Crooked Trails and Straight by William MacLeod Raine (top business books of all time .txt) đź“•
The redheaded boy rolled another cigarette despondently. "Sho! I've cooked my goose. She'll not look at me--even if they don't send me to the pen." In a moment he added huskily, staring into the deepening darkness: "And she's the best ever. Her name's Myra Anderson."
Abruptly Mac got up and disappeared in the night, muttering something about looking after the horses. His partner understood well enough what was the matter. The redheaded puncher was in a stress of emotion, and like the boy he was he did not want Curly to know it.
Flandrau pretended to be asleep when Mac returned half an hour later.
They slept under a live oak with the soundness of healthy youth. For the time they forgot their troubles. Neither of them knew that as the hours slipped away red tragedy was galloping closer to them.
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Bucky had let Cullison take the center of the stage. He had observed a growing distress mount and ride the victim. Now he stepped in to save the man with an alternative at which Blackwell might be expected not to snatch eagerly perhaps, but at least to be driven toward.
“This man is my prisoner, Mr. Cullison. From what I can make out you ought to strip his hide off and hang it up to dry. But I’ve got first call on him. If he comes through with the truth about the W. & S. Express robbery, I’ve got to protect him.”
Luck understood the ranger. They were both working toward the same end. The immediate punishment of this criminal was not the important issue. It was merely a club with which to beat him into submission, and at that a moral rather than a physical one. But the owner of the Circle C knew better than to yield to Bucky too easily. He fought the point out with him at length, and finally yielded reluctantly, in such a way as to aggravate rather than relieve the anxiety of the convict.
“All right. You take him first,” he finally conceded harshly.
Bucky kept up the comedy. “I’ll take him, Mr. Cullison. But if he tells me the truth—and if I find out it’s the whole truth—there’ll be nothing doing on your part. He’s my prisoner. Understand that.”
Metaphorically, Blackwell licked the hand of his protector. He was still standing, but his attitude gave the effect of crouching.
“I aim to do what’s right, Captain O’Connor. Whatever’s right. You ask me any questions.”
“I want to know all about the W. & S. robbery, everything, from start to finish.”
“Honest, I wish I could tell you. But I don’t know a thing about it. Cross my heart, I don’t.”
“No use, Blackwell. If I’m going to stand by you against Mr. Cullison, you’ll have to tell the truth. Why, man, I’ve even got the mask you wore and the cloth you cut it from.”
“I reckon it must a-been some one else, Major. Wisht I could help you, but I can’t.”
Bucky rose. “All right. If you can’t help me, I can’t help you.” Apparently he dismissed the matter from his mind, for he looked at his watch and turned to the cattleman. “Mr. Cullison, I reckon I’ll run out and have some supper. Do you mind staying here with this man till I get back?”
“No. That’s all right, Bucky. Don’t hurry, I’ll keep him entertained.” Perhaps it was not by chance that his eye wandered to a blacksnake whip hanging on the wall.
O’Connor sauntered to the door. The frightened gaze of the prisoner clung to him as if for safety.
“Major—Colonel—you ain’t a-going,” he pleaded.
“Only for an hour or two. I’ll be back. I wouldn’t think of saying good-by—not till we reach Yuma.”
With that the door closed behind him. Blackwell cried out, hurriedly, eagerly. “Mister O’Connor!”
Bucky’s head reappeared. “What! Have you reduced me to the ranks already? I was looking to be a general by the time I got back,” he complained whimsically.
“I—I’ll tell you everything—every last thing. Mr. Cullison—he’s aiming to kill me soon as you’ve gone.”
“I’ve got no time to fool away, Blackwell. I’m hungry. If you mean business get to it. But remember that whatever you say will be used against you.”
“I’ll tell you any dog-goned thing you want to know. You’ve got me beat. I’m plumb wore out—sick. A man can’t stand everything.”
O’Connor came in and closed the door. “Let’s have it, then—the whole story. I want it all: how you came to know about this shipment of money, how you pulled it off, what you have done with it, all the facts from beginning to the end.”
“Lemme sit down, Captain. I’m awful done up. I reckon while I was in the hills I’ve been underfed.”
“Sit down. There’s a good dinner waiting for you at Clune’s when you get through.”
Even then, though he must have known that lies could not avail, the man sprinkled his story with them. The residuum of truth that remained after these had been sifted out was something like this.
He had found on the street a letter that had inadvertently been dropped. It was to Jordan of the Cattlemen’s National Bank, and it notified him that $20,000 was to be shipped to him by the W. & S. Express Company on the night of the robbery. Blackwell resolved to have a try for it. He hung around the office until the manager and the guard arrived from the train, made his raid upon them, locked the door, and threw away his mask. He dived with the satchel into the nearest alley, and came face to face with the stranger whom he later learned to be Fendrick. The whole story of the horse had been a myth later invented by the sheepman to scatter the pursuit by making it appear that the robber had come from a distance. As the street had been quite deserted at the time this detail could be plausibly introduced with no chance of a denial.
Fendrick, who had heard the shouting of the men locked in the express office, stopped the robber, but Blackwell broke away and ran down the alley. The sheepman followed and caught him. After another scuffle the convict again hammered himself free, but left behind the hand satchel containing the spoils. Fendrick (so he later explained to Blackwell) tied a cord to the handle of the bag and dropped it down the chute of a laundry in such a way that it could later be drawn up. Then he hurried back to the express office and released the prisoners. After the excitement had subsided, he had returned for the money and hid it. The original robber did not know where.
