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Curly

<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2> <h3>ARRANGING FOR MORE TROUBLE</h3> See what the geography-book says about Arizona—the same size as England? Shucks! There's homely ignorance from an office duck who dreams he can use a tape-measure to size up a desert. In England, if you wander round after dark, you're apt to fall off and get wet in the ocean. But you can sure stray off the edge of Arizona without the least chance of a wet, because the desert just rolls on more continuous than ever, till you're due to die of thirst. There's a practical difference in size, which your book theorist wouldn't be apt to survive. Again, by the books we're a community of sixty thousand pink and white citizens, all purely yearning for right and justice. By the facts, we're really split up into two herds—the town men, who use the law, and the range men, who naturally prefer a six-gun. I aim politely to say the best I can for the town men. You see, if a gentleman feels that he's just got to waltz in and rob the graves of his own parents, one may not understand his symptoms, but one has to try and think of him charitable. Our town men has mostly been found out acting self-indulgent, and been chased around by the police. That's why they flocked to Arizona, which is convenient at the Gates of Hades, with the Breath of Flame by way of excuse for a climate. There's a sort of comfortable, smell-your-future-home feeling about old Arizona which attracts such ducks. Anywhere else they would get their necks stretched, but in Arizona they can elect judges and police out of their own tribe. Then if they happen to indulge in a little bigamy, or thieving, or shooting, the lawyers get them off. They love the law which proves them up innocent, so you may class them all as law-abiding citizens. Now as to us plainsmen. The bad side of us is plumb apparent to the naked eye, and if there's a good side it's known to our friends, not advertised to strangers. We ain't claiming to be law-abiding citizens when we know the judge for a sure-thing politician, the lawyers for runaway gaol-birds, and the jury all for sale at the rate of a dollar a thief. We're lawless, sure enough, until we see the law dealt out by honest men. Are you fed up with one-eyed sermons from a cow-thief? Well, suppose we apply the facts. Here was two boys of our tribe bogged down to their withers in trouble. The town men howled for their blood, young Ryan offered plenty wealth for their raw scalps, the law claimed them for meat—and every plainsman on the range got right up on his hind legs for war. To our way of thinking robbery and killing are bad medicine, but innocent, holy joys compared with Arizona law. So naturally by twos and threes the punchers quit work on the round-up to come and smell at old Grave City and find out why she'd got a swollen head. They hung around saloons, projecting to see if something had gone wrong with the local breed of whisky; they gathered and made war-talk in the street; they came around me, wanting to know whether or not to break out and eat that town. "Boys," says I, "if you-all stalks round with mean eyes and dangerous smiles, these here citizens is going to hole up in their cyclone cellars and send for the army. We don't want the army messing around our game. Just you whirl in now and play signs of peace, and make good medicine. Lay low, give yo' ponies a strong feed—and wait for the night." "Chalkeye," says one of them, "is this to be war?" "If it was war," I told him, "I'd first send you home to yo' mother. No, kid, this is going to be smooth peace, but we're going to knock Grave City cold with astonishment. Get plenty ammunition, feed yo' horse, and wait my gathering howl for a signal." It was high noon when Captain McCalmont came straying down into Main Street on a "painted" horse. At Ryan's livery stable he allowed he was an unworthy minister, wanting water and feed for the piebald pony. At the Delmonico pie foundry he let out that he craved for sausages, mashed potatoes, and green tea. Then he had a basin of bread-and-milk, while he told the dish-slinger a few solemn truths. Apple-pie, says he, was a delusion; eating tobacco was a snare; intoxicating drink was only vanity on the lips, but raging wild-cats to the inward parts. The proper doctrine, says he, is to eschew all evil, but the wicked man leaves out that saving syllable es, and chews evil all the time. Then he allowed that a toothpick would do him no harm, paid for his meal, and strayed out across the street to where I stood dealing peace among the cowboys. "Little sinners," says he, "I perceive that you have fallen into evil company. This Chalkeye man is a pernicious influence, which would corrupt the morals of a grizzly bear. Flee from this Chalkeye person." They wanted to take him into the nearest saloon and enjoy him for the rest of the day. "Kin you dance?" says one of the boys, aiming a gun at his toes. "Whirl right in and dance!" McCalmont walked right at him, eye to eye, and that same cowboy went as white as death. "Shall I abate you," says the preacher, "in the midst of yo' sins? You done wrong—you done ate tobacco and chocolate candy mixed, then poured on hot cawfee, rye whisky, and an ice-cream soda; and now yo're white as a corpse with mixed sins. Go take a pill, my son, and repent before yo're sick." The boys watched that preacher smiling, and went tame as kittens. The tone of his voice just froze them up, his smile scraped their young bones, his eyes looked death. "Come, Chalkeye," says he, and led me off into the "Spur" saloon. There he threw a glance to Cranky Joe, the bar-keep, and put his finger on Mutiny Robertson, a smuggler who sat playing poker. Cranky put someone in charge of the bar, Mutiny passed his game to a friend of his, and both of them followed meek as sheep, while the preacher led on into the backyard. From there we worked round the back street to Ryan's stable, McCalmont keeping up his baby-talk for the sake of passing strangers. "Ah," says he, "my young friends, these deleterious pleasures change peaceful stomachs into seats of war; but the sausage soothes, the milk assuages, the pie persuades, and b'ar sign is sure good to fill up corners. Beware of vanities, and when we get to the stable-yard let Mutiny