Chapter Seventeen. Old Scars
In his room Bill Gregg was striding up and down, throwing his hands toward the ceiling. Now and then he paused to slap Ronicky Doone on the back.
"It's fate, Ronicky," he said, over and over again. "Thinking of waking up and finding the girl that you've loved and lost standing waiting for you! It's the dead come to life. I'm the happiest man in the world. Ronicky, old boy, one of these days I'll be able—" He paused, stopped by the solemnity of Doone's face. "What's wrong, Ronicky?" "I don't know," said the other gloomily. He rubbed his arms slowly, as if to bring back the circulation to numbed limbs.
"You act like you're sick, Ronicky." "I'm getting bad-luck signs, Bill. That's the short of it." "How come?" "The old scars are prickling." "Scars? What scars?" "Ain't you noticed 'em." It was bedtime, so Ronicky Doone took off his coat and shirt. The rounded body, alive with playing muscles, was striped, here and there, with white streaks—scars left by healed wounds.
"At your age? A kid like you with scars?" Bill Gregg had been asking, and then he saw the exposed scars and gasped. "How come, Ronicky," he asked huskily in his astonishment, "that you got all those and ain't dead yet?" "I dunno," said the other. "I wonder a pile about that, myself. Fact is I'm a lucky gent, Bill Gregg." "They say back yonder in your country that you ain't never been beaten, Ronicky." "They sure say a lot of foolish things, just to hear themselves talk, partner. A gent gets pretty good with a gun, then they say he's the best that ever breathed—that he's never been beat. But they forget things that happened just a year back. No, sir; I sure took my lickings when I started." "But, dog-gone it, Ronicky, you ain't twenty-four now!" "Between sixteen and twenty-two I spent a pile of time in bed, Bill, and you can lay to that!" "And you kept practicing?" "Sure, when I found out that I had to. I never liked shooting much. Hated to think of having a gent's life right inside the crook of my trigger finger. But, when I seen that I had to get good, why I just let go all holds and practiced day and night. And I still got to practice." "I seen that," said Bill Gregg. "Every day, for an hour or two, you work with your guns." "It's like being a musician," said Ronicky without enthusiasm. "I heard about it once. Suppose a gent works up to be a fine musician, maybe at the piano. You'd think, when he got to the top and knew everything, he could lay off and take things easy the rest of his life. But not him! Nope, he's got to work like a slave every day." "But how come you felt them scars pricking as a bad-luck sign, Ronicky?" he asked after a time. "Is there anything that's gone wrong, far as you see?" "I dunno," said Ronicky gravely. "Maybe not, and maybe so. I ain't a prophet, but I don't like having everything so smooth—not when they's a gent like the man with the sneer on the other end of the wire. It means he's holding back some cards on us, and I'd sure like to see the color of what he's got. What I'm going to work for is this, Bill: To get Caroline's brother, Jerry Smith, and rustle him out of town." "But how can you do that when John Mark has a hold on him?" "That's a pile of bunk, Bill. I figure Mark is just bluffing. He ain't going to turn anybody over to the police. Less he has to do with the police the happier he'll be. You can lay to that. Matter of fact, he's been loaning money to Caroline's brother. You heard her say that. Also, he thinks that Mark is the finest and most generous gent that ever stepped. Probably a selfish skunk of a spoiled kid, this brother of hers. Most like he puts Mark up as sort of an ideal. Well, the thing to do is to get hold of him and wake him up and pay off his debts to Mark, which most like run to several thousand." "Several thousand, Ronicky? But where'll we get the money?" "You forget that I can always get money. It grows on the bushes for me." He grinned at Bill Gregg.
"Once we get Jerry Smith, then the whole gang of us will head straight West, as fast as we can step. Now let's hit the hay." Never had the mind of Ronicky Doone worked more quickly and surely to the point. The case of Jerry Smith was exactly what he had surmised. As for the crime of which John Mark knew, and which he held like a club over Jerry Smith, it had been purely and simply an act of self-defense. But, to Caroline and her brother, Mark had made it seem clear that the shadow of the electric chair was before the young fellow.
