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Curly

<h2>CHAPTER XXV</h2> <h3>A MILLION DOLLARS RANSOM</h3> 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 Cr&oelig;sus," 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 duchesses, 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 assist 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:— <blockquote>"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 Cañon 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 circumstances 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. "But when I think of Balshannon's son, I realize now that he fought for his father as I fought for mine. Afterwards, blinded with passion, I brought a charge against him, and swore that he alone was guilty of my father's death. I had no right to do that; the young chap was innocent, the charge was a put-up job. But the evil one must have possessed me entirely, for when several witnesses thought they could please me by swearing Jim's life away, I was a party to their perjuries. More, I was induced to help them with money to leave the country, and so escape arrest. "If I sinned, I am punished, for as the robbers were Balshannon's partners, so they took sides with his son. Because I attacked the lad they abducted me. That is my punishment, Kathleen, and it is just. "In one thing I am puzzled, because I expected to find Balshannon's son with the robbers. I have not seen him, and McCalmont swears that Jim du Chesnay took no part in this outrage. "Kathleen, we've got to do right in this business. I want the charge against James du Chesnay withdrawn right now. When I am free I shall give him back his home and lands, all that father seized, and ask him to forget that there was ever a quarrel between our families. "Dear love, it breaks my heart to think of your anxiety. As for my business interests, I dare not think of what may be involved by my long absence. Mavourneen, you must save me quick, or worse will happen yet. "Your distracted lover, "Michael." </blockquote> It made me sorry to think of that poor devil. You see, he tended strict to business first, then strutted awhile to show himself off to his woman, before he unfolded his crooked little soul in the part marked "Private." His letter gave me plenty to think about. Still, I had my own concerns to worry me, for Monte took me round our herd, which had grown in surprising ways during my absence. The mares, it seemed, had gotten more prolific than usual, giving birth to full-grown horses, ready branded. On the whole I concluded that if any of the neighbours happened around, my boys would find that pasture unhealthy with symptoms of lead poisoning. I advised them to quit, so they agreed to shift the herd along eastward, and sell out in Texas. Meanwhile, I cut out Curly's buckskin mare, and a few of my own pet runners who knew how to show their tails to any pursuers. We took twelve good stayers from the herd, and a little wall-eyed pack mule who had fallen dead in love with Curly's mare. So Curly and I were ready for our march. As to that young person, from the moment she hit the trail out of Grave City the wound in her arm healed rapid, and she sure forgot to be an invalid. Two days we fed and rested her, but then she began to act warlike, oppressing me for sloth. On the third morning I loaded the pack mule, told the boys good-bye, and trailed off with Curly, pointing for Robbers' Roost. When water won't cure thirst, but the juice in your mouth turns to slime caking in lumps on your lips, when the skin dries up because there's no more sweat, when your eyes ache and your brain mills round—that's Arizona. The air shakes in waves like a mist of cobwebs, and through that quiver the landscape goes all skeweye, for some of the mountains float up clear of the land, and some turn upside down standing on rows of pillars along the skyline. Then the hollows of the land fill with blue mist—blue lakes and cactus bushes change into waving palm trees by the waterside. How can a man keep his head when the world goes raving crazy all round him? You have just to keep on remembering that your eyes have quit being responsible, that your nose is a liar, that your ears are fooled, then keep a taut rein on yourself for fear your wits stampede, and your legs go chasing visions down the trail to death. That Valley of Central Arizona got me plumb bewildered; a country of bare earth and mesquite brush like mist, with huge big trees of cactus standing in one grove a hundred miles across. Then came a hillside of black cinders lifting a hundred miles; but the top was a level mesa, surely the first place I ever seen with good grass under pine trees. I had never seen woods before, and this coconino forest is the sort of pasture I'd want to go to after this present life. I hunger none for golden pavements or any desert lay-out, nor am I wishful for a harp—having a taste for guitars—nor for flopping around on wings, nor a crown of glory—the same being ostentatious a whole lot. Pasture like this, a horse, a camp, a spring—such promises as them would lure me to being good. Right in the heart of this forest there's a bunch of dead volcanoes called the San Francisco peaks, lifting their frosty heads into the sky, and round the skirts of lava at their feet lies broken country. Curly showed good judgment in making camps, but hereabouts I thought she had lost her wits, for she led me over broken lava flows, heart-breaking ground for the horses, where we had to dismount and climb. Then all of a sudden we dropped down, hid from all the world, into a meadow walled around with lava. This tract had escaped when the