here stand guard in case I'm attacked, while I expound the blessedness of simple things. Well, here we are—you Mutiny, fall back, you lop-eared mongrel; I'm dying for a chew of 'baccy, and I'd give my off lung for a cocktail." Mutiny stood guard, Cranky hustled off to get liquor. "I got a line of retreat from here," says Captain McCalmont, "and a saddled hawss within reach. No, not that painted plug, but a sure crackerjack, which can burn the trail if I'm chased. How's things, you Chalkeye?" "Clouding for storm," says I; "the air's a-crackling." "Why for?" I told him about his son, holed up in gaol with Jim at La Morita. "I been projecting around thar last night"—the Captain was eating my plug tobacco like bread. "Was it you sent that doctor to Curly's wound?" "Sure thing, sir. Why?" He grabbed my paw. "You're white all through," says he; "that kid is all I care for in this world." "Can they escape?" "I dropped a crowbar through the window-hole." "The guards will be full curious when they hear the crowbar thumping." "That's what's the matter. I sent some Holy Crawss greasers to feed them liquor, games, and music—'specially music." "Will the Frontier Guards miss the big blood money for the sake of a flirt at skin games?" "I reckon they'll watch, and the crowbar's going to be heard. So I made a run to see you. Here comes Cranky Joe." "You trust him?" "The sight of him makes my fur crawl." "Here, Captain," says Cranky, offering the cocktail; but the outlaw bored him through with a cool eye. "My name," says he, "is the Reverend Perkins, and don't you forget. Now you'll send Mutiny here, and you'll stand on guard yourself. If I get captured, a friend of mine is to send your present name and address to the penitentiary, where you're wanted most—so here's to your freedom." He drank, and we watched the man sneak off. "I turned him out of my gang," said the robber, "for being dishonest." Mutiny strolled in and shook hands. "Old friend," says he, "what can we do to help?" "Watch Joe, and shoot him up quick if he tries to pass that gate." So Mutiny pulled his gun. "How's all the boys?" he asked. "You're honing to come back to being a robber?" "Cayn't," Mutiny groaned, "I've sure repented and turned smuggler now. Besides, I'm due to get married, so I'm dead tame and gentle, boss. What brought you south?" "You may inquire, seh." "Ain't you trusting me?" "Well, Mutiny, since you want to know, I came down to hold up a train." "Big plunder?" "I expaict. It was a carload of birds' teeth, cat feathers, and frawgs' tails; but there's too many inquiry agents around, so I missed the train." Mutiny had to laugh, but then he sighed. "If anything goes wrong with my girl," says he, "I'll come scratch on yo' door." "Wall"—the outlaw looked mighty serious—"if she happens to get drowned in the desert—perhaps we'll see you come. Now let's to business. Them kids at La Morita has to be collected, I reckon." "Why come to we-all?" says Mutiny,—"ain't the gang handy at rescues?" "My wolves would jump at the chance; I choked them off." "For how?" "Bekase"—the Captain turned his haunted eyes on me—"I don't want them po' youngsters mixed in with thieves." "You wanted me mixed again," says Mutiny through his teeth. "Sonny"—the outlaw laid his hand on Mutiny's shoulder—"you been a bad aig same as me, and we'd be hard to spoil. But these aigs at La Morita is new-laid, fresh aigs, so I wan' them to keep." "You're right, boss." "Mutiny, I sent you away for yo' good, 'ecause that girl may pull you up if anything can on airth. As for me, wall, I don't know as I care what becomes of me. I tried to turn good one't—tried mortal hard to run straight. I envy every honest man I see. I'm like a crawling snake, ambitious for bird wings to fly with; but still I'm no more than snake." "The kids have a chance all right," says Mutiny. "They have. A year ago I couldn't have drove my Curly away from the gang, but now he's paired with that du Chesnay youngster. Them colts won't care for the herd if they can run together, so I've got Curly weaned from following me to—to damnation." "Mutiny," says I, "will you help me to gather in these boys?" "I shorely will," says Mutiny; "but hadn't we ought to wait until they're moved up this way for trial?" "Wall," says the outlaw, "if I kin get to fight with a small man, I don't yearn for anything larger. Whirl in on La Morita, and you're fighting Mexico; wait for a move, and you're up against the hull United States. I'd rather have a lick at lil' ole Mexico." I told him that I had a town full of cowboys hard to hold. "That kind won't keep," says Mutiny; "what's yo' plan?" "I aimed," says I, "to steal young Ryan, and throw him into La Morita by way of consolation for them poor Frontier Guards when they miss their plunder." "Now don't you touch my meat," says Captain McCalmont; "I have to feed my little small lambs on him. Now, Misteh Davies." "Answers to the name of Chalkeye mostly." "Wall, Chalkeye, this is the second time we meet," he bored into me with his eyes; "I understand that Balshannon's will makes you some sort of guardian of his colt." "I reckon he needs a friend." "Will you be a friend to my son?" "Not more than I been already." "Mutiny," says he, "you witness that I, Captain McCalmont, thief, and general manager of the Robbers' Roost gang of outlaws, appoints this Chalkeye Davies guardian of Curly." "I witnesses." "Moreover, I aim to corrupt this Chalkeye by handing him stolen money." He passed me a heavy roll of notes worth fifty thousand dollars, which is ten thousand pounds by English reckoning. "My friend," he said, "take these two kids away out of this country—break them dead gentle, keep them clean, make them forget." He gave me a letter. "Read this when you're alone." "You trust me?" I asked. "You trust yo'self?" "Mutiny," says I, "you'll help?" "Poor Mutiny," said the robber, "might help himself." "On the dead thieving," says Mutiny, "that's so!" Then he grinned at me. "Look a-here, Chalkeye, this means that yo' pull out and hit the long trail. Now I want a home for my girl. How much will yo' take for yo' ranche?" "I'll see you later, Mutiny, and talk; and now shake hands, McCalmont. To-night I'll be on hand like a sore thumb, at La Morita." <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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