Part 13 (1/2)
”I expaict,” says that one-eyed cripple, ”that working my job at the livery I'd oughter know what comes and goes around heah.”
”Is that why you're there--to watch?”
Crook went white at that. ”You're dreaming,” says he, very faint.
”And you're lending me the buckskin running mare for to-night. I've heard of that mare. Is that the sort of thing to lend to a stranger?”
”Well, seh, even a hired man may have his private feelings.”
”Look here, youngster, I've seen you before, and I remember you now.
When I saw you once at Holy Cross you had two eyes in your head, and you weren't a cripple.”
Suddenly Jim s.n.a.t.c.hed away the black pad which was slung over Crook's disabled eye. Two good eyes shone out, and over one of them the scar of an old wound. Jim laughed at that, but Crook forgot to be lame, starting back lithe as a panther and his face dead white.
”Be careful!” he whispered, ”there's men pa.s.sing us! My life ain't worth a cent if I'm seen heah in town.” He had the sling across his eye again and broke out laughing. ”I mean the doctor says I got to keep it covered, or I'll go blind--and a blind man's life ain't worth one cent in the dollar.”
”Quit lying! You're posted at the stable to see who comes and goes, one eye in a sling and one game leg for disguise. Come here!”
Jim dragged him by the scruff of the neck to the post office, which stood next door to the saloon, with only the alley between, and there was an old poster notice on the wall:--
”NOTICE.
”The Northern Pacific and Wells Fargo Express Companies offer ($2,000) two thousand dollars,
DEAD OR ALIVE,
for the four robbers who held up the Northern Pacific Express train at Gold Creek, Deer Lodge County, Montana, on the morning of April 3rd, 1899. Descriptions:--
”Peter, _alias_ Bobby Stark, _alias_ Curly McCalmont, supposed to be son of Captain McCalmont, is five feet six inches in height, slim, fair hair, blue eyes, clean-shaven, soft girlish manner, with a scar over left eye, the result of a knife wound. He is about twenty years of age, but looks not more than fifteen, and was formerly a cowboy, riding for the Holy Cross Outfit in Arizona. He was last seen on or about May 5th, at Clay Flat, in the Painted Desert, with a flea-bitten grey gelding branded x on the near stifle, and two led burros, one of them packed.”
Jim turned round sharp on Crook. ”You're Curly McCalmont!” says he.
”Come away--yo' risking my neck.”
”Do you think I'd sell you for that dirty money?”
”What you seen, others may, and they'd act haidstrong.”
”All right, Curly. Don't you forget to walk lame.”
”Hist! Heah come the Ryans!”
The two youngsters came hurrying into the saloon, where I stood watching Balshannon while he lost the last of his money. Jim clutched me by the arm, whispering something, but I did not catch what he said, for Curly was making a last play to get Balshannon from the tables.
”You quit,” said he, ”befo' yo're too late, patrone.”
”It's too late now,” says Balshannon; ”what's the good?”
”It's not too late to save yo' life. Come quick!”