The Max Brand Megapack (254 page)

It came unheralded. There was only a faint whisper in the air behind him, such a hissing as a branch makes when it sways through the wind: Yet that noise was sufficient to make Ronicky Doone whirl In his saddle. He was in time to see the open noose of rope hovering above his head, and at the far end of the noose was a man just on the verge of starting out from the edge of the trees, from the shelter of which he had made his cast.

Ronicky saw him in the flash of time that it took him to whirl. But the next moment the rope had whipped down, and his arms were pinned to his sides. His right hand, the fingers of which were just in the act of curling around the butt of his revolver, was paralyzed at the root of its strength. And at the same moment the forward swing of Lou, checked too late by the shout of Ronicky, snapped the rope taut, and Ronicky was lifted from the saddle as cleanly as in the days of old an expert spearsman hurled his foeman over the croup in full career.

It might have broken his neck, that fall. But he unstrung his limbs in mid-air, so to speak, relaxing himself so that every muscle was soft. And he landed on that cushioning of muscle which is the natural pad against shocks at the back of the neck. The impetus of that rolling fall swung him onto his feet again, but still he was helpless.

In the air before him and above him the rope became a living thing. It twisted and writhed and coiled, and every twist was a new bond laid about the struggling form of Ronicky Doone. In five seconds he was trussed securely and sat helpless on the ground, looking up into the face of his captor.

That captor was no other than the celebrated Ananias of Twin Springs, Curly. The usual calm of Curly was gone. The mist of thoughtfulness was gone from his eyes, which sparkled with joy. And he stood with his hands planted on his hips, the fingers of one hand still gripping the end of the rope which he had used with such dexterity.

Both he and his captive were panting from the brief struggle.

“You!” said Ronicky, disgusted beyond measure that the victor should prove this man of all men—this creator of myths.

“Me!” said the other.

“This is the second time,” said Ronicky. “I sure got to write you down in my books, Curly. First you tell me the lie about Blondy. And now you—”

Rage choked him.

But the attitude of Curly was one of conscious and easy virtue.

“I done this to make up for the other,” be said.

“What?” cried Ronicky.

“Sure,” said Curly. “I make it a rule never to have no fallings out with no gun fighters. When I seen how you just wished your gat out of the leather and pumped that slug into Blondy before I could have thought about shooting, I said to myself right there that you were a gent that I’d never have no trouble with if I could help it!”

Ronicky stared at him, helpless with amazement.

“I don’t foller you,” he gasped. “I sure don’t function fast enough for my brain to keep up with you, Curly! Here you—”

He stopped again. Lou came back to him anxiously and snuffed at his dust covered shoulder. And he directed her to stand back with a savage jerk of his head. She obeyed, while Curly swore with admiration at her trained docility.

“I never seen her equal!” he declared.

“They don’t grow hosses as fine as that in these parts! But to come back to you and me, Ronicky. Can I trust you if I take that rope off of you?”

“Would you trust me if I gave you my word?” asked Ronicky, very curious.

“Sure,” answered Curly cheerfully. “I’d trust you to the end of the earth if you just gave me the word to!”

“H’m,” said Ronicky, some of his original fury leaving him. “And how do you work this out, Curly? I ain’t going to give you my word, so you can leave the rope around me. But how do you work it out that roping me and jerking me off my hoss was doing me a favor? Leaving out that there was nine chances out of ten that you’d break my neck, how do you work it out?”

“Nine chances out of ten with some folks,” admitted Curly. “But not with you. I could tell after watching you take two steps that there was no more chance of throwing you on your head than there would be of throwing a cat. You’d twist around and manage to land right.”

“H’m,” said Ronicky again, and still he studied big Curly intently. “Go on,” he said. “Al Jenkins sent you out to get me out of the way, I guess?”

“He didn’t,” said the surprising fellow. “He told me to keep away from you less’n I wanted to get hurt, and hurt bad.” He added: “The plan is for Al and his men to get together in a flock and herd you into a corner, and then make you give up by force of numbers.”

“Get me to take water, eh?” asked Ronicky.

