From Mesa comes the news of another case of bold and flagrant rustling. On Friday night a bunch of horses belonging to the Bar Double M were rounded up and driven across the mountains to this city. The stolen animals were sold here this morning, after which the buyers set out at once for the border and the thieves made themselves scarce. It is claimed that the rustlers were members of the notorious Soapy Stone outfit. Two of the four were identified, it is alleged, as William Cranston, generally known as “Bad Bill,” and a young vaquero called “Curly” Flandrau.At the time of going to press posses are out after both the outlaws and the stolen horses. Chances of overtaking both are considered excellent. All likely points and outlying ranches have been notified by telephone whenever possible.In case the guilty parties are apprehended theSentinelhopes an example will be made of them that will deter others of like stamp from a practice that has of latebeen far too common. Lawlessness seems to come in cycles. Just now the southern tier of counties appears to be suffering from such a sporadic attack. Let all good men combine to stamp it out. The time has passed when Arizona must stand as a synonym for anarchy.
From Mesa comes the news of another case of bold and flagrant rustling. On Friday night a bunch of horses belonging to the Bar Double M were rounded up and driven across the mountains to this city. The stolen animals were sold here this morning, after which the buyers set out at once for the border and the thieves made themselves scarce. It is claimed that the rustlers were members of the notorious Soapy Stone outfit. Two of the four were identified, it is alleged, as William Cranston, generally known as “Bad Bill,” and a young vaquero called “Curly” Flandrau.
At the time of going to press posses are out after both the outlaws and the stolen horses. Chances of overtaking both are considered excellent. All likely points and outlying ranches have been notified by telephone whenever possible.
In case the guilty parties are apprehended theSentinelhopes an example will be made of them that will deter others of like stamp from a practice that has of latebeen far too common. Lawlessness seems to come in cycles. Just now the southern tier of counties appears to be suffering from such a sporadic attack. Let all good men combine to stamp it out. The time has passed when Arizona must stand as a synonym for anarchy.
She looked up at the young man breathlessly, her pretty lips parted, her dilated eyes taking him in solemnly. A question trembled on her lips.
“Say it,” advised Flandrau.
The courage to ask what she was thinking came back in a wave. “Then I will. Are you a rustler?”
“That’s what the paper says, don’t it?”
“Are you this man mentioned here? What’s his name—‘Curly’ Flandrau?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re a rustler?”
“What do you think? Am I more like a rustler than a deputy sheriff? Stands to reason I can’t be both.”
Her eyes did not leave him. She brushed aside his foolery impatiently. “You don’t even deny it.”
“I haven’t yet. I expect I will later.”
“Why do men do such things?” she went on, letting the hands that held the paper drop into her lap helplessly. “You don’t look bad. Anyone would think——”
Her sentence tailed out and died away. She was still looking at Curly, but he could see that her mind had flown to someone else. He would have bet a month’s pay that she was thinking of another lad who was wild but did not look bad.
Flandrau rose and walked round the table to her. “Much obliged, Miss Laura. I’ll shake hands on that with you. You’ve guessed it. Course, me being so ‘notorious’ I hate to admit it, but I ain’t bad any more than he is.”
She gave him a quick shy look. He had made a center shot she was not expecting. But, womanlike, she did not admit it.
“You mean this ‘Bad Bill’?”
“You know who I mean all right. His name is Sam Cullison. And you needn’t to tell me where he is. I’ll find him.”
“I know you don’t mean any harm to him.” But she said it as if she were pleading with him.
“C’rect. I don’t. Can you tell me how to get to Soapy Stone’s horse ranch from here, Miss London?”
She laughed. Her doubts were vanishing like mist before the sunshine. “Good guess. At least he was there the last I heard.”
“And I expect your information is pretty recent.”
That drew another little laugh accompanied by a blush.
“Don’t you think I have told you enough for one day, Mr. Flandrau?”
“That ‘Mr.’ sounds too solemn. My friends call me ‘Curly,’” he let her know.
She remembered that he was a stranger and a rustler and she drew herself up stiffly. This pleasant young fellow was too familiar.
“If you take this trail to the scrub pines above, then keep due north for about four miles, you’ll strike the creek again. Just follow the trail along it to the horse ranch.”
With that she turned on her heel and walked into the kitchen.
Curly had not meant to be “fresh.” He was always ready for foolery with the girls, but he was not the sort to go too far. Now he blamed himself for having moved too fast. He had offended her sense of what was the proper thing.
There was nothing for it but to saddle and take the road.
CHAPTER VIA BEAR TRAP
The winding trail led up to the scrub pines and from there north into the hills. Curly had not traveled far when he heard the sound of a gun fired three times in quick succession. He stopped to listen. Presently there came a faint far call for help.
