Part 10 (1/2)

Thirdly, here was poor Balshannon being held with a string round his leg at the Sepulchre saloon, by the two crookedest gamblers in Arizona, the same being Low-Lived Joe and Louisiana Pete. Once, Joe, being gaoled for killing a Mexican, Ryan had put up money for a lawyer to get him released. So if these two thugs were instructed to hold and skin the Dook, that likewise smelt strong of Ryan.

Fourthly, here was young Michael Ryan in his private car from New York, burning the rails to reach Grave City by ten o'clock this night. The smell of Ryan surely tainted the whole landscape. Now just throw back to the words of Ryan's letter which fourteen long years before he had nailed upon the door of Holy Cross:--

”The time will come when, driven from this your new home, without a roof to cover you or a crust to eat, your wife and son turned out to die in the desert, you will beg for even so much as a drink of water, and it will be thrown in your face. I shall not die until I have seen the end of your accursed house.”

So this was Ryan's plan--the work of fourteen years; industrious a whole lot, and plenty treacherous, but coming surely true. He had waited until he knew the lady was mostly dead, then turned her out of Holy Cross to die in the desert. The cattle were stolen, Balshannon was tied down for slaughter, and Michael would come to see the finish at ten o'clock to-night.

I began to reckon up Balshannon's friends, cowboys and robbers mostly, scattered anyway across the big range of the desert. They would not hear me if I howled for help.

But Ryan was respectable. He was Chairman of the Committee of Public Safety which lynched bad men when they became too prevalent with their guns. Ryan was our leading citizen, heaps rich, and virtuous no end. The Law would side with him, and as to the officers of the law, judges, and City Marshal, and the police--they'd got elected because he spoke for them. He owned the city, could bring out hundreds of men to take his side. What could I do against this Ryan's friends?

I knew that young Curly was hid in Grave City somewheres, and after a search I found him. The boy was so disguised he hardly knew himself.

”Chalkeye,” says he, ”you want a talk?” He looked sort of scared and anxious.

”I do.”

”If Ryan's folk see you making talk with me, they'll think there's some new plot against the white men. Just you watch where I go, and follow casual.”

He led me to a little room he rented over a barber's shop, and looking from the window I noticed that Ryan's hotel was just across the street.

Curly left the room door open, because he didn't want any spy to use the keyhole.

”Now,” says he, ”make yo' voice tame, or we'll be overheard. Don't show yo'self off at that window, but keep your eyes skinned thar, while I watch the stairs. What is yo' trouble?”

”Whar are yo' range wolves?”

”They're a whole lot absent,” says Curly.

”Cayn't you trust me?”

”I ain't trusting even myself.” He looked fearful worried.

”You know that Ryan has seized Holy Cross?”

”This mawning, yes.”

”And that Ryan has stolen all their breeding-stock?”

”Yesterday that was.”

”And that yo' father dressed himself up as a preacher, and warned Jim?”

”They met up five mile south of Lordsburgh. Yessir.”

”And that Balshannon is tied up here?”

”To be butchered this evening. Well?”