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Updated: May 17, 2025
The sight of old Caroline's face seen through the little oval pane moved some of the women to renewed sobs. Eight black men took up the coffin and carried it out with the slow, wide-legged steps of roustabouts. Parson Ranson, in a rusty Prince Albert coat, took Peter's arm and led him to the first vehicle after the hearse. It was a delivery wagon, but it was the best vehicle in the procession.
"Do you hear me?" But his daughter in her sympathy continued. "He was holding it so," she said, "and it went off, and the bullet passed through here." She laid the tip of a slim white finger on the palm of her right hand. "The bullet!" cried Ranson. He repeated, dully, "The bullet!" There was a sudden, tense silence.
The style of my hat was on the other extreme. It had been made to order by a substantial hatter in Lexington, enlisted, and served through the war on one head after another. It was a tall, drab-colored fur of conical shape, with several rows of holes punched around the crown for ventilation. I still wore the lead-colored knit jacket given me by "Buck" Ranson during the Banks campaign.
Why, didn't you know that the paymaster boasted last night to the surgeons that he hit this fellow in the hand? He says " Cahill snorted scornfully. "How'd he know that? What makes him think so?" "Well, never mind, let him think so," Ranson answered, fervently. "Don't discourage him. That's the only evidence I've got on my side.
When Sergeant Clancey and the guard pushed through the door Ranson stood facing it, spinning the revolver in cowboy fashion around his fourth finger. He addressed the sergeant in a tone of bitter irony. "Oh, you've come at last," he demanded. "Are you deaf? Why didn't you come when I called?" His tone showed he considered he had just cause for annoyance. "The gun brought me, I " began Clancey.
And one night, after he had been telling the mess of a Filipino officer who alone had held back his men and himself, and who at last died in his arms cursing him, she went to sleep declaring to herself that Lieutenant Ranson was becoming too like the man she had pictured for her husband than was good for her peace of mind.
Come, we must be going." But Miss Cahill held the wounded hand in both her own. When she turned her eyes to Ranson they were filled with tender concern. "I hurt him," she said, reproachfully. "He shot himself last night with one of those new cylinder revolvers." Her father snatched the hand from her. He tried to drown her voice by a sudden movement toward the door. "Come!" he called.
His would-be son-in-law observed the aggressiveness of his attitude, but, in his fuller knowledge of their prospective relations, smiled blandly. "Mr. Ranson," began Cahill, "I've no feelings against you personally. I've a friendly feeling for all of you young gentlemen at my mess. But you're not playing fair with me.
That's better than going to jail, isn't it, and making us bow our heads in grief?" Cahill, in his turn, approached the desk and, seating himself before it, began writing rapidly. "What is it?" asked Ranson. "A confession," said Cahill, his pen scratching. "I won't take it," Ranson said, "and I won't use it." "I ain't going to give it to you," said Cahill, over his shoulder.
Ranson was rich, foolishly, selfishly rich; his father was a United States Senator with influence enough, and money enough, to fight the law to buy his son out of jail. Sooner than his daughter should know that her father was one of those who sometimes wore the mask of the Red Rider, Ranson, for all he cared, could go to jail, or to hell.
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