Once I remember seeing an old bear roped in the desert by cowboys, and dragged by the scruff of his neck into the fierce electric glare of a Western city. Some female tourists said he looked dreadful rough, a school ma'am squealed out he was dangerous, a preacher allowed he was savage, but nobody made excuses for that old bear. Now I reckon that I'm just like Mr. Bear, dragged sudden off the range into the indecent light of civilization. Nobody is going to make allowances for me if I look dreadful rough, and savage, and dangerous. I own up I've no excuse. Bear and I were raised outside the prickly fences of your laws, beyond the shelter of your respectable customs, exposed to all the heat and cold, the light and darkness, the good and the bad of life. Bear, he has teeth and claws, as I have horse and gun; but both of us fight or go dead, for that is our business. If you're shocked, quit reading; but if you want more, read on.
When I knew that Balshannon was due to be shot I set a trap, and all the desperadoes at Grave City walked right into it. I had the men picked out who would make a good loss, sent out the invitations to them in Ryan's name, and had a hand-bell clanged to call them in for the ceremonies. If Ryan only played fair there would be no killing, but if he acted foul there was going to be a sure enough massacre. Why, it was only right that on the death of a great chief like Balshannon servants should go with him to the other world. That was all known to my three masked men in ambush, and when Ryan acted foul he was sent with Louisiana, Beef Jones, and four others, all desperadoes, to wait upon Balshannon—beyond the flames and smoke of his funeral honours.
For a naturally cautious and timid man I took fool risks in exposing Curly to that danger; but honest range-raised fighters are more than a match for the drunken town swabs who had to be dispersed. Besides, my youngsters were not the kind to stay put in a place of safety. After the fight, if there was one, I knew that the fire-bell would call up the whole of the citizens, and the news would spread swifter than flames, of masked robbers attacking a saloon right in the middle of their peaceful town. They would be displeased, and rather apt to send in their little account to me, which made me blush to think of, because I lay myself out to be a modest man.
When I got through with shooting out all the lights my men quit firing to haul me through the window. Now all four of us were in the alley-way, between the saloon and the post office, barred off from the main street by a high gate, while our line of escape was open to the rear. Being shy of recognition, I tied on a mask, and reloaded my gun, planning the next move rapid in my head. Then I called off my men to the tail end of the house, posting one to kill anybody who tried to get out by my window. I was scheming a raid into the house to rescue Curly and Jim, but just for a moment my riders hung back scared.
"Come along, you tigers!" says I. There was no need to risk our lives, for through the black silence of the house came a sudden blaze of guns and rush of men. Curly and Jim had broken cover at last, so we had only to let them come, rolling out head over heels in no end of a hurry. As soon as they were clear we handed in lead to the crowd, stampeded them, and sprinkled their tails. They were surely discouraged.
The next thing was to mount our horses and reload guns while we rode off slow. Jim was shaking all over, Curly was sobbing aloud, Monte, one of my boys, was groaning because a bullet had burned his cheek, Ute breathing like a gone horse, and Custer making little yelps of joy—all of us scary as cats with our nerves on the jump, the same being natural after a red-hot fight. We pulled out by the south end of the city.
"Now," said I, "you, Curly, and you, Jim, light out ahead and keep a-flying for old Mexico."
Curly howled, "We ain't goin' to leave you!"
I had to make my meaning quick and plain before he knew I was earnest. As to Jim, I cut his words dead short—and so they quit me streaking off to the south.
"Now, you-all!" I turned to my tigers.
Custer let out his yelp, and Ute grinned ugly, and both of them thought all the world of me for getting them into trouble.
"Monte," says I, "go home and fix that wound."
He circled off.
"Well," says I, "if you other two play any more tiger to-night, I'll rip your lives out. You got to be plumb good citizens, 'cause them people in the 'Sepulchre' have seen about ten masked robbers, which they'll surely hunt. So off with them masks quick," and I threw mine in the road.
"Now," says I, "we'll see if the general public is going to help us to get them robbers and kill them."
So we three trotted grave and innocent up Main Street, where scores of citizens were saddling, mounting, and gathering, the swift men calling the laggards. In the lead rode Deputy-Marshal Pedersen, coming on rapid.
"Hello," he called, "you, Chalkeye!"
I swung in beside him. "What's the delay?" says I.
"How many robbers?"
"Ten masked men, come on! They're McCalmont's gang."
Custer and Ute were calling the rest to hustle. "Ten masked robbers," they shouted, "heading down for Naco!"
"Thought you was in the 'Sepulchre'!" says Pedersen.
"I was till I'd shot out the lights," says I; "them crazy idiots there were handing out lead at me."
"Where did you see them robbers?"
"In the back street. They wounded my boy Monte, so I had to send him home. Say, look at that!"
Ahead on the white road, plain in the moonlight, lay something black, so I swung down my arm in passing, and took a grab. "What d'ye make of this, eh, Pedersen?"
"A silk mask," says he. "Thanks, Chalkeye—you've got us on the right trail, anyways."
"But watch these tracks," say I; "look there—they're quitting the main road—swing out!"
Curly and Jim had struck straight south down the road, so I pointed the whole pursuit well off to the right, south-west for Naco, and made believe I saw another mask among the stones. If dangerous robbers were hard to see through the moonshine, that was no fault of mine. If the citizens wanted to go riding out by moonlight, I surely gave them heaps good exercise.
Meanwhile that Curly was herding Jim down towards the Mexican boundary; but both the lads were rattled, and their nerves had gone all to smash. Jim had dumb yearnings to go back and eat up citizens, Curly was trying to cry with one lip while he laughed with the other. Then Jim told Curly not to be a coward, and Curly laughed with the tears rolling down his face.
"I wisht I was daid," he howled, "I wisht I was daid. I done murdered Beef Jones, and there's his ole hawss a-waiting to take him home. He loved that hawss."
"And you a robber!" says Jim, mighty scornful. Jim had only courage, a thing which is usual to all sorts of men and beasts, but Curly had something bigger—brains, judgment, the lion heart, the eagle sight, the woman gentleness, a child's own innocence, and heaven's unselfishness.
"I'm a sure coward," he sobbed.
"Brace up, youngster. I saw you kill both Beef and Louisiana, but now you're gone all rotten."
"Between the eyes, I got Pete between the eyes! I seen his eyes goin' up all white—the hole between—oh, how I wisht I was daid!"
"Poor little beggar! And one would think this was the first time you'd ever seen a gun-fight."