“Which simply means,” said Curly, “that they had figured on wiping you off the face of the earth and putting up a stone to show where you made your last appearance, as they say about the lady singer. But I took to thinking things over, Ronicky. I seen as how if there was a crowd, I’d have to be in it. And if there was any shooting at you, you’d be doing some shooting back. And if you done some shooting back, you’d pick out somebody you wasn’t partial to for a target. And if you done that, I’d stand a pretty good show of getting into the center of the stage, you see?”

“I see,” said Ronicky.

“So what I thought would be better,” said Curly, “was for me to go out where you and me could have our little party all over by ourselves. When I heard that you’d gone out to old Bennett’s, I climbed on my hoss about daybreak and sloped out here and got onto the top of a hill—you see that round topped feller over yonder—so’s I could get a good look at the Bennett house. I had my glasses here along with me, and when you come out, I clamped these glasses onto the house and made out quick that it was you. Then I waited until I seen you going down the valley. That made me lose hope for a while. I thought you were aiming at Twin Springs again. But pretty soon I seen you head in for the gulley.

“I slid over here ahead of you and just got planted comfortable when you come by, and here you are!” He stopped with a grin of satisfaction.

“All right,” said Ronicky. “I suppose you start herding me back for Twin Springs now? It’ll make you pretty much of a big gun, Curly, to go down the street with me marching in front, and you with a gat on me from behind!”

Curly merely shook his head.

“You don’t get the way I’m drifting,” he said. “Suppose I was to do that! Why, the minute you got loose of me you’d be a whooping for my insides!”

“I didn’t mean Twin Springs. I mean Al Jenkins’ headquarters.”

“That wouldn’t do, neither. Al ain’t a murderer, Ronicky. No, sir. What I’m doing is looking out for my own hide. I’m going to run this little game all my own way, and you won’t be able to guess how until you see my cards!”

He concluded by asking Ronicky to rise; and, having disarmed his captive, he mounted his horse, retaining one end of the rope, and allowed the bay mare to follow as she would, knowing that she would not leave her master. Straight down the gulley they proceeded for a short distance, and then turned, at Curly’s suggestion, up a side path.

Never in his life had Ronicky been placed in so humiliating a position. Driven like a bull on a rope, with the driver, goading him from behind, he fairly trembled with desire to turn and fling himself at Curly.

But the latter dissuaded him by a comment which he made almost as soon as that shameful journey began.

“I’m praying for two things, Ronicky,” he said. “The first is that you don’t try to side-step into one of them bushes alongside the road, because if you did, I’d have to start in shooting. The second is that nobody goes by and sees me this way and you that way. Because if they did, I’d know that it meant the same thing. I’d have to kill you, or else you’d kill me when you got loose.”

“And do you think that it makes any difference?” asked Ronicky, black with rage. “D’you think that I’ll go around spreading good news about you anyway, Curly?”

“Wait and see,” said Curly. “Wait and see!”

After a time they turned out from the path, plunged through the forest for three hundred yards, and then came suddenly into view of a little clearing and a small cabin in the midst of it.

“Here we are,” said Curly. “Here’s home!”

He explained casually, while he put up the horses and consigned Ronicky to a comfortable place in the house. He had found the cabin during one of his rides in the vicinity of Twin Springs, a ride that started in a drunken condition and led him by unknown routes until he arrived, out of the midst of the forest, upon this shack. There he slept, and when he wakened in the morning he took note of the place. The shack itself was then a mere wreck of a place, but he had been fond of it simply because it was unknown to any other man. Five or six years before, some one had started the clearing and built the home, but the undertaking had been quickly abandoned, and now the place was forgotten by the rest of the world. But Curly had been enchanted by the very secrecy of this uncharted home. He spent his spare time from that moment in making expeditions to the shack and bringing it slowly to a state of repair.

“So that if I ever fell foul of the law,” he explained to Ronicky now, “I could just simply fade out and nobody would ever find me again.”

With that introduction they settled down in the house.