Curly cantered around the shoulder of the hill and saw a man squatting on the ground. He was stooped forward in an awkward fashion with his back to Flandrau.
“What’s up?”
At the question the man looked over his shoulder. Pain and helpless rage burned in the deep-set black eyes.
“Nothing at all. Don’t you see I’m just taking a nap?” he answered quietly.
Curly recognized him now. The man was Soapy Stone. Behind the straight thin-lipped mouth a double row of strong white teeth were clamped tightly. Little beads of perspiration stood out all over his forehead. A glance showed the reason. One of his hands was caught in a bear trap fastened to a cottonwood. Its jaws held him so that he could not move.
The young man swung from the back of Keno. He found the limb of a cottonwood about as thick as his forearm below the elbow. This he set close to the trap.
“Soon as I get the lip open shove her in,” he told Stone.
The prisoner moistened his dry lips. It was plain that he was in great pain.
The rescuer slipped the toes of his boots over the lower lip and caught the upper one with both hands. Slowly the mouth of the trap opened. Stone slipped in the wooden wedge and withdrew his crushed wrist. By great good fortune the steel had caught on the leather gauntlet he was wearing. Otherwise it must have mangled the arm to a pulp.
Even now he was suffering a good deal.
“You’ll have to let a doc look at it,” Curly suggested.
Stone agreed. “Reckon I better strike for the Bar 99.” He was furious at himself for having let such an accident happen. The veriest tenderfoot might have known better.
His horse had disappeared, but Curly helped him to the back of Keno. Together they took the trail for the Bar 99. On the face of the wounded man gathered the moisture caused by intense pain. His jaw was clenched to keep back the groans.
“Hard sledding, looks like,” Curly sympathized.
“Reckon I can stand the grief,” Stone grunted.
Nor did he speak again until they reached the ranch and Laura London looked at him from a frightened face.
“What is it?”
“Ran a sliver in my finger, Miss Laura. Too bad to trouble you,” Soapy answered with a sneer on his thin lips.
A rider for the Bar 99 had just ridden up and Laura sent him at once for the doctor. She led the way into the house and swiftly gathered bandages, a sponge, and a basin of water. Together she and Curly bathed and wrapped the wound. Stone did not weaken, though he was pretty gray about the lips.
Laura was as gentle as she could be.
“I know I’m hurting you,” she said, her fingers trembling.
“Not a bit of it. Great pleasure to have you for a nurse. I’m certainly in luck.” Curly did not understand the bitterness in the sardonic face and he resented it.
“If the doctor would only hurry,” Laura murmured.
“Yes, I know I’m a great trouble. Too bad Curly found me.”
She was busy with the knots of the outer wrapping and did not look up. “It is no trouble.”
“I’m too meddlesome. Serves me right for being inquisitive about your father’s trap.”
“He’ll be sorry you were caught.”
“Yes. He’ll have to climb the hill and reset it.”
That something was wrong between them Curly could see. Soapy was very polite in spite of his bitterness, but his hard eyes watched her as a cat does a mouse. Moreover, the girl was afraid of him. He could tell that by the timid startled way she had of answering. Now why need she fear the man? It would be as much as his life was worth to lift a hand to hurt her.
After the doctor had come and had attended to the crushed wrist Curly stepped out to the porch to find Laura. She was watering her roses and he went across the yard to her.
“I’m right sorry for what I said, Miss Laura. Once in a while a fellow makes a mistake. If he’s as big a chump as I am it’s liable to happen a little oftener. But I’m not really one of those smart guys.”
Out came her gloved hand in the firmest of grips.
“I know that now. You didn’t think. And I made a mistake. I thought you were taking advantage because I had been friendly. I’m glad you spoke about it. We’ll forget it.”
“Then maybe we’ll be friends after all, but Isha’n’t tell you what my friends call me,” he answered gaily.
She laughed out in a sudden bubbling of mirth. “Take care.”
“Oh, I will. I won’t even spell it.”
He helped her with the watering. Presently she spoke, with a quick look toward the house.
“There’s something I want to say.”
“Yes.”
“Something I want you to do for me.”
“I expect maybe I’ll do it.”
She said nothing more for a minute, then the thing that was troubling her burst from the lips of the girl as a flame leaps out of a pent fire.
“It’s about that boy he has up there.” She gave a hopeless little gesture toward the hills.
“Sam Cullison?”
“Yes.”
“What about him?”
“He’s bent on ruining him, always has been ever since he got a hold on him. I can’t tell you how I know it, but I’m sure—— And now he’s more set on it than ever.”
Curly thought he could guess why, but he wanted to make sure. “Because you are Sam’s friend?”
The pink flooded her cheeks. “Yes.”
“And because you won’t be Soapy Stone’s friend?”
