Produced by Roger Frank and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
THIS SLENDER GIRL DUMFOUNDED THEM _Frontispiece Page 41_]
CROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHT
BYWILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE
AUTHOR OFBRAND BLOTTERS, BUCKY O'CONNOR, MAVERICKS,WYOMING, RIDGWAY OF MONTANA, A TEXAS RANGER, etc.
ILLUSTRATIONS BYD. C. HUTCHISON
GROSSET & DUNLAPPUBLISHERS--NEW YORK
Made in the United States of America
Copyright, 1913, byG. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
Crooked Trails and Straight
CONTENTS
PART I
CURLY
CHAPTER PAGE I. Following a Crooked Trail 9 II. Camping with Old Man Trouble 23 III. At the End of the Road 33 IV. The Cullisons 49 V. Laura London 60 VI. A Bear Trap 74 VII. Bad Medicine 84 VIII. A Rehearsed Quarrel 94 IX. Eavesdropping 110 X. "Stick to Your Saddle" 131
PART II
LUCK
I. At the Round Up Club 143 II. Luck Meets an Old Acquaintance 151 III. An Initialed Hat 157 IV. Kate Uses Her Quirt 169 V. "Ain't She the Gamest Little Thoroughbred?" 178 VI. Two Hats On A Rack 194 VII. Anonymous Letters 200 VIII. A Message in Cipher 213 IX. "The Friends of L. C. Serve Notice" 220 X. Cass Fendrick Makes a Call 233 XI. A Compromise 245 XII. An Arrest 254 XIII. A Conversation 265 XIV. A Touch of the Third Degree 270 XV. Bob Takes a Hand 282 XVI. A Clean Up 294 XVII. The Prodigal Son 312 XVIII. Cutting Trail 316 XIX. A Good Samaritan 323 XX. Loose Threads 337
CROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHT
PART I
CURLY
CHAPTER I
FOLLOWING A CROOKED TRAIL
Across Dry Valley a dust cloud had been moving for hours. It rolled intoSaguache at the brisk heels of a bunch of horses just about the time thetown was settling itself to supper. At the intersection of Main and LaJunta streets the cloud was churned to a greater volume and density. Fromout of the heart of it cantered a rider, who swung his pony as on a halfdollar, and deflected the remuda toward Chunn's corral.
The rider was in the broad-rimmed felt hat, the gray shirt, the plainleather chaps of a vaquero. The alkali dust of Arizona lay thick on everyexposed inch of him, but youth bloomed inextinguishably through the grime.As he swept forward with a whoop to turn the lead horses it rang in hisvoice, announced itself in his carriage, was apparent in the modeling ofhis slim, hard body. Under other conditions he might have been a collegefreshman for age, but the competent confidence of manhood sat easily onhis broad shoulders. He was already a graduate of that school ofexperience which always holds open session on the baked desert. CurlyFlandrau had more than once looked into the chill eyes of death.
The leaders of the herd dribbled into the corral through the open gate,and the others crowded on their heels. Three more riders followed Curlyinto the enclosure. Upon them, too, the desert had sifted its white coat.The stained withers of the animals they rode told of long, steady travel.One of them, a red-haired young fellow of about the same age as Curly,swung stiffly from the saddle.
"Me for a square meal first off," he gave out promptly.
"Not till we've finished this business, Mac. We'll put a deal rightthrough if Warren's here," decided a third member of the party. He was atough-looking customer of nearly fifty. From out of his leatherysun-and-wind beaten face, hard eyes looked without expression. "Bad Bill"Cranston he was called, and the man looked as if he had earned hissobriquet.
"And what if he ain't here?" snarled the fourth. "Are you aiming to sitdown and wait for him?"
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Bad Bill answered. "Curly,want to ride up to the hotel and ask if Mr. Dave Warren is there? Bringhim right down if he is."
"And say, young fellow, don't shout all over the place what your businessis with him," ordered the previous speaker sulkily. Lute Blackwell, asquat heavily muscled man of forty, had the manner of a bully. Unless hisshifty eyes lied he was both cruel and vindictive.
Curly's gaze traveled over him leisurely. Not a muscle in the boyish facemoved, but in the voice one might have guessed an amused contempt. "Allright. I won't, since you mention it, Lute."
The young man cantered up the dusty street toward the hotel. Blackwelltrailed toward the windmill pump.
"Thought you'd fixed it with this Warren to be right on the spot so's wecould unload on him prompt," he grumbled at Cranston without lookingtoward the latter.
"I didn't promise he'd be hanging round your neck soon as you hit town,"Cranston retorted coolly. "Keep your shirt on, Lute. No use getting in asweat."
The owner of the corral sauntered from the stable and glanced over thebunch of horses milling around.
"Been traveling some," he suggested to Bad Bill.
"A few. Seen anything of a man named Warren about town to-day?"
"He's been down here se-ve-re-al times. Said he was looking for a partywith stock to sell. Might you be the outfit he's expecting?"
"We might." Bad Bill took the drinking cup from Blackwell and drained it."I reckon the dust was caked in my throat an inch deep."