Blackwell’s second meeting with the sheepman had been almost as startling as the first. Cass had run into the Jack of Hearts in time to save the life of his enemy. The two men recognized each other and entered into a compact to abduct Cullison, for his share in which the older man was paid one thousand dollars. The Mexican Dominguez had later appeared on the scene, had helped guard the owner of the Circle C, and had assisted in taking him to the hut in the Rincons where he had been secreted.
Both men asked the same question as soon as he had finished.
“Where is the money you got from the raid on the W. & S. office?”
“Don’t know. I’ve been at Fendrick ever since to tell me. He’s got it salted somewhere. You’re fixing to put me behind the bars, and he’s the man that really stole it.”
From this they could not shake him. He stuck to it vindictively, for plainly his malice against the sheepman was great. The latter had spoiled his coup, robbed him of its fruits, and now was letting him go to prison.
“I reckon we’d better have a talk with Cass,” Bucky suggested in a low voice to the former sheriff.
Luck laughed significantly. “When we find him.”
For the sheepman had got out on bail the morning after his arrest.
“We’ll find him easily enough. And I rather think he’ll have a good explanation, even if this fellow’s story is true.”
“Oh, he’ll be loaded with explanations. I don’t doubt that for a minute. But it will take a hell of a lot of talk to get away from the facts. I’ve got him where I want him now, and by God! I’ll make him squeal before the finish.”
“Oh, well, you’re prejudiced,” Bucky told him with an amiable smile.
“Course I am; prejudiced as old Wall-eyed Rogers was against the vigilantes for hanging him on account of horse stealing. But I’ll back my prejudices all the same. We’ll see I’m right, Bucky.”
Fendrick, riding on Mesa Verde, met Bob Cullison, and before he knew what had happened found a gun thrown on him.
“Don’t you move,” the boy warned.
“What does this tommyrot mean?” the sheepman demanded angrily.
“It means that you are coming back with me to the ranch. That’s what it means.”
“What for?”
“Never you mind what for.”
“Oh, go to Mexico,” Cass flung back impatiently. “Think we’re in some fool moving-picture play, you blamed young idiot. Put up that gun.”
Shrilly Bob retorted. He was excited enough to be dangerous. “Don’t you get the wrong idea. I’m going to make this stick. You’ll turn and go back with me to the Circle C.”
“And you’ll travel to Yuma first thing you know, you young Jesse James. What you need is a pair of leather chaps applied to your hide.”
“You’ll go home with me, just the same.”
“You’ve got one more guess coming, kid. I’ll not go without knowing why.”
“You’re wanted for the W. & S. Express robbery. Blackwell has confessed.”
“Confessed that I did it?” Fendrick inquired scornfully.
“Says you were in it with him. I ain’t a-going to discuss it with you. Swing that horse round; and don’t make any breaks, or there’ll be mourning at the C. F. ranch.”
Cass sat immovable as the sphinx. He was thinking that he might as well face the charge now as any time. Moreover, he had reasons for wanting to visit the Circle C. They had to do with a tall, slim girl who never looked at him without scorn in her dark, flashing eyes.
“All right. I’ll go back with you, but not under a gun.”
“You’ll go the way I say.”
“Don’t think it. I’ve said I’ll go. That settles it. But I won’t stand for any gun-play capture.”
“You’ll have to stand for it.”
Fendrick’s face set. “Will I? It’s up to you, then. Let’s see you make me.”
Sitting there with his gaze steadily on the boy, Cass had Bob at a disadvantage. If the sheep owner had tried to break away into the chaparral. Bob could have blazed away at him, but he could not shoot a man looking at him with cynical, amused eyes. He could understand the point of view of his adversary. If Fendrick rode into the Circle C under compulsion of a gun in the hands of a boy he would never hear the end of the laugh on him.
“You won’t try to light out, will you?”
“I’ve got no notion of lighting out.”
Bob put up his big blue gun reluctantly. Never before had it been trained on a human being, and it was a wrench to give up the thought of bringing in the enemy as a prisoner. But he saw he could not pull it off. Fendrick had declined to scare, had practically laughed him out of it. The boy had not meant his command as a bluff, but Cass knew him better than he did himself.
They turned toward the Circle C.
“Must have been taking lessons on how to bend a gun. You in training for sheriff, or are you going to take Bucky’s place with the rangers?” Fendrick asked with casual impudence, malicious amusement gleaming from his lazy eyes.
Bob, very red about the ears, took refuge in a sulky silence. He was being guyed, and not by an inch did he propose to compromise the Cullison dignity.
“From the way you go at it, I figure you an old hand at the hold-up game. Wonder if you didn’t pull off the W. & S. raid yourself.”
Bob writhed impotently. At this sort of thing he was no match for the other. Fendrick, now in the best of humors, planted lazily his offhand barbs.
Kate was seated on the porch sewing. She rose in surprise when her cousin and the sheepman appeared. They came with jingling spurs across the plaza toward her. Bob was red as a turkeycock, but Fendrick wore his most devil-may-care insouciance.
“Where’s Uncle Luck, sis? I’ve brought this fellow back with me. Caught him
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