CHAPTER VIII
A REHEARSED QUARREL
Because he could not persuade him to join in their drinking bouts, Stonenicknamed Curly the good bad man.
"He's the prize tough in Arizona, only he's promised his ma not to look onthe wine when it is red," Blackwell sneered.
Flandrau smiled amiably, and retorted as best he could. It was his cue notto take offence unless it were necessary.
It was perhaps on account of this good nature that Blackwell made amistake. He picked on the young man to be the butt of his coarsepleasantries. Day after day he pointed his jeers at Curly, who continuedto grin as if he did not care.
When the worm turned, it happened that they were all sitting on the porch.Curly was sewing a broken stirrup leather, Blackwell had a quirt in hishand, and from time to time flicked it at the back of his victim. Twicethe lash stung, not hard, but with pepper enough to hurt. Each time theyoung man asked him to stop.
Blackwell snapped the quirt once too often. When he picked himself out ofthe dust five seconds later, he was the maddest man in Arizona. Like abull he lowered his head and rushed. Curly sidestepped and lashed out hardwith his left.
The convict whirled, shook the hair out of his eyes, and charged again. Itwas a sledge-hammer bout, with no rules except to hit the other man oftenand hard. Twice Curly went down from chance blows, but each time he rolledaway and got to his feet before his heavy foe could close with him.Blackwell had no science. His arms went like flails. Though by sheerstrength he kept Flandrau backing, the latter hit cleaner and with morepunishing effect.
Curly watched his chance, dodged a wild swing, and threw himself forwardhard with his shoulder against the chest of the convict. The man staggeredback, tripped on the lowest step of the porch, and went down hard. Thefall knocked the breath out of him.
"Had enough?" demanded Curly.
For answer Blackwell bit his thumb savagely.
"Since you like it so well, have another taste." Curly, now thoroughlyangry, sent a short-arm jolt to the mouth.
The man underneath tried to throw him off, but Flandrau's fingers foundhis hairy throat and tight-
[Transcriber's Note: the last line printed in the preceeding paragraph was"tight-" and that was at a page break. The continuation was not printed atthe top of the following page. From the context, "tightened" is likely thecompleted word.]
"You're killing me," the convict gasped.
"Enough?"
"Y-yes."
Curly stepped back quickly, ready either for a knife or a gun-play.Blackwell got to his feet, and glared at him.
"A man is like a watermelon; you can't most generally tell how good he istill you thump him," Sam chuckled.
Cranston laughed. "Curly was not so ripe for picking as you figured, Lute.If you'd asked me, I could a-told you to put in yore spare time lettinghim alone. But a fellow has to buy his own experience."
The victor offered his hand to Blackwell. "I had a little luck. We'll callit quits if you say so."
"I stumbled over the step," the beaten man snarled.
"Sure. I had all the luck."
"Looked to me like you were making yore own luck, kid," Bad Billdiffered.
The paroled convict went into the house, swearing to get even. His facewas livid with fury.
"You wouldn't think a little thing like a whaling given fair and squarewould make a man hold a grudge. My system has absorbed se-ve-real withoutdoing 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 newrespect. For the first time a doubt as to the wisdom of letting him stayat the ranch crossed his mind.
His suspicion was justified. Curly had been living on the edge of a secretfor weeks. Mystery was in the air. More than once he had turned a cornerto find the other four whispering over something. The group haddisintegrated at once with a casual indifference that did not deceive.Occasionally a man had ridden into the yard late at night for private talkwith Stone, and Curly was morally certain that the man was the littlecowpuncher Dutch of the Circle C.
Through it all Curly wore a manner of open confidence. The furtivewhisperings did not appear to arouse his curiosity, nor did he interceptany of the knowing looks that sometimes were exchanged. But all the timehis brain was busy with questions. What were they up to? What was it theyhad planned?
Stone and Blackwell rode away one morning. To Curly the word was giventhat they were going to Mesa. Four days later Soapy returned alone. Lutehad 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 ashe turned toward the stable.
"Lie number one nailed," Curly said to himself. "How came he with aSaguache paper if he's been to Mesa?"
Caught between the folds of the paper was a railroad time table. It was aschedule of the trains of the Texas, Arizona & Pacific for July. This wasthe twenty-ninth of June. Certainly Soapy had lost no time getting the newfolder 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. UnderNumber 4's time was scrawled, just below Saguache, the word Tin Cup, andopposite it the figures 10:19. The express was due to leave Saguache at9:57 in the evening. From there it pushed up to the divide and slid downwith air brakes set to Tin Cup three thousand feet lower. Soapy could notwant to catch the train fifteen miles the other side of Saguache. But thisnote on the margin showed that he was interested in the time it reachedthe water tank. There must be a reason for it.
Stone came back hurriedly from the corral, to find Curly absorbed in theSentinel.
"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 betweenFendrick and the cattle interests over his sheep," the reader answeredcasually.
"Yep. Between Fendrick and Cullison, anyhow." Stone had reclaimed andpocketed 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 reallywanted was to be alone so that he could think the matter over. Coming homein the dusk, he saw Stone and young Cullison with their heads togetherdown by the corral. Curious to see how long this earnest talk would last,Curly sat down on a rock, and watched them, himself unobserved. Theyappeared to be rehearsing some kind of a scene, of which Soapy was stagedirector.
