“No, you don't!” Ranson muttered. “Think of your daughter, man. Drop it!”
“I shall do it,” Cahill panted. “I am thinking of my daughter. It's the only way out. Take your hands off me--I shall!”
With his knuckles Ranson bored cruelly into the wounded hand, and it opened and the gun dropped from it; but as it did so it went off with a report that rang through the building. There was an instant rush of feet upon the steps of the veranda, and at the sound the two men sprang apart, eyeing each other sheepishly like two discovered truants. 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.
“Yes, I hoped it might. That's why I fired it,” snapped Ranson. “I want two whiskey-and-sodas. Quick now!”
“Whiskey-and-sodas. See how fast one of you can chase over to the club and get 'em. And next time I want a drink don't make me wake the entire garrison.”
As the soldiers retreated Ranson discovered Miss Cahill's white face beyond them. He ran and held the door open by a few inches.
“It's all right,” he whispered, reassuringly. “He's nearly persuaded. Wait just a minute longer and he'll be giving us his blessing.”
“I was just calling the guard. The electric bell's broken, and your father wanted a drink. That's a good sign, isn't it? Shows he's friendly, What kind did you say you wanted, Mr. Cahill--Scotch was it, or rye?” Ranson glanced back at the sombre, silent figure of Cahill, and then again opened the door sufficiently for him to stick out his head. “Sergeant,” he called, “make them both Scotch--long ones.”
He shut the door and turned upon the post-trader. “Now, then, father-in-law,” he said, briskly, “you've got to cut and run, and you've got to run quick. We'll tell 'em you're going to Fort Worth to buy the engagement ring, because I can't, being under arrest. But you go to Duncan City instead, and from there take the cars, to--”
“Run away!” Cahill repeated, dazedly. “But you'll be court-martialled.”