 CHAPTER I. A Horse in Need. He came into town as a solid, swiftly moving dust cloud. The wind from behind had kept the dust moving forward at a pace just equal to the gallop of his horse. Not until he had brought his mount to a halt in front of the hotel and swung down to the ground did either he or his horse become distinctly visible. Then it was seen that the animal was in the last stages of exhaustion, with dull eyes and hanging head and forelegs braced wide apart while the sweat dripped steadily from his flanks into the white dust on the street. Plainly he had been pushed to the last limit of his strength. The rider was almost as far spent as his mount, for he went up the steps of the hotel with his shoulders sagging with weariness, a wide-shouldered, gaunt-ribbed man. Thick layers of dust had turned his red kerchief and blue shirt into common gray. Dust too made a mask of his face, and through the mask the eyes peered out, surrounded by pink skin. Even at its best the long, solemn face could never have been called handsome. But on this particular day he seemed a haunted man, or one fleeing from inescapable danger. The two loungers at the front door of the hotel instinctively stepped aside and made room for him to pass, but apparently he had no desire to enter the building. Suddenly he became doubly imposing, as he stood on the veranda, and stared up and down at the idlers. Certainly his throat must be thick and hot with dust, but an over-mastering purpose made him oblivious of thirst. Jents, he said huskily, while the wind fanned a cloud of dust from his clothes. Is there anybody in this town can give me a haas to get to still water inside of three hours riding? He waited a moment, his hungry eyes traveling eagerly from face to face. Naturally the oldest man spoke first, since this was a matter of life and death. Any haas in town can get you there in that time, if you know the short way across the mountain. How do you take it? That's the way for me. But the old fellow shook his head and smiled and pity. Not if you ain't rode it before. I used to go up that way when I was a kid, but nowadays nobody rides that way except Dune. The trail is tricky as the ways of a coyote, you'd sure get lost without a guide. The stranger turned and followed the gesture of the speaker. The mountain rose from the very verge of the town, a ragged mass of sand and rock with miserable sagebrush clinging here and there, as dull and uninteresting as the dust itself. Then he lowered the hand from beneath which he had peered and faced about with a sigh. I guess it ain't much good trying that way, but I still got to get to still water inside of three hours. There's one haas in town can get you there, said the old man. But you can't get that haas today. The stranger groaned, then I'll make another haas stretch out and do. Can't be done. Dune's haas is a marvel. Nothing else about here can touch him, and he's the only one can make the trip around the mountain, inside three hours. You'd kill another haas trying to do it, what, with your weight? The stranger groaned again, and struck his knuckles against his forehead. But why can't I get the haas? Is Dune out of town with it? The haas ain't out of town, but Dune is. The traveller clenched his fists. The delay and the waste of precious time was maddening him. Gents, he called desperately, I got to get to Martindale today. It's more than life and death to me. Where's Dune's haas? Right across the road, said the old man who had spoken first, over yonder in the corral, the bay. The traveller turned and saw, beyond the road, a beautiful mare, not very tall, but a mare whose every inch of her fifteen-three proclaimed strength and speed. At that moment she raised her head and looked across to him, and the heart of the rider jumped into his throat. The sight of her was an omen of victory, and he made a long stride in her direction, but the two men came before him. The old man jumped from the chair and tapped his arm. You ain't going to take the bay without getting leave from Dune. Gents, I got to, said the stranger. Listen, my name's Greg, Bill Greg. Up in my country they know I'm straight. Down here you ain't heard of me. I ain't going to keep the horse, and I'll pay a hundred dollars for the use of her for one day. I'll bring, or send her back safe and sound, to-morrow. Here's the money. One of you gents, that's a friend of Dune, take it for him. Not a hand was stretched out. Every head shook in negation. I'm too fond of the little life left to me, said the old man. I won't rent out the horse for him. Why he loves that mare like she was his sister. He'd fight like a flash rather than see another man rider. But Bill Greg had his eyes on the bay, and the sight of her was stealing his reason. He knew, as well as he knew that he was a man, that once in the saddle on her, he would be sure to win. Nothing could stop him. And straight through the restraining circle he broke with a groan of anxiety. Only the old man who had been the spokesman called after him, Greg, don't be a fool. Maybe you don't recognize the name Dune. But the whole name is Ronicky Dune. Does that mean anything to you? Into the back of Greg's mind came several faint memories, but they were obscure and uncertain. Blast you, Ronicky Dune, he replied. I got to have that haas, and if none of you'll take the money for her rent, I'll take her free and pay the rent when I come back through this way to-morrow, maybe. So long. While he spoke he had been undoing the cinches of his own horse. Now he whipped the saddle and bridle off, shouted to the hotelkeeper brief instructions for care of the weary animal, and ran across the road with the saddle on his arm. In the corral he had no difficulty with the mare. She came straight to him in spite of all the flopping trappings. With prickly ears and eyes lighted with kindly curiosity she looked the dusty fellow over. He slipped the bridle over her head. When he swung the saddle over her back she merely turned her head and carelessly watched it fall. And when he drew up the cinches hard she only stamped in mock anger. The moment he was in the saddle she tossed her head eagerly, ready to be off. He looked across the street to the veranda of the hotel as he passed through the gate of the corral. The men were standing in a long and awestruck in line, their eyes wide, their mouths agape. Whoever Ronicky Dune might be he was certainly a man who had won the respect of this town. The men on the veranda looked at Bill Gregg as though he were already a ghost. He waved his hand defiantly at them, and the mare at a word from him sprang into a long striding gallop that whirled them rapidly down the street and out of the village. The bay carried him with amazing speed over the ground. They rounded the base of the big mountain and glancing up at the ragged canyons which chopped the face of the peak he was glad that he had not attempted that shortcut. If Ronicky Dune could make that trail he was a skillful horseman. Bill Gregg swung up over the left shoulder of the mountain and found himself looking down on the wide plain which held still water. The air was crystal clear and dry. The shoulder of the mountain was high above it. Gregg saw a breathless stretch of cattle-country at one sweep of his eyes. Still water was still a long way off, and a far way across the plain he saw a tiny moving dot that grew smaller. It was the train heading for still water, and that train must be beat to the station. For a moment his heart stood still. Then he saw the train was distant indeed, and by the slightest use of the mare's speed he would be able to reach town two or three minutes ahead of it. But just as he was beginning to exalt in the victory, after all the hard riding of the past three days, the mare tossed up her head and shortened her stride. The heart of Gregg stopped, and he went cold. It was not only the fear that his journey might be ruined, but the fear that something had happened to this magnificent creature beneath him. He swung to the side in the saddle and watched her gallop. Certain she went laboring, very much as though she were trying to run against a mighty pull of the reins. He looked at her head. It was thrown high with pricking ears. Perhaps she was frightened by some foolish thing near the road. He touched her with his spurs, and she increased her pace to the old length and ease of stride. But just as he began to be reassured, her step shortened and fell into laboring again, and this time she threw her head higher than before. It was amazing to Bill Gregg. And then it seemed to him that he heard a faint, far whistling, floating down from above his head. Again, the thin, long-drawn sound, and this time, glancing over his right shoulder, he saw a horseman plunging down the slope of the mountain. He knew instantly that it was Ronnicki Dune. The man had come to recapture his horse, and had taken the shortcut across the mountain to come up with her. Just by a fraction of a minute Dune would be too late, for by the time he came down the trail the bay would be well ahead, and certainly no horse lived in these mountains capable of overtaking her when she felt like running. Gregg touched her again with his spurs, but this time she reared straight up, and whirling to the side, faced steadily toward her onrushing master. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 of Ronnicki Dune. Again and again, Gregg spurred the bay cruelly. She winced from the pain, and snorted, but apparently having not the slightest knowledge of bucking, she could only shake her head, and send a ringing whinny of appeal up the slope of the mountain toward the approaching rider. In spite of the approaching danger, in spite of the delay which was ruining his chances of getting to Stillwater before the train, Bill Gregg watched in marvel and delight the horseman's ship of the stranger. Ronnicki Dune, if this were he, was certainly the prince of all wild riders. Even as the mare stopped in answer to the signal of her owner, Ronnicki Dune sent his mount over the edge of a veritable cliff, flung back on his haunches, and slid down the gravelly slope careening from side to side. With a rush of pebbles about him, and a dust-cloud whirling after, Ronnicki Dune broke out into the road ahead of the mare, and she winnied softly again to greet him. Bill Gregg found himself looking not into the savage face of a gun-fighter, as he had been led to expect, but a handsome fellow, several years younger than he, a high-headed, straight-eyed, buoyant type. In his seat in the saddle, in the pose of his head and the play of his hand on the reins, Bill Gregg recognized a boundless nervous force. There was nothing ponderous about Ronnicki Dune. Indeed, he was not more than middle-size, but as he reigned his horse in the middle of the road, and looked with flashing eyes at Bill Gregg, he appeared very large indeed. Gregg was used to fighting or paying his way, or doing both at the same time, as occasion offered. He decided this was certainly an occasion for much money and few words. "'You're Dune, I guess,' he said, and you know I've played a pretty bad trick on you, taking your horse this way. But I wanted to pay for it, Dune, and I'll pay now. I've got to get to Stillwater before that train. Look at her. I haven't hurt her any. Her wind isn't touched. She's pretty wet, but sweat never hurt nothing on four feet, eh?' "'I don't know,' returned Ronnicki Dune. I'd as soon run off with a man's wife as his horse. "'Partner,' said Bill Gregg desperately, I have to get there. Then get there on your own feet, not the feet of another gent's horse.' Gregg controlled his rising anger. Beyond him the train was looming larger and larger in the plane, and Stillwater seemed more and more distant. He writhed in the saddle. "'I tell you I'll pay. I'll pay the whole value of the horse, if you want.' He was about to say more when he saw the eyes of Ronnicki Dune widen and fix. "'Look,' said the other suddenly, you've been cutting her up with the spurs.' Gregg glanced down to the flank of the bay to discover that he had used the spurs more recklessly than he thought. A sharp rowl had pricked through the skin, and though it was probably only a slight wound indeed, it had brought a smear of red to the surface. Ronnicki Dune trembled with anger. "'Con found you,' he said furiously. Any fool would have known that you didn't need a spur on that horse. What part do you come from where they teach you to kill a horse when you ride it? Can you tell me that? I'll tell you after I get to Stillwater. I'll see you hung before I see you in Stillwater.' "'You talk too much, Dune,' Gregg said huskily. "'I've just begun,' said Dune. "'Then take this and shut up,' exclaimed Bill Gregg. Ordinarily he was the straightest and squarist man in the world in a fight. But a sudden anger had flared up in him. He had an impulse to kill, to get rid of this obstacle between him and everything he wanted most in life. Without more warning than that he snatched out his revolver and fired point-blank at Ronnicki Dune. Certainly all approaches to a fight had been made, and Dune might have expected the attack. At any rate, as the gun shot