by Unknown
"You're taking a heap of pains, seems to me."
"Want to keep you from getting spoilt till September term of court opens. Didn't I promise Bolt you would show up?"
They moved down the street as arranged. Every time a door opened in front of him, every time a man came out of a store or a saloon, Curly was ready for that lightning lift of the arm followed by a puff of smoke. The news of his coming passed ahead of him, so that windows were crowded with spectators. These were doomed to disappointment. Nothing happened. The procession left behind it the Silver Dollar, the Last Chance, Chalkeye's Place and Pete's Palace.
Reaching the hotel first, Davis disappeared according to program into the side door. Carly followed, walked directly up the stairs, along the corridor, and passed without knocking into Room 217.
A young woman was sitting there engaged with some fancy work. Slender and straight, Kate Cullison rose and gave Curly her hand. For about two heartbeats her fingers lay cuddled in his big fist. A strange stifling emotion took his breath.
Then her arm fell to her side and she was speaking to him.
"Dad has gone to meet you. We've heard about what happened this morning."
"You mean what didn't happen. Beats all how far a little excitement goes in this town," he answered, embarrassed.
Her father and Maloney entered the room. Cullison wrung his hand.
"Glad to see you, boy. You're in luck that convict did not shoot you up while he had the chance. Saguache is sure buzzing this mo'ning with the way you stood up to him. That little play of yours will help with the jury in September."
Curly thanked him for going bail.
Luck fixed his steel-spoked eyes on him. "By what Dick tells me you've more than squared that account."
Kate explained in her soft voice. "Dick told us why you went up to Dead Cow creek."
"Sho! I hadn't a thing to do, so I just ran up there. Sam's in town with me. We're rooming together."
"Oh, take me to him," Kate cried.
"Not just now, honey," her father said gently. "This young man came here to tell us something. Or so I gathered from his friend Davis."
Flandrau told his story, or all of it that would bear telling before a girl. He glossed over his account of the dissipation at the horse ranch, but he told all he knew of Laura London and her interest in Sam. But it was when he related what he had heard at Chalkeye's place that the interest grew most tense. While he was going over the plot to destroy young Cullison there was no sound in the room but his voice. Luck's eyes burned like live coals. The color faded from the face of his daughter so that her lips were gray as cigar ash. Yet she sat up straight and did not flinch.
When he had finished the owner of the Circle C caught his hand. "You've done fine, boy. Not a man in Arizona could have done it better."
Kate said nothing in words but her dark longlashed eyes rained thanks upon him.
They talked the situation over from all angles. Always it simmered down to one result. It was Soapy's first play. Until he moved they could not. They had no legal evidence except the word of Curly. Nor did they know on what night he had planned to pull off the hold-up. If they were to make a complete gather of the outfit, with evidence enough to land them in the penitentiary, it could only be after the hold-up.
Meanwhile there was nothing to do but wait and take what precautions they could against being caught by surprise. One of these was to see that Sam was never for an instant left unguarded either day or night. Another was to ride to Tin Cup and look the ground over carefully. For the present they could do no more than watch events, attracting no attention by any whispering together in public.
Before the conference broke up Kate came in with her protest.
"That's all very well, but what about Mr. Flandrau? He can't stay in Saguache with that man threatening to kill him on sight."
"Don't worry about me, Miss Kate;" and Curly looked at her and blushed.
Her father smiled grimly. "No, I wouldn't, Kate. He isn't going to be troubled by that wolf just now."
"Doesn't stand to reason he'd spoil all his plans just to bump me off."
"But he might. He forgot all about his plans this morning. How do we know he mightn't a second time?"
"Don't you worry, honey. I've got a card up my sleeve," Luck promised.
CHAPTER X
"STICK TO YOUR SADDLE"
The old Arizona fashion of settling a difference of opinion with the six-gun had long fallen into disuse, but Saguache was still close enough to the stark primeval emotions to wait with a keen interest for the crack of the revolver that would put a period to the quarrel between Soapy Stone and young Flandrau. It was known that Curly had refused to leave town, just as it was known that Stone and that other prison bird Blackwell were hanging about the Last Chance and Chalkeye's Place drinking together morosely. It was observed too that whenever Curly appeared in public he was attended by friends. Sometimes it would be Maloney and Davis, sometimes his uncle Alec Flandrau, occasionally a couple of the Map of Texas vaqueros.
It chanced that "Old Man" Flandrau, drifting into Chalkeye's Place, found in the assembled group the man he sought. Billie Mackenzie, grizzled owner of the Fiddleback ranch, was with him, and it was in the preliminary pause before drinking that Alec made his official announcement.