"I never seen one, never until now."
"And you McCalmont's son!"
"You needn't let on to him that y'u seen me—human. Wall," he braced himself up, "I'm only a range wolf, so what's the odds, Jim?"
"Well, what's wrong now?"
"Do you know you're outlawed too? Old Chalkeye masked his riders, he played robbers, I showed wolf, and you're done branded with the range wolves now."
Jim swung round in the saddle, looking back at Grave City, a bad sample surely among cities, but still entitled to wave Old Glory high, the flag of honest men, of civilisation.
He set his teeth and swung to his trail again.
"If honesty isthat," says he determinedly, "I'll herd with thieves."
"I don't like the smell of this trail," says Curly, "none. The City Marshal is riding up from Bisley with his posse. Let's strike west, then circle the town, then north, to father's camp."
"Come on," says Jim, and swung his horse to the west along a small dead trail.
"We got to change ourselves," says McCalmont's son, and began to loose some parcels tied by the strings to his saddle. "I got some clothes for we-all. Here," he passed over an old leather jacket, a straw sombrero, and a bottle. "That's cawffee extract," says he, "mixed with a black drug. I boiled it strong. You rub it over yo' face and neck and paws, then rig yo'self."
Our people, at any gait in the saddle, are broke to eat dinner, drink from a bottle, roll a cigarette, or sing a song without being jarred up like a tenderfoot. So while they trotted slow Jim stained his hide all black like a greaservaquero, then slung on thecharroclothes of a poor Mexican cowboy.
"Now," says Curly, "you take this moustache and lick the gummy side, stick it on yo' lip, and remember yo're a Dago. Say, pull up, they'll know that buckskin mare of mine for sure. There ain't another in the United States I reckon with white points like her'n. You empty that bottle, and black her white stockings, quick."
Curly was changing too, for he pulled up the legs of his overalls, then wriggled them down over his long boots. Then he took Jim's cowboy hat, and slouched the brim down front like a hayseed boy. He put on a raggy old jacket, and bulged his lean cheeks out with pads of wool. He looked a farm boy, and when they rode on, sat like a sack of oats.
"It won't work," says Jim, "here's a big outfit of people sweeping right down from the north. Our horses are blown, and their snorting will give us away."
"Dot vash all righd," says Curly.
"That wouldn't pass for German," says Jim, "not even in a fog."
"Shure," says Curly, "is it me forgettin' me nativity? Amn't I Oirish?"
They had entered the Naco trail by this, and were walking their horses up the hill for Grave City. If the silly kids had obeyed my orders we should never have seen a hair of them that night. As it was, Deputy-Marshal Pedersen and I came with full thirty men on top of them.
I don't profess I knew either the Irish hayseed boy or thevaquero, until the black horse, a melancholy plug called Jones which I'd lent Curly, began to whicker to the grey mare I rode. Pedersen, too, was mortal suspicious of that buckskin mare with Jim.
"Black points," says he. "That's so—Crook's had white laigs."
"Shure," says Curly, prompt, "an' is it thim robbers ye'd be afther hunting?"
Pedersen reined up.
"They've passed you, eh?" he called.
"Didn't they shoot me," says Curly, "till I'm kilt entoirely? There was elivan av thim agin' me and the young feller that was along with me, the rapscallions, and thim with black masks on their dirthy faces!"
"How long since?"
"Three minutes gone, yer 'anner; and can any of yez tell me if this is the road to Misther Chalkeye Davies?"
Pedersen had spurred on, and we swept after him, leaving Mr. Curly McCalmont howling Irish curses because we hadn't pointed him on his trail to Las Salinas.
We were scarcely gone when a second outfit of five stragglers came rolling down the trail, headed by Shorty Broach, one of the men who had been hurt that night in the gun-fight. He always hated Balshannon's folks worse than snakes; he was heaps eager now for Curly McCalmont's blood; and the two thousand dollars which went along with it. But worse than that, this Shorty was a sure plainsman, who never forgot a horse. Still he went past with his crowd before he saw anything wrong with that black horse I'd lent, or the buckskin mare Jim was riding. Then he swung.
"Hold on, boys! Say, I knows that buckskin. That's Crook's buckskin mare at the livery—here's Curly McCalmont's mare!"
The riders tried to call Shorty off, told him to soak his head, remembered that Crook's buckskin had white stockings, whereas this mare's points were black, which made all the difference.
"Them horses is blown, they're run full hard," says Broach; "they've been surely chased, and I'm due to inquire more."
On that the riders began to circle around, while Curly slung out Irish by the yard about running away from the robbers.
"Shure," says he, "and it's the Chief of the Police no less we're talkin' wid."
"Throw up your hands!" says Broach, pointing his gun on Jim, but the youngster was busy rolling a cigarette.
"Why is that gringo showing off with a gun?" he asked in Spanish. "He looks so foolish, too!"
"You got to account for that buckskin mare," says Broach, but Jim set in the cool moonlight and lit his cigarette, taking no notice.
"This greaser is lately an orphan, sorr," says Curly, "an' he's only goin' innocent for a dhrunk in Grave City—maning no harr-m at all."
"Where did he get that buckskin?"
"It's the 'pitchfork' mare ye'll be maning, sorr?"
At last Jim knew the brand on the mare he was riding.
"Indade," says Curly, "hasn't she got an Holy Crawss brand on the shoulder as well, sorr? Maybe he stole her there."
"If you want to live, Mr. Greaser, you'll account for that buckskin mare," Broach threatened again with his gun.
"I understand," says Jim in Spanish, puffing his cigarette at Shorty's face. "I took this mare in trade at la Morita Custom House on the Line. A Vaquero Americano could not pay the hundred per cent. duty on his horse, so I traded with him my Mexican-branded mustang to oblige, taking this mare. She's branded 'Holy Cross,' rebranded 'pitchfork.' Perhaps the gentlemen will stand aside—I have explained."
"All very well," said Broach in Spanish, which sounded rough like a railroad accident, "how do you account for that saddle, Jim du Chesnay's silver-mounted saddle?"
"Si Señor, the saddle of my young lord el Señor Don Sant Iago, of Holy Cross. The caballero ordered me to bring these, that he might play bear before the house of a beautiful lady in Grave City."
"And your own saddle?"
"Alas! I played poker with the Americanos. They have skinned me." Jim made a little flourish, twisted the moustache. It came off in his fingers!
