Part 48 (1/2)

The decision of Flamdrau was instantaneous. He slid down beside the track into the long gra.s.s. Whipping up one of his guns, he fired. As if in answer to the first shot his revolver cracked twice. Simultaneously, he let out a cry of pain, wriggled back for a dozen yards through the gra.s.s, and crossed the track in the darkness. As he crouched down close to the wheels of the sleeper someone came running back on the other side.

”What's up, Sam? You hit?” he could hear Blackwell whisper.

No answer came. The paroled convict was standing close to the car for fear of being hit himself and he dared not move forward into the gra.s.s to investigate.

”Sam,” he called again; then, ”He's sure got his.”

That was all Curly wanted to know. Softly he padded forward, keeping as low as he could till he reached the empty sleepers. A brakeman was just uncoupling the express car when Curly dived underneath and nestled close to the trucks.

From where he lay he could almost have reached out and touched Soapy standing by the car.

”What about the kid?” Stone asked Blackwell as the latter came up.

”They got him. Didn't you hear him yelp?”

”Yes, but did they put him out of business? See his body?”

Blackwell had no intention of going back into the fire zone and making sure. For his part he was satisfied. So he lied.

”Yep. Blew the top of his head off.”

”Good,” Soapy nodded. ”That's a receipt in full for Mr. Luck Cullison.”

The wheels began to move. Soon they were hitting only the high spots.

Curly guessed they must be doing close to sixty miles an hour. Down where he was the dust was flying so thickly he could scarce breathe, as it usually does on an Arizona track in the middle of summer.

Before many minutes the engine began to slow down. The wheels had hardly stopped moving when Curly crept out, plowed through the sand, 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.”