by Unknown
"It's your showdown. Skin off that mask."
The man hesitated. His own revolver moved a few inches toward his head. Hastily he took off the mask. The moon shone on the face of the man called Dutch. Flandrau laughed. Last time they had met Curly had a rope around his neck. Now the situation was reversed.
An explosion below told them that the robbers had blown open the safe. Presently Soapy's voice came faintly to them.
"Bring up the horses."
He called again, and a third time. The dwarfed figures of the outlaws stood out clear in the moonlight. One of them ran up the track toward the draw. He disappeared into the scrub oaks, from whence his alarmed voice came in a minute.
"Dutch! Oh, Dutch!"
The revolver rim pressed a little harder against the bridge of the horse wrangler's nose.
"He ain't here," Blackwell called back to his accomplices.
That brought Stone on the run. "You condemned idiot, he must be there. Ain't he had two hours to get here since he left Tin Cup?"
They shouted themselves hoarse. They wandered up and down in a vain search. All the time Curly and his prisoner sat in the brush and scarcely batted an eye.
At last Soapy gave up the hunt. The engine and the express car were sent back to join the rest of the train and as soon as they were out of sight the robbers set out across country toward the Flatiron ranch.
Curly guessed their intentions. They would rustle horses there and head for the border. It was the only chance still left them.
After they had gone Curly and his prisoner returned to the road and set out toward Tin Cup. About a mile and a half up the line they met Cullison and his riders on the way down. Maloney was with them. He had been picked up at the station.
Dick gave a shout of joy when he heard Flandrau's voice.
"Oh, you Curly! I've been scared stiff for fear they'd got you."
Luck caught the boy's hand and wrung it hard. "You plucky young idiot, you've got sand in your craw. What the deuce did you do it for?"
They held a conference while the Circle C riders handcuffed Dutch and tied him to a horse. Soon the posse was off again, having left the prisoner in charge of one of the men. They swung round in a wide half circle, not wishing to startle their game until the proper time. The horses pounded up hills, slid into washes, and plowed through sand on a Spanish trot, sometimes in the moonlight, more often in darkness. The going was rough, but they could not afford to slacken speed.
When they reached the edge of the mesa that looked down on the Flatiron the moon was out and the valley was swimming in light. They followed the dip of a road that led down to the corral. Passing the fenced lane leading to the stable, they tied their ponies inside and took the places assigned to them by Cullison.
They had not long to wait. In less than half an hour three shadowy figures slipped round the edge of the corral and up the lane. Each of them carried a rifle in addition to his hip guns.
They slid into the open end of the stable. Cullison's voice rang out coldly.
"Drop your guns!"
A startled oath, a shot, and before one could have lifted a hand that silent moonlit valley of peace had become a battlefield.
The outlaws fell back from the stable, weapons smoking furiously. Blackwell broke into a run, never looking behind him, but Soapy and Bad Bill gave back foot by foot fighting every step of the way.
Dick and Curly rose from behind the rocks where they had been placed and closed the trap on Blackwell. The paroled convict let out one yell.
"I give up. Goddlemighty, don't shoot!"
His rifle he had already thrown away. With his arms reaching above him, his terror-stricken eyes popping from his head, he was a picture of the most frightened "bad man" who had ever done business in Arizona.
Half way down the lane Cranston was hit. He sank to his knees, and from there lopped over sideways to his left elbow. In the darkness his voice could be heard, for the firing had momentarily ceased.
"They've got me, Soapy. Run for it. I'll hold 'em back."
"Hit bad, Bill?"
"I'm all in. Vamos!"
Stone turned to run, and for the first time saw that his retreat was cut off. As fast as he could pump the lever his rifle began working again.
The firing this time did not last more than five seconds. When the smoke cleared it was all over. Soapy lay on his back, shot through and through. Blackwell had taken advantage of the diversion to crawl through the strands of barbed wire and to disappear in the chaparral. Bill had rolled over on his face.
Curly crept through the fence after the escaping man, but in that heavy undergrowth he knew it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. After a time he gave it up and returned to the field of battle.
Dick was bending over Stone. He looked up at the approach of his friend and said just one word.
"Dead."
Cullison had torn open Cranston's shirt and was examining his wounds.
"No use, Luck. I've got a-plenty. You sure fooled us thorough. Was it Sam gave us away?"
"No, Bill. Curly overheard Soapy and Blackwell at Chalkeye's Place. Sam stood pat, though you were planning to murder him."
"I wasn't in on that, Luck--didn't know a thing about it till after the boy was shot. I wouldn't a-stood for it."
"He wasn't shot. Curly saved him. He had to give you away to do it."