And with a howl the whole crowd closed in. They had captured Jim du Chesnay and Curly McCalmont!
I reckon that civilised folks are trained to run in a rut, to live by rule, to do what's expected. If they're chased they'll run, if they're caught they surrender. That's the proper thing to do.
Our plainsman, he's a much resourceful animal: he never runs in the rut, and he always does exactly what's not expected. Here were Jim and Curly surrounded by five men all hot for war. Broach could shoot good, but his horse was a plumb idiot when it came to firing. He was scared he would miss Jim, and get the counter-jumper who pranced around behind. Of the rest, one was a railroad man, and useless at that, one was a carpenter, and one was a barber—all of them bad shots. Still, they knew that their prisoners could neither fight nor run.
The prisoners did both most sudden, and heaps surprising. While Jim's moustache was dropping, Curly's first bullet got Broach's horse in the eye, sending him backwards over on top of the man. Jim unhorsed the railroad man, the carpenter disabled the barber, and the counter-jumper bolted.
That posse was all demoralised, shooting liberal, attracting heaps of attention. So another belated outfit of citizens came whooping down the road, while at the first sound of battle, the crowd I was with swung round at full gallop to share the play. I knew my youngsters were in foul bad luck.
Yet in a single evening these two had got to feeling each other's thoughts, acting together without talk, partners like the hands of a man. They knew that for them it was death to show on the skyline, sure good scouting to jump for the lowest ground, and keep the dust a-rolling to hide their movements. They struck a gulley, and Jim led over rock and cactus, riding slack rein, trusting that buckskin mare. After the first five minutes, looking round, he saw the belated outfit along the skyline following, and heard the whoops of our crowd closing in on the left.
"I reckon," says Curly, "they'll get us."
"Very awkward," says Jim.
"Say, Curly," he called out, "there's a fence here somewhere on Chalkeye's pasture. It's broken where it cuts this arroyo, but just 'ware wire! Here! 'Ware wire!"
The mare took a stumble, but cleared the fallen wire. The black horse just jumped high. Up on the plain above the pursuit was going to be checked by my standing fence.
"We're plumb in luck to the lips," says Curly.
And now the rocky hollow widened out, the trail was smooth, the pace tremendous. While our citizens behind were having a check betwixt rock and wire, Jim struck the further gate of my pasture, and held it wide for Curly. Horsemanship had given the partners a mile of gain, but now, on level ground, where any fool could ride, our posse gained rapidly, for the youngsters had to go moderate and save their horses.
"Down on yo' hawss," says Curly, "you ride too proud," and a spatter of blue lead made Jim lie humble. The fool gallopers were right handy for war, when sudden the winding valley poured out its fan of débris upon the lower plain towards Mexico. Here just below the mouth of the arroyo a railroad track swung right across the trail on a high embankment. On the nigh side of the embankment ran a waggon trail, climbing a hill on the left to cross the track, and that was sure foul luck for Jim and Curly, for now they rode out clear against the sky in a storm of lead, and began to reckon they was due at the big front door of heaven. Jim was all right in a moment, for the buckskin mare just rose to the occasion, leapt the rails, and got to cover down the bank beyond; but Curly's horse was an idiot. At the sight of the gleaming rails, he stopped dead to show himself off, shied, bucked, pawed the full moon, fell in heaps, tumbled all over himself, dug a hole in the ground with his nose, and timed the whole exhibition to get Curly shot. The gallopers were right on to him before he chose to proceed, with flanks spurred bloody, down the further bank.
Jim circled back to the rescue. "Hurt?" he called.
Curly lay all of a heap on the saddle. "Shoot!" he howled, and flashed on across the plain.
Jim got the gallopers stark against the sky at point-blank range, and just whirled in for battle, piling the track with dead and dying horses, blocking the passage complete. Then he streaked away to see if Curly had gone dead on Jones' back.
Five minutes after that, Deputy-Marshal Pedersen and I came blundering into the wreckage. He jumped through somehow, leading eighteen men, but I stopped to help a hurt man, and used his rifle to splint his broken leg. The fool gallopers were mostly wrung out, and gone home, or left afoot by Jim. The good stayers were on ahead, but weary maybe, it being late for pleasuring. So I proceeded to have an attack of robbers all to myself, with the wounded man's revolver and my own, shooting promiscuous. Sure enough, half a dozen of them bold pursuers came circling back to find out what was wrong.
When I had turned back with my idiots for home, a ripple spread along the grass, an air from the south, then a lifting wind, full strong, steady as ice aflow, cold as the wings of Death. Jim fought up wind, battling at full gallop until he overtook the little partner, then ranged abreast and steadied knee to knee, nursing his mare at a trot. The moon slid down flame-red behind the hills, the wind blew a gale, the night went black, the sky a sheet of stars.
Jim had quit being tired, for his body was all gone numb and dead, so he felt nothing except the throb of hoofs astern. Then he heard a popping of guns faint in the rear, and on that saw flashes of signal firing away on the right, besides other gun-flames back below Mule Pass. He held his teeth from chattering to speak.
"Curly, old chap, they've wired for a posse up from Naco, and the City Marshal's men are coming down from Bisley. They're closing in on three sides, and we can't escape."
Curly said nothing.
"Say, Curly, you're not hurt?"
"Mosquito bite," said Curly; "look a-here, Jim. If anything goes wrong, you'll find the captain at La Soledad to-morrow."
"What captain?"
"My father. I made him swear he'd wait. How's yo' buckskin?"
"Flagging."
"She'll live through all right. Don't you talk any mo'."
"You're losing hope?"
"There's allus hope," said Curly, "but them stars seem nearer to we-all."
They were riding through greasewood bushes and long grass, whilst here and there stood scattered trees of mesquite. That made bad going for horses, but, when they swung aside for better ground, they nearly blundered into an arroyo.
Only the dawn grey saved my boys from breaking both their necks in that deep gap, but now they had got to lose the sheltering darkness, their horses were mighty near finished, and three big outfits of riders were closing down all round them. Jim looked up the sky to see if there were miracles a-coming, for nothing less was going to be much use. Then the Naco people came whirling down on the right, and the black arroyo lay broad across their hopes, so they swung north to look for a crossing, and were thrown right out of the hunt.
Presently soon my youngsters had another big stroke of luck, because the Bisley crowd missed aim, and had to swing in behind with the men from Grave City.
"Jim," says Curly, "has they closed in yet?"
