Curly Part 38

The searchers were swarming through the house, and for my part I was full content to depart without telling them any good-bye.

"You're scart," says Curly. "You coward! You stay heah!"

Then feeling for blood with her spurs, she sailed at full gallop along the outer side of the garden fence. At the first shot from the yard she ducked, throwing herself until she hung Indian fashion along the off side of her horse. A bullet trimmed my back hair as I followed, gun flames blazed from the back porch and the windows, as we shot past the house. The bullets were singing all round us, our horses were crazy with fright, but then we swung round the end of the garden fence, running full tilt against the standing team of horses which the police had left in the road. The shock stampeded them, but Curly swerved clear of their rush, rolled back into the saddle, raced abreast, and shot both horses down. A minute more, and the firing died away behind us, for we were racing neck-and-neck across the desert. Curly had left the police to follow afoot, but now she began to weaken, for, because she had played the man, she broke down and sobbed--a woman.

We had been running maybe two hours when we pulled up on the top of a hill to rest our horses. Far down to southward the electric lights in the city made a silver haze of small specks glistening as though a sc.r.a.p of sky had fallen there. High in the south Orion rode guard upon the star herds, and the night was so still that we were scared to speak. I wanted to smoke, but on a night like that the striking of a match may be seen for miles around, so I took a bite at my plug and ate tobacco instead. Then as Curly and I sat on a rock together listening, I heard a bear cough because his nose got dusty, grubbing for ants; a coyote was singing the hunger-song, and miles away to the east a ranche dog answered him. Then Curly's horse scrunched up a tuft of gra.s.s, and my beast pawing, startled a rattlesnake. The little woman beside me whispered then--

"Sh.o.r.ely the Lawd makes His big medicine for us, for snakes and robbers, wolves and b'ars. Only the folk down tha cayn't see Him, 'cause they got electric lights instead of stars."

"Which them two pore ladies," says I, "gets gun-flame by way of lamps to cheer them up to-night."

"I hate to think how we-all stirred theyr peace. Still, Bryant has stroked theyr fur by now," she sighed. "Them visitors rumpled me too, and all my brussles is pointing the wrong way still."

"D'you reckon, Curly," I asked, "that the City Marshal is hoping to trail us by starlight?"

"Not to hurt," she yawned, "'cept maybe he's got smell-dogs guidin' his posse. Yes, I remember a while back the Marshal bought a team of blood-hounds."

She didn't seem to take much interest, so I proposed that we roll our tails.

"I see his lantern," said Curly; "thar it is agin. We got a ten-mile start."

I saw the glimmer then. "Come on," said I.

"_Poco tiempo_," says Curly. "I'm fearful sorry for them pore ladies yondeh."

I dragged her away, and we rode on, throwing the miles astern. Every two hours or so Curly would give the horses a rest and a taste of gra.s.s--a trick she had learned from Indians, which kept them fresh for a trail.

The night was cold, with a little "lazy wind," as Curly called it, too tired to go round, so it went right through us. Just before dawn we crossed a clay flat holding a slough of mud, and found it hard with frost.

"When water goes to sleep with cold," says Curly, "a smell-dog's nose ain't goin' to guide his laigs. This frost is due to send the posse home."

"At dawn they'll see our tracks."

Dawn broke, and we were rising a slope of sand-drift, with acres of naked rock ahead of us.

"Haw!" said Curly, leading me to the left until we entered the rock field. "Gee," she called, and we crossed the rocks to the right. "Follow the rocks--shy wide of any sand." I followed for a mile, until a little hill shut off the route we had come by. "Dismount," she said, and I stepped down by the edge of the sands. She made me take the saddle blankets, the oilskin coats, and a serape (Mexican blanket), and make a pathway of them across the sand, on which she rode, leading my horse, while I renewed the track in front of her for a couple of hundred feet.

So we left horse sign on the sand which looked a whole fortnight old.