out of Gregg's holster, the other swung himself sideways in his own saddle and snapping out his revolver fired from the hip. That swerve to the side saved him, doubtless, from the shot of Gregg. His own bullet cloud clear through the thigh of the other rider. The whole leg of Gregg went numb, and he found himself slumping helplessly to one side. He dropped his gun, and he had to cling with both hands to lower himself out of the saddle. Now he sat in the dust of the trail and stared stupidly, not at his conqueror, but at the train which was flashing into the little town of Stillwater just below them. He hardly heated Ronnicki Dune, as the latter started forward with an oath knelt beside him and examined the wound. It s clean, Dune said, as he started ripping up his undershirt to make bandages. I ll have you fixed so you can be gotten into Stillwater. He began to work rapidly, twisting the claws around Gregg's thigh, which he had first laid bare by some dexterous use of a hunting-knife. Then Gregg turned his eyes to those of Dune. The train had pulled out of Stillwater. The sound of the coughing engine as it started up came faintly to them after a moment. Of all the damn fools, said the two men in one voice, and then they grended each other. Certainly it was not the first fight or the first wound for either of them. I m sorry they began again, speaking together in chorus. Where a fact, said Ronnicki Dune, that bay means a pile to me. When I seen the red on her side, can't be more than a chance prick. I know, said Ronnicki Dune, but I didn't stop to think. And I should have give you fair warning before I went for the gat. Look here, said Ronnicki, you talk like a straight sort of gent to me. And you thought I was a cross between a Haas thief and a gun-fighter? I don't know what I thought, except that I wanted my mare back. Stranger, I'm no in, sorry this has happened. Maybe you'd let me know why you was in such a hurry to get to Stillwater. If there's any trouble coming down the road behind you, maybe I can help take care of it for you. And he smiled coldly and significantly at Bill Gregg. The latter eyed with some wonder the man who had just shot him down, and was now offering to fight for his safety. Nothing like that, said Bill. I was going to Stillwater to meet a girl. As much of a rush as that, all to see a girl? On that train, Ronnicki Dune whistled softly, and I messed it up. But why didn't you tell me what you wanted? I didn't have a chance, besides, I couldn't waste time in talking and explaining to everybody along the road. Sure you couldn't, but the girl will forgive you when she finds out what happened. No, she won't, because she'll never find out. Eh? I don't know where she is. Writing all that way just to see a girl? It's a long story, partner, and this leg is beginning to act up. Tell you the best thing would be for you to jump on your mare and jog into Stillwater for a buckboard, and then come back and get me. What do you say? Twenty minutes after Ronnicki Dune had swung into the saddle and raced down the road, the buckboard arrived, and the wounded man was helped onto a pile of blankets in the body of the wagon. The shooting, of course, was explained by the inevitable gun accident. Ronnicki Dune happened to be passing along that way and saw Bill Gregg looking over his revolver as he rode along. At that moment the gun exploded and—the two men who had come out in the buckboard listened to the tale with expressionless faces. As a matter of fact, they had already heard in Stillwater that no less a person than Ronnicki Dune was on his way toward that village in pursuit of a man who had ridden off on the famous Bay Mare, Lou. But they accepted Ronnicki's bland version of the accident with perfect calm and with many expressions of sympathy. They would have other things to say after they had deposited the wounded man in Stillwater. The trip was a painful one for Bill Gregg. For one thing the exhaustion of the three days long trip was now causing a wave of weariness to sweep over him. The numbness, which had come through the leg immediately after the shooting, was now replaced by a steady and continued aching. And more than all he was unnerved by the sense of utter failure, utter loss. Never in his life had he fought so bitterly and steadily for a thing, and yet he had lost at the very verge of success. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 of Ronnicki Dune This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Rowdy Delaney, Idaho, USA. Ronnicki Dune By Max Brand Chapter 3 At Stillwater The true story, of course, was known almost at once. But since Ronnicki Dune swore that he would tackle the first man who accused him of shooting down Bill Gregg, the talk was confined to whispers. In the meantime Stillwater rejoiced in the possession of Ronnicki Dune. Beyond one limited section of the mountain desert he was not as yet known, but he had one of those personalities which are called electric. Whatever he did seemed greater because he, Ronnicki Dune, had done it. Not that he had done a great many things as yet, but there was a peculiar feeling in the air that Ronnicki Dune was capable of great and strange performances. Men older than he were willing to accept him as their leader, men younger than he idolized him. Ronnicki Dune then, the admired of all beholders, is leaning in the doorway of Stillwater's second and best hotel. His bandana today is a terrific yellow, set off with crimson half moon and stars strewn liberally on it. His shirt is merely white, but it is given some significance by having nearly half of a red silk handkerchief falling out of the breast pocket. His sombrero is one of those works of art which Mexican families pass from father to son. Only his was new and had not yet received that limp effect of age. And, like the godiest Mexican headpiece, the band of this sombrero was of purest gold, beaten into the forms of various saints. Ronnicki Dune knew nothing at all about saints, but he approved very much of the animation of the martyrdom scenes, and felt reasonably sure that his hat band could not be improved upon in the entire length and breadth of Stillwater, and the young men of the town agreed with him to say nothing of the girls. They also admired his riding-gloves, which, a strange affactation in a country of buckskin, were always the softest and smoothest and most comfortable kid that could be obtained. Truth to tell, he did not handle a rope. He could not tell the noose end of a lariat from the straight end, hardly. Later did Ronnicki Dune know the slightest thing about barbed wire, except how to cut it when he wished to ride through. Let us look closely at his hands themselves, as Ronnicki stands in the door of the hotel and stares at people walking by. For he has taken off his gloves, and he now rolls a cigarette. They are very long hands. The fingers are extremely slender and tapering. The wrists are round, and almost as innocent of sinews as the wrists of a woman. Just when he grips something, and then how they stand out. But most remarkable of all, the skin of the palms of those hands is amazingly soft. It is truly as soft as the skin of the hand of a girl. There were some who shook their heads when they saw those hands. There were some who inferred that Ronnicki Dune was little better than a scape-grace, and that, in reality, he had never done a better or more useful thing than handle cards or swing a revolver. In both of which arts it was admitted that he was incredibly dexterous. As a matter of fact, since there was no estate from which he drew an income, and since he had never been known in the entire history of his young life to do a single stroke of productive work of any kind, the bitter truth was that Ronnicki Dune was no better and no worse than a common gambler. Indeed, if to play a game of chance was to commit a sin, Ronnicki Dune was a very great sinner. It should be remarked that he lacked the fine art of taking the money of other less clever fellows when they were intoxicated, and he also lacked the fine hardness of mind which enables many gamblers to enjoy taking the last scent from an opponent. Also though he knew the entire list of tricks in the repertoire of a crooked gambler, he had never been known to employ tricking. He trusted in a calm head, a quick judgment, an ability to read character. And though he occasionally met with crooked professionals who were wolves in the guise of sheep, no one had ever been known to play more than one crooked trick at cards when playing against Ronnicki Dune. So on the whole he made a very good living. What he had, he gave or threw away in wild spending or loaned to friends of whom he had a vast number, all of which goes to explain the soft hands of Ronnicki Dune and his nervous, swift moving fingers as he stood at the door of the hotel. For he who plays long with cards or dice begins to have a special sense developed in the tips of his fingers so that they seem to be independent intelligences. He crossed his feet. His boots were the finest leather bench made by the best bootmakers and they fitted the high arched instep with the elastic smoothness of gloves. The man of the mountain desert dresses the extremities and cares not at all for the midsections. The moment Dune was off his horse those boots had to be dressed and rubbed and polished to softness and brightness before this luxurious gambler would walk about town. From the heel of the boots extended a long pair of spurs. Surely a very great vanity, for never in her life had his beautiful mare, Lou, needed even a touch of a spur. But Ronnicki Dune could not give up this touch of luxury. The spurs were plated heavily with gold and they swept up and out in a long exquisite curve, the hub of the row set with diamonds. In a word Ronnicki Dune was a dandy, but he had this peculiarity that he seemed to dress to please himself rather than the rest of the world. His glances never roved about taking account of the admiration of others. As he leaned there in the door of the hotel he was the type of the young, happy, genuine carefree fellow whose mind is no heavier with a thousand dollars or a thousand cents in his pocket. Suddenly he started from his lounging-place, caught his hat more firmly over his eyes, threw away his unlighted cigarette and hurried across the veranda of the hotel. He had seen an ennemy to chastise, or an old friend to greet, or a pretty girl? No, it was only old Jud Harding, the blacksmith, whose hand had lost its strength but who still worked iron as others mold putty simply because he had the genius for his craft. He was staggering now under a load of boards which he was shouldering to carry to his shop. In a moment that load was shifted to the shoulder of Ronnicki Dune, and then they went down the street, laughing, and talking, until the load was dropped on the floor of Harding's shop. And how's the sickfeller coming, asked Harding? Coming fine, answered Ronnicki. A couple of days, and I'll have him out for a little exercise. Only thing it was a clean wound, and didn't nick the bone. Soon as it's healed over, he'll never know he was plugged. Harding considered his young friend with twinkling eyes. Queer thing to me, he said, is how you and this gent Greg have hit it off so well together. Might almost say it was like you'd shot Greg, and now you was trying to make up for it, but of course that ain't the truth. Of course not, said Ronnicki gravely, and met the eye of Harding without faltering. Another queer thing went on, the cunning old Smith. He was fooling with his gun while he was in the saddle, which just means that the muzzle must have been pretty close to his skin. But there wasn't any sign of a powder burn, the doc says. But his trousers was pretty bad burned, I guess, said Ronnicki. Hmm, said the black Smith. That's the first time I've heard about it. He went on more seriously. I've got something to tell you, Ronnicki. Ever hear the story about the gent that took pity on the snake that was stiff with cold, and brought the snake in to warm him up beside the fire? The minute the snake come to life, he sunk his fangs into the gent that had saved him. Meaning, said Ronnicki, that because I've done a good turn for Greg I'd better look out for him? Meaning nothing, said Harding, except that the reason the snake bit the gent was because he'd had a stone heaved at him by the same man one day, and he hadn't forgotten. But Ronnicki dune merely laughed, and turned back toward the hotel. End of Chapter 3 CHAPTER 4 His Victims Trouble Yet he could not help pondering the words of old Harding. Bill Greg had been a strange patient. He had never repeated his first offer to tell his story. He remained sullen and silent, with his brooding eyes fixed on the blank wall before him, and nothing could permanently cheer him. Some inward gloom seemed to possess the man. The first day after the shooting he insisted on scrawling a painfully written letter, while Ronnicki propped a writing board in front of him, as he lay flat on his back in the bed, but that was his only act. Thereafter he remained silent and brooding. Perhaps it was hatred for Ronnicki that was growing in him, as the