"Our wind is covering all three outfits now."
Then came a yell from behind, for in the dawn the hunters had caught sight of their meat.
Now close ahead loomed something white like a ghost, and Jim let out a screech as it reared up against him sudden. As he shied wide and spurred, he saw the ghost some better—a limewashed monument, the boundary mark of old Mexico.
"Saved!" he yelled. "They can't follow beyond the Line."
"They cayn't, but they will," says Curly; "fire the grass!"
Jim grabbed a hair from the buckskin's mane, took matches from his wallet and bound them into a torch, struck a light to the tip, and held it in his paws against the roaring wind. Then he made shift to swing himself down till the long grass brushed his fingers. He dropped his torch beside a greasewood bush, and cantered on with Curly knee to knee. That flicker in the long grass grew to a blazing star, spread with the flaws of the wind, swayed its small tongues to lick new clumps and pass the word to others just beyond. The bush blazed up with a roar as only greasewood can, and flung its burning sticks upon the storm, so that the fire spread swift as a man could run over acres of greasewood. To the east was mesquite bush, which burns like gun-cotton in a gale of wind. But now the draught of the fire had made that gale a scarlet hurricane with the stride of a running horse, which flushed the flying cloud wrack overhead, and made red day along the mountain flanks.
I reckon that if I'd happened with that outfit of hunters, I should have known enough to bear east and circle round the blaze without loss of time; but the leaders saw the burning mesquite grove, and tried to swing west of trouble. There the arroyo barred them, and before they won to the other horn of the fire their horses had gone loco, refusing to face the heat. Anyways, they stampeded with their riders, and I reckon those warriors never stopped to look back until they had thrown themselves safe beyond the railroad. If they had come out for a man-hunt, they got that liberal and profuse beyond their wildest dreams.
Well up to windward of the range fire, that fool horse Jones came to a finish sudden all a-straddle, swaying, nose down, and blood a-dripping. So far Curly had just stayed in the saddle from force of habit, but when the usual motion stopped between his knees he surely forgot to be alive any more, and dropped like a shot bird to grass. As for Jim, he was too stiff to dismount, but the buckskin mare lay down with him complete; so he rolled from the saddle, and managed to stagger around. He uncinched Jones' saddle, eased his mouth of the bit, loosed the mare's girth as she lay, then knelt by Curly feeling him over for wounds. He didn't know until then that Curly had a bullet in the right arm; but all that side was in a mess of dry blood, and when he cut away the coat it began to spurt. He plugged up the hole, made a bandage with his handkerchief, twisted it up with a stick until the blood quit coming, then rolled himself down, dead asleep beside his partner.
The big gale roared overhead; a haze of flying dust; the country to the north was a flaming volcano; the sky was a whirl of clouds, all painted purple and crimson with the daybreak; but my kids and their horses cared nothing more at all for storm or fire. Then the skyline along the east began to glow white-hot, burned by the lift of the sun; and stark black against that rode a bunch of horsemen. They were coming from La Morita Custom House to find out what sort of felons had set the range on fire. They were Mexican Frontier Guards.
Their lieutenant told me afterwards that when they saw the played-out horses and those two poor kids who lay between them, they thought the whole outfit must be dead. They reckoned up Jim for one of their countrymen, and surely did everything in their power to act merciful.
Firing the range comes pretty near being a serious thing, causing inconvenience to cattle, apt to annoy settlers by burning their homes and cooking their wives and families. Naturally that sort of play is discouraged, and the Frontier Guards was only acting up to their lights in arresting my youngsters. Still, they didn't act haughty and oppressive, but sent a rider off to fetch their waggon for the prisoners, and meanwhile made camp and boiled them a drink of coffee.
Thetenientewoke them up, gave them their coffee and told them their sins, while the rest of the greasers, talking all at once, explained what their officer meant. As to Jim and Curly, they were interested in that coffee a whole lot, and ready to excuse the Frontier Guards; but the worries and troubles of a pack of greasers only made them tired; so they told them not to fuss, and slept through the rest of the sermon. When they woke up again, they found themselves in prison.
That calaboose at La Morita is built of the usual adobe, sun-dried brick, with a ceiling of cactus sticks laid on beams to carry a couple of feet of solid earth. A 'dobe house is the next thing to comfort in a climate like ours, where the sun will scorch a man's hide worse than boiling water. The Frontier Guards had laid clean hay on the dirt floor, and hung anollaof water to cool in the draught, but when my boys woke up they were sure puzzled, for the night had fallen, the moon was not yet stirring, and the place was surely dark as a wolf's mouth. Stiff and sore from hard riding, Jim got up to grope in the darkness, ravaging around in search of grub. He found hay and water, but nothing else, so thought he must have been changed into a horse, and set up a howl for corn. Then he attracted Curly's notice by tumbling over his bed.
"How many laigs have yo' got?" says Curly, "'cause that's ample. Catch me some water."
Jim reached down the hanging jar, and Curly drank. "I been waiting hours for that," says he; "now sluice my arm."
Jim threw cool water on the wound. "Is it very bad?" he asked.
"It's sure attracting my attention, Jim."
"Can I do anything?"
"Yes, next time you're falling around don't use my laigs—they're private. Whar is this place?"
Jim looked up at a window-gap, high in the 'dobe wall, and saw the starlight checkered with iron bars; then listening, he heard a muttering of Spanish talk, and noticed the door of the cell lined out with a glimmer from the guardroom.
"It smells bad, like a trap," said Curly.
"I wonder," says Jim, "what time they feed the animals? I'm starving."
"My two sides," says Curly, "is rubbing together, and I'm sure sorrowful. We done got captured somehow."
"I remember now. They gave us coffee. They must have been Frontier Guards—so this is La Morita."
"Why did they gather us in? We didn't spoil any greasers."
"No, but we fired the grass."
"It was not their grass—we set fire to Arizona."
"I don't think they mind," says Jim, "whose grass we burned. They've got us, and they won't worry about the details. You see, they've got to make a play at being useful, old chap, or else their Government would get tired and forget to send their wages."
"What will they do to us?"
"Keep us three days to cool, then find us guilty, and send us down to Fronteras."
"I remember," says Curly, "when I was riding that year for Holy Cross I saw——"
"The little wayside crosses?"
"Yes, everywhere on the Mexican side of the line—the little wooden grave signs by the trail."