rest was overflowed; so happened there was grass among the bull pines, and right at the head of the field a little cave with space of floor for camping beside a bubbling spring. We struck the place at noon and camped, my partner concluding to lie over until she could make a night scout in search of news. She slept through the afternoon while I stood guard outside. Up to that time we had been scared to make a fire at night or show a smoke by day, except for the minutes we needed boiling coffee. Besides that, we could never camp within ten miles of a water-hole, but had to ride on after drinking to win the nearest grass, this country being all ate up around the pools. Here we had grass and water, the cave to hide our fire, and certainty besides of not being caught without warning. It was mighty fine to set around the fire after supper. "You Chalkeye"—Curly lit up a cigarette and broke into silence which had lasted days—"what does it feel like, being safe?" "We're safe enough here, lil' partner." "Till I hit the trail for this scouting. But I mean, to live safe day after day without nobody ever wanting to kill you. Ain't it some monotonous?" "Not to hurt." "It must feel sort of—neglected. I read a book onced about folks in England, which I kep' on readin' and readin' to see if anythin' happened 'cept meals and go-to-bed and get-up-in-the-mawning. The girl was a sure enough fool, and as to the boy—well, he wore government socks, and didn't love the Lawd. Then he mar'ied a widow by mistake, which she had a forked tongue, a bad eye, and parted her ha'r on one side lookin' rather cute. That boy just aimed to cut his throat for seventy-three pages, then didn't after all, which was plumb discouraging. 'Stead of that he got a government job inspectin' the clouds and drawin' salary. Then the widdy she talked herself to death, and quit out. Afterwards that boy took sixty-one pages to get a kiss from the heroine. Thar was a deanery in it and a funny parrot—I reckon that's all the story." "They mar'ied?" "Sure, and nothin' happened ever afterwards, 'cept kids. Them characters was awful safe from gettin' excited. Will it be that a-way when I get tame enough to mar'y Jim?" Feeling that said Jim was a lot unworthy of her, I strayed out to study how much our camp was visible. It seemed like we couldn't be attacked without our visitors cussing around first in the lava. They'd bark their shins, and we'd hear gentle protests. When I came back, Curly was brooding still about her Jim. "He'll be a dook like the old patrone," says she, "and sure as I'm a lady I'll be tired of life. Robes goes with that job, and a golden crown such as the angels wear." "I reckon that's only for Sunday best," I told her. "To go to church? Wall, now, ain't that jest fine? And how my wolves would laugh to see!" She stood up swaggering before the fire, her hand on her revolver, her laugh ringing echoes round the cave. "Jest you think," says she, "of me—a lady! Footman at the church door to announce us 'Lord and Lady Balshannon!' and Jim and me goes buttin' along to our pew. Then the preacher he rears up to talk his sermon. 'My lord, my lady, and you common or'nary brethren.' Cayn't you see Jim spit on his crown and give it a rub with his sleeve, and me snarled up in my robe like a roped hawss? Then we ride off home to the castle, and Jim says, 'Be-shrew thee! go to, thou varlet, and wrastle the grub pile 'fore I shoot the cook!' Then the valet says there's a deputy-marshal come to arrest us both for stealin' cows, so Jim has him hung in the moat. Afterwards we put in the hull afternoon shootin' foxes, and other British sports until it's time for supper, then play stud poker beside the parlour stove. You're to come and stop with us, Chalkeye." "Sing to me, Curly," says I, because her voice was sweet enough to gentle a grizzly bear, and it always smoothed my fur. It seems to me I can see her now, her eyes green and flame in the firelight, her face—I can't describe her face. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "Here's a moccasin track in the drifts, It's no more than the length of me hand, An' her instep—just see how it lifts— If that ain't jest the best in the land! For the maid ran as free as the wind, And her foot was as light as the snow, Why, as sure as I follow, I'll find Me a kiss whar her red blushes grow. </div> <div class="stanza"> "Here's two small little feet and a skirt, Here's a soft little heart all aglow; See me trail down the dear little flirt By the sign which she left in the snow! Did she run? 'Twas a hint to make haste, An' why, bless her!—I'm sure she won't mind! If she's got any kisses to waste, Why, she knew that a man was behind! </div> <div class="stanza"> "Did she run 'cause she's only afraid? No, for sure 'twas to set me the pace! And I've fallen in love with a maid When I ain't had a sight of her face. There she is! And I knew she was near; Will she pay me a kiss to be free? Will she hate? will she love? will she fear? Why, the darling! she's waiting to see!" </div> </div> In all the thousands of camp fires dotted along the trail of my life, that one is best to think of. Surely I believe that the Big Spirit sent us poor little spirits loose on the earth to be kicked and educated, not to have nice times. Looking around at present facts, we see how Life is a cold, hard, business proposition, so we have to keep a mighty sharp look-out for fear of being kicked off the premises. The future glows with hope gay as a sunrise, the past is full of memories shining glorious like the setting sun. Seems to me that in Eternity, when the cold present is mixed up with all the rainbow