Mark had worked seriously to win Caroline. She was remarkably dexterous; she was the soul of courage; and, if he could once make her love her work, she would make him rich. In the meantime she did very well indeed, and he strengthened his hold on her through her brother. It was not hard to do. If Jerry Smith was the soul of recklessness, he was the soul of honor, also, in many ways. John Mark had only to lead the boy toward a life of heavy expenditures and gaming, lending him, from time to time, the wherewithal to keep it up. In this way he anchored Jerry as a safeguard to windward, in case of trouble.
But, now that Ronicky Doone had entered the tangle, everything was changed. That clear-eyed fellow might see through to the very bottom of Mark's tidewater plans. He might step in and cut the Gordian knot by simply paying off Jerry's debts. Telling the boy to laugh at the danger of exposure, Doone could snatch him away to the West. So Mark came to forestall Ronicky, by sending Jerry out of town and out of reach, for the time being. He would not risk the effect of Ronicky's tongue. Had not Caroline been persuaded under his very eyes by this strange Westerner?
Very early the next morning John Mark went straight to the apartment of his protégé. It was his own man, Northup, who answered the bell and opened the door to him. He had supplied Northup to Jerry Smith, immediately after Caroline accomplished the lifting of the Larrigan emeralds. That clever piece of work had proved the worth of the girl and made it necessary to spare no expense on Jerry. So he had given him the tried and proven Northup.
The moment he looked into the grinning face of Northup he knew that the master was not at home, and both the chief and the servant relaxed. They were friends of too long a term to stand on ceremony.
"There's no one here?" asked Mark, as a matter of form.
"Not a soul—the kid skipped—not a soul in the house." "Suppose he were to come up behind the door and hear you talk about him like this, Northup? He's trim you down nicely, eh?" "Him?" asked Northup, with an eloquent jerk of his hand. "He's a husky young brute, but it ain't brute force that I work with." He smiled significantly into the face of the other, and John Mark smiled in return. They understood one another perfectly.
"When is he coming back?" "Didn't leave any word, chief." "Isn't this earlier than his usual time for starting the day?" "It is, by five hours. The lazy pup don't usually crack an eye till one in the afternoon." "What happened this morning." "Something rare—something it would have done your heart good to see!" "Out with it, Northup." "I was routed out of bed at eight by a jangling of the telephone. The operator downstairs said a gentleman was calling on Mr. Smith. I said, of course, that Mr. Smith couldn't be called on at that hour. Then the operator said the gentleman would come up to the door and explain. I told him to come ahead.
"At the door of the apartment I met as fine looking a youngster as I ever laid eyes on, brown as a berry, with a quick, straight look about the eyes that would have done you good to see. No booze or dope in that face, chief. He said—" "How tall was he?" asked the chief.
"About my height. Know him?" "Maybe. What name did he give?" "Didn't give a name. 'I've come to surprise Jerry,' he says to me. "'Anybody would surprise Jerry at this hour of the morning,'" says I. "'It's too early, I take it?' says he.
"'About five hours,' says I. "'Then this is going to be one of the exceptions,' says he. "'If you knew Jerry better you wouldn't force yourself on him,' says I. "'Son,' says this fresh kid—" "Is this the way you talk to Smith?" broke in Mark.
"No, I can polish up my lingo with the best of 'em. But this brown-faced youngster was a card. Son,' he says to me, 'I'll do my own explaining. Just lead me to his dugout.' "I couldn't help laughing. 'You'll get a hot reception,' says I. "'I come from a hot country,' says he, 'and I got no doubt that Jerry will try to make me at home,' and he grinned with a devil in each eye. "'Come in, then,' says I, and in he steps. 'And mind your fists,' says I, 'if you wake him up sudden. He fights sometimes because he has to, but mostly because it's a pleasure to him.' "'Sure,' says he. 'That's the way I like to have 'em come.'" "And he went in?" demanded John Mark.