Curly and Jim sat there in the dark, and thought of the wooden crosses. They understood, but I believe it's up against me to explain for folks who don't know that country. You see, there used to be only two industries in old Mexico, silver mining and stealing, but most of the people made a living by robbing each other. Then the great President Diaz came along, who had been a robber himself. He called up all the robbers he'd known in the way of business, and hired them as a sort of Mounted Rangers and Frontier Guards to wipe out the rest of the thieves. That made the whole Republic peaceful, but when there were no more robbers to shoot, the Rangers and Guards began to feel monotonous, the country being plumb depleted of game.
Well, thanks to Diaz, Mexico has gone so tame that life ain't really worth living, and the Frontier Guards are scared of being disbanded because they're obsolete. Likewise the Mexican people are so humane that they don't allow capital punishment, and the Guards feel a heap discouraged about what few prisoners they catch. They're fearful pleased if they get a thief who doesn't happen to be their own cousin, most especially if he's a white man, real game and in season. That's why they lash him hands and feet to a horse, trot him off into the desert, and take pot shots at him by way of practice. Afterwards they report him for 'attempted escape.' His relations are allowed to bury him comfortable, and put up a cross to his memory. That is why the trails along the Mexican frontier are all lined with neat little crosses.
"You reckon," says Curly, "that we'll have little crosses?"
"It's beastly awkward," says Jim, "but we've got to take our medicine."
"And yet I dunno," says Curly, thoughtful about those crosses; "if we get spoilt that way, the United States won't be pleased. You see, there's a reward out for me, and yo're wanted bad, so Uncle Sam will be asking Mexico, and say, 'Why did you shoot my meat?'"
The voices in the guardroom had quit muttering, but now a horseman pulled up at the front door.
"Buenas noches hombre!"
And somebody answered: "Buenas tardes señor!"
Then talk began in Spanish. "Can a feed of corn be bought here for the horse? He arrives from Grave City."
"What news of the gringoes?"
"Muchos.El Señor Don Rex has been shot."
"Don Rex has been murdered?"
"No, it was a fight. It must be understood that his son, Don Santiago——"
"What, El Chico?"
"Yes, El Chico 'Jim,' had a feud against the very rich Señor Ryan. He hired ladrones from the north, the Robbers' Roost Gang it is called, to murder Señor Ryan. It seems the ladrones wore masks, and they were led by a young robber named Curly, for whom great rewards are offered—two thousand pesos d'oro, dead or alive."
"What a reward!"
"Yes, El Chico and this Curly led the robbers, and they attacked Señor Ryan in the 'Sepulchre' saloon. El Chico killed Señor Ryan himself, and wounded Miguel his son. There are many witnesses, and a warrant is out against Don Santiago for that murder. I saw the warrant."
"But you say Don Rex was killed?"
"He also; many others were killed in the battle. Curly shot Louisiana and another also. Then these ladrones escaped from the city."
"But the population!"
"You judge well, corporal—the population followed. There was riding!"
"And yet these ladrones escaped?"
"So, except El Chico and Curly, the two leaders. The posse caught them near Las Salinas."
"And got the great reward—two thousand pesos d'oro!"
"But wait. These two caballeros would not submit, but fought and killed a lot more citizens; yes, even escaped. They reached the iron-way which runs down towards Bisley, and there again they fought terribly. Then the big posse chased them clear through to the boundary-line."
"They were not caught!"
"They fired the desert!"
"Car-r-amba!"
"Yes, stampeded a hundred riders! You must have seen the fire at dawn this morning."
"Todos Santos! That was El Chico Santiago disguised as avaquero?"
"Yes, and Curly as a farm boy—you saw them?"
"Man, we've got them here in chains! Two thousand pesos d'oro!Por Dios!You have made me rich with your news!"
"In chains, corporal? Then they did not escape after all! They fought like caballeros, and now they'll be claimed for extradition, taken back, and hanged!Hombre, that's no death for caballeros! How did you ever take such fighters, corporal?"
"Oh, just arrested them."
"But they fought a hundred Americanos!"
"Yes, yes, but we are Frontier Guards—me and another man; we just arrested them, that's all. Two thousand pesos!"
"They fought?"
"Oh, yes, we had to disable one of them; in fact I myself shot him through the pistol arm. Then they surrendered, made their bow to force. Two thousand golden dollars!"
"Miraculous! Well, señor corporal, may it be permitted to ask where forage is sold?"
"Certainly, step this way. I, Pablo Juarez, rich! Two thousand! Santa Catalina, thou shalt have candles, a box of candles!"
The voices faded out, and Jim lay back, wiping the sweat from his face. "Wheugh"—then he burst out laughing—"the liars," he howled, "the gentle, earnest liars! Oh, pat me, Curly, for I'm weak—the lop-eared, spavined, sway-backed, cock-eyed liars!"
But Curly was shy of Spanish, and wanted the news. "What liars?"
"Everybody—they're all liars—the whole world—liars! Liars! They couldn't leave it to facts, which are bad enough, but they've lied, and sworn to lies and perjured themselves with oaths, the thugs, the dirty bar-room toughs, selling their souls to that young Ryan—and made a remnant sale of themselves for witnesses that I murdered an old man!"
"What, Ryan? It wasn't you who spoiled old Ryan. It was your father in honest fighting!"
"Who cares for honesty when there's a millionaire to pay for souls in cash? They swear that I hired you and all your robbers to have old Ryan murdered, then did the killing myself, and turned loose your gang to massacre Ryan's friends—the cowards, the lying cowards!"
"But them boys with masks was Chalkeye's riders, and he just covered their faces, Jim, to save them afterwards."
"And who'll believe that? Here's a millionaire to buy the witnesses, the lawyers, the judge, the law! The only man who was there and can't be bribed is that leary old cow-thief Chalkeye, but he's mixed up with us, and likely enough a prisoner by now. Do you think that a Grave City court of justice would believe an honest man? No, we're trapped, and we're sold, and we're going to be butchered now."
"Well," says Curly in that slow, soft way he had, "I allow it's done you good to turn yo' wolf loose, and you've shorely howled; it done me good to hear all the cussing said while I lay restin'. That's relieved me a lot and made me plumb forgetful of being in pain."
Jim began talking haughty, and wanted to know if Curly liked the notion of being hanged.
"That I shorely do," says Curly very soft. "You see, only a while back we was going to be taken out sudden and shot—which it was a caution to yaller snakes only to think of. That didn't make me happy a lil' bit, but now we got more prospects, a slow trial coming, time to turn around in, and think out how to escape."