sense of disappointment increased. For Ronnicki, after all, had kept him from reaching that girl when the train passed through Stillwater. Perhaps for all Ronnicki knew, his bullet had ruined the happiness of two lives. He shrugged that disagreeable thought away, and, reaching the hotel, he went straight up to the room of the sick man. Bill, he said gently, have you been spending all your time hating me? Is that what keeps you thin and glum? Is it because you sit here all day blaming me for the things that have happened to you? The dark face flushed, and the uneasy flicker of Greg's glance gave sufficient answer. He duned side, and shook his head, but not in anger. You don't have to talk, he said. I see that I'm right. And I don't blame you, Bill, because maybe I've spoiled things pretty generally for you. At first the silence of Bill Greg admitted that he felt the same way about the matter. Yet he finally said aloud, I don't blame you. Maybe you thought I was a haas thief. But the thing is done, Ronnicki, and it can never be undone. Greg, said Ronnicki, do you know what you're going to do now? I don't know. You're going to sit there and roll a cigarette and tell me the whole yarn. You ain't through with this little chase. Not if I have to drag you along with me. But first, just figure that I'm your older brother or something like that, and get rid of the whole yarn. Got to have the ore specimens before you can assay them. Besides, it'll help a pile to get the poison out of your system. If you feel like cussing me hardy when the time comes, go ahead and cuss. But I got to hear that story. Maybe it would help, said Greg, but it's a full story to tell. Leave that to me to say whether it's a full story or not. You start talking. Greg shifted himself to a more comfortable position, as is the immemorial custom of storytellers, and his glance missed it a little with the flood of recollections. Started along back about a year ago, he said, I was up to the Sullivan Mountains working a claim. There wasn't much to it, just enough to keep me going sort of comfortable. I pegged away at it pretty steady, leading a lonely life and hoping every day I'd cut my way down to a good lead. Well, the fine ore never showed up. Meanwhile, I got pretty weary of the same mountains staring me in the face all the time. I didn't even have a dog with me for conversation, so I got to thinking. Thinking is a bad thing, mostly. Don't you agree, Ronikey? It sure is, replied Ronikey instantly. Not a bit of doubt about it. It starts you doubting things, went on Greg bitterly, and pretty soon you're even doubting yourself. Here he cast an envious glance at the smooth brow of his companion. But I guess that never happened to you, Ronikey. You'd be surprised if I told you, said Ronikey. Well, went on Bill Greg. I got so darn tired of my own thoughts and of myself that I decided something ought to be done, something to give me new things to think about. So I sat down and went over the whole deal. I had to get new ideas. Then I thought of what a gent told me once. He got pretty interested in mining and figured he wanted to know all about how the fancy things was done. So he sent off to some correspondence schools. Well, they're a great bunch. They say, write us a lot of letters and ask us your questions. Before you're through, you'll know something you want to know. See? I see. I didn't have anything special I wanted to learn, except how to use myself for company when I got tired of solitaire. So I sat down and wrote this here correspondence school and says, I want to do something interesting. How do you figure that I had better begin? And what do you think they answered back? I don't know, said Ronicky, his interest steadily increasing. Well, sir, the first thing they wrote back was, we have your letter, and we think in the first place you would better learn how to write. That was a queer answer, wasn't it? It sure was, Ronicky swallowed a smile. Every time I looked at that letter it sure made me plum mad. And I looked at it a hundred times a day and come near to tear it up every time. But I didn't, continued Bill. Why not? Because it was a woman that wrote it. I told by the hand after a while. A woman? Go on, Bill. This story sure sounds different than most. It ain't even started to get different yet, said Bill gloomily. Well, that letter made me so plum mad that I sat down and wrote everything I could think of that a gent would write to a girl to let her know what he thought about her. And what do you think happened? She wrote you back the prettiest letter you ever seen, suggested Ronicky, saying how she'd never meant to make you mad, and that if you, say, broke in, Bill Gregg, did I show that letter to you? Nope. I was just guessing at what a woman would do. You see? No, I don't. I could never figure them as close as that. Anyway, that's the thing she'd done right enough. She writes me a letter that was smooth as oil, and suggests that I go on with the composition course to learn how to write. Gonna have you do books, Bill? I ain't a plum fool, Ronicky. But I thought it wouldn't do no harm to unlimber my pen and fire out a few words a day. So I done it. I started writing what they told me to write about, the things that was around me, with a lot of lessons about how you can't use the same word twice on one page, and how terrible bad it is to use passive verbs. What's a passive verb, Bill? I didn't figure that out exactly. However, it seems like there's something that slows you up the way a muddy road slows up a haas. And then she began talking about the mountains, and then began asking about you, suggested Ronicky with a grin. Con found you, said Bill Gregg. How come you guessed that? I don't know. I just sort of sinned what was coming. Well, anyways, that's what she done. And pretty soon she sent me a snapshot of herself. Well, let me see it, said Ronicky Dune calmly. I don't know just where it is, maybe, replied Bill Gregg. I'll tell you, it's around your neck, in that nugget locket you wear there. For a moment Bill Gregg hated the other with his eyes, and then he submitted with a sheepish grin, took off the locket which was made of one big nugget rudely beaten into shape and opened it for the benefit of Ronicky Dune. It showed the latter not a beautiful face, but a pretty one, with a touch of honesty and pride that made her charming. Well, as soon as I got that picture, said Bill Gregg, as he took the locket back, I got excited. Looked to me like the girl was made for me. A lot finer than I could ever be, you see, but simple, no frills, no raven beauty, maybe, but darn easy to look at. First thing I done I went in and got a copy of my face made, and rushed it back to her, and then, he stopped, dullfully. What do you think, Ronicky? I don't know, said Ronicky, what happened then? Nothing, not a thing, not a word came back from her to answer that letter I'd sent along. Maybe you didn't look rich enough to suit her, Bill. I thought that, and I thought it was my ugly face that might have made her change her mind. I thought of pretty near everything else that was bad about me, and that she might read into my face. Ronicky made me sick for a long time. Somebody else was correct in my lessons, and that made me sicker than ever. So I sat down and wrote a letter to the head of the school, and told him I'd like the address of that first girl. You see, I didn't even know her name. But I didn't get no answer. Ronicky groaned. It don't look like the best detective in the world could help you find a girl when you don't know her name, he added gently, but maybe she don't want you to find her. I thought that for a long time. Then a while back I got a letter from San Francisco, saying she was coming on the train through these parts. And could I be in Stillwater, because the train stopped there a couple of minutes? Most like she thought Stillwater was just sort of across the street from me. Matter of fact, I jumped on a horse, and it took me three days a break in my neck to get near Stillwater, and then he stopped and cast a gloomy look on his companion. I know, said Ronicky. Then I come and spoiled the whole party. Sure makes me sick to think about it. And she's plum-gone, muttered Bill Gregg. I thought maybe the reason I didn't have her correct in my lessons anymore was because she had to leave the schools and go west. So right after I got this drillin' through my leg, you remember, I wrote a letter. Sure. It was to her at the schools, but I didn't get no answer. I guess she didn't go back there after all. She's plum-gone, Ronicky. The other was silent for a moment. How much would you give to find her, he asked suddenly? Half my life, said Bill Gregg solemnly. Then, said Ronicky, we'll make a try at it. I got an idea how we can start on the trail. I'm going to go with you, partner. I've messed up considerable, this little game of yours. Now I'm going to do what I can to straighten it out. Sometimes two are better than one. Anyway, I'm going to stick with you till you found her or lost her for good, you see? Bill Gregg sighed. You're pretty straight, Ronicky, he said. But what good does it do for two gents to look for a needle in a haystack? How could we start to hit the trail? This way. We know the train that she took. Maybe we could find a Pullman conductor that was on it. And he might remember her. They got good memories, some of them gents. We'll start to find him, which it ought to be pretty easy. Ronicky, I'd never thought of that in a million years. It ain't thinkin' we want now. It's actin'. When can you start with me? I'll be fit to-morrow. Then to-morrow we start. End of Chapter 4, Chapter 5 of Ronicky Dune. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Rowdy Delaney, Idaho, USA. Ronicky Dune. By Max Brand. Chapter 5. Macklin's Library. Robert Macklin, Pullman conductor, had risen to the eminent position so early in life that the glamour of it had not yet passed away. He was large enough to have passed for a champion wrestler, or a burly pugilist, and he was small enough to glory in the smallest details of his work. Having at the age of thirty, through a great deal of luck and a touch of accident, secured his place, he possessed, at least, sufficient dignity to fill it. He was one of those rare men that carry their dignity with them past the door of their homes. Robert Macklin's home, during the short intervals when he was off the trains, was a tiny apartment. It was really one not overly large room, with a little alcove adjoining. But Robert Macklin had seized the opportunity to hang a curtain across the alcove, and since it was large enough to contain a chair and a bookshelf, he referred to it always as his library. He was this morning seated in his library, with his feet protruding through the curtains and resting on the foot of his bed, when the doorbell rang. He surveyed himself in his mirror before he answered it. Having decided that in his dressing-gown he was imposing enough, he advanced to the door and slowly opened it. He saw before him two sun-darkened men, whose soft gray hats proclaimed that they were newly come out of the West. This one was a fellow whose face had been made stern by hard work and few pleasures in life. The other was one who, apparently, had never worked at all. There was something about him that impressed Robert Macklin. He might be a young Western millionaire, for instance. Aside from his hat, he was dressed with elaborate care. He wore gray spats, and his clothes were obviously well tailored, and his neck-tie was done in a bow. On the whole he was a very cool, comfortable-looking chap. The handkerchief, which protruded from his breast pocket and showed an edging of red, was a trifle noisy, and the soft gray hat was hardly in keeping, but on the whole he was a dashing-looking chap. The baggy trousers and the blunt shoes of his companion were to Robert Macklin a distinct shock. He centered all his attention instantly on the younger of the two visitors. Your Robert Macklin, I guess, said the handsome man. I am, said Macklin, and stepping back from the door he invited them in with a sweeping gesture. There were only two chairs, but the younger of the strangers immediately made himself comfortable on the bed. My name's Dune, he said, and this is Mr. William Gregg. We think that you have some information which we can use. Mind if we fire a few questions? Certainly not, said Robert Macklin. At the same time he began to arm himself with caution. One could never tell. Matter of fact, when on Ronnicki smoothly, lighting a tailor-made cigarette while his companion rolled one of his own making, we are looking for a lady who was on one of your trains. We think you may possibly remember her. Here's a picture. And as he passed a snapshot to the Pullman conductor, he went on with the details of the date and the number of the train. Robert Macklin in the meantime studied the picture carefully. He had a keen eye for faces, but when it came to pretty faces his memory was a veritable lion. He had talked a few moments to this very girl and she had smiled at him. The memory made Robert Macklin's lips twitch just a trifle and Ronnicki Dune saw it. Presently the