Curly Part 41

"Dad," says Curly abrupt, "whar's my Jim?"

"What, you ain't met him?" says McCalmont. "He's gone to look for you."

Curly went pale under the tan, and gulped. "How long?" she asked.

"Oh, quite a time. Why, child, what's scart you? Perhaps he's with my boys at Painted Desert."

"Daddy, I've brought bad news."

"I reckon"--McCalmont spoke very low--"I been thar before a few times, and yet we've worried along. Lie down, so you'll get mo' rest."

He sat on the edge of the bunk, his hand on hers, as she lay loosing out bit by bit the story of the ransom lost, the Federal Government on the warpath, ten good men deserted. He was all crouched up when she finished, the stub of a cigarette burning his fingers, and he looked very old.

I went to get the newspapers which I'd kept in my warbags for him, and when I came back he turned loose a volley of questions, searching me to the bones until he had all the truth.

"Well, well," he said at last, with a queer smile, "these yere official parties seem to be takin' quite an interest, eh? I thank you, seh, and I'm full satisfied." Then he stood up. "You must be kinder hungry, Misteh Davies. Spose you jest interview my cook. I think that you and him has met before, and won't need introducin'. My son and I will join you presently."

I strayed out through the messroom and found the kitchen beyond. Sure enough the cook and I were acquainted, although I had not expected to see this particular person in shirt and overalls, and his bare arms white with flour. He was plenty absorbed too, dipping b.a.l.l.s of chopped meat into a pan full of mess.

"How air you, seh?"

He shied right off his feet and turned to face me, looking as guilty as a caught fox.

"I guessed as much," he gasped; "all blackguards are bound to flock together here."

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Ryan," says I.

Then he collected himself for war. "State your business, and get right out of here. I'm engaged!"

"I'm engaged likewise"--I sat down on a box, and a dog came fawning to me--"wharas this dog is polite, and sets an example. He's plumb full of decorum and depawtment."

I hardly know what possessed me. Ryan's looks perhaps, or the way he guarded those meat b.a.l.l.s. I grabbed the nearest, and fed it to the dog so quick that Ryan had only time enough to give himself dead away.

"Leave that dawg alone!" says I. He quit resisting me then, backed to the log wall, and stood glaring.

"I've noticed," says I, "in dawgs that the smaller the dawg, the larger the bark. I knew one onced so small that he hadn't room to hold his bark--and the recoil tharfrom threw him back three dawg lengths. You seem to suffer a whole lot from yo' recoil, Mr. Ryan."

"I guess," he said in his harsh Yankee tw.a.n.g, "that you're a low-down coward--torturing me because you know I'm helpless."

"That dawg," says I, "is acting sort of queer, eh? As to my being a coward, Mr. Ryan, you'll remember the last time we met I came b.u.t.tin'

along to yo' hotel in Grave City commenting on yo' proceedings with a straight tongue, and guns to back the same."

"Come to the point," says he.

"Now this yere is what I'm trailin's up to, seh, that I bears neither guns nor malice, calls no names, bridles my tongue severe, treats you with plenty and gentle inquiries, whar do you keep yo' manners?"

"Where you keep your honesty," says he, sort of sarcastic. "You know I can't escape, so I've got to listen. Talk, my good man, and when you're through you can go."

The town scout still had his office manners, a lot contemptuous. He climbed up on top of his vanity--like a frog on a ladder--to call me "my good man." And yet I had tamed him enough for business.

"I take notice," says I, "that on the shelf above yo' haid there's a tin of rough-on-rats. This condiment is maybe unusual in meat b.a.l.l.s, and it seems to affect yo' dawg some poignant, with wiggles and froth on the jaws. He's swelling up, too. I likewise remarks that thar's enough of these high-flavored meat b.a.l.l.s to go through McCalmont and all his riders. May I politely ask how long you been cook for this ranche?"

"Mind your own business."

"Which is to further test these same delicacies by trying a meat ball on you."

He grabbed a long butcher-knife from the table.

"Try it," says he.

"Maybe I'd better call in Captain McCalmont. Shall I shout for him?"

Ryan dropped the knife.

"What do you want to know?"

"How long you have been cook?"

"Since yesterday. I've been helping a man named Pieface."

"Why did he quit?"

"Got a note by carrier pigeon. He was in charge of McCalmont's pigeons."

"You found the note after he left?"

"Yes."

"Hand it over."

He said bad words.

"I notice," says I, "that the meat ball has finished with yo' dawg."

He took a slip of paper from his hip-pocket.

"No ransom," I read. "Warn the boys."

"Were the boys warned?"

"No."

"The news made you sort of desperate?"

"They'll kill me when they know!"

"So you took precautions first?"