WAR SIGNS
On Tuesday morning, after I headed Jim for Holy Cross, I had to stay
over in Lordsburgh, finish my horse deal with the Lawson Cattle Company,
then get my men back to Grave City by the evening train. I had only
three cowboys, Monte, Custer, and Ute; nice children, too, when they
were all asleep, but fresh that morning, full of dumb yearnings for
trouble, and showing plentiful symptoms of being young. At
breakfast-time I pointed out some items in the local scenery, a doctor's
shambles, a hospital, a mortuary, and an adjacent graveyard.
"Now, you kids," says I, "you may be heap big tigers; but don't you get
wild-catting around too numerous, because I ain't aiming to waste good
money on yo' funerals."
They said they'd be fearful good, and might they have ten dollars apiece
for the church offertory? They set off with three pure hearts, and
thirty dollars.
Now I reckon there were twenty-five Flying W. riders owning the town
that day, and they began politely by asking my boys if Chalkeye's
squint was contagious, and whether that accounted for symptoms of mange
in his ponies.
My boys were dead gentle, and softly answered that Lawson was the worst
horse-thief in Arizona; that Lawson's foreman was three-parts negro and
the rest polecat, and that Lawson's riders had red streaks around their
poor throats because the hang-rope had failed to do them justice.
The Flying W. inquired if my three riders was a case of triplets, or
only an unfortunate mistake. Then my boys produced their six-guns and
allowed they'd been whelped savage, raised dangerous, and turned loose
hostile--and I only arrived just in time to save them from being spoiled
for further use on earth. I challenged the Flying W. to race their best
pets against my "mangy" ponies, and both sides agreed to have a drink
with me, instead of wasting mounted funeral pageants on such a one-horse
town as little Lordsburgh.
So while I was playing nursemaid, herding all those kids, who should
roll up the street but young Onate, of Holy Cross, on the dead run with
a letter from Jim. The more kids, the worse trouble. Well, when I had
swallowed Jim's letter, I fired off a batch of telegrams and soon had a
wire back from the Albuquerque sheriff. "Will impound them cattle," says
he, "pending advices from Bryant." So I sent Onate streaking after
Bryant, and went on playing at nursemaid until I was plumb scared that
I'd be sprouting a cap of ribbons. Anyway, I didn't have time to think
until the evening train pulled into Grave City. By that time my three
babies were dancing a fandango upon the roof of the car. When the train
stopped I hauled them down by the legs, petted them some with my boot,
and told them to go away home. They went, with a bet between them, which
would be first at my ranch.
Just for the sake of peace and quietness I stayed that night in Grave
City, and sat around next morning smoking long cigars while I made my
poor brain think. There were points in Jim's letter, and facts I had
picked up casual at Lordsburgh, and words of gossip dropped in the
hotel; but to put them all together would have puzzled a large-sized
judge. Still, by all the tracks, the signs, the signals, and the little
smells, I reckoned that Mr. Ryan was mighty near reaching a crisis, and
apt to break out sudden as dynamite. First, here was Sheriff Bryant with
two deputies, his wife, and a medicine-man, camped down at Holy Cross.
Now Bryant would scarcely take deputy-sheriffs down there to nurse a
sick lady. Had Holy Cross been seized at last for Balshannon's debts?
That smelt of Ryan.
Secondly, Jim had gone to heaps of trouble gathering all the
breeding-stock of Holy Cross, for a party named Jabez Y. Stone to steal
them convenient. Jabez Y. had once been a bar-tender in Ryan's
hotel--so that smelt of Ryan, too.
Thirdly, here was poor Balshannon being held with a string round his leg
at the Sepulchre saloon, by the two crookedest gamblers in Arizona, the
same being Low-Lived Joe and Louisiana Pete. Once, Joe, being gaoled for
killing a Mexican, Ryan had put up money for a lawyer to get him
released. So if these two thugs were instructed to hold and skin the
Dook, that likewise smelt strong of Ryan.
Fourthly, here was young Michael Ryan in his private car from New York,
burning the rails to reach Grave City by ten o'clock this night. The
smell of Ryan surely tainted the whole landscape. Now just throw back to
the words of Ryan's letter which fourteen long years before he had
nailed upon the door of Holy Cross:--
"The time will come when, driven from this your new home, without a
roof to cover you or a crust to eat, your wife and son turned out
to die in the desert, you will beg for even so much as a drink of
water, and it will be thrown in your face. I shall not die until I
have seen the end of your accursed house."
