Ranson laughed mockingly. "Oh, I'm bored to death," he cried. "What
will you bet I don't?"
He had risen with them, but, without waiting for their answer, ran to
where his horse stood at the open door. He sank on his knees and
began tugging violently at the stirrup-straps. The two officers,
their eyes filled with concern, pursued him across the room. With
Cahill twenty feet away, they dared not raise their voices, but in
pantomime they beckoned him vigorously to return. Ranson came at
once, flushed and smiling, holding a hooded army-stirrup in each
hand. "Never do to have them see these!" he said. He threw the
stirrups from him, behind the row of hogsheads. "I'll ride in the
stirrup-straps!" He still spoke in the same low, brisk tone.
Crosby seized him savagely by the arm. "No, you won't!" he hissed.
"Look here, Ranson. Listen to me; for Heaven's sake don't be an ass!
They'll shoot you, you'll be killed---"
--"And court-martialed," panted Curtis.
"You'll go to Leavenworth for the rest of your life!"
Ranson threw off the detaining hand, and ran behind the counter. From
a lower shelf he snatched a red bandanna kerchief.
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