That sobered Jim, but it made him hostile, too. "Youngster, will nothing scare you?" he asked; "can't get a whimper out of you even for company's sake—you're so beastly selfish."
Curly rolled over, resting his face on his hand. "I was raised that way," says he very quiet, "goin' to be shot up or hung most of the time. It's a risky thing bein' alive when you come to think of it, eh? We-all is mighty or'nary folks in a trifling sort of world, Jim; but I reckon it's sure nice being heah. We got sweet range hay to lie on, and hopes of a feed in the mawning; the place is sure quiet, but we cayn't complain of being dull. As to our lil' worries, I don't fuss about crossing a river until I done reached the bank."
"I wish," Jim groaned, "that I'd got half your courage."
"I've suffered some," says Curly, "and I reckon that what you call courage is just training. Now you, Jim, you lie down, and think about something to eat, and presently yo're goin' to drop off asleep, dreaming of good camps where there's feed and water. If that ain't good I'll wake you up in the night, so's you'll get two sleeps, which is even better'n one."
The loss of my near eye has led to a lot of mistakes on my part, specially when I mistook the brands on cows and horses, thought they belonged to me, and adopted the poor lone critters—I've always been fond of animals, anyway. Again, I argue that a person with two eyes had ought to see much more truth than I can with only one eye; but I don't find that folks are liberal in making allowances. They call me hard names instead.
Now that was specially the case over the Ryan inquest. I testified that old man Ryan died a natural death, because it would have been completely unnatural for Balshannon to miss him at five paces. Moreover, as I saw things, Jim never fired at all until Ryan was dead, and only began to shoot when he saw young Michael turning loose for battle. Judge Sprynkes, Acting Assistant Deputy-Coroner, allowed that I had been a whole lot present at the fight, and was entitled to my one-eyed point of view; but then, he remarked to the jury that the witness was well known to have such a defective vision with regard to cows that the evidence was tarnished on the point at issue.
"Judge," says I, "this is a court of justice, and I'd like to see everybody getting a fair show. Now, as judge, you're sure incorruptible and righteous."
"Come to the point," says Sprynkes.
"But," says I, "if Judge Sprynkes finds that the late Mr. Ryan met his death in a fair duel with Balshannon—then——"
"Well?"
"Then there's a citizen named Mr. Sprynkes who's apt to be reminded by the Ryan estate that he owes a heap of money!"
On that we had considerable rough house, until the judge called the meeting to order. Then he remarked, sort of casual, that he knew a citizen named Sprynkes who was apt to shoot at sight when he met up with a certain notorious horse-thief called Chalkeye Davies.
So my evidence for Jim was set aside, I was pitched out of the court, and for the next few days had to keep a wary eye on citizen Sprynkes. He was an awful poor sportsman, and mostly always missed; but once I got a bullet through my hat. Afterwards Mr. Sprynkes admitted to his friends that he preferred a restful landscape and a less bracing climate beyond the range of my guns—so he pulled out for Yuma, and I saw his kind face no more.
Now I don't want to say anything unkind about Judge Sprynkes, or his jury, or his witnesses, in that inquest on Mr. Ryan; but for Jim's sake it is needful to point out some facts which were remarkable. Of the people who stayed in the "Sepulchre" saloon to attend the gun-fight, eight were unable to testify, being dead, three because they had gone to hospital, two because they were engaged elsewhere at La Morita, and one, which is me, on account of defective vision. Of the rest, the most part lit out from Grave City, and totally disappeared. There remained Mr. Michael, two bar-tenders, and four other citizens, the only people who gave evidence. These witnesses swore on oath that Jim came to the gun-fight attended by Curly McCalmont and ten masked robbers. They also swore on oath that Jim fired the first shot, killing Mr. Ryan.
The Court returned a verdict that George Ryan came to his death at the hands of James du Chesnay, and recommended his arrest upon the charge of deliberate wilful murder.
I am not complaining. The Court represented the majesty of the people, and that august flag, Old Glory, waving above us. It was a right enough Court, even if justice had strayed out and got itself lost for a while. I make no complaint, because I reckon that a still mightier Court than ours is sitting up above the starry sky to watch over fatherless kids who don't get a fair show on earth, to save them as gets desolate and oppressed, to vindicate justice upon low-lived swabs, liars, and cowards.
I said nothing, but just stayed good and acted responsible, being in a minority of one against the entire city. The only time I ventured on any remarks was when I happened accidentally to meet up with Mr. Michael. He, the Mayor, the City Marshal, and a few friends were taking a drink together at the hotel.
"Good morning, Ryan," says I, but I kept my voice all smooth for fear of rucking up my temper to no advantage.
"Good morning, sir," says Ryan.
"I come to congratulate you," says I, "on the hearty liberal way you've been acting."
"I thank you, Mr. Davies," says he, sort of ironic.
"Don't mention it," says I, "for I ain't done no kindness to you, and I don't aim for cash or thanks in what I say."
He reached for his gun, which was hazardous and apt to get fatal, only the City Marshal grabbed him before I had to fire.
"Let me be," says Ryan; "this man insults me!"
"No," says I, "that would be impossible. I only congratulate you on the whole-hearted generous way you assisted a destitute judge, and them poor hungry witnesses."
"Easy, my friend," says the Marshal, "I'm 'most deaf, but if I hear any contempts of court——"
"If you're feeling any contempt of court, Mr. City Marshal, you shares my emotions. And you, gentlemen," I turned on the crowd, "if you feel any shame for the city and for any of the present company, I can only say I share that shame most bitter."
The air was getting sultry, with just a faint flicker of guns. "If any of you gentlemen," says I, "is feeling unwell for pills, just let him step outside with me, and I'll prescribe. If not, excuse me, for I smell something dead in this company, and I'm aiming to refresh my nose in the open." I paced back, step by step, through the door. "My address," says I, "if I live, will be Las Salinas, and there you'll find a man who cayn't see to tell the truth, but can see a whole lot to shoot. Gentlemen,adios!"
So I got my horse, swung to the saddle, and walked him backwards until I was out of range, but nobody offered himself up to serve for my target.
I reckon that the funeral ceremonies in honour of the late Mr. Ryan and friends made an event in the annals of Grave City. The caskets and wreaths, the hearses and carriages, the band and procession, made the people feel uplifted with solemn pride and haughty to strangers for a full month afterwards. As the Weekly Obituary pointed out in large type, the occasion was great, and a city which had flourished for twenty-two prosperous years was able to give points to mere mushroom towns like Bisley, Benson, and Lordsburgh. The newspapers in those three rival burghs made light of the affair in a way which displayed mean envy and a nasty, carping spirit.
