Ronicky Doones Treasure | Page 5

and give somebody a light to shoot you by in
case they was somebody lying around. Now, into the saddle both of
you. We got a hard ride ahead."
"Something big on hand?" asked Marty Lang.
"There's a lesson for yaller-livered sneaks on hand," said Jack Moon,
his deep bass voice floating smoothly back to the ear of Ronicky.
"Hugh Dawn has come back to Trainor. We're going to drop in and call
on him and ask him what he's been doing all these ten years."
The low, growling murmur of the other three rolled away in the rush of
rain beyond the door of the barn. The four horsemen disappeared, and
Ronicky stepped out into the light of the dying fire. He had hardly
taken a step forward when he shrank back against the wall.
Straight into the door came Jack Moon, who peered uneasily about the
barn. Then he whirled his horse away and disappeared into the thick
downpour. He had seen nothing, and yet the true and suspicious instinct
of the man had brought him back to take a final glance into the barn to

make sure that no one had spied on the gathering of his little band.

Chapter Three
The Dawn House
Small things are often more suggestive, more illuminating, than large
events. All that Ronicky had heard Baldy say about Jack Moon and his
twenty years' career of crime had not been so impressive as that sudden
reappearance of the leader with all the implications of his hair-trigger
sensitiveness. Ronicky Doone was by no means a foolish dreamer apt
to be frightened away from danger by the mere face of it, but now he
paused.
Plainly, Hugh Dawn was a former member of the band, and this trip of
Moon's was undertaken for the purpose, perhaps the sole purpose, of
killing the offender who had left his ranks. Ronicky Doone considered.
If Hugh Dawn had belonged to this crew ten years before, he had
probably committed crimes as terrible as any in the band. If so,
sympathy was wasted on him, for never in his life had Ronicky seen
such an aggregation of dangerous men. It scarcely needed the
conversation of Lang and Baldy to reveal the nature of the organization.
Should he waste time and labor in attempting to warn Hugh Dawn of
the coming trouble?
Trainor, he knew, was a little crossroads village some twenty miles to
the north. He might outdistance the criminal band and reach the town
before them, but was it wise to intervene between such a man as Jack
Moon and his destined victim? Distinctly it was not wise. It might call
down the danger on his own head without saving Dawn. Moreover, it
was a case of thief against thief, murderer against murderer, no doubt.
If Dawn were put out of the way, probably no more would be done than
was just.
And still, knowing that the four bloodhounds were on the trail of one
unwarned man, the spirit of Ronicky leaped with eagerness to be up

and doing. Judgment was one thing, impulse was another, and all his
life Ronicky Doone had been the creature of impulse. One man was in
danger of four. All his love of fair play spurred him on to action.
In a moment more the saddle was on the back of the mare, he had
swung up into his place, flung the slicker over his shoulders, and
cantered through the door of the barn.
He turned well east of the trail which wound along the center of the
valley. This, beyond question, the band would follow, but inside of half
an hour Ronicky estimated that his mount, refreshed by her food and
rest, would outfoot them sufficiently to make it safe to drop back into
the better road without being in danger of meeting the four.
Such, accordingly, was the plan he adopted. He struck out a long
semicircle of half a dozen miles, which carried him down into the
central trail again; then he headed straight north toward Trainor. The
rain had fallen off to a mere misting by this time, and the wind was
milder and came out of the dead west, so that there was nothing to
impede their progress. The mountains began to lift gloomily into view,
the walls of the valley drew steadily nearer on either side, and at length,
at the head of the valley, he rode into the town of Trainor.
With the houses dripping and the street a river of mud under the hoofs
of Lou, the town looked like a perfect stage for a murder. Ronicky
Doone dismounted in front of the hotel.
There was no one in the narrow hallway which served as clerk's office
and lobby. He beat with the butt