She flashed a startled look at him. “How do you know?”
“Jealous, is he?”
Her face, buried in the blooms she had been cutting, was of the same tint as the roses.
“And so he wants to hurt you through him?” Flandrau added.
“Yes. If he can drag Sam down and get him into trouble he’ll pay off two grudges at once. And he will too. You’ll see. He’s wily as an Indian. For that matter there is Apache blood in him, folks say.”
“What about young Cullison? Can’t he make a fight for himself?”
“Oh, you know how boys are. Sam is completely under this man’s influence.” Her voice broke a little. “And I can’t help him. I’m only a girl. He won’t listen to me. Besides, Dad won’t let me have anything to do with him because of the way he’s acting. What Sam needs is a man friend, one just as strong and determined as Soapy but one who is good and the right sort of an influence.”
“Are you picking me for that responsible friend who is to be such a powerful influence for good?” Curly asked with a smile.
“Yes—yes, I am.” She looked up at him confidently.
“Haven’t you forgotten that little piece in theSentinel? How does it go? An example had ought to be made of the desperadoes, and all the rest of it.”
“I don’t care what it says. I’ve seen you.”
“So had the editor.”
She waved his jests aside. “Oh, well! You’ve done wrong. What of that? Can’t I tell you are a man? And I don’t care how much fun you make of me. You’re good too.”
Curly met her on the ground of her own seriousness. “I’ll tell you something, Miss Laura. Maybe you’ll be glad to know that the reason I’m going to the horse ranch is to help Sam Cullison if I can.”
He went on to tell her the whole story of what the Cullisons had done for him. In all that he said there was not one word to suggest such a thing, but Laura London’s mind jumped the gaps to a knowledge of the truth that Curly himself did not have. The young man was in love with Kate Cullison. She was sure of it. Also, she was his ally in the good cause of romance.
When Curly walked back into the house, Stone laid down the paper he had been reading.
“I see theSentinelhints that Mr. Curly Flandrau had better be lynched,” he jeered.
“TheSentineldon’t always hit the bull’s-eye, Soapy,” returned the young man evenly. “It thinksI belong to the Soapy Stone outfit, but we know I haven’t that honor.”
“There’s no such outfit—not in the sense he means,” snapped the man on the lounge. “What are your plans? Where you going to lie low? Picked a spot yet?”
“I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m on the way,” Curly assured him gaily.
Soapy frowned at him under the heavy eyebrows that gave him so menacing an effect.
“Better come back with me to the ranch till you look around.”
“Suits me right down to the ground if it does you.”
Someone came whistling into the house and opened the door of the room. He was a big lank fellow with a shotgun in his hands. “From Missouri” was stamped all over his awkward frame. He stood staring at his unexpected guests. His eyes, clashing with those of Stone, grew chill and hard.
“So you’re back here again, are you?” he asked, looking pretty black.
Stone’s lip smile mocked him. “I don’t know how you guessed it, but I sure am here.”
“Didn’t I tell you to keep away from the Bar 99—you and your whole cursed outfit?”
“Seems to me you did mention something ofthat sort. But how was I to know whether you meant it unless I came back to see?”
Laura came into the room and ranged herself beside her father. Her hand rested lightly on his forearm.
“He got caught in one of your bear traps and this young man brought him here to wait for the doctor,” she explained.
“Hmp!”
The Missourian stared without civility at his guest, turned on his heel, and with his daughter beside him marched out of the room. He could not decently tell Stone to leave while he was under the care of a doctor, but he did not intend to make him welcome. London was a blunt grizzled old fellow who said what he thought even about the notorious Soapy Stone.
“We’ll pull our freights right away, Curly,” Stone announced as soon as his host had gone.
The young man went to the stable and saddled Keno. While he was tightening the cinch a shadow fell across his shoulder. He did not need to look round to see whose it was.
“I’m so glad you’re going to the horse ranch. You will look out for Sam. I trust you. I don’t know why, but I have the greatest confidence in you,” the owner of the shadow explained sweetly.
Curly smiled blandly over his shoulder at her.“Fine! That’s a good uplifting line of talk, Miss Laura. Now will you please explain why you’re feeding me this particular bunch of taffy? What is it I’m to do for you?”
She blushed and laughed at the same time. Her hand came from behind her back. In it was a letter.
“But I do mean it, every word of it.”
“That’s to be my pay for giving Master Sam his billy doo, is it?”
“How did you guess? It is a letter to Sam.”
“How did I guess it? Shows I’m sure a wiz, don’t it?”
She saw her father coming and handed him the letter quickly.
“Here. Take it.” A spark of mischief lit her eye and the dimples came out on her cheeks. “Good-by,Curly.”