"No, Mac, I ain't worrying about that any. Curly is going to get a square deal. We're all agreed on that. If there's any shooting from cover there'll be a lynching pronto. That goes."
Flandrau, Senior, did not glance at the sullen face of Lute Blackwell hovering in the background but he knew perfectly well that inside of an hour word would reach Soapy Stone that only an even break with Curly would be allowed.
The day passed without a meeting between the two. Curly grew nervous at the delay.
"I'm as restless as a toad on a hot skillet," he confessed to Davis. "This thing of never knowing what minute Soapy will send me his leaden compliments ain't any picnic. Wisht it was over."
"He's drinking himself blind. Every hour is to the good for you."
Curly shrugged. "Drunk or sober Soapy always shoots straight."
Another day passed. The festivities had begun and Curly had to be much in evidence before the public. His friends had attempted to dissuade him from riding in the bucking broncho contest, but he had refused to let his name be scratched from the list of contestants.
A thousand pair of eyes in the grandstand watched the boy as he lounged against the corral fence laughing and talking with his friends. A dozen people were on the lookout for the approach of Stone. Fifty others had warned the young man to be careful. For Saguache was with him almost to a man.
Dick Maloney heard his voice called as he was passing the grandstand, A minute later he was in the Cullison box shaking hands with Kate.
"Is--is there anything new?" she asked in a low voice.
Her friend shook his head. "No. Soapy may drift out here any minute now."
"Will he----?" Her eyes finished the question.
He shook his head. "Don't know. That's the mischief of it. If they should meet just after Curly finishes riding the boy won't have a chance. His nerves won't be steady enough."
"Dad is doing something. I don't know what it is. He had a meeting with a lot of cattlemen about it---- I don't see how that boy can sit there on the fence laughing when any minute----"
"Curly's game as they make 'em. He's a prince, too. I like that boy better every day."
"He doesn't seem to me so----wild. But they say he's awfully reckless." She said it with a visible reluctance, as if she wanted him to deny the charge.
"Sho! Curly needs explaining some. That's all. Give a dog a bad name and hang him. That saying is as straight as the trail of a thirsty cow. The kid got off wrong foot first, and before he'd hardly took to shaving respectable folks were hunting the dictionary to find bad names to throw at him. He was a reprobate and no account. Citizens that differed on everything else was unanimous about that. Mothers kinder herded th
eir young folks in a corral when he slung his smile their way."
"But why?" she persisted. "What had he done?"
"Gambled his wages, and drank some, and, beat up Pete Schiff, and shot the lights out of the Legal Tender saloon. That's about all at first."
"Wasn't it enough?"
"Most folks thought so. So when Curly bumped into them keep-off-the-grass signs parents put up for him he had to prove they were justified. That's the way a kid acts. Half the bad men are only coltish cowpunchers gone wrong through rotten whiskey and luck breaking bad for them."
"Is Soapy that kind?" she asked, but not because she did not know the answer.
"He's the other kind, bad at the heart. But Curly was just a kid crazy with the heat when he made that fool play of rustling horses."
A lad made his way to them with a note. Kate read it and turned to Dick. Her eyes were shining happily.
"I've got news from Dad. It's all right. Soapy Stone has left town."
"Why?"
"A dozen of the big cattlemen signed a note and sent it to Stone. They told him that if he touched Curly he would never leave town alive. He was given word to get out of town at once."
Maloney slapped his hand joyously on his thigh. "Fine! Might a-known Luck would find a way out. I tell you this thing has been worying me. Some of us wanted to take it off Curly's hands, but he wouldn't have it. He's a man from the ground up, Curly is. But your father found a way to butt in all right. Soapy couldn't stand out against the big ranchmen when they got together and meant business. He had to pull his freight."
"Let me tell him the good news, Dick," she said, eagerly.
"Sure. I'll send him right up."
Bronzed almost to a coffee brown, with the lean lithe grace of youth garbed in the picturesque regalia of the vaquero, Flandrau was a taking enough picture to hold the roving eye of any girl. A good many centered upon him now, as he sauntered forward toward the Cullison box cool and easy and debonair. More than one pulse quickened at sight of him, for his gallantry, his peril and his boyishness combined to enwrap him in the atmosphere of romance. Few of the observers knew what a wary vigilance lay behind that careless manner.
Kate gathered her skirts to make room for him beside her.
"Have you heard? He has left town."
"Who?"
"Soapy Stone. The cattlemen served notice on him to go. So he left."
A wave of relief swept over the young man. "That's your father's fine work."
"Isn't it good?" Her eyes were shining with gladness.
"I'm plumb satisfied," he admitted. "I'm not hankering to shoot out my little difference with Soapy. He's too handy with a six-gun."