"Drive all the way from the Bar Double M?" asked the keeper of the corral,his eyes on the brand stamped on the flank of a pony circling past.
"Yep."
Bad Bill turned away and began to unsaddle. He did not intend to volunteerany information, though on the other hand he did not want to stirsuspicion by making a mystery for gossips to chew on.
"Looks like you been hitting the road at a right lively gait."
Mac cut in. "Shoulder of my bronc's chafed from the saddle. Got anythingthat'll heal it?"
"You bet I have." The man hurried into the stable and the redheadedcowpuncher winked across the back of his horse at Bill.
The keeper of the stable and the young man were still busy doctoring thesore when Curly arrived with Warren. The buyer was a roundbodied man withblack gimlet eyes that saw much he never told. The bargain he drove was ahard one, but it did not take long to come to terms at about one-third thevalue of the string he was purchasing. Very likely he had his suspicions,but he did not voice them. No doubt they cut a figure in the price. He letit be understood that he was a supply agent for the rebels in Mexico.Before the bills were warm in the pockets of the sellers, his vaqueroswere mounted and were moving the remuda toward the border.
Curly and Mac helped them get started. As they rode back to the corral ayoung man came out from the stable. Flandrau forgot that there werereasons why he wanted just now to be a stranger in the land with hisidentity not advertised. He let out a shout.
"Oh you, Slats Davis!"
"Hello, Curly! How are things a-comin'?"
"Fine. When did you blow in to Saguache? Ain't you off your run some?"
They had ridden the range together and had frolicked around on a dozenboyish larks. Their ways had suited each other and they had been a gooddeal more than casual b
unkies. To put it mildly the meeting was likely toprove embarrassing.
"Came down to see about getting some cows for the old man from theFiddleback outfit," Davis explained. "Didn't expect to bump into friends'way down here. You riding for the Bar Double M?"
There was a momentary silence. Curly's vigilant eyes met those of his oldside partner. What did Slats know? Had he been in the stable while theremuda was still in the corral? Had he seen them with Bad Bill andBlackwell? Were his suspicions already active?
"No, I'm riding for the Map of Texas," Flandrau answered evenly.
"Come on, Curly. Let's go feed our faces," Mac called from the stable.
Flandrau nodded. "You still with the Hashknife?" he asked Davis.
"Still with 'em. I've been raised to assistant foreman."
"Bully for you. That's great. All right, Mac. I'm coming. That's suregreat, old hoss. Well, see you later, Slats."
Flandrau followed Mac, dissatisfied with himself for leaving his friend socavalierly. In the old days they had told each other everything, hadtalked things out together before many a campfire. He guessed Slats wouldbe hurt, but he had to think of his partners in this enterprise.
After supper they took a room at the hotel and divided the money Warrenhad paid for the horses. None of them had slept for the last fifty hoursand Mac proposed to tumble into bed at once.
Bad Bill shook his head. "I wouldn't, Mac. Let's hit the trail and do oursleeping in the hills. There's too many telephone lines into this town tosuit me."
"Sho! We made a clean getaway, and we're plumb wore out. Our play isn't tohike out like we were scared stiff of something. What we want to do is toact as if we could look every darned citizen in the face. Mac's sureright," Curly agreed.
"You kids make me tired. As if you knew anything about it. I'm going todust _muy pronto_," Blackwell snarled.
"Sure. Whenever you like. You go and we'll stay. Then everybody'll besatisfied. We got to split up anyhow," Mac said.
Bad Bill looked at Blackwell and nodded. "That's right. We don't all wantto pull a blue streak. That would be a dead give away. Let the kids stayif they want to."
"So as they can round on us if they're nabbed," Blackwell sneered.
Cranston called him down roughly. "That'll be enough along that line,Lute. I don't stand for any more cracks like it."
Blackwell, not three months out from the penitentiary, faced the otherwith an ugly look in his eyes. He was always ready to quarrel, but he didnot like to fight unless he had a sure thing. He knew Bad Bill was an uglycustomer when he once got started.
"Didn't mean any harm," the ex-convict growled. "But I don't like thissticking around town. I tell you straight I don't like it."
"Then I wouldn't stay if I were you," Curly suggested promptly. "Mac and Ihave got a different notion. So we'll tie to Saguache for a day or two."
As soon as the older men had gone the others tumbled into bed and fellasleep at once. Daylight was sifting in through the open window beforetheir eyes opened. Somebody was pounding on the bedroom door, whichprobably accounted for Flandrau's dream that a sheriff was driving nailsin the lid of a coffin containing one Curly.
Mac was already out of bed when his partner's feet hit the floor.
"What's up, Mac?"
The eyes of the redheaded puncher gleamed with excitement. His six-gun wasin his hand. By the look of him he was about ready to whang loose throughthe door.
"Hold your horses, you chump," Curly sang out "It's the hotel clerk. Ileft a call with him."
But it was not the hotel clerk after all. Through the door came a quick,jerky voice.
"That you, Curly? For God's sake, let me in."
Before he had got the words out the door was open. Slats came in and shutit behind him. He looked at Mac, the forty-five shaking in the boy's hand,and he looked at Flandrau.