CHAPTER VIIBAD MEDICINE
The house at the horse ranch was a long, low L-shaped adobe structure. The first impression Curly received was that of negligence. In places the roof sagged. A door in the rear hung from one hinge. More than one broken pane of glass was stuffed with paper. The same evidence of shiftlessness could be seen on every hand. Fences had collapsed and been repaired flimsily. The woodwork of the well was rotting. The windmill wheezed and did its work languidly for lack of oil.
Two men were seated on the porch playing seven up. One was Bad Bill, the other Blackwell. At sight of Curly they gave up their game.
“Hello, kid! Where did you drop from?” Cranston asked.
A muscle twitched in Flandrau’s cheek. “They got Mac.”
“Got him! Where? At Saguache?”
“Ran us down near the Circle C. Mac opened fire. They—killed him.”
“Shot him, or——?” Curly was left to guess the other half of the question.
“Shot him, and took me prisoner.”
“They couldn’t prove a thing, could they?”
“They could prove I wounded Cullison. That was enough for them. They set out to hang me. Later they changed their minds.”
“How come you here? Did you escape?”
“Nope. Friends dug up bail.”
Cranston did not ask what friends. He thought he knew. Alec Flandrau, an uncle of Curly, owned a half interest in the Map of Texas ranch. No doubt he had come to the aid of the young scapegoat.
“I’ll bet the old man was sore at having to ante,” was Big Bill’s comment.
“Say, Soapy has been telling me that the Cullison kid is up here. I reckon we better not say anything about my mixup with his folks. I’m not looking for any trouble with him.”
“All right, Curly. That goes with me. How about you, Blackwell?”
“Sure. What Sam don’t know won’t hurt him.”
Curly sat down on the porch and told an edited story of his adventures to them. Before he had finished a young fellow rode up and dismounted. He had a bag of quail with him which he handed over to the Mexican cook. After he had unsaddled and turned his pony into a corral he joined the card players on the porch.
By unanimous consent the game was changed to poker. Young Cullison had the chair next to Flandrau. He had, so Curly thought, a strong family resemblance to his father and sister. “His eye jumps straight at you and asks its questions right off the reel,” the newcomer thought. Still a boy in his ways, he might any day receive the jolt that would transform him into a man.
The cook’s “Come and get it” broke up the game for a time. They trooped to supper, where for half an hour they discussed without words fried quail, cornbread and coffee. Such conversation as there was held strictly to necessary lines and had to do with the transportation of edibles.
Supper over, they smoked till the table was cleared. Then coats were removed and they sat down to the serious business of an all night session of draw.
Curly was not playing to win money so much as to study the characters of those present. Bill he knew already fairly well as a tough nut to crack, game to the core, and staunch to his friends. Blackwell was a bad lot, treacherous, vindictive, slippery as an eel. Even his confederates did not trust him greatly. But it was Soapy Stone and young Cullison that interested Flandrau most. The former played like a master. He chatted carelessly, but he overlooked no points. Sam had the qualities thatgo to make a brilliant erratic player, but he lacked the steadiness and the finesse of the veteran.
The last play before they broke up in the gray dawn was a flashlight on Stone’s cool audacity. The limit had long since been taken off. Blackwell and Stone had been the winners of the night, and the rest had all lost more or less.
Curly was dealing, Cranston opened the pot.
“She’s cracked,” he announced.
Blackwell, sitting next to him, had been waiting his turn with palpable eagerness. “Got to boost her, boys, to protect Bill,” he explained as his raise went in.
Sam, who had drunk more than was good for him, raised in his turn. “Kick her again, gentlemen. Me, I’m plumb tired of that little song of mine, ‘Good here’.”
Stone stayed. Curly did not come in.
Cranston showed his openers and laid down his hand. Blackwell hesitated, then raised again.
“Reckon I’m content to trail along,” Cullison admitted, pushing in the necessary chips.
Soapy rasped his stubby chin, looked sideways at Sam and then at Blackwell, and abruptly shaved in chips enough to call the raise.
“Cards?” asked Curly.
“I’ll play these,” Blackwell announced.
Sam called for two and Stone one.
Blackwell raised. Sam, grumbling, stayed.
“Might as well see what you’ve got when I’ve gone this far,” he gave as a reason for throwing good money after bad.
Soapy took one glance at his new card and came in with a raise.
Blackwell slammed his fist down on the table. “Just my rotten luck. You’ve filled.”
Stone smiled, then dropped his eyes to his cards. Suddenly he started. What had happened was plain. He had misread his hand.
With a cheerful laugh Blackwell raised in his turn.
“Lets me out,” Sam said.
For about a tenth of a second one could see triumph ride in Soapy’s eyes. “Different here,” he explained in a quiet businesslike way. All his chips were pushed forward to the center of the table.