"Good enough. Serves Soapy right for double crossing Sam. Take care of that kid, Luck. He's all right yet." His eye fell on Flandrau. "You're a game sport, son. You beat us all. No hard feelings."
"Sorry it had to be this way, Bill."
The dying man was already gray to the lips, but his nerve did not falter. "It had to come some time. And it was Luck ought to have done it too." He waved aside Sweeney, who was holding a flask to his lips. "What's the use? I've got mine."
"Shall we take him to the house?" Maloney asked.
"No. I'll die in the open. Say, there's something else, boys. Curly has been accused of that Bar Double M horse rustling back in the early summer. I did that job. He was not one of us. You hear, boys. Curly was not in it."
A quarter of an hour later he died. He had lied to save from the penitentiary the lad who had brought about his death. Curly knew why he had done it--because he felt himself to blame for the affair. Maybe Bad Bill had been a desperado, a miscreant according to the usual standard, but when it came to dying he knew how to go better than many a respectable citizen. Curly stole off into the darkness so that the boys would not see him play the baby.
By this time the men from the Flatiron were appearing, armed with such weapons as they could hastily gather. The situation was explained to them. Neighboring ranches were called up by telephone and a systematic hunt started to capture Blackwell.
Luck left his three riders to help in the man hunt, but he returned with Curly and Maloney to Saguache. On the pommel of his saddle was a sack. It contained the loot from the express car of the Flyer. Two lives already had been sacrificed to get it, and the sum total taken amounted only to one hundred ninety-four dollars and sixteen cents.
CHAPTER XVII
THE PRODIGAL SON
They found the prodigal son with his sister and Laura London at the Del Mar. Repentance was writ large all over his face and manner. From Davis and from the girls he had heard the story of how Soapy Stone had intended to destroy him. His scheme of life had been broken into pieces and he was a badly shaken young scamp.
When Luck and Curly came into the room he jumped up, very white about the lips.
"Father!"
"My boy!"
Cullison had him by the hand, one arm around the shaking shoulders.
"What----what----?"
Sam's question broke down, but his father guessed it.
"Soapy and Bad Bill were killed, Dutch is a prisoner, and Blackwell escaped. All Spring Valley is out after him."
The boy was aghast. "My God!"
"Best thing for all of us. Soapy meant to murder you. If it hadn'
t been for Curly----"
"Are you sure?"
"No question about it. He brought no horse for you to ride away on. Bill admitted it, though he didn't know what was planned. Curly heard Soapy ask Blackwell whether he had seen your body."
The boy shuddered and drew a long sobbing, breath. "I've been a fool, Father--and worse."
"Forget it, son. We'll wipe the slate clean. I've been to blame too."
It was no place for outsiders. Curly beat a retreat into the next room. The young women followed him. Both of them were frankly weeping. Arms twined about each other's waists, they disappeared into an adjoining bedroom.
"Don't go," Kate called to him over her shoulder.
Curly sat down and waited. Presently Kate came back alone. Her shining eyes met his.
"I never was so happy in all my life before. Tell me what happened--everything please."
As much as was good for her to know Curly told. Without saying a word she listened till he was through. Then she asked a question.
"Won't Dutch tell about Sam being in it?"
"Don't matter if he does. Evidence of an accomplice not enough to convict. Soapy overshot himself. I'm here to testify that Sam and he quarrelled before Sam left. Besides, Dutch won't talk. I drilled it into him thorough that he'd better take his medicine without bringing Sam in."
She sat for a long time looking out of the window without moving. She did not make the least sound, but the young man knew she was crying softly to herself. At last she spoke in a low sweet voice.
"What can we do for you? First you save Father and then Sam. You risked everything for my brother--to win him back to us, to save his life and now his reputation. If you had been killed people would always have believed you were one of the gang."
"Sho! That's nonsense, Miss Kate." He twisted his hat in his hand uneasily. "Honest, I enjoyed every bit of it. And a fellow has to pay his debts."
"Was that why you did it?" she asked softly.
"Yes. I had to make good. I had to show your father and you that I had not thrown away all your kindness. So I quit travelling that downhill road on which I had got started."
"I'm glad--I'm so glad." She whispered it so low he could hardly hear.
"There was one way to prove myself. That was to stand between Sam and trouble. So I butted in and spoiled Soapy's game."
"I wish I could tell you how fine Father thinks it was of you. He doesn't speak of it much, but I know."
"Nothing to what I did--nothing at all." A wave of embarrassment had crept to the roots of his curly hair. "Just because a fellow--Oh, shucks!"
"That's all very well for you to say, but you can't help us thinking what we please."
"But that ain't right. I don't want you thinking things that ain't so because----"
"Yes? Because----?"
She lifted her eyes and met his. Then she knew it had to come out, that the feeling banked in him would overflow in words.
