Curly Part 16

"Come on," says Jim, and swung his horse to the west along a small dead trail.

"We got to change ourselves," says McCalmont's son, and began to loose some parcels tied by the strings to his saddle. "I got some clothes for we-all. Here," he pa.s.sed over an old leather jacket, a straw sombrero, and a bottle. "That's cawffee extract," says he, "mixed with a black drug. I boiled it strong. You rub it over yo' face and neck and paws, then rig yo'self."

Our people, at any gait in the saddle, are broke to eat dinner, drink from a bottle, roll a cigarette, or sing a song without being jarred up like a tenderfoot. So while they trotted slow Jim stained his hide all black like a greaser _vaquero_, then slung on the _charro_ clothes of a poor Mexican cowboy.

"Now," says Curly, "you take this moustache and lick the gummy side, stick it on yo' lip, and remember yo're a Dago. Say, pull up, they'll know that buckskin mare of mine for sure. There ain't another in the United States I reckon with white points like her'n. You empty that bottle, and black her white stockings, quick."

Curly was changing too, for he pulled up the legs of his overalls, then wriggled them down over his long boots. Then he took Jim's cowboy hat, and slouched the brim down front like a hayseed boy. He put on a raggy old jacket, and bulged his lean cheeks out with pads of wool. He looked a farm boy, and when they rode on, sat like a sack of oats.

"It won't work," says Jim, "here's a big outfit of people sweeping right down from the north. Our horses are blown, and their snorting will give us away."

"Dot vash all righd," says Curly.

"That wouldn't pa.s.s for German," says Jim, "not even in a fog."

"Shure," says Curly, "is it me forgettin' me nativity? Amn't I Oirish?"

They had entered the Naco trail by this, and were walking their horses up the hill for Grave City. If the silly kids had obeyed my orders we should never have seen a hair of them that night. As it was, Deputy-Marshal Pedersen and I came with full thirty men on top of them.

I don't profess I knew either the Irish hayseed boy or the _vaquero_, until the black horse, a melancholy plug called Jones which I'd lent Curly, began to whicker to the grey mare I rode. Pedersen, too, was mortal suspicious of that buckskin mare with Jim.

"Black points," says he. "That's so--Crook's had white laigs."

"Shure," says Curly, prompt, "an' is it thim robbers ye'd be afther hunting?"

Pedersen reined up.

"They've pa.s.sed you, eh?" he called.

"Didn't they shoot me," says Curly, "till I'm kilt entoirely? There was elivan av thim agin' me and the young feller that was along with me, the rapscallions, and thim with black masks on their dirthy faces!"

"How long since?"

"Three minutes gone, yer 'anner; and can any of yez tell me if this is the road to Misther Chalkeye Davies?"

Pedersen had spurred on, and we swept after him, leaving Mr. Curly McCalmont howling Irish curses because we hadn't pointed him on his trail to Las Salinas.

We were scarcely gone when a second outfit of five stragglers came rolling down the trail, headed by Shorty Broach, one of the men who had been hurt that night in the gun-fight. He always hated Balshannon's folks worse than snakes; he was heaps eager now for Curly McCalmont's blood; and the two thousand dollars which went along with it. But worse than that, this Shorty was a sure plainsman, who never forgot a horse.

Still he went past with his crowd before he saw anything wrong with that black horse I'd lent, or the buckskin mare Jim was riding. Then he swung.

"Hold on, boys! Say, I knows that buckskin. That's Crook's buckskin mare at the livery--here's Curly McCalmont's mare!"

The riders tried to call Shorty off, told him to soak his head, remembered that Crook's buckskin had white stockings, whereas this mare's points were black, which made all the difference.

"Them horses is blown, they're run full hard," says Broach; "they've been surely chased, and I'm due to inquire more."

On that the riders began to circle around, while Curly slung out Irish by the yard about running away from the robbers.

"Shure," says he, "and it's the Chief of the Police no less we're talkin' wid."

"Throw up your hands!" says Broach, pointing his gun on Jim, but the youngster was busy rolling a cigarette.

"Why is that gringo showing off with a gun?" he asked in Spanish. "He looks so foolish, too!"

"You got to account for that buckskin mare," says Broach, but Jim set in the cool moonlight and lit his cigarette, taking no notice.

"This greaser is lately an orphan, sorr," says Curly, "an' he's only goin' innocent for a dhrunk in Grave City--maning no harr-m at all."

"Where did he get that buckskin?"

"It's the 'pitchfork' mare ye'll be maning, sorr?"

At last Jim knew the brand on the mare he was riding.

"Indade," says Curly, "hasn't she got an Holy Crawss brand on the shoulder as well, sorr? Maybe he stole her there."

"If you want to live, Mr. Greaser, you'll account for that buckskin mare," Broach threatened again with his gun.

"I understand," says Jim in Spanish, puffing his cigarette at Shorty's face. "I took this mare in trade at la Morita Custom House on the Line.

A Vaquero Americano could not pay the hundred per cent. duty on his horse, so I traded with him my Mexican-branded mustang to oblige, taking this mare. She's branded 'Holy Cross,' rebranded 'pitchfork.'

Perhaps the gentlemen will stand aside--I have explained."

"All very well," said Broach in Spanish, which sounded rough like a railroad accident, "how do you account for that saddle, Jim du Chesnay's silver-mounted saddle?"

"Si Senor, the saddle of my young lord el Senor Don Sant Iago, of Holy Cross. The caballero ordered me to bring these, that he might play bear before the house of a beautiful lady in Grave City."

"And your own saddle?"

"Alas! I played poker with the Americanos. They have skinned me." Jim made a little flourish, twisted the moustache. It came off in his fingers!

And with a howl the whole crowd closed in. They had captured Jim du Chesnay and Curly McCalmont!

CHAPTER XIII

THE MAN-HUNT

I reckon that civilised folks are trained to run in a rut, to live by rule, to do what's expected. If they're chased they'll run, if they're caught they surrender. That's the proper thing to do.

Our plainsman, he's a much resourceful animal: he never runs in the rut, and he always does exactly what's not expected. Here were Jim and Curly surrounded by five men all hot for war. Broach could shoot good, but his horse was a plumb idiot when it came to firing. He was scared he would miss Jim, and get the counter-jumper who pranced around behind. Of the rest, one was a railroad man, and useless at that, one was a carpenter, and one was a barber--all of them bad shots. Still, they knew that their prisoners could neither fight nor run.

The prisoners did both most sudden, and heaps surprising. While Jim's moustache was dropping, Curly's first bullet got Broach's horse in the eye, sending him backwards over on top of the man. Jim unhorsed the railroad man, the carpenter disabled the barber, and the counter-jumper bolted.

That posse was all demoralised, shooting liberal, attracting heaps of attention. So another belated outfit of citizens came whooping down the road, while at the first sound of battle, the crowd I was with swung round at full gallop to share the play. I knew my youngsters were in foul bad luck.