dignitary returned the picture and raised his head from thought. It is vaguely behind my mind, something about this lady, he said, but I'm sorry to say, gentlemen, I really don't know you and— Why don't you know us, broke-in Bill Gregg? Ain't my partner just introduced us? Exactly said Robert Macklin and his opinion of the two sank a full hundred points. Such grammar proclaimed a ruffian. You don't get his drift, Ronnicki was explaining to his companion. I introduced us, but he doesn't know who I am. We should have brought along a letter of introduction. He turned to Macklin. I am mighty sorry I didn't get one, he said. It came to Macklin for a fraction of a second that he was being mocked, but he instantly dismissed the foolish thought. Even the ruff fellows must be able to recognize a man when they saw one. The point is, went on Ronnicki gently, that my friend is very eager for important reasons to see this lady, to find her. And he doesn't even know her name. Here his careful grammar gave out with a crash. You can't beat a deal like that, eh, Macklin? If you can remember anything about her—her name, first, then, where she was bound, who was with her, how tall she is, the color of her eyes—we'd be glad to know anything you know. What can you do for us? Macklin cleared his throat thoughtfully. Gentlemen, he said gravely, if I knew the purpose for which you were seeking the lady, I— The purpose ain't to kidnapper, if that's your drift, said Ronnicki. We ain't going to treat her wrong, partner. Out in our part of the land they don't do it. Just shake up your thoughts, and see if something about that girl doesn't pop right into your head. Robert Macklin smiled, and carefully shook his head. It seems to be impossible for me to remember a thing, he asserted. Not even the color of her eyes? Asked Ronnicki, as he grinned. He went on more gravely. I'm pretty dead sure that you do remember something about her. There was a shade of a threat in the voice of this slender youngster, and Robert Macklin had been an amateur pugilist of much brawn, and a good deal of boxing skill. He cast a weary eye on Ronnicki. One punch would settle that, fellow. The man, Greg, might be a harder nut to crack, but it would not take long to finish them both. Robert Macklin thrust his shoulders forward. Friends, he said gruffly, I don't have much time off. This is my day for rest. I have to say good-bye. Ronnicki Dune stood up with a yawn. I thought so, he said to his companion. Mind the door, Greg, and see that nobody steps in and busts up my little party. What are you going to do? I'm going to argue with this gent in a way he'll understand a pile better than the chatter we've been making so far. He stepped a long, light pace forward. Macklin, you know what we want to find out. Will you talk? A cloud of red gathered before the eyes of Macklin. It was impossible that he must believe his ears, and yet the words still rang there. Why curse you, little rat-face! Burst out Robert Macklin, and stepping in he leaned forward with the perfect straight left. Certainly his long vacation from boxing had not ruined his eye or stiffened his muscles. With delight he felt the big sinews about his shoulders come into play. Straight and true the big fist drove to the face of the smaller man, but Robert Macklin found that he had punched a hole in thin air. It was as if the very wind of the blow had brushed the head of Ronnicki Dune to one side, and at the same time he seemed to sway and stagger forward. A hard, lean fist struck Robert Macklin's body. As he gasped and doubled up, clubbing his right fist to land a blow behind the ear of Ronnicki Dune, the latter bent back, stepped in, and rising on the toes of both feet whipped a perfect uppercut that in ring parlance rang the bell. The result was that Robert Macklin, his mouth agape, and his eyes dull, stood wobbling slowly from side to side. Robert called Ronnicki to his companion at the door. Grab him on one side, and I'll take the other. He's out on his feet. Get him to that chair. With Greg's assistance he dragged the bulk of the man there. Macklin was still stunned. Presently the eyes cleared and filled immediately with horror. Big Robert Macklin sank limply back in the chair. I have no money, he said. I swear I haven't a cent in the place. He's in the bank, but if a check will— We don't want your money this trip, said Ronnicki. We want talk, Macklin. A lot of talk, and a lot of true talk. Understand it's about that girl. I saw you grin when you saw the picture. You remember her well enough. Now start talking, and remember this. If you lie, I'll come back here and find out and use this on you. The eyes of Robert Macklin started from his head as his gaze concentrated on the black muzzle of the gun. He moistened his white lips and managed to gasp. Everything I know—of course. I'll tell you everything, word for word, she—her name, I mean. You're doing fine, said Ronnicki. Keep it up. And you keep away, Bill. When you come at him with that hungry look he thinks you're going to eat him up. Fire away, Macklin. What's first? What's she look like? First brown hair, blue eyes, her mouth is a little big. That's all right. You don't have to be polite and lie. We want the truth. How big is she? About five feet and five inches. Must weigh around a hundred and thirty pounds. You sure are an expert on the ladies, Macklin, and I'll bet you didn't miss her name. Her name? Don't tell me you missed out on that. No. It was—just a minute. Take your time. Carolyn. Take your time now, Macklin. You're doing fine. Don't get confused. Get the last name right. It's the most important to us. I have it, I'm sure. The whole name is Carolyn Smith. There was a groan from Ronnicki Dune and another from Bill Greg. That's a fine name to use for trailing a person. Did she say anything more? Anything about where she expected to be living in New York? I don't remember any more," said Macklin, sullenly, for the spot where Ronnicki's fist landed on his jaw was beginning to ache. I didn't sit down and have any chats with her. She just spoke to me once in a while when I did something for her. I suppose you fellows have some crooked work on hand for her. We're bringing her good news," said Ronnicki calmly. Now see if you can't remember where she said she lived in New York, and he gave an added point to the question by pressing the muzzle of his revolver a little closer to the throat of the Pullman conductor. The latter blinked and swallowed hard. The only thing I remember was her saying that she could see the east river from her window, I think. And that's all you know? Yes, not a thing more about her to save my life. Maybe what you know has saved it, said Ronnicki darkly. The victim eyed him with sullen malevolence. Maybe there'll be a new trick or two in this game before it's finished. I'll never forget you, Dune, and you, Greg. You haven't a thing in the world on us," replied Ronnicki. I have the fact that you carry a concealed weapon. Only this time. Always, fellows like you are as lonesome without a gun as they are without a skin. Ronnicki turned to the door and laughed back at the gloomy face, and then they were gone, down the steps and into the street. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 of Ronnicki, Dune. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Rowdy Delaney. Idaho, USA. Ronnicki, Dune. By Max Brand. Chapter 6 The New York Trail On the train to New York that night they carefully summed up their prospects and what they had gained. We started it pretty near nothing, said Ronnicki. He was a professional optimist. We had a picture of a girl, and we knew she was on a certain train bound east three or four weeks ago. That's all we knew. Now we know her name is Carolyn Smith, and that she lives where she can see the East River out of her back window. I guess that narrows it down pretty close, doesn't it, Bill? Close? Ask Bill. Close, did you say? Well, we know the trail, said Ronnicki cheerily. All we've got to do is locate the shack that stands beside the trail. For old mountain men like us that ought to be nothing. What sort of stream is this East River, though? Bill Gregg looked at his companion in disgust. He had become so used to regarding Dune as entirely infallible that it amazed and disheartened him to find that there was one topic so large about which Ronnicki knew nothing. Perhaps the whole base for the good cheer of Ronnicki was his ignorance of everything except the mountain desert. A river's a river went on Ronnicki blandly, and it's got a town beside it, and into the town there's a house that looks over the water. Why, Bill, she's as good as found. New York runs about a dozen miles along the shore of that river, groaned Bill Gregg. A dozen miles, gasped Ronnicki. He turned in his seat and stared at his companion. Bill, you sure are making a man-sized joke. There ain't that much city in the world. A dozen miles of houses, one right next to the other? Yep, and one on top of the other. And that ain't all. Start about the center of that town and swing a twenty-mile line around it, and the end of the line will pass through houses most of the way. Ronnicki Dune glared at him in positive alarm. Well, he said, that's different. It sure is. I guess we've come on a wild goose-chase, Ronnicki, hunting a girl named Smith that lives on the bank of the East River. He laughed bitterly. How come you know so much about New York? Asked Ronnicki, eager to turn the subject of the conversation, until he could think of something to cheer his friend. Books, said Bill Gregg. After that there was a long lull in the conversation. That night neither of them slept long, for every rattle and sway of the train was telling them that they were rocking along toward an impossible task. Even the cheer of Ronnicki had broken down the next morning, and though breakfast in the diner restored some of their confidence he was not the man of the day before. Bill, he confided on the way back to their seats from the diner, there must be something wrong with me. What is it? I don't know, said Bill, why? People are looking at me. Ain't they got a right to do that? Sure they have, in a way, but when they don't seem to see you, when you see them, and when they begin looking at you out of the corner of their eyes, the minute you turn away, why then it seems to me that they're laughing at you, Bill. What they got to laugh about. I'd punch a gent in the face that laughed at me. Ronnicki fell into a philosophical brooding. It can't be done, Bill. You can punch a gent for cussing you, or stepping on your foot, or crowding you, or sneering at you, or talking behind your back, or a thousand other things. But back here in a crowd, you can't fight a gent for laughing at you. Laughing is outside of the law most anywhere, Bill. It's the one thing you can't answer back except with more laughing. Even a dog gets sort of sick inside when you laugh at him, and a man is a pile worse. He wants to kill the gent that's laughing, and he wants to kill himself for being laughed at. Well, Bill, that's a good deal stronger than the way they've been laughing at me, but they've done enough to make me think a bit. They've been looking at three things. These here spats, the red rim of my handkerchief sticking out of my pocket, and that soft gray hat when I got it on. Dern, if I don't see anything wrong with your outfit, didn't they tell you that was the style back east to have spats like that on? Sure, said Ronnicki, but maybe they didn't know, or maybe they go with some, but not with me. Maybe I'm kind of too brown and outdoors looking to fit with spats and handkerchiefs like this. Ronnicki, said Bill in admiration, maybe you ain't read a pile, but you figure things out just like a book. The conversation was cut short by the appearance of a drift of houses, and then more and more. From the elevated line on which they ran presently they could look down on block after block of roofs packed close together, or big business structures as they reached the uptown business section, and finally Ronnicki gasp as they plunged into utter darkness that roared past the window. We go underground to the station, Bill Gregg explained. He was a little startled himself, but his reading had fortified him to a certain extent. But is there still more of New York? Ask Ronnicki humbly. More? We ain't seen a corner of it. Bill's superior information made him swell like a frog in the sun. This is kinder near 100th Street where we dived down. New York keeps right on to 1st Street, and then it has a lot more streets below that. But that's just the island of Manhattan. All around there's more. Manhattan is mostly where they work. They live other places. It was not very long before the train slowed down to make Grand Central Station. On the long platform, Ronnicki surrendered his suitcase to the first porter. Bill Gregg was much alarmed. What'd you do that for, he asked, securing a stronger hold on his own valise, and brushing aside two or three red caps? He asked me for it, explained Ronnicki. I wasn't none too set on giving it to him to carry, but I hated to hurt his feelings. Besides, they're all done up in uniforms. Maybe this is