"Because you're the girl I love."
He had not intended to say it now, lest he might seem to be urging his services as a claim upon her. But the words had slipped out in spite of him.
She held out her two hands to him with a little gesture of surrender. The light of love was in her starry eyes.
And then----
She was in his arms, and the kisses he had dreamed about were on his lips.
CHAPTER XVIII
CUTTING TRAIL
Kate Cullison had disappeared, had gone out riding one morning and at nightfall had not returned. As the hours passed, anxiety at the Circle C became greater.
"Mebbe she got lost," Bob suggested.
Her father scouted this as absurd. "Lost nothing. You couldn't lose her within forty miles of the ranch. She knows this country like a cow does the range. And say she was lost--all she would have to do would be to give that pinto his head and he'd hit a bee line for home. No, nor she ain't had an accident either, unless it included the pony too."
"You don't reckon a cougar----," began Sweeney, and stopped.
Luck looked at his bandy-legged old rider with eyes in which little cold devils sparkled. "A human cougar, I'll bet. This time I'll take his hide off inch by inch while he's still living."
"You thinking of Fendrick?" asked Sam.
"You've said it."
Sweeney considered, rasping his stubbly chin. "I don't reckon Cass would do Miss Kate a meanness. He's a white man, say the worst of him. But it might be Blackwell. When last seen he was heading into the hills. If he met her----"
A spasm of pain shot across Luck's face. "My God! That would be awful."
"By Gum, there he is now, Luck." Sweeney's finger pointed to an advancing rider.
Cullison swung as on a pivot in time to see someone drop into the dip in the road, just beyond the corral. "Who--Blackwell?"
"No. Cass."
Fendrick reappeared presently and turned in at the lane. Cullison, standing on the porch at the head of the steps looked like a man who was passing through the inferno. But he looked too a personified day of judgment untempered by mercy. His eyes bored like steel gimlets into those of his enemy.
The sheepman spoke, looking straight at his foe. "I've just heard the news. I was down at Yesler's ranch when you 'phoned asking if they had seen anything of Miss Cullison. I came up to ask you one question. When was she seen last?"
"About ten o'clock this morning. Why?"
"I saw her about noon. She was on Mesa Verde, headed for Blue Cañon looked like."
"Close enough to speak to her?" Sam asked.
"Yes. We passed the time of day."
"And then?" Luck cut back into the conversation with a voice like a file.
"She went on toward the gulch and I kept on to the ranch. The last I saw of her she was going straight on."
"And you haven't seen her since?"
The manner of the questioner startled Fendrick. "God, man, you don't think I'm in this, do you?"
"If you are you'd better blow your brains out before I learn it. And if you're trying to lead me on a false scent----" Luck stopped. Words failed him, but his iron jaw clamped like a vice.
Fendrick spoke quietly. "I'm willing. In the meantime we'd better travel over toward Mesa Verde, so as to be ready to start at daybreak."
Cullison's gaze had never left him. It observed, weighed, appraised. "Good enough. We'll start."
He left Sweeney to answer the telephone while he was away. All of his other riders were already out combing the hills under supervision of Curly. Luck had waited with Sam only to get some definite information before starting. Now he had his lead. Fendrick was either telling the truth or he was lying with some sinister purpose in view. The cattleman meant to know which.
Morning breaks early in Arizona. By the time they had come to the spot where the sheepman said he had met Kate gray streaks were already lightening the sky. The party moved forward slowly toward the cañon, spreading out so as to cover as much ground as possible. Before they reached its mouth the darkness had lifted enough to show the track of a horse in the sand.
They pushed up the gulch as rapidly as they could. The ashes of a camp fire halted them a few minutes later. Scattered about lay the feathers and dismembered bones of some birds.
Cass stooped and picked up some of the feathers. "Quails, I reckon. Miss Cullison had three tied to her saddle horn when I met her."
"Why did she come up here to cook them?" Sam asked.
Luck was already off his horse, quartering over the ground to read what it might tell him.
"She wasn't alone. There was a man with her. See these tracks."
It was Fendrick who made the next discovery. He had followed a draw for a short distance and climbed to a little mesa above. Presently he called to Cullison.
Father and son hurried toward him. The sheep-owner was standing at the edge of a prospect hole pointing down with his finger.
"Someone has been in that pit recently, and he's been there several days."
"Then how d
id he get out?" Sam asked.
Fendrick knelt on the edge of the pit and showed him where a rope had been dragged so heavily that it had cut deeply into the clay.
"Someone pulled him out."
"What's it mean anyhow? Kate wasn't in that hole, was she?"
Cass shook his head. "This is my guess. Someone was coming along here in the dark and fell in. Suppose Miss Cullison heard him calling as she came up the gulch. What would she do?"