Crooked Trails and Straight

by Raine, William MacLeod

  “You wouldn’t think a white man could take a revenge like that on his enemy. It’s an awful thing to do in cold blood.”

  “Soapy is no white man. He’s a wolf. See how slick his scheme is. At one flip of the cards he kills the kid and damns his reputation. He scores Cullison and he snuffs out Sam, who had had the luck to win the girl Soapy fancies. The boy gets his and the girl is shown she can’t love another man than Stone.”

  “Ever hear the story of French Dan?” asked Slats.

  “Not to know the right of it.”

  “Soapy and Dan trained together in them days and went through a lot of meanness as side pardners. One day the Arivaca stage was held up by two men and the driver killed. In the scrap one of the men had his mask torn off. It was French Dan. Well, the outlaws had been too damned busy. Folks woke up and the hills were sprinkled with posses. They ran the fellows down and hunted them from place to place. Two—three times they almost nailed them. Shots were exchanged. A horse of one of the fugitives was killed and they could not get another. Finally one dark night the outlaws were surrounded. The posse lay down in the zacaton and waited for morning. In the night one of them heard a faint sound like the popping of a cork. When mo’ning broke the hunters crept forward through the thick grass. Guess what they found.”

  Curly’s answer was prompt. “Gimme a harder one. There were two men and only one horse. The only chance was to slip through the line before day arrived. My guess is that they found French Dan with a little round hole in his skull—and that the bullet making it had gone in from behind. My guess also is that the posse didn’t find the horse and the other man, just a trail through the zacaton back into the hills.”

  “Go to the head of the class. There was one man too many in that thicket for the horse. French Dan’s pardner was afraid they might not agree about who was to have the bronch for a swift getaway. So he took no chances. There’s only one man alive to-day can swear that Soapy was the man with French Dan lying in the zacaton. And he’ll never tell, because he pumped the bullet into his friend. But one thing is sure. Soapy disappeared from Arizona for nearly two years. You can pick any reason you like for his going. That is the one I choose.”

  “Same here. And the man that would shoot one partner in the back would shoot another if he had good reasons. By his way of it Soapy has reasons a-plenty.”

  “I’m satisfied that is his game. Question is how to block it. Will you go to the sheriff?”

  “No. Bolt would fall down on it. First off, he would not believe the story because I’m a rustler myself. Soapy and his friends voted for Bolt. He would go to them, listen to their story, prove part of it by me, and turn them loose for lack of evidence. Sam would go back to Dead Cow with them, and Stone would weave another web for the kid.”

  “You’ve got it about right,” Slats admitted. “How about warning Sam?”

  “No use. He would go straight to Soapy with it, and his dear friend would persuade him it was just a yarn cooked up to get him to throw down the only genuwine straight-up pal he ever had.”

  “Cullison then?”

  “You’re getting warm. I’ve had that notion myself. The point is, would he be willing to wait and let Soapy play his hand out till we called?”

  “You would have to guarantee his boy would be safe meanwhile.”

  “Two of us would have to watch him day and night without Sam knowing it.”

  “Count me in.”

  “This is where we hit heavy traveling, Slats. For we don’t know when the thing is going to be pulled off.”

  “We’ll have to be ready. That’s all.”

  “Happen to know whether Dick Maloney is here for the show?”

  “Saw him this mo’ning. Luck is here too, him and his girl.”

  “Good. We’ve got to have a talk with them, and it has to be on the q.t. You go back to town and find Dick. Tell him to meet us at the Del Mar, where Luck always puts up. Find out the number of Cullison’s room and make an appointment. I’ll be on El Molino street all mo’ning off and on. When you find out pass me without stopping, but tell me when we are to meet and just where.”

  Curly gave Slats a quarter of an hour before sauntering back to town. As he was passing the Silver Dollar saloon a voice called him. Stone and Blackwell were standing in the door. Flandrau stopped.

  Soapy’s deep-set eyes blazed at him. “You didn’t tell me it was Luck Cullison went bail for you, Curly.”

  “You didn’t ask me.”

  “So you and him are thick, are you?”

  “I’ve met him once, if that’s being thick. That time I shot him up.”

  “Funny. And then he went bail for you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Now I wonder why.”

  The eyes of the man had narrowed to red slits. His head had shot forward on his shoulders as that of a snake does. Curly would have given a good deal just then for the revolver lying on the bed of his room. For it was plain trouble was in sight. The desperado had been drinking heavily and was ready to do murder.

  “That’s easy to explain, Soapy. I shot him because I was driven to it. He’s too much of a man to bear a grudge for what I couldn’t help.”

  “That’s it, is it? Does that explain why he dug up good money to turn loose a horse thief?”

  “If I told you why, you would not understand.”

