CURLY
A TALE OF THE ARIZONA DESERT
By ROGER POCOCK
Author of "A Frontiersman," etc.
Boston
Little, Brown, and Company
_Copyright_, 1904,
BY ROGER POCOCK.
_Copyright, 1905,_
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved._
Published May, 1905.
Printers
S. J. PARKHILL & CO., BOSTON, U.S.A.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. APACHES 1
II. LORD BALSHANNON 9
III. HOLY CROSS 16
IV. THE RANGE WOLVES 27
V. BACK TO THE WOLF PACK 37
VI. MY RANGE WHELPS WHIMPERING 44
VII. AT THE SIGN OF RYAN'S HAND 52
VIII. IN THE NAME OF THE PEOPLE 65
IX. WAR SIGNS 69
X. STORM GATHERING 78
XI. THE GUN-FIGHT 89
XII. THE CITY BOILING OVER 106
XIII. THE MAN-HUNT 118
XIV. THE FRONTIER GUARDS 126
XV. MOSTLY CHALKEYE 138
XVI. ARRANGING FOR MORE TROUBLE 145
XVII. THE REAL CURLY 156
XVIII. THE WHITE STAR 167
XIX. A MARRIAGE SETTLEMENT 184
XX. THE MARSHAL'S POSSE 200
XXI. A FLYING HOSPITAL 212
XXII. ROBBERY-UNDER-ARMS 222
XXIII. A HOUSE OF REFUGE 234
XXIV. THE SAVING OF CURLY 254
XXV. A MILLION DOLLARS RANSOM 272
XXVI. THE STRONGHOLD 290
XXVII. A SECOND-HAND ANGEL 314
CURLY
CHAPTER I
APACHES
Back in Old Texas, 'twixt supper and sleep time, the boys in camp would
sit around the fire and tell lies. They talked about the Ocean which was
bigger than all the plains, and I began to feel worried because I'd
never seen what the world was like beyond the far edge of the grass.
Life was a failure until I could get to that Ocean to smell and see for
myself. After that I would be able to tell lies about it when I got back
home again to the cow-camps. When I was old enough to grow a little
small fur on my upper lip I loaded my pack pony, saddled my horse, and
hit the trail, butting along day after day towards the sunset, expecting
every time I climbed a ridge of hills to see the end of the yellow grass
and the whole Pacific Ocean shining beyond, with big ships riding herd
like cowboys around the grazing whales.
One morning, somewheres near the edge of Arizona, I noticed my horse
throw his ears to a small sound away in the silence to the left. It
seemed to be the voice of a rifle, and maybe some hunter was missing a
deer in the distance, so I pointed that way to inquire. After a mile or
so I heard the rifle speaking again, and three guns answered, sputtering
quick and excited. That sounded mighty like a disagreement, so I
concluded I ought to be cautious and roll my tail at once for foreign
parts. I went on slow, approaching a small hill. Again a rifle-shot rang
out from just beyond the hill, and two shots answered--muzzle-loading
guns. At the same time the wind blew fresh from the hill, with a whiff
of powder, and something else which made my horses shy. "Heap bad
smell!" they snuffed. "Just look at that!" they signalled with their
ears. "Ugh!" they snorted.
"Get up!" said I; and charged the slope of the hill.
Near the top I told them to be good or I'd treat them worse than a
tiger. Then I went on afoot with my rifle, crept up to the brow of the
hill, and looked over through a clump of cactus.
At the foot of the hill, two hundred feet below me, there was standing
water--a muddy pool perhaps half an acre wide--and just beyond that on
the plain a burned-out camp fire beside a couple of canvas-covered
waggons. It looked as if the white men there had just been pulling out
of camp, with their teams all harnessed for the trail, for the horses
lay, some dead, some wounded, mixed up in a struggling heap. As I
watched, a rifle-shot rang out from the waggons, aimed at the hillside,
but when I looked right down I could see nothing but loose rocks
scattered below the slope. After I watched a moment a brown rock moved;
I caught the shine of an Indian's hide, the gleam of a gun-barrel. Close
by was another Indian painted for war, and beyond him a third lying
dead. So I counted from rock to rock until I made out sixteen of the
worst kind of Indians--Apaches--all edging away from cover to cover to
the left, while out of the waggons two rifles talked whenever they saw
something to hit. One rifle was slow and cool, the other scared and
panicky, but neither was getting much meat.
For a time I reckoned, sizing up the whole proposition. While the
Apaches down below attacked the waggons, their sentry up here on the
hill had forgotten to keep a look-out, being too much interested. He'd
never turned until he heard my horses clattering up the rocks, but then
he had yelled a warning to his crowd and bolted. One Indian had tried to
climb the hill against me and been killed from the waggons, so now the
rest were scared of being shot from above before they could reach their
ponies. They were sneaking off to the left in search of them. Off a
hundred yards to the left was the sentry, a boy with a bow and arrows,
running for all he was worth across the plain. A hundred yards beyond
him, down a hollow, was a mounted Indian coming up with a bunch of
ponies. If the main body of the Apaches got to their ponies, they could
surround the hill, charge, and gather in my scalp. I did not want them
to take so much trouble with me.