So this was Ryan's plan--the work of fourteen years; industrious a whole
lot, and plenty treacherous, but coming surely true. He had waited until
he knew the lady was mostly dead, then turned her out of Holy Cross to
die in the desert. The cattle were stolen, Balshannon was tied down for
slaughter, and Michael would come to see the finish at ten o'clock
to-night.
I began to reckon up Balshannon's friends, cowboys and robbers mostly,
scattered anyway across the big range of the desert. They would not hear
me if I howled for help.
But Ryan was respectable. He was Chairman of the Committee of Public
Safety which lynched bad men when they became too prevalent with their
guns. Ryan was our leading citizen, heaps rich, and virtuous no end. The
Law would side with him, and as to the officers of the law, judges, and
City Marshal, and the police--they'd got elected because he spoke for
them. He owned the city, could bring out hundreds of men to take his
side. What could I do against this Ryan's friends?
I knew that young Curly was hid in Grave City somewheres, and after a
search I found him. The boy was so disguised he hardly knew himself.
"Chalkeye," says he, "you want a talk?" He looked sort of scared and
anxious.
"I do."
"If Ryan's folk see you making talk with me, they'll think there's some
new plot against the white men. Just you watch where I go, and follow
casual."
He led me to a little room he rented over a barber's shop, and looking
from the window I noticed that Ryan's hotel was just across the street.
Curly left the room door open, because he didn't want any spy to use the
keyhole.
"Now," says he, "make yo' voice tame, or we'll be overheard. Don't show
yo'self off at that window, but keep your eyes skinned thar, while I
watch the stairs. What is yo' trouble?"
"Whar are yo' range wolves?"
"They're a whole lot absent," says Curly.
"Cayn't you trust me?"
"I ain't trusting even myself." He looked fearful worried.
"You know that Ryan has seized Holy Cross?"
"This mawning, yes."
"And that Ryan has stolen all their breeding-stock?"
"Yesterday that was."
"And that yo' father dressed himself up as a preacher, and warned Jim?"
"They met up five mile south of Lordsburgh. Yessir."
"And that Balshannon is tied up here?"
"To be butchered this evening. Well?"
"Curly, I want the range wolves to save Balshannon."
"The range wolves has another engagement, seh."
"You know all about this, Curly! Cayn't you trust me to help?"
"We want no help, I reckon."
I turned my tongue loose then, and surely burned young Curly.
"Don't talk so loud, ole Chalkeye, but say some more!" he laughed. "I
could set around to listen to you all day. Turn yo' wolf loose, for it's
shorely yo' time to howl."
That dried me up cold and sudden, for I had been acting youthful, and
Curly had got responsible, maybe elderly with me, the same being
ridiculous seeing how small the boy was.
"Yo're through with yo' prayers, Chalkeye? Some comforted, eh? You ole
ring-tailed snorter, cayn't you understand? We ain't going to have you
mixed up with us range wolves, and branded for an outlaw. We want you to
keep good, and be a whole lot respectable right along. Then you can stay
around in this man's town, walk in the open with a proud tail, and show
the Ryan outfit that Balshannon has one friend who ain't no robber."
Then I understood.
"Now," says Curly, "hear my lil' voice, for I'm goin' to prophesy. You
know that Ryan reckons to have young Michael here for Balshannon's
funeral? Suppose this Michael don't transpire to-night? Suppose the
train comes in with news of a horrible shocking outrage? Suppose them
mean, or'nary robbers has stole a millionaire? Suppose--well, just you
wait for Ryan's yell when he hears what's done happened to his petted
offspring. He'll surely forget there's any Balshannon to kill. Just you
wait peaceful, and when the town turns out to rescue that poor stolen
maverick you want to ride in and collect Balshannon."
Opposite in the hotel piazza I watched old Ryan and the City Marshal
having a mint julep together at one of the tables.
"You hear that hawss?" says Curly, and far off I heard a horse come
thundering. Soon the rider swung into sight, pitching the dust high,
until he came abreast of my window, and saw the City Marshal in the
piazza.
"Marshal," I heard him calling, "the wire to Bisley has been cut."
"Is that so?"
"The City Marshal at Bisley wants your help."
"What's the trouble?"
"You Ryan, your partner Jim Fiskin has been held up on the Mule Pass by
robbers. Marshal, the message is for you to bring a posse swift to the
nigh end of the pass, so as the Bisley people can drive the robbers
under your guns."
"Good," says the Marshal, belting up his gun, "I'll be thar."
"It would be an awful pity," says Curly behind my shoulder, "if our City
Marshal and his posse of men got called away on a false scent, while
the wicked robbers up north were stealing a millionaire."
That youngster was wiser than me.