Ronicky Doones Reward | Page 3

and folks with money and folks that are making more money and
spending it right where they make it, improving Twin Springs, all
because Al Jenkins has put faith in 'em that Twin Springs means good
business next year as well as this year. Yes, sir, the railroad is a long
way off, and stuff has to be hauled to it, and Twin Springs is a good
halfway point. So they all stop here. There's blacksmith shops for
shoeing the hosses and fixing the wagons; and there's saddle stores and
harness shops; and there's them two eating houses. And -- well,
everywhere along the line you'll see the signs of what Al Jenkins has
done for the town."
"And he done it all for charity?" asked Ronicky Doone.
"Why should he do it for charity?" asked his companion hotly. "No, sir.
What he done was to show his faith by buying up a lot of the old folks
around here that had let the town die on their hands and the result is
now that he owns pretty near all of the ground that the town is built on
and -- "
"H'm," chuckled Ronicky Doone. "I call it good business, partner."

"I call it public spirit!" asserted the other stoutly. Apparently that was
the interpretation which the townsmen and those from the adjacent
country wished to place upon the conduct of old Al Jenkins, and it was
folly to argue with them. This man's eye lighted to fiery earnestness the
moment he suspected that the intentions of Jenkins were being
questioned. And Ronicky at once shrugged his shoulder and turned his
head away. It made small difference to him what the opinions of this or
any other man in the town might be on this or any other subject, but,
just as he was sliding back into his old mental languor, he heard the
voices near him hushed, and then a warning murmur: "Watch
yourselves, now. Here comes Blondy. Make out that you don't know
who he is or where he come from."

CHAPTER II
THE TIME MATCH
Unable to remain indifferent when such a crisis had come, Ronicky
turned his head again to observe.
What he saw was a youth in his early twenties, riding jauntily down the
exact center of the street, sitting his pony straight and tall, with one
hand dropped in careless self-assurance on his hip and the broad brim
of his sombrero furling back from his face. It was a handsome,
clean-cut face. The sun and wind had tanned him deepest brown, and
out of the tan looked two clear eyes, ready to exchange glances with
any one in the world.
His horse, also, though hardly above the average diminutive stature of
cow ponies, was rather smaller in the head and more shapely of neck
and quarters than the general run of such animals. This was one point
on which Ronicky Doone was an expert. He read the capabilities of a
horse at a glance, just as some master minds are able to penetrate to the
character of other men. And this horse he knew to be a speedster of the
first water. Instinctively his glance turned to the side where his own
mare stood under the shed, a silken-flanked bay running to black points

and with a white-starred forehead. As if she felt the power of his glance,
she jerked up her head and whinnied to him softly. He replied with a
low whistle which, it seemed, contented her as much as speech would
have contented a human being. For she lowered her head again and
resumed her occupation of worrying at some shreds of grass.
Ronicky looked back. The youth had brought his horse to a halt before
the hotel and was now making a pretense, having dismounted, at
tethering the animal. Yet it was only a pretense, as Ronicky's accurate
eye could see. The reins were wrapped around and around the crossbar,
but they were not slipped one above the other to form a fast knot. One
strong jerk was all that was needed to free those reins and set the horse
at liberty to run.
Plainly, then, the blond-headed rider expected that he might have need
of making a quick exit from the village. Mentally Ronicky Doone sat
up. When both sides were prepared for mischief, it would be strange
indeed, considering the metal of which they were made, if the sparks
did not fly.
Blondy was a big fellow, strongly made around the shoulders, narrow
of hips, long and lean of legs -- in short, the beau ideal of the
cow-puncher who must live so large a portion of his life in the saddle.
Ronicky himself, an athlete from his head to his feet, looked with
suspicion upon such a