Curly Part 2

Upon the level roof of Holy Cross there was s.p.a.ce enough to handle cavalry, and a wide outlook across the desert. There we had lie-down chairs, rugs, and cushions; and after dinner, when the day's work was done, we would sit watching the sunset, the red afterglow, the rich of night come up in the east, the big stars wheeling slowly until it was sleep-time. But when the boy was at college, and the boss away from home, there was only Lady Balshannon and me to share the long evenings.

"Billy," she said once, for she never would call me Chalkeye, "Billy, do you know that I'm dying?"

"Yes, mum, and me too, but I don't reckon to swim a river till I reach the brink."

"My feet are in the waters, Billy, now."

"I wouldn't hurry, mum. It may be heaven beyond, or it may be--disappointing."

"You dear boy," she laughed; "I want to tell you a story."

I lit a cigarette, and lay down at the rugs at her feet. "I can bear it, mum."

She lay back in her chair, brushing off the warm with her fan.

"Did my husband ever tell you about a man named Ryan?"

"Not to me--no."

"Well, the Ryans were tenant farmers on the Balshannon Estate, at home in Ireland. They were well-to-do yeomen, almost gentlefolk, and George Ryan and my husband were at school together. They might have been friends to-day, but for the terrible Land League troubles, which set the tenants against their landlords. It was a sort of smouldering war between the poor folk and our unhappy Irish gentry. It's not for me to judge; both sides were more or less in the wrong; both suffered, the landlords ruined, the tenants driven into exile. It's all too sad to talk about.

"My husband's regiment was in India then; my son was born there. Rex used to get letters from poor Lord Balshannon, his father, who was all alone at Balshannon, reduced to dreadful poverty, trying to do his duty as a magistrate, while the wretched peasants had to be driven from their homes. His barns were burnt, twice the house was set on fire, his cattle and horses were mutilated in the fields, and he never went out without expecting to be shot from behind a hedge. He needed help, and at last my husband couldn't bear it any longer. He sent in his papers, left the profession he loved, and went back to Ireland. He was so impatient to see all his old friends that he wired Mr. George Ryan to meet the train at Blandon, and drive with him up to Balshannon House for dinner. n.o.body else was told that Colonel du Chesnay was coming. Would you believe it, Billy, those Land Leaguers tore up the track near Blandon Station, pointing the broken rails out over the river! Mr. Ryan was their leader, who knew that my husband was in the train. n.o.body else knew. No, mercifully the train wasn't wrecked. The driver pulled up just in time, and my husband left the train then, and walked up through Balshannon Park to the house. He found his father ill in bed; something wrong with the heart, and sat nursing him until nearly midnight, when the old man fell asleep. After that he crept down very quietly to the dining-room.

He found cheese and biscuits, and went off in search of some ale. When he came back he found Mr. Ryan in the dining-room.

"The man was drenched to the skin, and scratched from breaking through hedges. He said that the police were after him with a warrant on the charge of attempted train-wrecking. He swore that he was innocent, that he had come to appeal to Lord Balshannon against what he described as a police conspiracy. Rex told him that the old man was too ill to be disturbed, that the least shock might be fatal. 'Surrender to me,' said Rex, 'and if the police have been guilty of foul play, I'll see that you get full justice.'

"At that moment they heard footsteps outside on the gravel, and peeping out through the window, Mr. Ryan found that the police had surrounded the building. He charged Rex with setting a trap to catch him: he pointed a pistol in my husband's face. 'Don't fire!' said Rex, 'my father is upstairs very ill, and if you fire the shock may be fatal.

Don't fire!'

"Mr. Ryan fired.

"The bullet grazed my husband's head, and knocked him senseless. When he recovered he found that Ryan had escaped--n.o.body knows how, and a sergeant of the Royal Irish Constabulary told him that the police were in hot pursuit. He heard shots fired in the distance, and that made him frightened for his father. He rushed out of the room, and half-way up the staircase found the old may lying dead. The shock had killed him."

"Lady," I said, "if I were the boss, I'd shoot up that Ryan man into small sc.r.a.ps."

"Billy, you've got to save my husband from being a murderer."

"Ryan," said I, "ain't eligible for the grave until he meets up with Balshannon's gun."

"Promise me to save my husband from this crime."

"But I cayn't promise to shoot up this Ryan myself. He's Balshannon's meat, not mine."

"You must dissuade my husband."

"I'll dissuade none between a man and his kill."

"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."