their job. But suppose that feller got away out of sight. What would you do? Your brand new pair of colts is lying away in it. He won't get out of sight, none, Ronnicki assured his friend grimly. I got another colt with me, and no matter how fast he runs, a forty-five slug can run a pile faster. But come on, Bill. The word in this town seems to be to keep right on moving. They passed under an immense, brightly lighted vault, and then wriggled through the crowds in pursuit of the astonishingly agile porter. So they came out of the big station to Forty Second Street, where they found themselves confronted by a taxi driver, and the question, where? I don't know, said Ronnicki, to Bill. Your reading tell you anything about the hotels in this here town? Not a thing, said Bill, because I never figured I'd be full enough to come this far away from my home Diggins. But here I am, and we don't owe nothing. Listen, partner, said Ronnicki to the driver. Where is a fair to medium place to stop at? The driver swallowed a smile that left a twinkle about his eyes, which nothing could remove. What kind of place? Anywhere from fifty cents to fifty dollars a night. Fifty dollars, exclaimed Bill Gregg. Can you lay over that, Ronnicki? Our wad won't last a week. Say, pal, said the taxi driver, becoming suddenly friendly. I can fix you up. I know a little joint where you'll be snug as you want. They'll stick you about one fifty per, but you can't beat the price in this town and keep clean. Take us there, said Bill Gregg, and they climbed into the machine. The taxi turned around, shot down Park Avenue, darted a side into the darker streets to the east of the district, and came suddenly to a halt. Did you follow that trail? Ask Bill Gregg in a chuckling whisper. Sure, twice to the left, then to the right, and then to the left again. I know the number of blocks, too. Ain't no reason for getting rattled because a joint is strange to us. New York may be tolerable big, but it's got men in it just like we are, and may be a lot worse kinds. As they got out of the little car, they saw the taxi driver preceding them, carrying their suitcases. They followed him up the steep pitch of the stairs to the first floor of the hotel, where the landing had been widened to form a little office. Hello, Bert, said the driver. I picked up these gentlemen at Grand Central. They ain't wise to town, so I put them next to you. Fix them up here? Sure, said Bert, lifting a huge bulk of manhood from behind the desk. He placed his fat hands on top of it, and observed his guest with a smile. I'll make you ride at home here, friends. Thank you, Joe. Joe grinned, nodded, and receiving his money from Bill Gregg departed down the stairs humming. Their host, in the meantime, had picked up their suitcases and led the way down a hall dimly lighted by two flickering gas jets. Finally he reached a door and led them into a room where the gas had to be lighted. It showed them a cheerless apartment in spite of the red of the wallpaper and carpet. Only three bucks, said the proprietor, with the air of one bestowing charity out of the fullness of his heart. Bathroom only two doors down. I guess you can't beat this layout, gents. Bill Gregg glanced once about him and nodded. You come up from the south, maybe? Asked the proprietor, lingering at the door. West, said Bill Gregg, curtly. You don't say. Then you boys must be used to your toddy at night, eh? It's tolerable dry country out there, said Ronnicki, without enthusiasm. All the more reason you need some liquor to moisten it up. Wait till I get you a bottle of rye, I got handy. And he disappeared in spite of their protests. I ain't a drinking man, said Gregg, and I know you ain't, but it's sure insulting to turn down a drink in these days. Ronnicki nodded, and presently the host returned with two glasses, rattling against a tall bottle on a tray. Say when, he said, filling the glasses and keeping on in spite of their protests, until each glass was full. I guess it looks pretty good to you to see the stuff again, he said, stepping back and rubbing his hands like one warmed by the consciousness of a good deed. It ain't very plentiful round here. Well, Gregg said, swinging up his glass. Here's in your eye, Ronnicki, and here's to you, sir. Wait! replied Ronnicki. Hold on a minute, Bill. Looks to me like you ain't drinking, he said to the proprietor. The fat man waved the suggestion aside. Never touch it, he assured them. Used to indulge a little in light wines and beers, when the country was wet. But when it went dry, the stuff didn't mean enough to me to make it worthwhile dodging the law. I managed to keep a little of it around for friends and men out of a dry country. But we got a funny habit out in our country. We can't no ways drink unless the gent that's setting them out takes something himself. It ain't done that way in our part of the land, said Ronnicki. It ain't. Never. Come, come. That's a good joke, but even if I can't be with you boys, drink hearty. Ronnicki Dune shook his head. No joke at all, he said firmly. Remember of politeness, that a lot of gents are terrible hard set on out where we come from. Why, Ronnicki, protested Bill, ain't you making it a little strong? For my part, I've drunk twenty times without having the gent that set them up touch a thing. I reckon I can do it again. Here's how. Wait! declared Ronnicki Dune. And there was a little jarring ring in his voice that arrested the hand of Bill Gregg in the act of raising the glass. He crossed the room quickly, took a glass from the wash stand, and returning to the center table, poured a liberal drink of whiskey into it. I don't know about my friend, he went on almost sternly, to the bewildered hotel-keeper. I don't know about him, but some gents feel so strong about not drinking alone, that they'd sooner fight. Well, sir, I'm one of that kind. So I say, there's your liquor, get rid of it. The fat man reached the center of the table, and propped himself against it, gasping. His whole body seemed to be wilting, as though in a terrible heat. I don't know, he murmured. I don't know what's got into you, fellers. I tell you, I never drink. You lie, you fat fool, retorted Ronnicki. Didn't I smell your breath? Bill Gregg dropped his own glass to the table, and hurriedly came to confront his host by the side of Ronnicki. Breathe! he asked the fat man hurriedly, still gasping more and more heavily for air. I may have taken a small tonic after dinner. In fact, I think I did. That's all, nothing more. I assure you, I have to be a sober man in my work. You got to make an exception this evening, said Ronnicki, more fiercely than ever. I ought to make you drink all three drinks for being so slow about drinking one. Three drinks? exclaimed the fat man, trembling violently. It would kill me. I think it would, said Ronnicki. I swear, I think it would. And maybe even one will be sort of a shock, eh? He commanded suddenly, drink, drink that glass and clean out the last drop of it, or we'll tie you and pry your mouth open and pour the whole bottle down your throat, you understand? A feeble moan came from the throat of the hotelkeeper. He cast one frantic glance toward the door, and a still more frantic appeal centered on Ronnicki Dune, but the face of the latter was as cold as stone. Then take your own glasses, boys, he said, striving to smile as he picked up his own drink. You drink first, and you drink alone, declared Ronnicki, now. The movement of his hand was as ominous as if he had whipped out a revolver. The fat man tossed off the glass of whiskey, and then stood with a pudgy hand pressed against his breast, and the upward glance of one who awaits a calamity. Under the astonished eyes of Bill Gregg, he turned pale, a sickly greenish pallor. His eyes rolled, and his hand on the table shook, and the arm that supported him sagged. Opened the window, he said. The air, there ain't no air. I'm choking. And— Get him some water, cried Bill Gregg, whilst I opened the window. Stay where you are, Bill. He looks like he's dying. Then he's killed himself. Gents began the fat man feebly and made a short step toward them. The step was incomplete. In the middle of it he wavered, put out his arms, and slumped upon his side on the floor. Bill Gregg cried out softly in astonishment and horror, but Ronnicki dune knelt calmly beside the fallen bulk, and felt the beating of his heart. He ain't dead, he said quietly, but he'll be tolerable sick for a while. Now come along with me. But what's all this mean? Asked Bill Gregg in a whisper, as he picked up his suitcase and hurried after Ronnicki. Don't booze, said Ronnicki curtly. They hurried down the stairs and came out onto the dark street. Then Ronnicki dune dropped his suitcase and dived into the dark nook beside the entrance. There was a brief struggle. He came out again, pushing a sulking figure before him, with the man's arm twisted behind his back. Take off this gents' hat, will you, asked Ronnicki? Bill Gregg obeyed, too dumb with astonishment to think. It's the taxi driver, he exclaimed. I thought so, muttered Ronnicki. The skunk came back here to wait till we were fixed right now. What'll we do with him? I began to see what's coming off, said Bill Gregg, frowning into the white, scowling face of the taxi driver. The man was like a rat, but in spite of his fear he did not make a sound. Over there, said Bill Gregg, nodding toward a flight of cellar stairs. They caught the man between them, rushed him to the stairs, and flung him headlong down. There was a crashing fall, groans, and then silence. He'll have a broken bone or two, maybe, said Ronnicki, peering calmly into the darkness. But he'll live to trap somebody else, curse him. And picking up their suitcases again, they started to retrace End of Chapter 6 Chapter 7 of Ronnicki Dune This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Rowdy Delaney Idaho, U.S.A. Ronnicki Dune By Max Brand Chapter 7 The first clue. They did not refer to the incidents of that odd reception in New York until they had located a small hotel for themselves, not three blocks away. It was no cheaper, but they found a pleasant room, clean, with electric lights. It was not until they had bathed, and were propped up in their beds for a good night's smoke, which cow-punchers love, that Bill Greg ask. And what gave you the tip, Ronnicki? I don't know. In my business you learn to watch faces, Bill. Suppose you sit down at a five-handed game of poker. One gent says everything with his face while he's picking up his cards. Another gent don't say a thing, but he shows what he's got by the way he moves his chair, or the way he opens and shuts his hands. When you said something about our wad I seen the taxi-driver blink. Right after that he got terrible friendly, and said he could steer us to a friend of his that could put us up for the night pretty comfortable. Well, it wasn't hard to put two and two together. Not that I figured anything out. Just was walking on my toes, ready to jump in any direction. As for Bill Greg he brooded for a time on what he had heard, then shook his head and sighed. I'd be a mighty helpless kid in this hear-town if I didn't have you along, Ronnicki, he said. Nope, insisted Ronnicki, long as you use another gent for a sort of guide you feel kind of helpless. But when you step off for yourself everything is pretty easy. You were just waiting for me to take the lead, or you'd have done just as much by yourself. Again, Bill Greg sighed as he shook his head. If this is what New York is like, he said, we're in for a pretty bad time. And this is what they call a civilized town? Great guns, they need martial law and 1,000 policemen to the block to keep a gent's life and pocket-book safe in this town. First gent we meet tries to bump us off and get our wad. Don't look like we're going to have much luck, Ronnicki. We saved our hides, I guess. That's about all. And we learned something. Sure. Then I figure it was a pretty good night. Another thing, Bill. I got an idea from that taxi-gent. I figure that a whole gang of taxi-men are pretty sharp in the eye. What I mean is that we can tramp up and down along this here east river, and now and then we'll talk to some taxi-men that do most of their work from stands in them parts of the town. Maybe we can get on our trail that way. Anyways, it's an opening. Maybe, said Bill Greg dubiously. He reached under his pillow, but I'm sure going to sleep my gun under my head in this town. With this remark he settled himself for repose and presently was snoring loudly. Ronnicki presented a brave face to the morning, and at once started with Bill Greg to tour along the east river. That first day Ronnicki insisted that they simply walk over the whole ground so as to become fairly familiar with the scale of their task. They managed to make the trip before night and return to their hotel, foot-sore from the hard, hot pavements. There was something unkindly and ungenerous in those pavements it seemed to Ronnicki. He was discovering to his great amazement that the loneliness of the mountain desert is nothing at all compared to the loneliness of the Manhattan crowd. The very gloomy and silent