"I'm so happy I don't know what to do."
"I suppose now the hold-up will be put off. Did Sam and Blackwell go with him?"
"No. He went alone."
"Have you seen Sam yet?"
"No, but I've seen Laura London. She's all the nice things you've said about her."
Curly grew enthusiastic, "Ain't she the dandiest girl ever? She's the right kind of a friend. And pretty--with that short crinkly hair the color of ripe nuts! You would not think one person could own so many dimples as she does when she laughs. It's just like as if she had absorbed sunshine and was warming you up with her smile."
"I see she has made a friend of you."
"You bet she has."
Miss Cullison shot a swift slant glance at him. "If you'll come back this afternoon you can meet her. I'm going to have all those dimples and all that sunshine here in the box with me."
"Maybe that will draw Sam to you."
"I'm hoping it will. But I'm afraid not. He avoids us. When they met he wouldn't speak to Father."
"That's the boy of it. Just the same he feels pretty bad about the quarrel. I reckon there's nothing to do but keep an eye on him and be ready for Soapy's move when he makes it."
"I'm so afraid something will happen to Sam."
"Now don't you worry, Miss Kate. Sam is going to come out of this all right. We'll find a way out for him yet."
Behind her smile the tears lay close. "You're the best friend. How can we ever thank you for what you're doing for Sam?"
A steer had escaped from the corral and was galloping down the track in front of the grandstand with its tail up. The young man's eyes followed the animal absently as he answered in a low voice.
"Do you reckon I have forgot how a girl took a rope from my neck one night? Do you reckon I ever forget that?"
"It was nothing. I just spoke to the boys."
"Or that I don't remember how the man I had shot went bail for a rustler he did not know?"
"Dick knew you. He told us about you."
"Could he tell you any good about me? Could he say anything except that I was a worthless no-'count----?"
She put her hand on his arm and stopped him. "Don't! I won't have you say such things about yourself. You were just a boy in trouble."
"How many would have remembered that? But you did. You fought good for my life that night. I'll pay my debt, part of it. The whole I never could pay."
His voice trembled in spite of the best he could do. Their eyes did not meet, but each felt the thrill of joy waves surging through their veins.
The preliminaries in the rough riding contest took place that afternoon. Of the four who won the right to compete in the finals, two were Curly Flandrau and Dick Maloney. They went together to the Cullison box to get the applause due them.
Kate Cullison had two guests with her. One was Laura London, the other he had never seen. She was a fair young woman with thick ropes of yellow hair coiled round her head. Deep-breasted and robust-loined, she had the rich coloring of the Scandinavian race and much of the slow grace peculiar to its women.
The hostess pronounced their names. "Miss Anderson, this is Mr. Flandrau. Mr. Flandrau--Miss Anderson."
Curly glanced quickly at Kate Cullison, who nodded. This then was the sweetheart of poor Mac.
Her eyes filled with tears as she took the young man's hand. To his surprise Curly found his throat choking up. He could not say a word, but she understood the unspoken sympathy. They sat together in the back of the box.
"I'd like to come and talk to you about--Mac. Can I come this evening, say?"
"Please."
Kate gave them no more time for dwelling on the past.
"You did ride so splendidly," she told Curly.
"No better than Dick did," he protested.
"I didn't say any better than Dick. You both did fine."
"The judges will say you ride better. You've got first place cinched," Maloney contributed.
"Sho! Just because I cut up fancy didoes on a horse. Grandstand stunts are not riding. For straight stick-to-your-saddle work I know my boss, and his name is Dick Maloney."
"We'll know to-morrow," Laura London summed up.
As it turned out, Maloney was the better prophet. Curly won the first prize of five hundred dollars and the championship belt. Dick took second place.
Saguache, already inclined to make a hero of the young rustler, went wild over his victory. He could have been chosen mayor that day if there had been an election. To do him justice, Curly kept his head remarkably well.
"To be a human clothes pin ain't so much," he explained to Kate. "Just because a fellow can stick to the hurricane deck of a bronch without pulling leather whilst it's making a milk shake out of him don't prove that he has got any more brains or decency than the law allows. Say, ain't this a peach of a mo'ning."
A party of young people were taking an early morning ride through the outskirts of the little city. Kate pulled her pony to a walk and glanced across at him. He had taken off his hat to catch the breeze, and the sun was picking out the golden lights in his curly brown hair. She found herself admiring the sure poise of the head, the flat straight back, the virile strength of him.
It did not occur to her that she herself made a picture to delight the heart. The curves of her erect tiger-lith
e young body were modeled by nature to perfection. Radiant with the sheer pleasure of life, happy as God's sunshine, she was a creature vividly in tune with the glad morning.