CHAPTER XXV

WATCHFUL
WAITING

It had been fitted up comfortably enough, and Ronicky could have looked forward without dread to a stay of a few days in the cabin had it not been that the time was wearing on and that he was needed to help in the fight against Al Jenkins for the sake of Elsie Bennett. The purpose of Curly became apparent almost at once. Curly would win the undying gratitude of Al Jenkins by removing from the scene of battle the chief man among the enemy, until the ruin of Bennett had been accomplished. Then he could turn Ronicky loose.

“And when I turn you loose,” said Curly, “you may be tolerable mad, but you ain’t going to be raving to kill, because you’ll have lived here with me for quite a spell before that happens, and a gent like you, that ain’t plumb unreasonable, can’t hang out with another gent like me, that ain’t plumb poisonous, without getting to sort of see that he ain’t all bad. You’ll be sort of used to me before I turn you loose, Ronicky. All I got to do in the meantime is to see that you don’t turn a trick on me and take me by surprise.”

Ronicky made no answer. In his heart of hearts he felt that what he wanted to do most in all the world was to have this man under the cover of his gun and make him beg for mercy. But again he told himself that he must resign himself to patience, for surely the time would quickly come when he could free himself from his bonds. He might burn them in two. He might find an opportunity to get a knife edge against them and shear them apart. Any of these opportunities was most likely to come his way before he had been twenty-four hours in the house.

But twenty-four hours dragged themselves along, and still no chance had been shown to him. He had reckoned without his host. Several times he had a few minutes to himself when Curly was outside tending to the horses in the little shed, but, before he could accomplish anything of importance, Curly was always back in the one room of the shack. And neither knife nor fire was ever exposed.

In the meantime Ronicky’s hands were kept behind his back, saving for a few moments every day when he was allowed to exercise the stiffening muscles. And each day was an eternity to Ronicky. The first, the second, the third sunset followed. Finally he knew that within twenty-four hours Al Jenkins would loose his men against poor Bennett, and there would be an end of the war. His ranch swept clean of cattle, Bennett would be the victim of the first of his creditors who chose to foreclose upon him. And that meant dire poverty for Elsie Bennett.

More than this, it meant that his own promise to the rancher was going for nothing. It meant that all his force was being bottled and made useless by Curly, the shiftless, careless, good-natured liar. He writhed in an agony of humiliation and rage when he thought of this.

But though he hounded himself with savage energy all the day, striving to come to some sort of solution of the problem, he could find none. And so the morning as last dawned above him, and he was twenty-four hours from the finish still held fast in Curly’s grasp.

Curly himself had not yet wakened. He lay sleeping, heavily snoring. Indeed, it was this snoring which had wakened Ronicky before his usual hour. He hunched himself up awkwardly, bracing his shoulders against the wall and taking no care to keep from waking the sleeper. What difference did it make? The more trouble he could inflict upon Curly the better, for he was beginning to realize that, in spite of all his early vows of undying vengeance, Curly had been right. Their life together had made Ronicky so familiar with the jovial, carefree fellow that he could not hate him.

He looked across the room, in this dull morning light, and saw Curly prone on his back in his blankets. His mouth was open and his features were relaxed in utter sleep. It suddenly came to Ronicky that this was by no means the face which he was accustomed to associating with the voice of Curly. The eyes were surrounded by great hollows; the checks were somewhat fallen; there were lines about the mouth. Altogether it was a face expressing great exhaustion.

And another thing occurred to Ronicky as strange. What he had first noticed during his captivity was that his captor never slept soundly. The least stir on Ronicky’s part had always been sufficient to open the eyes of Curly. At first Ronicky had taken it for granted that Curly was simply a marvelously light sleeper by nature. But now, as he stared at the worn face of the cow-puncher, another explanation was suggested to him—that it was only by the immense effort of his will that Curley had been able to keep guard during his sleep. He had filled his mind so full of the determination to watch Ronicky that there was a subconscious mind forever on guard and warning him the instant that Ronicky made a move, day or night.

This was the meaning, also, of the great quantities of coffee which Curly had been drinking. In every possible manner he had been filing his nerves to the point of highest sensibility. But gradually his strength had been giving way, and though for five days he had been strung on a hair trigger, now he had given way and was sleeping like one stunned by a blow.