On Blackwell’s face were mapped his thoughts. Curly saw his stodgy mind working on the problem, studying helplessly the poker eyes of his easy placid enemy. Was Soapy bluffing? Or had he baited a hook for him to swallow? The faintest glimmer of amusement drifted across the face of Stone. He might have been a general whose plans have worked out to suit him, waiting confidently for certain victory. The longer the convict looked at him the surer he was that he had been trapped.
With an oath he laid down his hand. “You’ve got me beat. Mine is only a jack high straight.”
Stone put down his cards and reached for the pot.
Curly laughed.
Blackwell whirled on him.
“What’s so condemned funny?”
“The things I notice.”
“Meaning?”
“That I wouldn’t have laid down my hand.”
“Betcher ten plunks he had me beat.”
“You’re on.” Curly turned to Soapy. “Object to us seeing your hand?”
Stone was counting his chips. He smiled. “It ain’t poker, but go ahead. Satisfy yourselves.”
“You turn the cards,” Flandrau said.
A king of diamonds showed first, then a ten-spot and a six-spot of the same suit.
“A flush,” exulted Blackwell.
“I’ve got just one more ten left, but it says you’re wrong.”
The words were not out of Curly’s mouth before the other had taken the bet. Soapy looked at Flandrau with a new interest. Perhaps this boy was not such a youth as he had first seemed.
The fourth card turned was a king of hearts, the last a six of spades. Stone had had two pair to go on and had not bettered at the draw.
Blackwell tossed down two bills and went away furious.
That night was like a good many that followed. Sam was at an impressionable age, inclined to be led by any man whom he admired. Curly knew that he could gain no influence over him by preaching. He had to live the rough-and-tumble life of these men who dwelt beyond the pale of the law, to excel them at the very things of which they boasted. But in one respect he held himself apart. While he was at the horse ranch he did not touch a drop of liquor.
Laura London’s letter was not delivered until the second day, for, though she had not told her messenger to give it to Sam when he was alone, Curly guessed this would be better. The two young men had ridden down to Big Tree spring to get quail for supper.
“Letter for you from a young lady,” Flandrau said, and handed it to Cullison.
Sam did not read his note at once, but put it in his pocket carelessly, as if it had been an advertisement. They lay down in the bushes about twenty yards apart, close to the hole where the birds flew every evening to water. Hidden by the mesquite, Sam ran over his letter two or three times while he was waiting. It was such a message as any brave-hearted, impulsive girl might send to the man she loved when he seemed to her to walk in danger.Cullison loved her for the interest she took in him, even while he ridiculed her fears.
Presently the quails came by hundreds on a bee-line for the water hole. They shot as many as they needed, but no more, for neither of them cared to kill for pleasure.
As they rode back to the ranch, Curly mentioned that he had seen Sam’s people a day or two before.
Cullison asked no questions, but he listened intently while the other told the story of his first rustling and of how Miss Kate and her father had stood by him in his trouble. The dusk was settling over the hills by this time, so that they could not see each other’s faces clearly.
“If I had folks like you have, the salt of the earth, and they were worrying their hearts out about me, seems to me I’d quit helling around and go back to them,” Curly concluded.
“The old man sent you to tell me that, did he?” Hard and bitter came the voice of the young man out of the growing darkness.
“No, he didn’t. He doesn’t know I’m here. But he and your sister have done more for me than I ever can pay. That’s why I’m telling you this.”
Sam answered gruffly, as a man does when he is moved, “Much obliged, Curly, but I reckon I can look out for myself.”
“Just what I thought, and in September I have togo to the penitentiary. Now I have mortgaged it away, my liberty seems awful good to me.”
“You’ll get off likely.”
“Not a chance. They’ve got me cinched. But with you it’s different. You haven’t fooled away your chance yet. There’s nothing to this sort of life. The bunch up here is no good. Soapy don’t mean right by you, or by any young fellow he trails with.”
“I’ll not listen to anything against Soapy. He took me in when my own father turned against me.”
“To get back at your father for sending him up the road.”
“That’s all right. He has been a good friend to me. I’m not going to throw him down.”
“Would it be throwing him down to go back to your people?”
“Yes, it would. We’ve got plans. Soapy is relying on me. No matter what they are, but I’m not going to lie down on him. And I’m not going back to the old man. He told me he was through with me. Once is a-plenty. I’m not begging him to take me back, not on your life.”
HE WAS THE MADDEST MAN IN ARIZONA.
HE WAS THE MADDEST MAN IN ARIZONA.
Curly dropped the matter. To urge him further would only make the boy more set in his decision. But as the days passed he kept one thing in his mind, not to miss any chance to win his friendship. They rode together a good deal, and Flandrau found that Sam liked to hear him talk about the Circle C and its affairs. But often he was discouraged, for he made no progress in weaning him from his loyalty to Stone. The latter was a hero to him, and gradually he was filling him with wrong ideas, encouraging him the while to drink a great deal. That the man had some definite purpose Curly was sure. What it was he meant to find out.
