Curly Part 12

"It may be good enough for my father, but he's Irish, and he doesn't know any better. I'm an American."

"But still you'd be a lord."

"Would my lordship keep my pony from stumbling in front of a stampede of cattle? Would it save my scalp from Apaches, or help my little calves when the mountain lions want meat? Does my blood protect me from rattlesnakes, or Ryans, or skunks?"

"But there's the big land grant yo' people owns over in Ireland."

"It's tied up with entail, whatever that means, and there's no money in it, anyway. My tail in the old country doesn't save me from being galled in the saddle here, and I'm awfully tired."

"Same here, seh. I'm weary some myself. Yo' gun is loaded?"

Jim pawed his revolver. "Yes."

"Take some more," said Crook, and pa.s.sed over a handful of cartridges to fill Jim's belt. Jim saw that the cripple was armed.

"Why do you talk," says he, "about horses waiting for us, and the need of guns, and father getting killed? What's the trouble, my lad?"

"The trouble is that Ryan has hired that gambling outfit to skin the Dook to-night. There's men standing round to see he don't leave that house alive. Now, look along the street here to the left, across at the Mortuary Hotel. You see old Ryan settin' there?"

"I do."

"He's waiting for his son, the millionaire, young Michael. He's due with his private cyar at ten o'clock. If Michael comes--if he comes, I say--his father reckons to bring him over to call on yo' father here at the 'Sepulchre.' That's why the Dook is bein' skinned, and that's why Ryan's men are watching to see he don't escape alive."

"But what does Ryan want? He's got our breeding cattle, he's taken Holy Cross, my mother's gone--we've nothing left to take."

"You have yo' lives, you and the Dook. Ryan and his outfit allow they'll wipe you out when Michael comes."

"Is that all?" Jim laughed. "They're thoughtful and painstaking, anyway.

By the way, I don't know that my father and I have been shrieking for help as yet."

"If you were the kind of people to make a big song when yo're hurt, I reckon that we-all would jest leave you squeal."

"And who is we-all? You've acted like a white man to-night, looking after my poor roan and me like a little brother. But why should you care, young chap? I've never seen you before in my life; I don't even know your name."

"My name is Crook; I works at the stable."

"But why should you interfere? You may get hurt. I wouldn't like that, youngster."

"Wall, partner"--Crook shuffled a whole lot nervous--"I got a message for you from the boys. The Dook's had nothing but greasers working for him, and that's rough on us white men, but still he's surely good. He's dead straight, he don't wear no frills, and many a po' puncher, broke, hungry, half daid of thirst, has been treated like a son at Holy Crawss.

We don't amount to much--'cept when you want an enemy or a friend--but our tribe is right into this fight a whole heap, for them Ryans is dirt; and if they comes up agin you to-night I expaict there'll be gun-play first."

"Well, kid," said Jim, yawning with a big mouth, "I wish they'd put it off until to-morrow."

"Yo' eyes is like boiled aigs. Try a cigarette to keep you awake."

"Can't we get my father away from this house?"

"Not till the train comes in."

"What's that got to do with me?"

"Ask no more questions--wait."

"You say that Michael Ryan's due at ten?"

"If they lets him come."

"Suppose he comes?"

"Then nothing can save yo' father, nothing on airth."

As he spoke the sharp screech of the engine rang out from behind the curve, and with all its lights aflash the train rolled in.

CHAPTER XI

THE GUN-FIGHT

Before supper that evening a pa.s.sing traveller carried a letter to my ranche, and when my boys found out that there was going to be trouble in town they surely flirted gravel for fear of arriving too late. I placed them at a convenient saloon, explained my plans, made them swear that they would not stray. Then I went to Curly's room, and lay low, showing no light, but watching the Mortuary Hotel just across the street.

Ryan sat there in his piazza, ruddy and full, broad and bald as a barn, a ripe man with a grey chin beard. Yes, he was a cheery old soul, popular with the crowd, a power in local politics, well qualified on the outside of him for paradise, and in the innards of him for the other place. I covered him with my gun, and wondered where he would go to when he died. I expect he would be craving then for some of that lager beer he sipped so peaceful, and for the palm-leaf fan which he used to brush off the heat.

Away off to the right I could see Jim sitting on the sidewalk in front of the "Sepulchre." Little Crook was feeding brandy to him, and cigarettes to keep him away from sleep. Then the train came rumbling in, let out a screech, and stopped. It made me laugh to think what a big hurroar there would be presently when the news got wind of that train being held up by robbers, and Mr. Michael Ryan led away captive.

Yet there seemed to be no excitement. The usual buses and buggies came up from the station, the ordinary crowd of loafers, and then our only cab, which crawled to the "Mortuary" to drop one pa.s.senger. He was a fat young man, dressed most surprising in a stove-pipe hat, a Jew fur coat, gloves, and a smart valise. If any of our cowboys had happened around, they would have fired a shot for luck to see if he wasn't some new kind of bird, but old Ryan came down the steps with a roar of welcome.

"Michael!" he shouted, "where's your palace car? Have you sunk so low as to come in a mere cab? Oh, Mike!"

I could hear Mr. Michael explaining that something was wrong with the car, so he'd had to leave her at Lordsburgh for repairs. Of course, the robbers, not seeing the private car, had concluded that their prey had failed to arrive and the train was not worth attacking.

Now Michael had arrived, and after a talk and a drink with his father, these two would stroll over to finish the family vengeance on poor Balshannon. As far as we had missed getting help from the range wolves, so matters were getting mighty serious.

I slipped away to my men.

"Boys," says I, "we got to play at robbers to-night, I reckon, but I don't want you-all to get recognised. We may be bucking up against the law, and get ourselves disliked if we ain't cautious." So I took a big black silk handkerchief and cut it up into strips. "When the shooting begins," says I, "just you tie these round your heads to hide yo' homely faces. Now get yo' horses and come swift."

I posted the three in the small alley which ran between the "Sepulchre"

saloon and the post office beyond it. Then I went out to guard Balshannon. Being naturally a timid and cautious man, I had a brace of revolvers belted on ready for trouble.

Meanwhile young Crook in the front of the house was sitting all doubled up with grief at the sight of Michael Ryan.

"Boy," says Jim, "what's the matter?"

"Nothin'."

"How is it, young un, that you know all about my father's affairs and mine?"