? No, it was only old JudHarding, the blacksmith, whose hand had lost its strength, but whostill worked iron as others mold putty, simply because he had thegenius for his craft. He was staggering now under a load of boardswhich he had shouldered to carry to his shop. In a moment that loadwas shifted to the shoulder of Ronicky Doone, and they went on downthe street, laughing and talking together until the load was droppedon the floor of Harding's shop.
"And how's the sick feller coming?" asked Harding.
"Coming fine," answered Ronicky. "Couple of days and I'll have him outfor a little exercise. Lucky thing it was a clean wound and didn'tnick the bone. Soon as it's healed over he'll never know he wasplugged."
Harding considered his young friend with twinkling eyes. "Queer thingto me," he said, "is how you and this gent Gregg have hit it off sowell together. Might almost say it was like you'd shot Gregg and nowwas trying to make up for it. But, of course, that ain't the truth."
"Of course not," said Ronicky gravely and met the eye of Hardingwithout faltering.
"Another queer thing," went on the cunning old smith. "He was foolingwith that gun while he was in the saddle, which just means that themuzzle must of been pretty close to his skin. But there wasn't anysign of a powder burn, the doc says."
"But his trousers was pretty bad burned, I guess," said Ronicky.
"H-m," said the blacksmith, "that's the first time I've heard aboutit." He went on more seriously: "I got something to tell you, Ronicky.Ever hear the story about the gent that took pity on the snake thatwas stiff with cold and brought the snake in to warm him up beside thefire? The minute the snake come to life he sunk his fangs in the gentthat had saved him."
"Meaning," said Ronicky, "that, because I've done a good turn forGregg, I'd better look out for him?"
"Meaning nothing," said Harding, "except that the reason the snake bitthe gent was because he'd had a stone heaved at him by the same manone day and hadn't forgot it."
But Ronicky Doone merely laughed and turned back toward the hotel.