Then, gathering the clothes, I mounted, and we curved away among sandhills for half an hour, sailing along at a lope until we came to a patch of gramma gra.s.s. "Let the hawsses graze," said Curly, and sat side-saddle, resting while she smoked a cigarette. I did the same, and the tracks we left now were those of grazing horses, not those of travellers. Then I resaddled, and all set, we rode off again to the north. The frost had spoiled our scent; the blanket play and grazing play had sure discouraged trackers.

"Curly," says I, "you heap big Injun!"

"I lil' small robber," she answered, "givin' away trade secrets."

A few miles northward we circled up beyond a ridge of hills, to a good look-out point. From there we could see the Marshal's posse small as ants in the distance, ranging around on the rock flat, from whence they presently crawled off south, looking a lot subdued. Then I unsaddled, while Curly killed out a few centipedes, scorpions, rattlers, and other local vermin, to make our sleep comfy under the rocks.

At noon, when the heat awoke us, we rode on to Texas Bob's big spring, reaching his camp by sundown. There we made up for lost meals by taking in four at once. Mrs. Bob gave us jerked beef, spiced bread and coffee; her wild range kids rubbed down our horses, watered them and fed; the old gentleman himself poured in his best advice until Curly crept off to sleep. As for me, I felt good, sitting there in the hut of cactus sticks watching the gold gra.s.s slowly change to grey, and great big stars come out above the hills.

The long hair lay like silver around the old man's shoulders; the white beard, pointed short, wagged over his deerskin shirt; his kind eyes wrinkled with fun, and all his words were wisdom absolute. I reckon he's the wisest man in all the southern desert, and when I told him the things I ought not to have done, he showed me better how to act in future.

"Stealin' a womern," says he, "is different from stealin' hawsses. You can make the hawsses forget theyr home range in a month, but a womern will sure break fences to quit back to the man she wants. This Curly will run to her mate, and whar they graze there ain't room for you in the pasture. The good Book says: 'No man shall put them asunder,' and the rules of Right and Wrong ain't got exceptions. Don't you try to steal Curly."

In all my life I never needed a friend so much as I did that night, but when Curly and I hit the trail the old scout reached me his hand.

"Put her right thar, Chalkeye," says he; "it's mighty hard at times to stick to the rules of the game. It's so easy to go crooked that it takes a man to play straight--and you'll play straight. _Adios!_"

All night my mind was at ease, and when day broke again we were into the Superst.i.tious Mountains. So I led Curly down towards Echo Spring, and gave the long yell to my boys where they lay in camp.

CHAPTER XXV

A MILLION DOLLARS RANSOM

In giving my own account of this unpleasantness which happened between the Du Chesnay and Ryan families I've just grabbed Truth by the tail and tried to stay right with her. But Truth runs swift, and raises plenty dust of lies around her heels, so, maybe, whirling along I missed good facts. Happens I've been poorly provided with one eye and a lot of prejudice to see the trail ahead; likely I've not been the only party interested. Anyways, outsiders could watch the stampede without getting choked with dust.

Now these conclusions struck me abrupt like a bat in the eye when I sat down to rest in camp at Echo Spring. Before leaving Grave City, while thinking of other worries, I had caught a copy of a local paper, stuffed the same in my rear pocket, and disremembered having such possessions. I never thought of it until my tigers, hungering for news, caught sight of the bulging paper and rushed my camp to grab. Then I unfolded the _Weekly Obituary_ to these boys, all setting around on their tails and pointing their ears for instruction. I read to them about a certain Chalkeye Davies, who seemed to be a most astonishing outrageous villain, performing simultaneous crimes in several places at once. My tigers purred for more.

Then came a whole page of revelations concerning "the kidnapped Croesus," otherwise styled "the stolen millionaire" and the "brigands'

prey." It was clearly proved that the Chalkeye villain, Jim du Chesnay--described as "a broken-down swell"--and Captain McCalmont had joined together in purloining Michael Ryan and hiding him up in a cave, the place being well known to the authorities. This cave was inaccessible by land and water, guarded with machine-guns, and supplied with all modern conveniences, especially searchlights. "Our special representative" had been there, "but declined to give particulars for fear of driving the bandits to still more desperate measures."