Meanwhile he played his part of a wild young cowpuncher ready for any mischief, but beneath his obtuse good humor Flandrau covered a vigilant wariness. Soapy held all the good cards now, but if he stayed in the game some of them would come to him. Then he would show Mr. Stone whether he would have everything his own way.
CHAPTER VIIIA REHEARSED QUARREL
Because he could not persuade him to join in their drinking bouts, Stone nicknamed Curly the good bad man.
“He’s the prize tough in Arizona, only he’s promised his ma not to look on the wine when it is red,” Blackwell sneered.
Flandrau smiled amiably, and retorted as best he could. It was his cue not to take offence unless it were necessary.
It was perhaps on account of this good nature that Blackwell made a mistake. He picked on the young man to be the butt of his coarse pleasantries. Day after day he pointed his jeers at Curly, who continued to grin as if he did not care.
When the worm turned, it happened that they were all sitting on the porch. Curly was sewing a broken stirrup leather, Blackwell had a quirt in his hand, and from time to time flicked it at the back of his victim. Twice the lash stung, not hard, but with pepper enough to hurt. Each time the young man asked him to stop.
Blackwell snapped the quirt once too often.When he picked himself out of the dust five seconds later, he was the maddest man in Arizona. Like a bull he lowered his head and rushed. Curly sidestepped and lashed out hard with his left.
The convict whirled, shook the hair out of his eyes, and charged again. It was a sledge-hammer bout, with no rules except to hit the other man often and hard. Twice Curly went down from chance blows, but each time he rolled away and got to his feet before his heavy foe could close with him. Blackwell had no science. His arms went like flails. Though by sheer strength he kept Flandrau backing, the latter hit cleaner and with more punishing effect.
Curly watched his chance, dodged a wild swing, and threw himself forward hard with his shoulder against the chest of the convict. The man staggered back, tripped on the lowest step of the porch, and went down hard. The fall knocked the breath out of him.
“Had enough?” demanded Curly.
For answer Blackwell bit his thumb savagely.
“Since you like it so well, have another taste.” Curly, now thoroughly angry, sent a short-arm jolt to the mouth.
The man underneath tried to throw him off, but Flandrau’s fingers found his hairy throat and tight-
[Transcriber’s Note: the last line printed in the preceeding paragraph was “tight-” and that was at a page break. The continuation was not printed at the top of the following page. From the context, “tightened” is likely the completed word.]
“You’re killing me,” the convict gasped.
“Enough?”
“Y-yes.”
Curly stepped back quickly, ready either for a knife or a gun-play. Blackwell got to his feet, and glared at him.
“A man is like a watermelon; you can’t most generally tell how good he is till you thump him,” Sam chuckled.
Cranston laughed. “Curly was not so ripe for picking as you figured, Lute. If you’d asked me, I could a-told you to put in yore spare time letting him alone. But a fellow has to buy his own experience.”
The victor offered his hand to Blackwell. “I had a little luck. We’ll call it quits if you say so.”
“I stumbled over the step,” the beaten man snarled.
“Sure. I had all the luck.”
“Looked to me like you were making yore own luck, kid,” Bad Bill differed.
The paroled convict went into the house, swearing to get even. His face was livid with fury.
“You wouldn’t think a little thing like a whaling given fair and square would make a man hold a grudge. My system has absorbed se-ve-real without doing it any harm.” Sam stooped to inspecta rapidly discoloring eye. “Say, Curly, he hung a peach of a lamp on you.”
Soapy made no comment in words, but he looked at Flandrau with a new respect. For the first time a doubt as to the wisdom of letting him stay at the ranch crossed his mind.
His suspicion was justified. Curly had been living on the edge of a secret for weeks. Mystery was in the air. More than once he had turned a corner to find the other four whispering over something. The group had disintegrated at once with a casual indifference that did not deceive. Occasionally a man had ridden into the yard late at night for private talk with Stone, and Curly was morally certain that the man was the little cowpuncher Dutch of the Circle C.
Through it all Curly wore a manner of open confidence. The furtive whisperings did not appear to arouse his curiosity, nor did he intercept any of the knowing looks that sometimes were exchanged. But all the time his brain was busy with questions. What were they up to? What was it they had planned?
Stone and Blackwell rode away one morning. To Curly the word was given that they were going to Mesa. Four days later Soapy returned alone. Lute had found a job, he said.
“That a paper sticking out of your pocket?” Flandrau asked.
Soapy, still astride his horse, tossed theSaguache Sentinelto him as he turned toward the stable.