"They're after you," he said, breathing fast as if he had been running.
"Who?" fired Curly back at him.
"The Bar Double M boys. They just reached town."
"Put up that gun, Mac, and move into your clothes immediate," orderedCurly. Then to Davis: "Go on. Unload the rest. What do they know?"
"They inquired for you and your friend here down at the Legal Tender. Theother members of your party they could only guess at."
"Have we got a chance to make our getaway?" Mac asked.
Davis nodded. "Slide out through the kitchen, cut into the alley, andacross lots to the corral. We'll lock the door and I'll hold them herelong as I can."
"Good boy, Slats. If there's a necktie party you'll get the first bid,"Curly grinned.
Slats looked at him, cold and steady. Plainer than words he was tellinghis former friend that he would not joke with a horse thief. For the sakeof old times he would save him if he could, but he would call any bluffsabout the whole thing being a lark.
Curly's eyes fell away. It came to him for the first time that he was nolonger an honest man. Up till this escapade he had been only wild, but nowhe had crossed the line that separates decent folks from outlaws. He hadbeen excited with liquor when he joined in this fool enterprise, but thatmade no difference now. He was a rustler, a horse thief. If he lived ahundred years he could never get away from the disgrace of it.
Not another word was said while they hurried into their clothes. But asCurly passed out of the door he called back huskily. "Won't forget whatyou done for us, Slats."
Again their eyes met. Davis did not speak, but the chill look on his facetold Flandrau that he had lost a friend.
The two young men ran down the back stairs, passed through the kitchenwhere a Chinese cook was getting breakfast, and out into the brightsunlight. Before they cut across to the corral their eyes searched forenemies. Nobody was in sight except the negro janitor of a saloon busyputting empty bottles into a barrel.
"Won't do to be in any hurry. The play is we're gentlemen of leisure, justout for an amble to get the mo'ning air," Curly cautioned.
While they fed, watered, and saddled they swapped gossip with thewrangler. It would not do to leave the boy with a story of two riders insuch a hurry to hit the trail that they could not wait to feed theirbronchos. So they stuck it out while the animals ate, though they wereabout as contented as a two-pound rainbow trout on a hook. One of them wasat the door all the time to make sure the way was still clear. At thatthey shaved it fine, for as they rode away two men were coming down thestreet.
"Kite Bonfils," Curly called to his partner.
No explanation was needed. Bonfils was the foreman of the Bar Double M. Helet out a shout as he caught sight of them and began to run forward.Simultaneously his gun seemed to jump from its holster.
Mac's quirt sang and his pony leaped to a canter in two strides. A bulletzipped between them. Another struck the dust at their heels. Faintly therecame to the fugitives the sound of the foreman's impotent curses. They hadescaped for the time.
Presently they passed the last barb wire fence and open country lay beforethem. It did not greatly matter which direction they followed, so long asthey headed into the desert.
"What we're looking for is a country filled with absentees," Curlyexplained with a grin.
Neither of them had ever been in serious trouble before and both regrettedthe folly that had turned their drunken spree into a crime. Once or twicethey came to the edge of a quarrel, for Mac was ready to lay the blame onhis companion. Moreover, he had reasons why the thing he had done loomedup as a heinous offense.
His reasons came out before the camp fire on Dry Sandy that evening. Theywere stretched in front of it trying to make a smoke serve instead ofsupper. Mac broke a gloomy silence to grunt out jerkily a situation hecould no longer keep to himself.
"Here's where I get my walking papers I reckon. No rustlers need apply."
Curly shot a slant glance at him. "Meaning--the girl?"
The redheaded puncher nodded. "She'll throw me down sure. Why shouldn'tshe? I tell you I've ruined my life. You're only a kid. What you kno
wabout it?"
He took from his coat pocket a photograph and showed it to his friend. Thesweet clean face of a wholesome girl smiled at Curly.
"She's ce'tainly a right nice young lady. I'll bet she stands by you allright. Where's she live at?"
"Waits in a restaurant at Tombstone. We was going to be married soon as wehad saved five hundred dollars." Mac swallowed hard. "And I had to figureout this short cut to the money whilst I was drunk. As if she'd look atmoney made that way. Why, we'd a-been ready by Christmas if I'd onlywaited."
Curly tried to cheer him up, but did not make much of a job at it. Theindisputable facts were that Mac was an outlaw and a horse thief. Verylikely a price was already on his head.
The redheaded boy rolled another cigarette despondently. "Sho! I've cookedmy goose. She'll not look at me--even if they don't send me to the pen."In a moment he added huskily, staring into the deepening darkness: "Andshe's the best ever. Her name's Myra Anderson."
Abruptly Mac got up and disappeared in the night, muttering somethingabout looking after the horses. His partner understood well enough whatwas the matter. The redheaded puncher was in a stress of emotion, and likethe boy he was he did not want Curly to know it.
Flandrau pretended to be asleep when Mac returned half an hour later.
They slept under a live oak with the soundness of healthy youth. For thetime they forgot their troubles. Neither of them knew that as the hoursslipped away red tragedy was galloping closer to them.