The man on the rock smiled grimly. "They're having a quarrel, lookslike.... Now the kid's telling Soapy to go to Guinea, and Soapy's pawingaround 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 thatnight. About daybreak he began to see his way into the maze. His firstgleam of light was when a row started between Soapy and Cullison. Beforeanyone could say a word to stop them they were going through with thatidentical corral quarrel.
Flandrau knew now they had been preparing it for his benefit. Cranstonchipped 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 andsaid he was through with the outfit and was going back to Saguache.
"_Yo tambien_," agreed Curly. "Not that I've got anything against thehorse ranch. That ain't it. But I'm sure pining for to bust the bank atBronson'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 fromit or make my roll a thousand."
The end of it was that both Sam and Curly went down to the corral andsaddled their ponies. To the last the conspirators played up to theirparts.
"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 offtheir little play very well. But he did not.
Still according to program, Sam sulked for the first few miles of theirjourney. 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 ofhaving a friend along if you don't use him? You drift in ... just happenalong, you know. I'll stay in the scrub pines up here. If the old man isabsent 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 AguaCaliente.
"Do you want to see him very bad, Mr. Flandrau?" asked Miss Laurademurely.
"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 holecontrary to orders, I used to ask where Dad was, but I didn't want to seehim."
"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 orbecome 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 tellme, 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 lookat the pies in the oven."
Curly swung from the saddle, and tossed the bridle rein to the ground. Hefollowed 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 ranchup 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 toSaguache to spend the Fourth of July. Sam is going for another reason, butI'm not sure yet what it is."
"You mean----?"
"There's something doing I don't _savez_, some big deal on foot that's noton the level. Sam is in it up to the hocks. To throw me off the scent theyfixed up a quarrel among them. Sam is supposed to be quitting Soapy'soutfit for good. But I know better."
White to the lips, she faced him bravely. "What sort of trouble is heleading Sam into?"
"I've got a kind of a notion. But it won't bear talking about yet. Don'tyou worry, little girl. I'm going to stand by Sam. And don't tell him whatI'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 canhelp you. I'm going down to Saguache to visit on the fourth. I'm to bethere 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 differentthings might work out all right."
While she climbed the hill to Sam, Curly watered his horse and smoked acigarette. He was not hired to chaperone lovers. Therefore, it took himthree-quarters of an hour to reach the scrub pine belt on the edge of thepark.
At once he saw that they had been having a quarrel. The girl's eyes werered, and she was still dabbing at them with her handkerchief when he camewhistling along. Sam looked discouraged, but stubborn. Very plainly theyhad been disagreeing about his line of conduct.
The two young men took the trail again. The moroseness of Sam was real andnot affected this time. He had flared up because the girl could not lethim alone about his friendship for Soapy Stone. In his heart the boy knewhe was wrong, that he was moving fast in the wrong direction. But hispride would neither let him confess it or go back on his word to the menwith whom he had been living.
About noon the next day they reached Saguache. After they had eaten, Curlystrolled 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 buckingbroncho 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 beenjudge you'd a-had first place, Mr. Flandrau."
"Much obliged. And now you've identified me sufficient, how about thatticket?"
"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 isfogging along sixty miles per. But most folks couldn't, not with anycomfort."
"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 towardCurly. "Sixty-five cents, please."
Flandrau paid for and pocketed the ticket he did not intend to use. He hadfound 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 wasbeginning 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 townwas gay with banners in preparation for the Fourth. On the program werebroncho-busting, roping, Indian dances, races, and other frontier events.Already visitors were gathering for the festivities. Saguache, wide openfor the occasion, was already brisk with an assorted population of manyraces. Mexicans, Chinese, Indians of various tribes brushed shoulders withminers, tourists and cattlemen. Inside the saloons faro, chuckaluck androulette attracted each its devotees.
Flandrau sauntered back to the hotel on the lookout for Sam. He was notthere, but waiting for him was a boy with a note for the gentleman inNumber 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 tookthe 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 goodguess both as to the author and the business that needed talking over.
Through the open door of the hotel he saw Sam approaching. Quickly hesealed the flap of the envelope again, and held it pressed against hisfingers 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. "Blondeor brunette?"
"I'm no lady's man," Sam protested,
content to let the other follow awrong 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 sidedoor and cutting through an alley toward Chalkeye's place. Reaching theback door of the saloon, he opened it a few inches and peered in. A minutelater Sam opened the front screen and asked a question of the man in theapron. The bartender gave a jerk of his thumb. Sam walked toward the rearand 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 didnot reach the ceiling. As the eavesdropper slid to a seat a phonograph infront began the Merry Widow waltz. Noiselessly Flandrau stood on thecushioned bench with his ear close to the top of the dividing wall. Hecould hear a murmur of voices but could not make out a word. The record onthe instrument wheezed to silence, but immediately a rag-time tunefollowed.
Presently the music died away. Flattened against the wall, his attentionstrained to the utmost, Curly began to catch words and phrases of thelow-voiced speakers in the next compartment. His position was perilous inthe extreme, but he would not leave now until he had found out what hewanted to know.