Crooked Trails and Straight by William MacLeod Raine (top business books of all time .txt) 📕

up the rubble of a little hill, and into a draw where a bunch of scrub oaks offered cover.

A voice from in front called to him. Just then the moon appeared from behind drifting clouds.

“Oh, it’s you, Sam. Everything all right?”

“Right as the wheat. We’re blowing open the safe now,” Flandrau answered.

Moving closer, he saw that his questioner was the man in charge of the horses. Though he knew the voice, he could not put a name to its owner. But this was not the point that first occupied his mind. There were only four horses for five riders. Curly knew now that he had not been mistaken. Soapy had expected one of his allies to stay on the field of battle, had prepared for it from the beginning. The knowledge of this froze any remorse the young vaquero might have felt.

He pushed his revolver against the teeth of the horse wrangler.

“Don’t move, you bandy-legged maverick, or I’ll fill your hide full of holes. And if you want to keep on living padlock that mouth of yours.”

In spite of his surprise the man caught the point at once. He turned over his weapons without a word.

Curly unwound a rope from one of the saddles and dropped a loop round the neck of his prisoner. The two men mounted and rode out of the draw, the outlaw leading the other two horses. As soon as they reached the bluff above Flandrau outlined the next step in the program.

“We’ll stay here in the tornilla and see what happens, my friend. Unless you’ve a fancy to get lead poisoning keep still.”

“Who in Mexico are you?” the captured man asked.

“It’s your showdown. Skin off that mask.”

The man hesitated. His own revolver moved a few inches toward his head. Hastily he took off the mask. The moon shone on the face of the man called Dutch. Flandrau laughed. Last time they had met Curly had a rope around his neck. Now the situation was reversed.

An explosion below told them that the robbers had blown open the safe. Presently Soapy’s voice came faintly to them.

“Bring up the horses.”

He called again, and a third time. The dwarfed figures of the outlaws stood out clear in the moonlight. One of them ran up the track toward the draw. He disappeared into the scrub oaks, from whence his alarmed voice came in a minute.

“Dutch! Oh, Dutch!”

The revolver rim pressed a little harder against the bridge of the horse wrangler’s nose.

“He ain’t here,” Blackwell called back to his accomplices.

That brought Stone on the run. “You condemned idiot, he must be there. Ain’t he had two hours to get here since he left Tin Cup?”

They shouted themselves hoarse. They wandered up and down in a vain search. All the time Curly and his prisoner sat in the brush and scarcely batted an eye.

At last Soapy gave up the hunt. The engine and the express car were sent back to join the rest of the train and as soon as they were out of sight the robbers set out across country toward the Flatiron ranch.

Curly guessed their intentions. They would rustle horses there and head for the border. It was the only chance still left them.

After they had gone Curly and his prisoner returned to the road and set out toward Tin Cup. About a mile and a half up the line they met Cullison and his riders on the way down. Maloney was with them. He had been picked up at the station.

Dick gave a shout of joy when he heard Flandrau’s voice.

“Oh, you Curly! I’ve been scared stiff for fear they’d got you.”

Luck caught the boy’s hand and wrung it hard. “You plucky young idiot, you’ve got sand in your craw. What the deuce did you do it for?”

They held a conference while the Circle C riders handcuffed Dutch and tied him to a horse. Soon the posse was off again, having left the prisoner in charge of one of the men. They swung round in a wide half circle, not wishing to startle their game until the proper time. The horses pounded up hills, slid into washes, and plowed through sand on a Spanish trot, sometimes in the moonlight, more often in darkness. The going was rough, but they could not afford to slacken speed.

When they reached the edge of the mesa that looked down on the Flatiron the moon was out and the valley was swimming in light. They followed the dip of a road that led down to the corral. Passing the fenced lane leading to the stable, they tied their ponies inside and took the places assigned to them by Cullison.

They had not long to wait. In less than half an hour three shadowy figures slipped round the edge of the corral and up the lane. Each of them carried a rifle in addition to his hip guns.

They slid into the open end of the stable. Cullison’s voice rang out coldly.

“Drop your guns!”

A startled oath, a shot, and before one could have lifted a hand that silent moonlit valley of peace had become a battlefield.

The outlaws fell back from the stable, weapons smoking furiously. Blackwell broke into a run, never looking behind him, but Soapy and Bad Bill gave back foot by foot fighting every step of the way.

Dick and Curly rose from behind the rocks where they had been placed and closed the trap on Blackwell. The paroled convict let out one yell.

“I give up. Goddlemighty, don’t shoot!”

His rifle he had already thrown away. With his arms reaching above him, his terror-stricken eyes popping from his head, he was a picture of the most frightened “bad man” who had ever done business in Arizona.

Half way down the lane Cranston was hit. He sank to his knees, and from there lopped over sideways to his left elbow. In the darkness his voice could be heard, for the firing had momentarily ceased.

“They’ve got me, Soapy. Run for it. I’ll hold ’em back.”

“Hit bad, Bill?”

“I’m all in. Vamos!”

Stone turned to run, and for the first time saw that his retreat was cut off. As fast as he could pump the lever his rifle began working again.

The firing this time did not last more than five seconds. When the smoke cleared it was all over. Soapy lay on his back, shot through and through. Blackwell had taken advantage of the diversion to crawl through the strands of barbed wire and to disappear in the chaparral. Bill had rolled over on his face.

Curly crept through the fence after the escaping man, but in that heavy undergrowth he knew it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. After a time he gave it up and returned to the field of battle.

Dick was bending over Stone. He looked up at the approach of his friend and said just one word.

“Dead.”

Cullison had torn open Cranston’s shirt and was examining his wounds.

“No use, Luck. I’ve got a-plenty. You sure fooled us thorough. Was it Sam gave us away?”

“No, Bill. Curly overheard Soapy and Blackwell at Chalkeye’s Place. Sam stood pat, though you were planning to murder him.”

“I wasn’t in on that, Luck—didn’t know a thing about it till after the boy was shot. I wouldn’t a-stood for it.”

“He wasn’t shot. Curly saved him. He had to give you away to do it.”

“Good enough. Serves Soapy right for double crossing Sam. Take care of that kid, Luck. He’s all right yet.” His eye fell on Flandrau. “You’re a game sport, son. You beat us all. No hard feelings.”

“Sorry it had to be this way, Bill.”

The dying man was already gray to the lips, but his nerve did not falter. “It had to come some time. And it was Luck ought to have done it too.” He waved aside Sweeney, who was holding a flask to his lips. “What’s the use? I’ve got mine.”

“Shall we take him to the house?” Maloney asked.

“No. I’ll die in the open. Say, there’s something else, boys. Curly has been accused of that Bar Double M horse rustling back in the early summer. I did that job. He was not one of us. You hear, boys. Curly was not in it.”

A quarter of an hour later he died. He had lied to save from the penitentiary the lad who had brought about his death. Curly knew why he had done it—because he felt himself to blame for the affair. Maybe Bad Bill had been a desperado, a miscreant according to the usual standard, but when it came to dying he knew how to go better than many a respectable citizen. Curly stole off into the darkness so that the boys would not see him play the baby.

By this time the men from the Flatiron were appearing, armed with such weapons as they could hastily gather. The situation was explained to them. Neighboring ranches were called up by telephone and a systematic hunt started to capture Blackwell.

Luck left his three riders to help in the man hunt, but he returned with Curly and Maloney to Saguache. On the pommel of his saddle was a sack. It contained the loot from the express car of the Flyer. Two lives already had been sacrificed to get it, and the sum total taken amounted only to one hundred ninety-four dollars and sixteen cents.