cow-punchers ate their dinner that night and went to bed early, but in the morning they began the actual work of their campaign. It was an arduous labor. It meant interviewing at every district one or two shopkeepers and asking the mail-carriers for Carolyn Smith and showing the picture to taxi-drivers. These latter were the men, insisted Ronnicki, who would eventually bring them to Carolyn Smith. Because if they've ever drove a girl as pretty as that they'll remember for quite a while. But half these gents ain't going to talk to us, even if they know, Bill Greg protested, after he had been gruffly refused an answer a dozen times in the first morning. Some of them won't talk, admitted Ronnicki, but that's probably because they don't know. Take them by and large. Most gents like to tell everything they know, and then some. As a matter of fact, they met with rather more help than they wanted. In spite of all their efforts to remain casual, there was something too romantic in this search for a girl to remain entirely unnoticed. People whom they asked became excited and offered them a thousand suggestions. Maybe it seemed, had somewhere, somehow, heard of a Carolyn Smith living on his own block, and everyone remembered dimly having passed a girl on the street who looked exactly like Carolyn Smith. But they went resolutely on, running down a thousand faults clues, and finding at the end of each something more ludicrous than what had gone before. Maiden-ladies with many teeth and big glasses they found, and they discovered at the end of the trails on which they were to go, young women, and old, ugly girls and pretty ones, but never anyone who in the slightest degree resembled Carolyn Smith. In the meantime they were working back and forth in their progress along the East River, from the slums to the better residence districts. They bought newspapers at little stationary stores, and worked up chance conversations with the clerks, particularly girl clerks, whenever they could find them. Because women have an eye for faces, Ronecky would say, and if a girl like Carolyn Smith came into the shop she'd be remembered for a while. But for ten days they labored without a ghost of a success. Then they noticed the taxi-stands along the East side, and worked them as carefully as they could. And it was on the evening of the eleventh day of the search that they reached the first clue. They had found a taxi drawn up before a saloon, converted into an eating-place, and when they went inside they found the driver alone in the restaurant. They worked up a conversation as they had done a hundred times before, and Greg produced the picture and began showing it to Ronecky. Maybe the ladies around here said, Ronecky, but I'm new in this part of town. He took the picture and turned to the taxi driver. Maybe you've been around this part of town and know the folks here. Ever see this girl around? And he passed the picture to the other. The taxi driver bowed his head over it in a close scrutiny. When he looked up, his face was blank. I don't know. Let me see. I think I seen a girl like her the other day, waiting for the traffic to pass at seventy-second and Broadway. Yep, she sure was a ringer for this picture. He passed the picture back, and a moment later he finished his meal. He paid his check and went sauntering through the door. Quick, said Ronecky, the moment the chauffeur had disappeared, pay the check and come along. That fellow knows something. Bill Gregg, greatly excited, obeyed, and they hurried to the door of the place. They were in time to see the taxi driver lurch away from the curb, and go humming down the street, while the driver leaned out to the side and looked back. He didn't see us, said Ronecky, confidently. But what did he leave for? He's going to tell somebody, somewhere, that we're looking for Carolyn Smith. Come on. He stepped out to the curb and stopped a passing taxi. Blow that machine and keep a block away from it, he ordered. Bootlegger asked the taxi driver cheerly? I don't know, but just drift along behind him till he stops. Can you do that? Watch me. And with Ronecky and Bill Gregg installed in his machine, he started smoothly on the trail. Straight down the cross street, under the roaring elevated tracks of second and third avenues they passed, and on first avenue they turned and darted sharply south for a round dozen blocks, then went due east and came to a halt after a brief run. He stopped in Beekman Place, said the driver, jerking open the door. If I run in there he'll see me. Ronecky stepped out of the machine, paid him, and dismissed him with a word of praise for his fine trailing. Then he stepped around the corner. What he saw was a little street closed at both ends, and only two or three blocks long. It had the serene, detached air of a village a thousand miles from any great city, with its grave rows of homely houses standing solemnly face to face. Well to the left, the fifty-ninth street bridge swung its great arch across the river, and it led Ronecky new to Long Island City beyond, but here everything was cupped in the village quiet. The machine which they had been pursuing was drawn up on the right-hand side of the street, looking south, and even as Ronecky glanced around the corner he saw the driver leave his seat, dart up a flight of stairs, and ring the bell. Ronecky could not see who opened the door, but after a moment of talk the chauffeur from the car they had pursued was allowed to enter. And as he stepped across the threshold he drew off his cap with a touch of reverence which seemed totally out of keeping for his character as Ronecky had seen it. Bill, he said to Greg, we've got something. You see him go up those steps to that house? Sure. Bill, Greg's eyes were flashing with excitement. That house has somebody in it who knows Carolyn Smith, and that somebody is excited because we're hunting for her, said Bill. Maybe it holds Carolyn Smith herself. Who can tell that? Let's go see. Wait till the taxi-driver goes. If he wanted us to know about Carolyn he'd have told us. He doesn't want us to know, and he'd maybe take it pretty much to heart if he knew we'd followed him. But he thinks doesn't worry me none, I can tend to three like him. Maybe, but you couldn't handle thirty, and coyotes like him hunt in packs, always. The best fighting pair of coyotes that ever stepped wouldn't have no chance against a loafer wolf, but no loafer wolf could stand off a dozen or so of the little devils. So keep clear of these little rat-faced gents, Bill. They hunt in crowds. Presently they saw the chauffeur coming down the steps. Even at that distance it could be seen that he was smiling broadly, and that he was intensely pleased with himself and the rest of the world. Starting up his machine he swung it around dexterously, as only New York taxi-drivers can, and sped down the street by the way he had come, passing Greg and Ronikey, who had flattened themselves against the fence to keep from being seen. They observed that while he controlled the car with one hand, with the other he was examining the contents of his wallet. Many for him exclaimed Ronikey as soon as the car was out of sight around the corner. This begins to look pretty thick, Bill. Because he goes and tells them that he's taken us off the trail, they not only thank him, but they pay him for it. And by the face of him as he went by, they pay him pretty high. Bill, it's easy to figure that they don't want any friend near Carolyn Smith, and most like they don't even want us near that house. I only want to go near it once, said Bill Greg. I just want to find out if the girl's there. Go break in on him? Break in, Ronikey? That's burglary. It sure is. I'll just ask for Carolyn Smith at the door. Try it. The irony made Bill Greg stop in the very act of leaving and glance back, but he went on again resolutely and stamped up the steps to the front door of the house. It was open to him almost at once by a woman, for Bill's hat came off. For a moment he was explaining. Then there was a pause in his gestures as she made the reply. Finally he spoke again, but was cut short by the loud banging of the door. Bill Greg drew himself up rigidly and slowly replaced the hat on his head. If a man had turned that trick on him, a forty-five-caliber slug would have gone crashing through the door in search of him to tell him a Westerner's opinion of such manners. He dune could not help smiling to himself as he saw Bill Greg stamp stiffly down the stairs, limping a little on his wounded leg, and come back with a grave dignity to the starting point. He was still crimson to the roots of his hair. Let's start, he said. If that happens again, I'll be doing a couple murders in this here town and get myself hung. What happened? An old hag jerked open the door after I rang the bell. I asked her nice and polite if a lady named Carolyn Smith was in the house. No, she says, and if she was, what's it to you? I told her I'd come a long ways to see Carolyn. Then you go a long ways back without seeing Carolyn, says the withered old witch, and she banged the door right in my face. Man, I'm still seeing red. Them words of the old woman were whips, and every one of them sure took off my hide. I used to think that old Lady Moore in Martindale was a pretty nasty talker, but this one laid her over a mile. But we're beat, Ronyke. You couldn't get by that old woman with a thousand men. Maybe not, said Ronyke, but we're going to try. Did you look at the house across the street and see a sign a while ago? Which side? Side right opposite Carolyn's house. Sure, room to rent. Thought so, then that's our room. Eh? That's our room, partner, and right at the front window over the street one of us is going to keep watch day and night till we make sure that Carolyn Smith don't live in that house. Is that right? That's a great idea. He started away from the fence. Wait! Ronyke caught him by the shoulder and held him back. We'll wait till night, and then go and get the room. If Carolyn is in the house yonder, and they know we're looking for her, it's easy that she won't be allowed to come out of the front of the house so long as we're perched up at that window, waiting to see her. We'll come back to night and start waiting. End of Chapter 7 Chapter 8 of Ronyke Dune This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Reading by Rowdy Delaney Idaho, USA Ronyke Dune By Max Brand Chapter 8 Two Apparitions They found that the room in the house on Beekman Place, opposite that which they felt covered their quarry, could be secured, and they were shown to it by a quiet gentlewoman, found a big double room that ran across the whole length of the house. From the back it looked down on the lights glimmering on the black east river, and across to the flare of Brooklyn. To the left the whole arc of the 59th Street bridge was exposed. In the front windows overlooked Beekman Place, and were directly opposite the front of the house to which the taxi driver had gone that afternoon. Here they took up the vigil. For four hours one of the two sat with his eyes never moving from that street and the windows of the house across the street, and then he left the post and the other took it. It was vastly wearying work. Every few vehicles came into the light of the street lamp beneath them, and every person who dismounted from one of them had to be scrutinized with painful diligence. Once a girl, young, and slender, and sprightly, stepped out of a taxi about ten o'clock at night, and ran lightly up the steps of the house. Ronike caught his friend by the shoulder and dragged him to the window. There she is now, he exclaimed. But the eye of the lover, even though the girl was in a dim light, could not be deceived. The moment he caught her profile as she turned in the open door, Bill Gregg shook his head. That's not the one. She's all different. A pile different, Ronike. Ronike sighed. I thought it was her, he said. Go on back to sleep. I'll call you again if anything happens. But nothing happened that night, though even in the dull, ghost hours of the early morning they did not relax their vigil. But all the next day there was no sign of Carolyn Smith in the house across the street, no face like hers ever appeared at the windows. Apparently the place was a harmless rooming-house of fairly good quality. Not a sign of Carolyn Smith appeared, even during the second day. By this time the nerves of the two watchers were shattered by the constant strain, and the monotonous view from the front window was beginning to madden them. It's proof that she ain't yonder, said Bill Gregg. There's two days gone, and not a sign of her. It sure means that she ain't in the house, unless she's sick in bed, and he grew pale at the thought. Partner, said Ronike Dune, if they're trying to keep her away from us they sure have the sense to keep her under cover for as long as two days. Ain't that right? It looks pretty bad for us, but I'm staying here for a solid week, anyway. It's just about our last chance, Bill. We've done our hunting pretty near as well as we could. If we don't lander this trip I'm about ready to give up. Bill Gregg sadly agreed that this was their last chance, and