Part 2 (2/2)
”Oh, what shall I do!” she cried.
”Is your son safe,” I asked, ”while Ryan lives?”
”Why do you say that?”
”Didn't your man drive all the people off the Balshannon range, and make it a desert?”
”Alas! may he be forgiven!”
”Will Ryan forgive? Is your son safe?”
I sat dead quiet while the lady cried. When a woman stampedes that way you can't point her off her course, or she'd mill round into hysterics; you can't head her back, for she'd dry up hostile; so it's best to let her have her head and run. When she's tired running she'll quit peaceful.
I lit a cigarette and began to round up all the facts in sight, then to cut the ones I wanted, and let the rest of the herd adrift.
When our Balshannon outfit first camped down in Holy Cross, this Ryan began to acc.u.mulate with his family in the nearest city--this being Grave City--one hundred miles west. Grave City was new then; a yearling of a city, but built on silver, and undercut with mines. Ryan took Chance by the tail and held on, starting a livery stable, then a big hotel, while he dealt in mines and helped poor prospectors to find wealth. So Ryan bogged down in riches, the leading man at Grave City, with daughters in society, and two sons at college. Only this Ryan was shy of meeting up with Lord Balshannon, and I took notice year after year that when my boss went to the city Mr. Ryan happened away on business. Someone was warning Ryan.
”Lady,” said I, so sudden that she forgot to go on crying. ”You've warned Ryan again and again.”
”How do you know that, Billy?”
”It's a hundred-mile ride to Grave City, but it's only sixty to Lordsburgh on the railroad. Every time the boss goes to Grave City you send off a rider swift to Lordsburgh. He telegraphs from there to Grave City.”
”Messages to my husband.”
”And warnings to Ryan!”
She was struck silent.
”You're saving up Ryan until he gets the chance--to strike.”
”Oh, how can you say such things! Besides, Mr. Ryan's afraid, that's why he runs away.”
”Ryan ain't playing no common bluff with guns. The game he plays ain't killing. He wants you--all alive--like a cat wants mice; I don't know how, I don't know when--but here are the words he nailed on to the door of this house before Lord Balshannon came:--
”'The time will come when, driven from your home, without a roof to cover you or a crust to eat, your wife and boy turned out to die in the desert, you----'”
”Stop! Stop!” she screamed.
”Promise me, lady, that you'll send no more messages to Ryan.”
”It's murder!”
”No, lady, this is a man's game, called war!”
”I promise,” she whispered, ”I'll send no more warnings.”
<script>