"What's wrong with that?" asked Northup anxiously.
"Nothing. Go ahead." "Well, in he went to Jerry's room. I listened at the door. I heard him call Jerry, and then Jerry groaned like he was half dead.
"'I don't know you,' says Jerry. "'You will before I'm through with you,' says the other. "'Who the devil are you?' asks Jerry.
"'Doone is my name,' says he. "'Then go to the devil till one o'clock,' says Jerry. 'And come back then if you want to. Here's my time for a beauty sleep.' "'If it's that time,' says Doone, 'you'll have to go ugly today. I'm here to talk.' "I heard Jerry sit up in bed. "'Now what the devil's the meaning of this?' he asked.
"'Are you awake?' says Doone.
"'Yes, but be hung to you!' says Jerry.
"Don't be hanging me,' says Doone. 'You just mark this day down in red—it's a lucky one for you, son.' "'An' how d'you mean that?' says Jerry, and I could hear by his voice that he was choking, he was that crazy mad.
"'Because it's the day you met me,' says Doone; 'that's why it's a lucky one for you.' "'Listen to me,' says Jerry, 'of all the nervy, cold-blooded fakers that ever stepped you're the nerviest.' "'Thanks,' says Doone. 'I think I am doing pretty well.' "'If I wanted to waste the time,' says Jerry, 'I'd get up and throw you out.' "'It's a wise man,' says Doone, 'that does his talking from the other side of a rock.' "'Well,' says Jerry, 'd'you think I can't throw you out?' "'Anyway,' says Doone, 'I'm still here.' "I heard the springs squeal, as Jerry went bouncing out of bed. For a minute they wrestled, and I opened the door. What I see was Jerry lying flat, and Doone sitting on his chest, as calm and smiling as you please. I closed the door quick. Jerry's too game a boy to mind being licked fair and square, but, of course, he'd rather fight till he died than have me or anybody else see him give up. "'I dunno how you got there,' says Jerry, 'but, if I don't kill you for this later on, I'd like to shake hands with you. It was a good trick.' "'The gent that taught me near busted me in two with the trick of it,' said Doone. 'S'pose I let you up. Is it to be a handshaking or fighting?' "'My wind is gone for half an hour,' says Jerry, 'and my head is pretty near jarred loose from my spinal column. I guess it'll have to be hand-shaking today. But I warn you, Doone,' he says, 'someday I'll have it all out with you over again.' "'Any time you mention,' says Doone, 'but, if you'd landed that left when you rushed in, I would have been on the carpet, instead of you.' "And Jerry chuckles, feeling a pile better to think how near he'd come to winning the fight. "'Wait till I jump under the shower,' says Jerry, 'and I'll be with you again. Have you had breakfast? And what brought you to me? And who the devil are you, Doone? Are you out of the West?' "He piles all these questions thick and fast at Doone, and then I seen right off that him and Doone had made up to be pretty thick with each other. So I went away from the door and didn't listen any more, and in about half an hour out they walk, arm in arm, like old pals." It was perfectly clear to John Mark that Ronicky had come there purposely to break the link between him and young Jerry Smith. It was perfectly plain why he wanted to do it.
"How much does Jerry owe me?" he asked suddenly.
The other drew out a pad and calculated for a moment: "Seven thousand eight hundred and forty-two," he announced with a grin, as he put back the pad. "That's what he's sold himself for, up to this time." "Too much in a way and not enough in another way," replied John Mark. "Listen, if he comes back, which I doubt, keep him here. Get him away from Ronicky—dope him—dope them both. In any case, if he comes back here, don't let him get away. You understand?" "Nope, but I don't need to understand. I'll do it." John Mark nodded and turned toward the door.