that they must play it to the limit. One week was decided on as a fair test. If at the end of that time Carolyn Smith did not come out of the house across the street they could conclude that she did not stay there. And then there would be nothing for them but to take the first train back west. The third day passed, and the fourth dreary, dreary days of unfaltering vigilance on the part of the two watchers. On the fifth morning even Ronike Dune sat with his head in his hands at the window, peering through the slit between the drawn curtains which sheltered him from being observed at his spying. When he called out softly the sound brought Gregg with one long leap out of the chair where he was sleeping to the window. There could be no shadow of a doubt about it. There stood Carolyn Smith in the door of the house. She closed the door behind her and walking to the top of the steps paused there and looked up and down the street. Bill Gregg groaned, snatched his hat and plunged through the door, and Ronike heard the brief thunder of his feet down the first flight of stairs, then the heavy thumps as he raced around the landing. He was able to trace him down the three flights of steps to the bottom. And so swift was that descent that when the girl idling down the steps across the street came onto the sidewalk Bill Gregg rushed out from the other side and ran toward her. They made a strange picture as they came to a halt at the same instant, the girls shrinking back in apparent fear of the man, and Bill Gregg stopping by that same show of fear as though by a blow in the face. There was such contrast between the two figures that Ronike Dune might have laughed had he not been shaking his head with sympathy for Bill Gregg, for never had the miner seem so clumsily big and gaunt, never had his clothes seem so unpressed and shapeless, while his soft gray hat, to which he still clung religiously, appeared hopelessly out of place in contrast to the slim prettiness of the girl. She wore a black straw hat, turned back from her face, with a single big red flower at the side of it. Her dress was tailored gray tweed. The same distinction between their clothes was in their faces, the finely modeled prettiness of her features and the big, careless chiseling of the features of Bill Gregg. Ronike Dune did not wonder that after her first fear, her gesture was one of disdain and surprise. Bill Gregg had dragged the hat from his head, and the wind lifted his black hair and made it wild. He went a long, slow step closer to her, with both his hands outstretched. A strange scene for a street, and Ronike Dune saw the girl flash a glance over her shoulder and back to the house from which she had come. Ronike Dune followed that glance, and he saw all hidden save a profile of the face, a man standing at the opposite window and smiling scornfully down at the picture in the street. What a face it was! Never in his life had Ronike Dune seen a man who, in one instant, filled him with such fear and hatred, such loathing and such dread, such scorn and such terror. The nose was hooked like the nose of a bird of prey, the eyes were long and slanting like those of an oriental. The face was thin, almost fleshless, so that the bony jaw stood out like the jaw of a death's head. As for the girl, the sight of the onlooker seemed to fill her with a new terror. She shrank back from Bill Gregg until her shoulders were pressed against the wall of the house, and Ronike saw her head shake as she denied Bill the right of advancing further. Still he pleaded, and still she ordered him away. Finally Bill Gregg drew himself up, bowed to her, and turned on his heel. The girl hesitated a moment. It seemed to Ronike, in spite of the fact that she had just driven Bill away, as if she were on the verge of following him to bring him back. For she made a slight outward gesture with one hand. If this were in her mind, however, it vanished instantly. She turned with a shutter and hurried away down the street. As for Bill Gregg, he bore himself straight as a soldier, and came back across the pavement, but it was the erectness of a soldier who had met with a crushing defeat, and only preserves an outward resolution, while all the spirit within is crushed. Ronike Dune turned gloomily away from the window and listened to the progress of Bill up the stairs. What a contrast between the ascent and the descent! He had literally flown down. Now his heels clumped out as slow and regular death-march as he came back to the room. When Gregg opened the door, Ronike Dune blinked, and drew in a deep breath at the side of the poor fellow's face. Gregg had known before that he truly loved this girl whom he had never seen, but he never dreamed what the strength of that love was. Now, in the very moment of seeing his dream of the girl turned into flesh and blood, he had lost her, and there was something like death in the face of the big miner as he dropped his hat on the floor and sank into a chair. After that he did not move so much as a finger from the position into which he had fallen limply. His legs were twisted awkwardly, sprawling across the floor in front of him. One long arm dragged down toward the floor as if there was no strength in it to support the weight of the labor-hardened hands. His chin was fallen against his breast. When Ronike Dune crossed to him and laid a kind hand on his shoulder he did not look up. "'It's ended,' said Bill Gregg faintly, "'now we hit the back-trail and forget all about this,' he added with a faint attempt at cynicism. "'I've just wasted a pile of good money-making time from the mine. That's all.'" "'Hmm,' said Ronike Dune, "'Bill, look me in the eye and tell me man to man that you're a liar.' He added, "'Can you ever be happy without her, man?' The cruelty of that speech made Gregg flush, and he looked up sharply. That was exactly what Ronike Dune wanted. "'I guess they ain't any use in talking about that part of it,' said Gregg huskily. "'Ain't there? That's where you and me don't agree. Why, Bill, look at the way things have gone. You start out with the photograph of a girl. Now we've followed her, found her name, tracked her across the continent, and know her street address, and you've given her a chance to see your own face. "'Ain't that something done? After you've done all that, are you going to give up now? Not you, Bill. You're going to buck up and go ahead full steam, eh?' Bill Gregg smiled sourly. "'Do you know what she said to me when I came rushing up, saying, "'I'm Bill Gregg? Do you know what she said?' "'Well, Bill Gregg,' she says. I don't remember any such name. That took the wind out of me. I only had enough left to say, the gent that was writing those papers to the correspondent's school to you from the West. The one you sent your picture to, and sent my picture to, she says, and looks as if the ground had opened under her feet. You're mad,' she says. And then she looks back over her shoulder as much as to wish she was safe back in her house. "'Do you know why she looked back over her shoulder? Just for the reason I told you.' "'No, Bill. There was a gent standing up there at the window watching her and how she acted. He's the gent that kept her from writing you and signing her name. He's the one who's kept her in that house. He's the one that knew we were watching all the time, that sent out the girl with the exact orders how she should act if you was to come out and speak to her when you seen her. Bill, what that girl told you didn't come out of her own head. It come out of the head of the gent across the way. When you turned your back on her, she looked like she'd run after you and try to explain. But the fear of that fellow up in the window was too much for her, and she didn't dare. Bill, to get that girl, you've got to get that gent I seen grinning from the window. Grinning? Ask Bill Gregg, grinding his teeth and starting from his chair? Was the skunk laughing at me? Sure, every minute. Bill Gregg groaned. I'll smash every bone in his ugly head. "'Shake,' said Ronycky Dune. That's the sort of talk I wanted to hear. And I'll help you, Bill. Unless I'm away wrong, it'll take the best you and me can do, working together, to put that gent down." End of Chapter 8 CHAPTER 9 A BOLD VENCHER But how to reach that man of the smile, and the sneer, how above all, to make sure that he was really the power controlling Carolyn Smith, were problems which could not be solved in a moment. Bill Gregg contributed one helpful idea. "'We've waited a week to see her. Now that we've seen her, let's keep on waiting,' he said. And Ronycky agreed. They resumed the vigil, but it had been prolonged for such a length of time that it was impossible to keep it as strictly as it had been observed before. Bill Gregg, outworn by the strain of the long watching, and the shock of the disappointment of that day, went completely to pieces and in the early evening fell asleep. But Ronycky Dune went out for a light dinner, and came back after dark, refreshed, and eager for action, only to find that Bill Gregg was incapable of being roused. He slept like a dead man. Ronycky went to the window and sat alone. Few of the rumours were home in the house opposite. They went out for the evening, or for dinner, at least, and the face of the building was dark and cold, the light from the street-lamp glinting unevenly on the window-panes. He sat there staring at the old house so many hours in the past that it was beginning to look like a face to him, to be studied as one might study a human being. And the people it sheltered, the old hag who kept the door, the sneering man, and Carolyn Smith, were to the house like thoughts behind the man's face, an inscrutable face. But if one cannot pry behind the mask of the human, at least it's possible to enter a house and find. At this point in his thoughts Ronycky Dune rose with a quickening pulse. Suppose he alone entered that house by stealth, like a burglar, and found what he could find. He brushed the idea away. Instantly it returned to him. The danger of the thing, and danger there certainly would be in the vicinity of him of the sardonic profile, appealed to him more and more keenly. Moreover, he must go alone. The heavy-footed Greg would be a poor helpmate on such an errand of stealth. Ronycky turned away from the window, turned back to it, and looked once more at the tall front of the building opposite. Then he started to get ready for the expedition. The preparations were simple. He put on a pair of low shoes, very light, and with rubber heels. In them he could move with the softness and the speed of a cat. Next he dressed in a dark-gray suit, knowing that this is the color hardest to see at night. His old felt hat had been discarded before in favor of the prevailing style of the average New Yorker. For this night expedition he put on the cap which drew easily over his ears, and had a long visor shadowing the upper part of his face. Since it might be necessary to remain as invisible as possible, he obscured the last bit of white that showed in his costume with a black neck scarf. Then he looked in the glass. A lean face came back to him, the eyes obscured under the cap, a stern, resolute face, with a distinct thread about it. He hardly recognized himself in the face of the glass. He went to a suitcase and brought out his favorite revolver. It was a long and ponderous weapon to be hidden beneath his clothes, but to run he doomed that gun was a friend well-tried in many an adventure. His fingers went deftly over it. It literally fell to pieces at his touch, and he examined it cautiously and carefully in all its parts, looking to the cartridges before he assembled the weapon again. For if it became necessary to shoot this evening it would be necessary to shoot to kill. He then strolled down the street, passing the house opposite with a close scrutiny. A narrow, paved sidewalk ran between it and the house on its right, and all the windows open on this side-court were dark. Moreover, the house which was his quarry was set back several feet from the street, an indentation which would completely hide him from anyone who looked from the street. Ronnicki made up his mind at once. He went to the end of the block, crossed over, and turning back on the far side of the street, slipped into the opening between the houses. Instantly he was in dense darkness. For five stories above him the two buildings towered, shutting out the starlight. Looking straight up he found only a faint reflection of the glow of the city lights in the sky. At last he found a cellar window. He tried it and found it locked, but a little maneuvering with his knife enabled him to turn the catch at the top of the lower sash. Then he raised it slowly and leaned into the blackness. Something incredibly soft, tenuous, clinging, pressed it once against his face. He started back with a shutter, and brushed away the remnants of a big spider-web. Then he leaned in again. It was an intense blackness. The moment his head was in the opening the sense of listening, which is ever in a house, came to him. There were the strange, musty underground odors which go with cellars and make men think of death. However, he must