Then came the _Weekly Obituary_ gallery of fine portraits. We knew them all well, because they were served up frequent to represent murderers, politicians, actresses, preachers, scandalous British d.u.c.h.esses, and other notorious persons. Now they represented McCalmont, Curly, Chalkeye, Jim, Michael Ryan, Mrs. Michael, and old Mrs. Ryan. The _Weekly Obituary_ said it was wishful with these identifications to a.s.sist the ends of justice.

After this the next page was all quotations from leading papers throughout the Republic, proving how plumb depraved the robbers were, how wicked it was to purloin the rich and good out of their private cars, and how the Federal Government ought to act in this shocking catastrophe. The New York papers just burned themselves with wrath because Michael's present engagements prevented him a whole lot from attending to railroad business. His financial combine was due to collapse complete unless he took hold at once.

Last came "our special supplement," with the very latest news. It seems that Michael had written to his wife in New York; likewise that somebody stole the letter from her and sold it to the New York _Megaphone_. Then all the papers copied Michael's letter and laid the blame on the _Megaphone_. Here is the letter:--

"_September 8th, 1900._

"DEAR KATHLEEN,

"On 28th ult. I was abducted at Grave City out of my car by brigands and carried blindfold, lashed on to the back of a horse, for several hundred miles through frightful country, arriving here 4th instant. When I got here I weighed ninety-eight pounds! Indeed I was nearly dead; but now the robbers are feeding me up, so that I'm gaining flesh, although I'm still kept prisoner in close confinement.

"I don't know the whereabouts of this house, but it's a large ranche building of logs in the middle of pine woods. At nights I'm almost frozen, so it must be high up in some range of mountains.

The country looks flat from the window. A robber told me once that the place is in California.

"Now, dearest, you will take this as my authority, and raise the sum of one million dollars to pay my ransom, and save me from being murdered. You know who to go to, and offer securities for the loan, getting the best terms you can. This money must be paid one-tenth in U. S. gold currency, and the balance in notes of ($50) fifty dollars and under. Bring it to Flagstaff, in Arizona, and ask for military escort. There you will charter a waggon, and have the treasure delivered at the point where the Tuba trail from Flagstaff crosses the Little Colorado River, right in the middle of the Painted Desert. The waggon must then be abandoned, and the escort to withdraw to Canon Diablo, leaving no spies behind. The chief of the robbers tells me that the man he sends with a team to get this waggon will be a perfectly innocent farmer, and that any parties attempting to molest, join, or follow him will be killed so quick they'll never know what struck them.

"I must earnestly warn you, as you value my life, to prevent any attempt whatever to watch or track the waggon; or prior to my release to permit any hostile movement against the robbers; or to deliver any money short of the full ransom; or to mark any coin or note for future identification. If the terms are not absolutely complied with in every detail, within forty days from date--that is, by noon of 18th October, I shall be murdered. If the ransom is delivered as per instructions by 18th October and found correct, the robbers will then disperse, and have no further use for me.

They promise then to deliver me at the nearest ranche or farm on or before 1st November.

"_Private._--Now, dearest, of my own free will, and without compulsion from the robbers, I want to ease my mind of a great burden, by confessing to you as I shall to Holy Church if ever I get the chance. Under this dreadful visitation I see things in their true light which before were hid.

"I guess there's not the slightest doubt that Lord Balshannon was one of the blackest scoundrels that ever disgraced this earth.

Apart from his odious crimes in Ireland, his later life was steeped in villainy. For years at Holy Cross ranche he was in open league with this gang of robbers who have captured me. One of them, Chalkeye Davies, the notorious horse-thief, was his foreman, and Captain McCalmont's son went there to get educated in crime. Once Balshannon actually hired the gang to rob my father of $75,000.

"Under such circ.u.mstances I am awed by the sublime courage of my father in this single-handed war against Balshannon and his outlaws. I stood at father's side in the last fight when Balshannon murdered him; I fired first in the fusillade which avenged the old man's death; and untrained as I am to such wild warfare of the Frontier, I tried to be worthy of my blood.