Ronicky Doone. Max Brand

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      "No. It was—Just a minute!"

      "Take your time."

      "Caroline."

      "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 Caroline Smith."

      There was a groan from Ronicky Doone and another from Bill Gregg.

      "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 Ronicky'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 Ronicky calmly. "Now see if you can't remember where she said she lived in New York." And he gave added point to his question by pressing the muzzle of the revolver a little closer to the throat of the Pullman conductor. The latter blinked and swallowed hard.

      "The only thing I remember her saying was 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 Ronicky darkly.

      His 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, Doone, and you, Gregg."

      "You haven't a thing in the world on us," replied Ronicky.

      "I have the fact that you carry concealed weapons."

      "Only this time."

      "Always! Fellows like you are as lonesome without a gun as they are without a skin."

      Ronicky turned at the door and laughed back at the gloomy face, and then they were gone down the steps and into the street.

Chapter Six

       Table of Contents

       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 at pretty near nothing," said Ronicky. 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 Caroline 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?" asked Bill. "Close, did you say?" "Well, we know the trail," said Ronicky cheerily. "All we've got to do is to locate the shack that stands beside that trail. For old mountain men like us that ought to be nothing. What sort of a stream is this East River, though?"

      Bill Gregg looked at his companion in disgust. He had become so used to regarding Doone as entirely infallible that it amazed and disheartened him to find that there was one topic so large about which Ronicky knew nothing. Perhaps the whole base for the good cheer of Ronicky was his ignorance of everything except the mountain desert.

      "A river's a river," went on Ronicky blandly. "And it's got a town beside it, and in 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 Ronicky. 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 be passing through houses most of the way."

      Ronicky Doone 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, Ronicky, hunting for 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 Ronicky, eager to turn the subject of 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 Ronicky had broken down the next morning, and, though breakfast in the diner restored some of his 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 dunno," said Bill. "Why?"

      "People been 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!"

      But Ronicky 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 for a thousand things. But back here in a crowd you can't fight a gent for laughing at you. Laughing is outside the law most anywheres, 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 been laughing at me, but they done enough to make me think a bit. They 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."

      "Derned if I see anything wrong with your outfit. Didn't they tell you that that was the style back East, to have spats like that on?"

      "Sure," said Ronicky, "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."

      "Ronicky," said Bill Gregg in admiration, "maybe you ain't read a pile, but you figure things out just like a book."

      Their conversation was cut short by the appearance СКАЧАТЬ