not stay here indefinitely. To be seen leaning in at this window was as bad as being seen in the house itself. He slipped through the opening at once, and beneath his feet there was a soft crunching of coal. He had come directly into the bin. Turning he closed the window, for that would be a definite clue to anyone who might pass down the alley. As he stood surrounded by that hostile silence, that evil darkness he grew somewhat accustomed to the dimness, and he could make out not definite objects, but ghostly outlines. Presently he took out the small electric torch which he carried and examined his surroundings. The bin had not yet received the supply of winter coal, and was almost empty. He stepped out into a part of the basement which had been used apparently for storing articles not worth keeping, but too good to be thrown away, an American habit of thrift. Several decrepit chairs, an erickety cabinet, and old console tables were piled together in a tangled mess. Ronnicki looked at them with an unaccountable shudder, as if he had read in them the history of the ruin and fall and death of many an old inhabitant of this house. It seemed to his imagination that the man with the sneer had been the cause of all the destruction, and would be the cause of more. He passed through the basement quickly, eager to be out of the musty odours and his gloomy thoughts. He found the storerooms, reached the kitchen stairs, and ascended at once. Halfway up the stairs, the door above him suddenly opened, and light poured down at him. He saw the flying figure of a cat, a broom behind it, and a woman behind the broom. Wished, out of here, dirty beast? The cat thudded against Ronnicki's knee, screeched and disappeared below. The woman of the broom shaded her eyes and peered down the steps. A queer cat, she muttered, then slammed the door. It seemed certain to Ronnicki that she must have seen him, yet he knew that the blackness of the cellar had probably half blinded her. Besides, he had drawn as far as possible to one side of the steps, and in this way she might easily have overlooked him. In the meantime, it seemed that this way of entering the house was definitely blocked. He paused a moment to consider other plans, but while he stayed there in thought, he heard the rattle of pans. It decided him to stay for a while longer. Apparently she was washing the cooking utensils, and that meant that she was near the close of her work for the evening. In fact, the rim of light, which showed behind the doorframe and the door, suddenly snapped out, and he heard her footsteps retreating. Still, he delayed for a moment or two, for fear that she might return to take something which she had forgotten. But the silence deepened above him, and voices were faintly audible toward the front of the house. That decided Ronnicki. He opened the door, blessing the well-oiled hinges which kept it from making any noise, and let a shaft from his pocket lantern flicker across the kitchen floor. The light glimmered on the newly scrubbed surface, and showed him a door to his right, opening into the main part of the house. He passed through it at once, and sighed with relief when his foot touched the carpet on the hall beyond. He noted, too, that there was no sign of a creak from the boards beneath his tread. However old the house might be, he was a noble carpenter who had laid the flooring, Ronnicki thought, as he slipped through the semi-gloom. For there was a small hall light toward the front, and it gave him an uncertain illumination, even at the rear of the passage. Now that he was definitely committed to the adventure, he wondered more and more what he could possibly gain by it. But still he went on, and in spite of the danger it is doubtful if Ronnicki would have willingly changed places with any man in the world at that moment. At least there was not the slightest sense of remaining on the lower floor of the house. He slipped down the shadow of the main stairs, swiftly circled through the danger of the light of the lower hall lamp, and started his ascent. Still the carpet muffled every sound which he made in climbing, and the solid construction of the house did not betray him with a single creaking noise. He reached the first hall. This, beyond doubt, was where he would find the room of the man who sneered, the arch enemy, as Ronnicki Dune was beginning to think of him. A shiver passed through his lithe muscular body as he thought of that meeting. He opened the first door on his left. It was a small closet for brooms and dust-cloths and such things. Starting to be methodical, he went to the extreme end of the hall and tried that door. It was locked, but while his hand was still on the knob, turning it in disappointment, a door higher up in the house opened, and a hum of voices passed out to him. They grew louder. They turned to the staircase from the floor above, and commenced to descend at a running pace. Three or four minutes at least there must be, by the sound, and perhaps more. Ronnicki started to the head of the stairs to make his retreat, but just as he reached there, the party turned into the hall and confronted him. End of Chapter 9 CHAPTER X Of Ronnicki Dune This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Rowdy Delaney, Idaho, USA. Ronnicki Dune By Max Brand CHAPTER X Mistaken Identity To flee down the stairs now would be rank folly. If there happened to be, among these fellows, a man of the type of him who sneered, a bullet would catch the fugitive long before he reached the bottom of the staircase. And since he could not retreat, Ronnicki went slowly and steadily ahead, for certainly, if he stood still, he would be spoken to. He would have to rely now on the very dim light in the hall and the shadow of his cap obscuring his face. If these were rumours, perhaps they would take him for some newcomer. But he was hailed at once, and a hand was laid on his shoulder. Hello, Pete. What's the dope? Ronnicki shrugged the hand away and went on. Won't talk, curse him? That's because the plant went fluey. Maybe not. Pete don't talk much, except to the old man. Let me get at him, said the third voice. Beat it down to runes. I'm going with Pete and get what he knows. And as Ronnicki turned on to the next flight of the stairway, he was overtaken by hurrying feet. The other two had already scurried down toward the front door of the house. I got some stuff in my room, Pete, said the friendly fellow who had overtaken him. Come up and have a jolt, and we can have a talk. Lefty and Monahan think you went flop on the job, but I know better, eh? The old man always picks you for these singles. He never gives me a shot at them. Then he added, here we are. And opening the door in the first hall, he stepped to the center of the room and fumbled at a chain that broke loose and tinkled against glass. Eventually he snapped on an electric light. Ronnicki Dune saw a powerfully built, bull-necked man, with a soft hat pulled far down on his head. Then the man turned. It was much against the grain for Ronnicki to attack a man by surprise, but necessity is a stern ruler. And the necessity which made him strike made him hit with the speed of a snapping whiplash and the weight of a sledgehammer. Before the other was fully turned, that iron hand set of knuckles crashed against the base of his jaw. He fell without a murmur, without a struggle, Ronnicki catching him in his arms to break the weight of the fall. It was a complete knock-out. The dull eyes, which looked up from the floor, saw nothing. The square, rather brutal face, was relaxed as if in sleep. But here was a type of man who would recuperate with great speed. Ronnicki set about the obvious task which lay before him, as fast as he could. In the man's coat-pocket he found a handkerchief which, hard-knotted, would serve as a gag. The window curtain was drawn with a stout, thick cord. Ronnicki slashed off a convenient length of it and secured the hands and feet of his victim, before he turned the fellow on his face. Next he went through the pockets of the unconscious man, who was only now beginning to stir slightly, as life returned after that stunning blow. It was beginning to come to Ronnicki that there was a strange relation between the men of this house. Here were three who apparently started out to work at night, and yet they were certainly not at all the type of night-clerks or night-shift engineers or mechanics. He turned over the hand of the man he had struck down. The palm was as soft as his own. No, certainly not a laborer. But they were all employed by the old man. Who was he? And was there a relation between all of these and the man who sneered? At least Ronnicki determined to learn all that could be read in the pockets of his victim. There was only one thing. That was a snub-nosed, heavy automatic. It was enough to make Ronnicki dune sigh with relief. At least he had not struck some peaceful, law-biting fellow. Any man might carry a gun. Ronnicki himself would have been uncomfortable without some sort of weapon about him. But there are guns and guns. This big, ugly automatic seemed specifically designed to kill swiftly and surely. He was considering these deductions when a tap came on the door. Ronnicki groaned. Had they come all ready to find out what had kept the senseless victim so long? Morgan! Oh! Harry Morgan! Called a girl's voice. Ronnicki dune started. Perhaps, who could tell, this might be Carolyn Smith herself, come to tap at the door when he was on the very verge of abandoning the adventure. Suppose it were someone else. If he ventured out expecting to find Greg's lady, and found instead quite another person. Well, women screamed at the slightest provocation, and if a woman screamed in this house it seemed exceedingly likely that she would rouse a number of men carrying such short-nosed, ugly automatics as that which he had taken from the pocket of Harry Morgan. In the meantime he must answer something. He could not pretend that the room was empty, for the light must be showing around the door. Harry called the voice of the girl again. Do you hear me? Come out! The chief wants you, and she rattled the door. Fear that she might open it, and stepping in see the senseless figure on the floor alarmed Ronnicki. He came close to the door. Well, he demanded, keeping his voice deep, like the voice of Harry Morgan, as well as he could remember it. Hurry! The chief, I tell you! He snapped out the light, and turned resolutely toward the door. He felt his faithful colt, and the feel of the butt was like the touch of a friendly hand before he opened the door. She was dressed in white, and made a glimmering figure in the darkness of the hall, and her hair glimmered also, almost as if it possessed a light, and a life of its own. Ronnicki Doon saw that she was a very pretty girl indeed. Yes, it must be Carolyn Smith. The very perfume of young girlhood breathed from her, and very sharply, and suddenly he wondered why he should be here to fight the battle for Bill Gregg in this matter. Bill Gregg, who slept peacefully, and stupidly, in the room across the street. She had turned away, giving him only a side glance as he came out. I don't know what's going on, something big. The chief is going to give you your chance, with me. Ronnicki Doon grunted. Don't do that, the girl said impatiently. I know you think Pete is the top of the world, but that doesn't mean you can make a good imitation of him. Don't do it, Harry. You'll pass by yourself. You don't need a make-up, and not Pete's on a bet. They reached the head of the stairs, and Ronnicki Doon paused. To go down was to face the mysterious chief, whom he had no doubt was the old man to whom Harry Morgan had already referred. In the meantime, the conviction grew that this was indeed Carolyn Smith. Her free and easy way of talk was exactly that of the girl who might become interested in a man who she had never seen, merely by letters. I want to talk to you, said Ronnicki, muffling his voice. I want to talk to you alone. To me, asked the girl, turning toward him. The light from the hall lamp below gave Ronnicki the faintest hint of her profile. Yes. But the chief. He can wait. She hesitated, apparently drawn by curiosity in one direction, but stopped by another thought. I suppose he can wait, but if he gets stirred up about it—oh, well, I'll talk to you. But nothing foolish, Harry, promise me that. Yes. Slip into my room for a minute. She led the way a few steps down the hall, and he followed through the door, working his mind frantically in an effort to find words with which to open the speech before she should see that he was not Harry Morgan, and cry out to alarm the house. What should he say? Something about Bill Gregg at once, of course. That was the thing. The electric light snapped on at the far side of the room. He saw the dressing-table, an empire bed covered with green-figured silk, a pleasant rug on the floor, and just as he gathered an impression of delightful femininity from these furnishings, the girl turned from the lamp on the dressing-table, and he saw—not Carolyn Smith—but a bronze-haired beauty, as different from Bill Gregg's lady as day is from night. End of CHAPTER X