colours of Past and Future—why, then I'll hear Curly's voice come soft through the pines, and see her face in the fire where I camp. So in my poor way I dream in this lone camp where I sit at present. Perhaps, says you, I'd better wake up right now and tend to my story. At midnight Curly rode into the town of Flagstaff. Afterwards, following the Grand Cañon trail at daybreak, she happened by accident on a stage-coach broken down with a load of tourists. The driver chanced to be a retired robber, gone tame with rheumatism, so she helped him to fix his linch pin which had snapped. As to the tourists, they were plumb content to find a "real live cowboy" who would talk to them. Most punchers steer shy of tourists, but Curly enjoyed them. She was always curious as a young antelope at anything unusual in the way of game, so she borrowed all their newspapers "to read to her dying mother"—which was me. Then she told them good advice about keeping alert at night to watch for robbers. On that the teamster cheered them up by divulging how robbers drink human blood to keep their courage boiling, and how they like a baby when they are staled on pork. Curly imparted a few particulars and rode away with a high tail. I was still asleep when she came whirling into camp, whooping for breakfast ravenous. "Show a laig," says she, "and set out the grub pile swift while I go wrangle the hawsses. We get a move on ourselves right after breakfast!" There was something unusual, I thought, about the way she talked, a sort of high-strung excitement. As to her face, that was pale as ashes. By the time I'd cooked bacon and slapjacks she had the horses in, and fresh mounts saddled. "How's Flagstaff?" I asked, while she washed herself at the spring. "Ain't this just purty?" she said to the bubbling water. "Flagstaff? Why, it sure is the craziest town I ever seen." Her laugh was harsh to hear. "You been showin yo' face in the street?" "Wall partly, but I covered up half my complexion to look like the toothache—so!" She stuffed a ball of a handkerchief into her near cheek, bound the towel around her jaw, and looked most miserable. "Oh, throw me a dentist!" she howled, then broke out laughing. "I shorely did act pitiful." "And why for is this town locoed?" I felt the girl was laughing so as not to cry. "Well," says she, "there's Joe Beef, the Utah sheriff, and a lot of lil' no-account sheriffs, there's a fat United States Marshal with a chin whisker and a heap of deputies, there's cowboys, scouts, and trackers, reporters, ambulances, dawgs, pony-soldiers——" "Has the Navajos broke out?" "No, the pale-face has broke out; it's a hull epidemic, and there's an outfit on the war trail in Utah, another on the San Juan in Colorado—and they're going to eat up Robbers' Roost—and you, Chalkeye, lookin' glum as a new-laid widow! Scat, you!" "Has they gawn mad?" I asked. "The moment they make a break for Robbers' Roost, McCalmont will kill this Ryan, scatter his wolves, and vanish. This must be only the escort for Ryan's ransom." "It's plumb ridiculous, but—there ain't no ransom." "Yo're dreaming, Curly. This projeck of troops is sure death to Ryan. They'd risk the killin' of a common or'nary man—but a millionaire!" "That's where the joke comes—he ain't a millionaire!" I saw her quit her breakfast all untasted. "Cayn't you be serious, child, for once?" I asked, but it made me ache to see her face that way. "I daren't be serious, I daren't think, I daren't. Just you look at them papers." I snatched at the nearest paper, opened it, and thought I must have been locoed. There were the headlines:— "Ryan Combine Smashed. Collapse of the Trust."—"Panic on 'Change. The Kidnapped Millionaire, a Confessed Perjurer and Corrupter of Witnesses, admits that He swore away the Life of an Innocent Man."—"Behold thy Financial Gods, O Israel!" I read on, dazed with the news. "Public Confidence at an End."—"Investors jump from Under."—"Ryan Debentures a Frost."—"Shares thrown on the Ash-heap."—"Petition in Bankruptcy."—"Mrs. Ryan abandons all Hope of a Ransom."—"Federal Government pledged to wipe out the Bandits."—"Movement of Troops."—"Sheriff Joe Beef interviewed on the Situation."—"Forces taking the Field."—"One of the Robbers offers Himself as a Guide." Curly was pulling my sleeve. "Come here," she said, and there was surely something awful in her voice. "Look, see that dragon-fly," she whispered, "and all them flowers usin' the spring for a mirror, bendin' low. And hear the bull pines whisper, smell the great strong scent, look thar at the blue sky, and the cloud herds grazin'. That's like my home, ole Chalkeye—sech sounds, sech good smells, sech woods, and sech a heaven overhead. The boys air gentlin' hawsses in the big corral, or ridin' out to get a deer for supper. My fatheh sets in the doorway strummin' hymns on his old guitar, his dawgs around him, his lil' small cat pawin' around to help. And Jim is thar, my Jim—cayn't I be serious? Don't I think? Ain't I seein' that, all blackened ruins—bloody ground—daid corpses rotting down by the corrals—shadows of black wings acrost the yard? Oh, God of Mercy, spare 'em, spare my wolves, my home, my fatheh! And Jim is thar!" She turned against me raging. "What air you waiting for? Has you jest got to stand round all day? Yo're scart—that's what's the matter with you-all—afraid to even carry a warning! What d'ye want to pack the kitchen for? I'm shut of you. Stay thar!" She jumped to her horse, she sprang to the saddle, she lashed her spurs for blood, and whirled away to the northward. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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