The Collected Westerns of William MacLeod Raine: 21 Novels in One Volume

by Unknown

  "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 inspect a 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 the Saguache Sentinel to 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 reckon this 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't savez, 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 they fixed 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:

  Sam, come to Chalkeye's place soon as you get this. There we will talk over the business.

  You Know Who.

  Though he did not know who, Curly thought he could give a pretty good guess both as to the author and the business that needed talking over.

  Through the open door of the hotel he saw Sam approaching. Quickly he sealed the flap of the envelope again, and held it pressed against his fingers while he waited.

  "A letter for you, Sam."

  Cullison tore open the envelope and read the note.

  "A friend of mine has come to town and wants to see me," he explained.

  To help out his bluff, Curly sprang the feeble-minded jest on him. "Blonde or brunette?"

  "I'm no lady's man," Sam protested, content to let the other follow a wrong scent.

  "Sure not. It never is a lady," Flandrau called after him as he departed.

  But Sam had no more than turned the corner before Curly was out of a side door and cutting through an alley toward Chalkeye's place. Reaching the back door of the saloon, he opened it a few inches and peered in. A minute later Sam opened the front screen and asked a question of the man in the apron. The bartender gave a jerk of his thumb. Sam walked toward the rear and turned in at the second private booth.

  Curly slipped forward quietly, and passed unobserved into the third stall. The wall which divided one room from another was of pine boarding and did not reach the ceiling. As the eavesdropper slid to a seat a phonograph in front began the Merry Widow waltz. Noiselessly Flandrau stood on the cushioned bench with his ear close to the top of the dividing wall. He could hear a murmur of voices but could not make out a word. The record on the instrument wheezed to silence, but immediately a rag-time tune followed.

  Presently the music died away. Flattened against the wall, his attention strained to the utmost, Curly began to catch words and phrases of the low-voiced speakers in the next compartment. His position was perilous in the extreme, but he would not leave now until he had found out what he wanted to know.

  CHAPTER IX

  EAVESDROPPING

  Out of the murmur of voices came one that Curly recognized as that of Soapy Stone, alias You Know Who.

  " ... then you'll take the 9:57, Sam...."

  After more whispering, "Yep, soon as you hear the first shot ... cover the passengers...."

  The listener lost what followed. Once he thought he heard the name Tin Cup, but he could not be sure. Presently another fragment drifted to him. "...make our getaway and cache the plunder...."

  The phonograph lifted up its voice again. This time it was "I love a lassie." Before the song was finished there came the sound of shuffling feet. One of the men in the next stall was leaving. Curly could not tell which one, nor did he dare look over the top of the partition to find out. He was playing safe. This adventure had caught him so unexpectedly that he had not found time to run back to his room for his six-gun. What would happen to him if he were caught listening was not a matter of doubt. Soapy would pump lead into him till he quit kicking, slap a saddle on a broncho, and light out for the Sonora line.

  As the phonograph finished unexpectedly--someone had evidently interrupted the record--the fragment of a sentence seemed to jump at Curly.

  " ... so the kid will get his in the row."

  It was the voice of Soapy, raised slightly to make itself heard above the music.

  "Take care," another voice replied, and Flandrau would have sworn that this belonged to Blackwell.

  Stone, who had been sitting on the other side of the table, moved close to the paroled convict. Between him and Curly there was only the thickness of a plank. The young man was afraid that the knocking of his heart could be heard.

  " ... d
on't like it," Blackwell was objecting sullenly.

  "Makes it safe for us. Besides"--Stone's voice grated like steel rasping steel, every word distinct though very low--"I swore to pay off Luck Cullison, and by God! I'm going to do it."

  "Someone will hear you if you ain't careful," the convict protested anxiously.

  "Don't be an old woman, Lute."

  " ... if you can do it safe. I owe Luck Cullison much as you do, but...."