“Lie number one nailed,” Curly said to himself. “How came he with a Saguache paper if he’s been to Mesa?”
Caught between the folds of the paper was a railroad time table. It was a schedule of the trains of the Texas, Arizona & Pacific for July. This was the twenty-ninth of June. Certainly Soapy had lost no time getting the new folder as soon as it was issued. Why? He might be going traveling. If so, what had that to do with the mystery agitating him and his friends?
Curly turned the pages idly till a penciled marking caught his eye. Under Number 4’s time was scrawled, just below Saguache, the word Tin Cup, and opposite it the figures 10:19. The express was due to leave Saguache at 9:57 in the evening. From there it pushed up to the divide and slid down with air brakes set to Tin Cup three thousand feet lower. Soapy could not want to catch the train fifteen miles the other side of Saguache. But this note on the margin showed that he was interested in the time it reached the water tank. There must be a reason for it.
Stone came back hurriedly from the corral, to find Curly absorbed in the Sentinel.
“Seen anything of a railroad folder? I must a-dropped it.”
“It was stuck in the paper. I notice there’s liable to be trouble between Fendrick and the cattle interests over his sheep,” the reader answered casually.
“Yep. Between Fendrick and Cullison, anyhow.” Stone had reclaimed and pocketed his time table.
Incidentally Flandrau’s doubt had been converted into a lively suspicion. Presently he took a gun, and strolled off to shoot birds. What he really wanted was to be alone so that he could think the matter over. Coming home in the dusk, he saw Stone and young Cullison with their heads together down by the corral. Curious to see how long this earnest talk would last, Curly sat down on a rock, and watched them, himself unobserved. They appeared to be rehearsing some kind of a scene, of which Soapy was stage director.
The man on the rock smiled grimly. “They’re having a quarrel, looks like.... Now the kid’s telling Soapy to go to Guinea, and Soapy’s pawing around mad as a bull moose. It’s all a play. They don’t mean it. But why? I reckonthis dress rehearsal ain’t for the calves in the corral.”
Curly’s mind was so full of guesses that his poker was not up to par that night. About daybreak he began to see his way into the maze. His first gleam of light was when a row started between Soapy and Cullison. Before anyone could say a word to stop them they were going through with that identical corral quarrel.
Flandrau knew now they had been preparing it for his benefit. Cranston chipped in against Sam, and to keep up appearances Curly backed the boy. The quarrel grew furious. At last Sam drove his fist down on the table and said he was through with the outfit and was going back to Saguache.
“Yo tambien,” agreed Curly. “Not that I’ve got anything against the horse ranch. That ain’t it. But I’m sure pining for to bust the bank at Bronson’s.
‘Round and round the little ball goes,
Where it will land nobody knows.’
I’ve got forty plunks burning my jeans. I’ve got to separate myself from it or make my roll a thousand.”
The end of it was that both Sam and Curly went down to the corral and saddled their ponies. To the last the conspirators played up to their parts.
“Damned good riddance,” Stone called after them as they rode away.
“When I find out I’m doing business with four-flushers, I quit them cold,” Sam called back angrily.
Curly was amused. He wanted to tell his friend that they had pulled off their little play very well. But he did not.
Still according to program, Sam sulked for the first few miles of their journey. But before they reached the Bar 99 he grew sunny again.
“I’m going to have a talk with Laura while I’m so near,” he explained.
“Yes, that will be fine. From the way the old man talked when I was there, I expect he’ll kill the fatted yearling for you.”
“I don’t figure on including the old man in my call. What’s the use of having a friend along if you don’t use him? You drift in ... just happen along, you know. I’ll stay in the scrub pines up here. If the old man is absent scenery, you wave your bandanna real industrious. If he is at home, give Laura the tip and she’ll know where to find me.”
The owner of the ranch, as it happened, was cutting trail over by Agua Caliente.
“Do you want to see him very bad, Mr. Flandrau?” asked Miss Laura demurely.
“My friends call me Curly.”
“I meant to say Curly.”
“That’s what I thought. No, I can’t say I’ve lost Mr. London.”
“You inquired for him.”
“Hmp! That’s different. When I used to come home from the swimming hole contrary to orders, I used to ask where Dad was, but I didn’t want to see him.”
“I see. Did you just come down from the horse ranch?”
“You’ve guessed it right.”
“Then I’m sorry I can’t ask you to ’light. Dad’s orders.”
“You’ve got lots of respect for his orders, haven’t you?” he derided.
“Yes, I have.” She could not quite make up her mind whether to laugh or become indignant.
“Then there’s no use trying to tell you the news from the ranch.”
A smile dimpled her cheeks and bubbled in her eyes. “If you should tell me, I suppose I couldn’t help hearing.”