  “Let’s hear you try.”

  “He did it because I was young, just as Sam is; and because he figured that some day Sam might need a friend, too.”

  “You’re a liar. He did it because you promised to sneak up to my ranch and spy on us. That’s why he did it.”

  With the last word his gun jumped into sight. That he was lashing himself into a fury was plain. Presently his rage would end in a tragedy.

  Given a chance, Curly would have run for it. But Soapy was a dead shot. Of a sudden the anger in the boy boiled up over the fear. In two jumps he covered the ground and jammed his face close to the cold rim of the blue steel barrel.

  “I’m not heeled. Shoot and be damned, you coward. And with my last breath I’ll tell you that you’re a liar.”

  Flandrau had called his bluff, though he had not meant it as one. A dozen men were in sight and were watching. They had heard the young man tell Stone he was not armed. Public opinion would hold him to account if he shot Curly down in cold blood. He hung there undecided, breathing fast, his jaw clamped tightly.

  The lad hammered home his defiance. “Drop that gun, you four-flusher, and I’ll whale you till you can’t stand. Sabe? Call yourself a bad man, do you? Time I’m through with you there will be one tame wolf crawling back to Dead Cow with its tail between its legs.”

  The taunt diverted his mind, just as Curly had hoped it would. He thrust the revolver back into the holster and reached for his foe.

  Then everybody, hitherto paralyzed by the sight of a deadly weapon, woke up and took a hand. They dragged the two men apart. Curly was thrust into a barber shop on the other side of the street and Stone was dragged back into the Silver Dollar.

  In two minutes Flandrau had made himself famous, for he was a marked man. The last words of the straggling desperado had been that he would shoot on sight. Now half a dozen talked at once. Some advised Curly one thing, some another. He must get out of town. He must apologize at once to Stone. He must send a friend and explain.

  The young man laughed grimly. “Explain nothing. I’ve done all the explaining I’m going to. And I’ll not leave town either. If Soapy wants me he’ll sure find me.”

  “Don’t be foolish, kid. He has got four notches on that gun of his. And he’s a dead shot.”

  The tongues of those about him galloped. Soapy was one of these Billy-the-Kid killers, the only one left from the old days. He could whang away at a quarter with that sawed-off .45 of his and hit it every crack. The sooner Curly understood that no boy would have a chance with him the better it would be. So the talk ran.

  “He’s got you bluffed to a fare-you-well. You’re
tame enough to eat out of his hand. Didn’t Luck Cullison go into the hills and bring him down all alone?” Flandrau demanded.

  “Luck’s another wonder. There ain’t another man in Arizona could have done it. Leastways no other but Bucky O’Connor.”

  But Curly was excited, pleased with himself because he had stood up to the bogey man of the Southwest, and too full of strength to be afraid.

  Maloney came into the barber shop and grinned at him.

  “Hello, son!”

  “Hello, Dick!”

  “I hear you and Soapy are figuring on setting off some fireworks this Fourth.”

  It did Curly good to see him standing there so easy and deliberate among the excitable town people.

  “Soapy is doing the talking.”

  “I heard him; happened to be at the Silver Dollar when they dragged him in.”

  Maloney’s eyebrows moved the least bit. His friend understood. Together they passed out of the back door of the shop into an alley. The others stood back and let them go. But their eyes did not leave Curly so long as he was in sight. Until this thing was settled one way or the other the young rustler would be one of the most important men in town. Citizens would defer to him that had never noticed him before. He carried with him a touch of the solemnity that is allowed only the dead or the dying.

  Back to the hotel the two ran. When Curly buckled on his revolver and felt it resting comfortably against his thigh he felt a good deal better.

  “I’ve seen Slats Davis,” Maloney explained. “He has gone to find Luck, who is now at the Del Mar. At least he was an hour ago.”

  “Had any talk with Slats?”

  “No. He said you’d do the talking.”

  “I’m to wait for him on El Molino street to learn where I’m to meet Cullison.”

  “That won’t do. You’d make too tempting a target. I’ll meet him instead.”

  That suited Curly. He was not hunting trouble just now, even though he would not run away from it. For he had serious business on hand that could not take care of itself if Soapy should kill him.

  Nearly an hour later Maloney appeared again.

  “We’re to go right over to the Del Mar. Second floor, room 217. You are to go down El Molino to Main, then follow it to the hotel, keeping on the right hand side of the street. Slats will happen along the other side of the street and will keep abreast of you. Luck will walk with me behind you. Unless I yell your name don’t pay any attention to what is behind you. Soon as we reach the hotel Slats will cross the road and go in by the side door. You will follow him a few steps behind, and we’ll bring up the rear casually as if we hadn’t a thing to do with you.”

  “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 Fid
dleback 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.”