As for me, I had got myself disliked a whole lot, so I felt it would be most decent not to attend the exercises. I had a feeling that if called upon to reply to any shooting, I might disturb the harmony which should always attend a scene of public grief. Besides that, it fell to me to arrange the burial of my old patrone, which it was difficult, the preachers, coffins, hearses, carriages, and all the funeral fixtures being engaged that day, and likewise also the graveyard. I had to go without. Moreover, the cowboys were mostly away at work on the round-up, so I only caught eight of my tribe to help me. We laid our friend on a blanket, then four of us gripped the corners up to the horns of our saddles and rode slow, the other boys coming behind until we got to the place where we had dug the grave. There was only one man of us all well educated, and that was Monte, who had been raised for a preacher before he broke loose to punch cows. Monte was shot in the face, weak, and feverish, so I had to feed him whiskey before he felt proud enough for his job. He read the service, the rest of us standing round, and when he was through we fired a volley before we filled the grave and piled rocks to keep off wild animals. That was a proper stockman's funeral, away out on a hilltop in the desert, and I reckon the Great Father in heaven knew we had done our best in a brave man's honour.
See what the geography-book says about Arizona—the same size as England? Shucks! There's homely ignorance from an office duck who dreams he can use a tape-measure to size up a desert. In England, if you wander round after dark, you're apt to fall off and get wet in the ocean. But you can sure stray off the edge of Arizona without the least chance of a wet, because the desert just rolls on more continuous than ever, till you're due to die of thirst. There's a practical difference in size, which your book theorist wouldn't be apt to survive.
Again, by the books we're a community of sixty thousand pink and white citizens, all purely yearning for right and justice. By the facts, we're really split up into two herds—the town men, who use the law, and the range men, who naturally prefer a six-gun.
I aim politely to say the best I can for the town men. You see, if a gentleman feels that he's just got to waltz in and rob the graves of his own parents, one may not understand his symptoms, but one has to try and think of him charitable. Our town men has mostly been found out acting self-indulgent, and been chased around by the police. That's why they flocked to Arizona, which is convenient at the Gates of Hades, with the Breath of Flame by way of excuse for a climate. There's a sort of comfortable, smell-your-future-home feeling about old Arizona which attracts such ducks. Anywhere else they would get their necks stretched, but in Arizona they can elect judges and police out of their own tribe. Then if they happen to indulge in a little bigamy, or thieving, or shooting, the lawyers get them off. They love the law which proves them up innocent, so you may class them all as law-abiding citizens.
Now as to us plainsmen. The bad side of us is plumb apparent to the naked eye, and if there's a good side it's known to our friends, not advertised to strangers. We ain't claiming to be law-abiding citizens when we know the judge for a sure-thing politician, the lawyers for runaway gaol-birds, and the jury all for sale at the rate of a dollar a thief. We're lawless, sure enough, until we see the law dealt out by honest men.
Are you fed up with one-eyed sermons from a cow-thief? Well, suppose we apply the facts.
Here was two boys of our tribe bogged down to their withers in trouble. The town men howled for their blood, young Ryan offered plenty wealth for their raw scalps, the law claimed them for meat—and every plainsman on the range got right up on his hind legs for war. To our way of thinking robbery and killing are bad medicine, but innocent, holy joys compared with Arizona law. So naturally by twos and threes the punchers quit work on the round-up to come and smell at old Grave City and find out why she'd got a swollen head. They hung around saloons, projecting to see if something had gone wrong with the local breed of whisky; they gathered and made war-talk in the street; they came around me, wanting to know whether or not to break out and eat that town.
"Boys," says I, "if you-all stalks round with mean eyes and dangerous smiles, these here citizens is going to hole up in their cyclone cellars and send for the army. We don't want the army messing around our game. Just you whirl in now and play signs of peace, and make good medicine. Lay low, give yo' ponies a strong feed—and wait for the night."
"Chalkeye," says one of them, "is this to be war?"
"If it was war," I told him, "I'd first send you home to yo' mother. No, kid, this is going to be smooth peace, but we're going to knock Grave City cold with astonishment. Get plenty ammunition, feed yo' horse, and wait my gathering howl for a signal."
It was high noon when Captain McCalmont came straying down into Main Street on a "painted" horse. At Ryan's livery stable he allowed he was an unworthy minister, wanting water and feed for the piebald pony. At the Delmonico pie foundry he let out that he craved for sausages, mashed potatoes, and green tea. Then he had a basin of bread-and-milk, while he told the dish-slinger a few solemn truths. Apple-pie, says he, was a delusion; eating tobacco was a snare; intoxicating drink was only vanity on the lips, but raging wild-cats to the inward parts. The proper doctrine, says he, is to eschew all evil, but the wicked man leaves out that saving syllablees, and chews evil all the time.
Then he allowed that a toothpick would do him no harm, paid for his meal, and strayed out across the street to where I stood dealing peace among the cowboys.
"Little sinners," says he, "I perceive that you have fallen into evil company. This Chalkeye man is a pernicious influence, which would corrupt the morals of a grizzly bear. Flee from this Chalkeye person."
They wanted to take him into the nearest saloon and enjoy him for the rest of the day.
"Kin you dance?" says one of the boys, aiming a gun at his toes. "Whirl right in and dance!"
McCalmont walked right at him, eye to eye, and that same cowboy went as white as death.
"Shall I abate you," says the preacher, "in the midst of yo' sins? You done wrong—you done ate tobacco and chocolate candy mixed, then poured on hot cawfee, rye whisky, and an ice-cream soda; and now yo're white as a corpse with mixed sins. Go take a pill, my son, and repent before yo're sick."
The boys watched that preacher smiling, and went tame as kittens. The tone of his voice just froze them up, his smile scraped their young bones, his eyes looked death.
"Come, Chalkeye," says he, and led me off into the "Spur" saloon. There he threw a glance to Cranky Joe, the bar-keep, and put his finger on Mutiny Robertson, a smuggler who sat playing poker. Cranky put someone in charge of the bar, Mutiny passed his game to a friend of his, and both of them followed meek as sheep, while the preacher led on into the backyard. From there we worked round the back street to Ryan's stable, McCalmont keeping up his baby-talk for the sake of passing strangers.