Of course, my first move was to up and bolt along the ridge to the left
until I gained the shoulder of the hill. There I took cover, and said,
"Abide with me, and keep me cool, if You please!" while I sighted, took
a steady bead, and let fly at the mounted Indian. At my third shot he
came down flop on his pony's neck, and that was my first meat. The bunch
of ponies smelt his blood and stampeded promiscuous.
The Apaches, being left afoot, couldn't attack me none. If they tried to
stampede they would be shot from the waggons, while I hovered above
their line of retreat considerably; and if they stayed I could add up
their scalps like a sum in arithmetic. They were plumb surprised at me,
and some discouraged, for they knew they were going to have disagreeable
times. Their chief rose up to howl, and a shot from the waggons lifted
him clean off his feet. It was getting very awkward for those poor
barbarians, and one of them hoisted a rag on his gun by way of
surrender.
Surrender? This Indian play was robbery and murder, and not the honest
game of war. The man who happens imprudent into his own bear-trap is not
going to get much solace by claiming to be a warrior and putting up
white flags. The game was bear-traps, and those Apaches had got to play
bear-traps now, whether they liked it or not. There were only two white
folks left in the waggons, and one on the hill, so what use had we for a
dozen prisoners who would lie low till we gave them a chance, then
murder us prompt. The man who reared up with the peace flag got a shot
from the waggons which gave him peace eternal.
Then I closed down with my rifle, taking the Indians by turns as they
tried to bolt, while the quiet gun in the waggon camp arrested fugitives
and the scary marksman splashed lead at the hill most generous. Out of
sixteen Apaches two and the boy got away intact, three damaged, and the
rest were gathered to their fathers.
When it was all over I felt unusual solemn, running my paw slow over my
head to make sure I still had my scalp; then collected my two ponies and
rode around to the camp. There I ranged up with a yell, lifting my hand
to make the sign of peace, and a man came limping out from the waggons.
He carried his rifle, and led a yearling son by the paw.
The man was tall, clean-built, and of good stock for certain, but his
clothes were in the _lo-and-behold_ style--a pane of glass on the off
eye, stand-up collar, spotty necktie, boiled shirt, riding-breeches with
puffed sleeves most amazing, and the legs of his boots stiff like a
brace of stove-pipes. His near leg was all bloody and tied up with a
tourniquet bandage. As to his boy Jim, that was just the quaintest thing
in the way of pups I ever saw loose on the stock range. He was knee-high
to a dawg, but trailed his gun like a man, and looked as wide awake as a
little fox. I wondered if I could tame him for a pet.
"How d'ye do?" squeaked the pup, as I stepped down from the saddle.
I allowed I was feeling good.
"I'm sure," said the man, "that we're obliged to you and your friends on
the hill. In fact, very much obliged."
Back in Texas I'd seen water go to sleep with the cold, but this man was
cool enough to freeze a boiler.
"Will you--er--ask your friends," he drawled, "to come down? I'd like to
thank them."
"I'll pass the glad word," said I. "My friends is in Texas."
"My deah fellow, you don't--aw--mean to say you were alone?"
"Injuns can shoot," said I, "but they cayn't hit."
"Two of my men are dead and the third is dying. I defer to
your--er--experience, but I thought they could--er--hit."
Then I began to reckon I'd been some hazardous in my actions. It made me
sweat to think.
"Well," said I, to be civil, "I cal'late I'd best introduce myself to
you-all. My name's Davies."
"I'm Lord Balshannon," said he, mighty polite.
"And I'm the Honourable Jim du Chesnay," squeaked the kid.
I took his paw and said I was proud to know a warrior with such heap big
names. The man laughed.
"Wall, Mister Balshannon," says I, "your horses is remnants, and the
near fore wheel of that waggon is sprung to bust, and them Apaches has
chipped your laig, which it's broke out bleeding again, so I reckon----"
"You have an eye for detail," he says, laughing; "but if you will excuse
me now, I'm rather busy."
He looked into my eyes cool and smiling, asking for no help, ready to
rely on himself if I wanted to go. A lump came into my throat, for I
sure loved that man from the beginning.
"Mr. Balshannon," says I, "put this kid on top of a waggon to watch for
Indians, while you dress that wound. I'm off."
He turned his back on me and walked away.
"I'll be back," said I, busy unloading my pack-horse. "I'll be back," I
called after him, "when I bring help!"
At that he swung sudden and came up against me. "Er--thanks," he said,
and grabbed my paw. "I'm awfully obliged, don't you know."
I swung to my saddle and loped off for help.