Ronicky Doones Reward | Page 6

to stay
there on the veranda until he had smoked a second cigarette clear down
to the butt.
"He don't know his name!" called another cow-puncher cheerily. "Ring
a bell for him. Maybe that'll bring him."
"Maybe he's like a hoss -- he sleeps standing!"
But these rough jests apparently had no effect upon Blondy. He took
out a cigarette paper. He held it with thumb and forefinger ready to sift
the tobacco into it. The tobacco fell in a small brown stream, some
grains caught by the heavy, warm wind and sent winking away through
the sunshine and into the shadow to the feet of Ronicky Doone. And he
felt as though they bore a message and an appeal to him, as the one
fair-minded human being present. But how long could it be before big
Blondy was forced by the taunts to turn and face the crowd, or else lose
his honor and self-respect by enduring the baiting? And, once he turned,
they would probably make for him and swamp him in a real
old-fashioned rough-house.
Yet his nerve was iron, this tall, yellow-haired youth! He stood as
jauntily, as easily as ever. For only that one instant had his self-control
been shaken, when he struck the other cigarette too strongly and
knocked off both ash and fire. Now his hands were steady again.
Ronicky saw the cord of the tobacco sack caught between the teeth of
Blondy and the top of the sack pulled shut. He saw the tobacco and the
papers stowed away in the shirt-breast pocket. And now with a deft
twist the cigarette was rolled. Ah, but just as Ronicky felt like cheering,
came a second calamity. Those fingers were under a hard-forced
control. They tore the paper in a deep rent. In vain Blondy strove to

moisten the paper so that it would hold. For when he lighted the
cigarette, it refused to draw, and presently from the torn place a few
grains of tobacco fell.
It brought another roar of laughter from the big aggressive puncher.
"What sort of a puncher are you, bud?" he bellowed. "Ain't you been
raised to roll your own? Hey, gents, here's one that was raised with a
silver spoon in his mouth. He had a greaser hired to roll his smokes for
him, he did! Ha, ha, ha!"
Again he roared with laughter, joined by the entire assemblage on the
veranda, and Blondy turned suddenly on his heel. And when he turned
his face was a revelation. It was as gray as dust. The mouth and the
eyes were framed in deeply incised lines. That mouth was pressed
straight, and the eyes were shadowed by beetling brows. All the energy
of Blondy had been exhausted in fighting the silent battle, with his back
turned to the crowd. And now his strength was gone. He was weak. The
only way he could maintain his honor was by rushing instantly into
action. If be waited any longer he was afraid that he would become a
trembling coward.
And Ronicky Doone, who had seen men crushed and made worthless
vagabonds through mental pressure alone, set his teeth at the sight of
Blondy's face. Even the cow-punchers along the veranda sensed that
the matter had passed beyond the realm of horseplay and tomfoolery.
There was a sudden change. Tragedy was in the air. Every laugh
stopped short. Now, if Blondy had been calm, all trouble could have
been averted. But he was not calm. He dared not wait any longer. He
was afraid of what he himself would do, and that is the most horrible
fear in the world. It makes men run from a shadow; and it makes men
storm forts.
"And I'd like to know," cried Blondy, "what in thunder all this talk and
this laughing is about! Can anybody tell me?"
No one answered. But there was a settling forward in the chairs, as
every man there came to the swift and melancholy realization that this

affair must end in disaster. Open insults were being cast in the face of
the town of Twin Springs. Such things could not be tolerated.
"You, there," went on Blondy, pointing out the big man. "Seems to me
that I've heard you make some kind of remark while my back was
turned. Well, it ain't turned any more. I'm looking right at you, friend,
and I'm waiting to hear when you talk up. Am I going to have to listen
long?"
The big man did not stir. At last he sighed. Was he going to back out of
the quarrel? Ronicky Doone and the others looked with sick anxiety at
him, for it is easier to watch a man die than to watch him accepting a
shame. But the big man was not