"Ah," says he, "my young friends, these deleterious pleasures change peaceful stomachs into seats of war; but the sausage soothes, the milk assuages, the pie persuades, and b'ar sign is sure good to fill up corners. Beware of vanities, and when we get to the stable-yard let Mutiny here stand guard in case I'm attacked, while I expound the blessedness of simple things. Well, here we are—you Mutiny, fall back, you lop-eared mongrel; I'm dying for a chew of 'baccy, and I'd give my off lung for a cocktail."
Mutiny stood guard, Cranky hustled off to get liquor.
"I got a line of retreat from here," says Captain McCalmont, "and a saddled hawss within reach. No, not that painted plug, but a sure crackerjack, which can burn the trail if I'm chased. How's things, you Chalkeye?"
"Clouding for storm," says I; "the air's a-crackling."
"Why for?"
I told him about his son, holed up in gaol with Jim at La Morita.
"I been projecting around thar last night"—the Captain was eating my plug tobacco like bread. "Was it you sent that doctor to Curly's wound?"
"Sure thing, sir. Why?"
He grabbed my paw. "You're white all through," says he; "that kid is all I care for in this world."
"Can they escape?"
"I dropped a crowbar through the window-hole."
"The guards will be full curious when they hear the crowbar thumping."
"That's what's the matter. I sent some Holy Crawss greasers to feed them liquor, games, and music—'specially music."
"Will the Frontier Guards miss the big blood money for the sake of a flirt at skin games?"
"I reckon they'll watch, and the crowbar's going to be heard. So I made a run to see you. Here comes Cranky Joe."
"You trust him?"
"The sight of him makes my fur crawl."
"Here, Captain," says Cranky, offering the cocktail; but the outlaw bored him through with a cool eye.
"My name," says he, "is the Reverend Perkins, and don't you forget. Now you'll send Mutiny here, and you'll stand on guard yourself. If I get captured, a friend of mine is to send your present name and address to the penitentiary, where you're wanted most—so here's to your freedom." He drank, and we watched the man sneak off. "I turned him out of my gang," said the robber, "for being dishonest."
Mutiny strolled in and shook hands. "Old friend," says he, "what can we do to help?"
"Watch Joe, and shoot him up quick if he tries to pass that gate."
So Mutiny pulled his gun. "How's all the boys?" he asked.
"You're honing to come back to being a robber?"
"Cayn't," Mutiny groaned, "I've sure repented and turned smuggler now. Besides, I'm due to get married, so I'm dead tame and gentle, boss. What brought you south?"
"You may inquire, seh."
"Ain't you trusting me?"
"Well, Mutiny, since you want to know, I came down to hold up a train."
"Big plunder?"
"I expaict. It was a carload of birds' teeth, cat feathers, and frawgs' tails; but there's too many inquiry agents around, so I missed the train."
Mutiny had to laugh, but then he sighed. "If anything goes wrong with my girl," says he, "I'll come scratch on yo' door."
"Wall"—the outlaw looked mighty serious—"if she happens to get drowned in the desert—perhaps we'll see you come. Now let's to business. Them kids at La Morita has to be collected, I reckon."
"Why come to we-all?" says Mutiny,—"ain't the gang handy at rescues?"
"My wolves would jump at the chance; I choked them off."
"For how?"
"Bekase"—the Captain turned his haunted eyes on me—"I don't want them po' youngsters mixed in with thieves."
"You wanted me mixed again," says Mutiny through his teeth.
"Sonny"—the outlaw laid his hand on Mutiny's shoulder—"you been a bad aig same as me, and we'd be hard to spoil. But these aigs at La Morita is new-laid, fresh aigs, so I wan' them to keep."
"You're right, boss."
"Mutiny, I sent you away for yo' good, 'ecause that girl may pull you up if anything can on airth. As for me, wall, I don't know as I care what becomes of me. I tried to turn good one't—tried mortal hard to run straight. I envy every honest man I see. I'm like a crawling snake, ambitious for bird wings to fly with; but still I'm no more than snake."
"The kids have a chance all right," says Mutiny.
"They have. A year ago I couldn't have drove my Curly away from the gang, but now he's paired with that du Chesnay youngster. Them colts won't care for the herd if they can run together, so I've got Curly weaned from following me to—to damnation."
"Mutiny," says I, "will you help me to gather in these boys?"
"I shorely will," says Mutiny; "but hadn't we ought to wait until they're moved up this way for trial?"
"Wall," says the outlaw, "if I kin get to fight with a small man, I don't yearn for anything larger. Whirl in on La Morita, and you're fighting Mexico; wait for a move, and you're up against the hull United States. I'd rather have a lick at lil' ole Mexico."
I told him that I had a town full of cowboys hard to hold.
"That kind won't keep," says Mutiny; "what's yo' plan?"
"I aimed," says I, "to steal young Ryan, and throw him into La Morita by way of consolation for them poor Frontier Guards when they miss their plunder."
"Now don't you touch my meat," says Captain McCalmont; "I have to feed my little small lambs on him. Now, Misteh Davies."
"Answers to the name of Chalkeye mostly."
"Wall, Chalkeye, this is the second time we meet," he bored into me with his eyes; "I understand that Balshannon's will makes you some sort of guardian of his colt."
"I reckon he needs a friend."
"Will you be a friend to my son?"
"Not more than I been already."
"Mutiny," says he, "you witness that I, Captain McCalmont, thief, and general manager of the Robbers' Roost gang of outlaws, appoints this Chalkeye Davies guardian of Curly."
"I witnesses."
"Moreover, I aim to corrupt this Chalkeye by handing him stolen money." He passed me a heavy roll of notes worth fifty thousand dollars, which is ten thousand pounds by English reckoning. "My friend," he said, "take these two kids away out of this country—break them dead gentle, keep them clean, make them forget." He gave me a letter. "Read this when you're alone."
"You trust me?" I asked.
"You trust yo'self?"
"Mutiny," says I, "you'll help?"
"Poor Mutiny," said the robber, "might help himself."
"On the dead thieving," says Mutiny, "that's so!" Then he grinned at me. "Look a-here, Chalkeye, this means that yo' pull out and hit the long trail. Now I want a home for my girl. How much will yo' take for yo' ranche?"
"I'll see you later, Mutiny, and talk; and now shake hands, McCalmont. To-night I'll be on hand like a sore thumb, at La Morita."