“But I’m trying to figure out my duty. Maybe I oughtn’t to tempt you.”
“While you’re making up your mind, I’ll run back into the kitchen and look at the pies in the oven.”
Curly swung from the saddle, and tossed the bridle rein to the ground. He followed her into the house. She was taking an apple pie from the oven, but took time to be saucy over her shoulder.
“I’m not allowed to invite you into the house, sir.”
“Anything in the by-laws about me inviting myself in?”
“No, that wasn’t mentioned.”
“Anything in them about you meeting one of the lads from the horse ranch up on the hillside where it is neutral ground?”
“Did Sam come with you?” she cried.
“Who said anything about Sam?”
Glints of excitement danced in the brown pupils of her eyes. “He’s here. Oh, I know he’s here.”
“What do I get for bringing good news?”
“I didn’t say it was good news.”
“Sho! Your big eyes are shouting it.”
“Was that the news from the horse ranch?”
“That’s part of it, but there is more. Sam and Curly are on their way to Saguache to spend the Fourth of July. Sam is going for another reason, but I’m not sure yet what it is.”
“You mean——?”
“There’s something doing I don’tsavez, some big deal on foot that’s not on the level. Sam is in it up to the hocks. To throw me off the scent theyfixed up a quarrel among them. Sam is supposed to be quitting Soapy’s outfit for good. But I know better.”
White to the lips, she faced him bravely. “What sort of trouble is he leading Sam into?”
“I’ve got a kind of a notion. But it won’t bear talking about yet. Don’t you worry, little girl. I’m going to stand by Sam. And don’t tell him what I’ve told you, unless you want to spoil my chance of helping him.”
“I won’t,” she promised; then added, with quick eagerness: “Maybe I can help you. I’m going down to Saguache to visit on the fourth. I’m to be there two weeks.”
“I’ll look you up. Trouble is that Sam is hell bent on ruining himself. Seems to think Soapy is his best friend. If we could show him different things might work out all right.”
While she climbed the hill to Sam, Curly watered his horse and smoked a cigarette. He was not hired to chaperone lovers. Therefore, it took him three-quarters of an hour to reach the scrub pine belt on the edge of the park.
At once he saw that they had been having a quarrel. The girl’s eyes were red, and she was still dabbing at them with her handkerchief when he came whistling along. Sam looked discouraged,but stubborn. Very plainly they had been disagreeing about his line of conduct.
The two young men took the trail again. The moroseness of Sam was real and not affected this time. He had flared up because the girl could not let him alone about his friendship for Soapy Stone. In his heart the boy knew he was wrong, that he was moving fast in the wrong direction. But his pride would neither let him confess it or go back on his word to the men with whom he had been living.
About noon the next day they reached Saguache. After they had eaten, Curly strolled off by himself to the depot.
“Gimme a ticket to Tin Cup for this evening. I want to go by the express,” he told the agent.
The man looked at him and grinned. “I saw you at Mesa in the bucking broncho doings last year, didn’t I?”
“Maybe you did and maybe you didn’t. Why?”
“You certainly stay with the bad bronchs to a fare-you-well. If I’d been judge you’d a-had first place, Mr. Flandrau.”
“Much obliged. And now you’ve identified me sufficient, how about that ticket?”
“I was coming to that. Sure you can get a ticket. Good on any train. You’re so darned active,maybe you could get off Number 4 when she is fogging along sixty miles per. But most folks couldn’t, not with any comfort.”
“Meaning that the Flyer doesn’t stop?”
“Not at Tin Cup.”
“Have to take the afternoon train then?”
“I reckon.” He punched a ticket and shoved it through the window toward Curly. “Sixty-five cents, please.”
Flandrau paid for and pocketed the ticket he did not intend to use. He had found out what he wanted to know. The express did not stop at Tin Cup. Why, then, had Soapy marked the time of its arrival there? He was beginning to guess the reason. But he would have to do more than guess.
Curly walked back to the business section from the depot. Already the town was gay with banners in preparation for the Fourth. On the program were broncho-busting, roping, Indian dances, races, and other frontier events. Already visitors were gathering for the festivities. Saguache, wide open for the occasion, was already brisk with an assorted population of many races. Mexicans, Chinese, Indians of various tribes brushed shoulders with miners, tourists and cattlemen. Inside the saloons faro, chuckaluck and roulette attracted each its devotees.
Flandrau sauntered back to the hotel on the lookout for Sam. He was not there, but waiting for him was a boy with a note for the gentleman in Number 311.
“Kid looking for you,” the clerk called to the cowpuncher.
“Are you Mr. Soapy Stone’s friend, the one just down from Dead Cow creek?” asked the boy.
Taken as a whole, the answer was open to debate. But Curly nodded and took the note.
This was what he read: