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Curly

<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> <h3>THE GUN-FIGHT</h3> Before supper that evening a passing traveller carried a letter to my ranche, and when my boys found out that there was going to be trouble in town they surely flirted gravel for fear of arriving too late. I placed them at a convenient saloon, explained my plans, made them swear that they would not stray. Then I went to Curly's room, and lay low, showing no light, but watching the Mortuary Hotel just across the street. Ryan sat there in his piazza, ruddy and full, broad and bald as a barn, a ripe man with a grey chin beard. Yes, he was a cheery old soul, popular with the crowd, a power in local politics, well qualified on the outside of him for paradise, and in the innards of him for the other place. I covered him with my gun, and wondered where he would go to when he died. I expect he would be craving then for some of that lager beer he sipped so peaceful, and for the palm-leaf fan which he used to brush off the heat. Away off to the right I could see Jim sitting on the sidewalk in front of the "Sepulchre." Little Crook was feeding brandy to him, and cigarettes to keep him away from sleep. Then the train came rumbling in, let out a screech, and stopped. It made me laugh to think what a big hurroar there would be presently when the news got wind of that train being held up by robbers, and Mr. Michael Ryan led away captive. Yet there seemed to be no excitement. The usual buses and buggies came up from the station, the ordinary crowd of loafers, and then our only cab, which crawled to the "Mortuary" to drop one passenger. He was a fat young man, dressed most surprising in a stove-pipe hat, a Jew fur coat, gloves, and a smart valise. If any of our cowboys had happened around, they would have fired a shot for luck to see if he wasn't some new kind of bird, but old Ryan came down the steps with a roar of welcome. "Michael!" he shouted, "where's your palace car? Have you sunk so low as to come in a mere cab? Oh, Mike!" I could hear Mr. Michael explaining that something was wrong with the car, so he'd had to leave her at Lordsburgh for repairs. Of course, the robbers, not seeing the private car, had concluded that their prey had failed to arrive and the train was not worth attacking. Now Michael had arrived, and after a talk and a drink with his father, these two would stroll over to finish the family vengeance on poor Balshannon. As far as we had missed getting help from the range wolves, so matters were getting mighty serious. I slipped away to my men. "Boys," says I, "we got to play at robbers to-night, I reckon, but I don't want you-all to get recognised. We may be bucking up against the law, and get ourselves disliked if we ain't cautious." So I took a big black silk handkerchief and cut it up into strips. "When the shooting begins," says I, "just you tie these round your heads to hide yo' homely faces. Now get yo' horses and come swift." I posted the three in the small alley which ran between the "Sepulchre" saloon and the post office beyond it. Then I went out to guard Balshannon. Being naturally a timid and cautious man, I had a brace of revolvers belted on ready for trouble. Meanwhile young Crook in the front of the house was sitting all doubled up with grief at the sight of Michael Ryan. "Boy," says Jim, "what's the matter?" "Nothin'." "How is it, young un, that you know all about my father's affairs and mine?" "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 snatched 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 passing 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:— <blockquote>"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." </blockquote> 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!" "So," says Balshannon, looking up sort of surprised, "you think you can er—frighten me?" Louisiana was leaning forward across the table. "Look a-here, Crook," says he, "you can play, or you can get right out, but you don't interrupt this game." And Curly was hustled aside by Ryan's watchers. "Now, Joe," the patrone was saying, "let's finish this." He staked his last chips and lost, then got up with a little sigh, thinking, I reckon, of his wife, his ranche, his cattle. "I'm kind of sorry, Dook," says Louisiana. "So am I, a little," Balshannon chuckled. "I think," says the gambler, stacking away his great big heaps of gold and silver coin—"I think that——" "You are fortunate, Pete," Balshannon answered lightly, "I dare not think." "I'm closing the game for to-night," says Louisiana. "I'm closing the game to-night," says Lord Balshannon. He took a cigarette-case from his pocket, but found it empty, felt in his shabby old clothes for money, then turned away with a queer little laugh of his which made me ache. Outside in the street I heard a hand-bell clang, and took notice through the tail of my eye that the room was filling with all the worst men in that bad town of ours. There was the Alabama Kid, and beside him Shorty Broach, stage robber and thug, Beef Jones, the horse-thief, Gas, a tin-horn crook, Thimble-Rig Phipps, and two or three other sure-thing gamblers, rollers, and thugs. I went over to the front end of the house, where the orchestra were packing up to quit, and there at the far corner of the bar were old Ryan and Michael standing drinks to the crowd. Yes, the game was being set sure enough. I saw Low-Lived Joe hurry past me and speak in a whisper to Ryan, and at that Balshannon's enemy stood out to the front of his gang. All the scrubs and skin-game men were drifting into that corner behind him, until there must have been perhaps thirty gathered, loosing their guns to be ready. By the faro tables were Jim and Curly trying to get Balshannon out of the house, but he broke away, and they followed until he came to the inner end of the bar. Then they stood back a little, while he waited to be served. "Here, Bill!" he called out cheerfully. A bar-keep quit the Ryans and went to serve him. "Well," says he, heaps insolent, "what do you want?" The patrone looked at him smiling. "You seem out of sorts, Bill; have a drink with me. I'll take a whisky." The bar-keep glared at him. "Oh, by the way," says Balshannon, "I'll have to square up for this to-morrow morning." "Terms cash," says the bar-keep. "Really?" Balshannon smiled at his ugly face. "Oh, of course—your orders, eh? Well, never mind. You're so polite, Bill, that—er—that just by way of thanks I'll ask you to accept this little token." He chucked him the silver cigarette-case and turned away from the bar. But I was bull-roaring mad. "Patrone," says I, "patrone, I owe you heaps of money. Here, take this!" But Balshannon laid both his hands upon my shoulders, smiling right into my eyes. "Dear friend," he said, "you know I could not take money, even from you." A thick voice was calling from the other end of the bar: "Here, bar-keep, you give this man a drink!" Then the patrone looked round. "Ah, Ryan, eh?" He walked straight up to his enemy. "I'll drink with you gladly, Ryan. Suppose we forget the past, and try to be good—er—friends, eh?" He held out his hand, but Ryan took no notice. "Hello, I see your son is with you, Ryan. Good evening, Michael." Michael just stared at him. The people who had no interest in the trouble must have seen drawn guns before now, because I heard them breaking rapid for cover. The scrub which belonged to Ryan was formed up behind him for war, while back of Balshannon stood only Jim and Curly with the whole rear part of the room behind them empty. The two youngsters seemed to be having baby troubles, for Curly was struggling powerful to break away from Jim. "I got to," he shouted, "I cayn't see to shoot!" Then he jumped clear. He had disremembered about being a cripple, he had torn the bandage away from his eye, and over the left brow, clear for all men to see, was his brand, the knife wound! At that a yell went up from Ryan's crowd, and some of his men surged forward, Louisiana and Low-Lived Joe in the lead. I jumped straight at them with my brace of guns. "Back!" shouted Ryan, holding them back with both arms. "Back! What's your hurry? Wait!" "Come on!" came Curly's clear high yell. "Two thousand dollars daid or alive if you take me! I'm a sure wolf, and it's my night to howl, you cowards! I'm Curly McCalmont of the Robbers' Roost! Take me who can!" Curly had gone plumb crazy, throwing his life away to get Balshannon one more chance of escape, but the crooks only saw that the small boy's team of guns were quick in his hands to shoot, and felt real glad of Ryan's outstretched arms. So came the lull, and I heard the bar-keep clashing down bottle and glass beside Balshannon. "Whisky," says he in a shaky voice, "and yours, Mr. Ryan?" "Irish," said Ryan, then whispered to his son, who hauled clumsy, getting out his silver-plated pop-shooter, a thing more fit for a girl than a grown man. I like to think of my old patrone in those last moments of his life, as he stood at the end of the bar, quiet peaceful, facing Ryan. He was a tall, straight man, gaunt some, dead weary, but the only clean thing in sight. The grey moustache raked up against the red tan of his face, his hair was curling silver, his eyes cool blue. He seemed to be amused with the Ryans, and as to weapons, he just despised a gun. Then he heard the clash of his son's spurs just behind him. "Good-bye," I heard him whisper. "God bless you, Jim." I reckon Jim was crying. Ryan had swung forward along the bar, and reached for Balshannon's empty glass. "Here, take your drink," he shouted, "the drink you begged for!" Balshannon stepped aside while Ryan filled the glass for him to drink. "Thank you," he said. But Ryan snatched the full glass, jumped back, swung out his arm—"Take that!" he yelled, and threw the glass straight at Balshannon's face. The patrone took a handkerchief and wiped his face, slow and dainty, but the blood was starting where the glass had struck. "I'm sorry," he said, "that it should come to this, but as you are not in condition, Mr. Ryan, to fight, I must ask you, Mr. Michael Ryan, to oblige me." "Fight?" yelled Ryan. "Fight a thing like you? Not much! Back, Michael! My Lord Balshannon," he sneered, "do you think my son would demean himself to fight you?" "I observe," said Balshannon kindly, "that he seems to be rather warm in that fur overcoat." The crowd broke out laughing, half ready, I felt then to take the weaker side against a coward. The patrone was so surely great, so much a man, so helpless—death in his eyes, peace on his smiling lips; and the Ryans in furs and jewellery looked such curs. I had stepped back against the wall, facing the middle of the bar. On the right was the Ryan gang, on the left Balshannon, behind me the row of windows which looked on the alley-way where my men lay hid. I rapped soft with my knuckles on the window just at my right hand. "Say, Chalkeye!" Louisiana was hailing me. "Why don't you stand by the Dook? Have you gone back on the Dook?" "I stand here, Pete," said I, "to see fair play." Then Ryan broke in on me. "Boys," he said, "we don't need Chalkeye Davies to judge our play. You know me, all of you; you know my record, and what I've done for our city. I've not asked you here, citizens, to see murder, or fighting of any sort, but to witness an act of justice done by this Lord Balshannon on himself." The crowd kept still, remembering that our leading citizen had acted straight for our city, and had a right to be heard. "Now you shall judge as citizens," said Ryan, "between this man and me. For a thousand years my people, the Ryans, had land and homes in Oireland, until the Balshannons came over with bloody Cromwell to steal our little holdings by force of ar-r-ms. We were overpowered, we were forced to pay rent to the tyrants, but we were free men, not slaves; we are free men to-day, and we have fought for liberty. "Look at this last Balshannon, this man who once tried to get me hung on a false charge, this cowardly, brutal ruffian, who drove me and all my people out of our homes to die in the bitter cold. Think of our women starving to death in the snow-drifts—and, if you doubt me, go and ask me wife. We were driven, she and I, and all our people, out of the land we loved, out of Erin, beggared, hopeless, despairing exiles. Out on the black Atlantic we had to bury one of my little children in the sea—there stands the murderer! Do you blame me, citizens, for wanting vengeance?" "Dook," says the Alabama Kid, "suppose we hear your side?" "You'll hear my side," says Lord Balshannon, "from Ryan. This is his court—of—er—justice." Then he wiped the running blood from his cheek, and yawned behind his hand. Even Ryan's men began to look ashamed of such a court. "Vengeance!" Ryan was howling; "vengeance with the Apaches first—I turned them loose on your camp! Vengeance with McCalmont's robbers—I turned them loose on your ranche!" Balshannon swung half round and grasped Curly McCalmont's hand. We saw his back shaking with laughter, but when he faced Ryan again he straightened his lips. "Excuse me," he said, "go on." But the crowd remembered how McCalmont's wolves had breakfasted with Ryan after that little dinner at Holy Cross. They howled with laughter. "You may laugh!" yelled Ryan; "laugh, you hounds!" but Balshannon lifted his hand, and the crowd were silent. "Yes, I failed," said Ryan. "I had to wait—I waited—but what I couldn't do you did for yourself; yes, you, Balshannon, drinking and gambling here while your forsaken wife lay dying yonder! I had only to find a few friends to lend you me money, and sharpers to be after rooking you of all you borrowed. Yes, that was me vengeance; can you say that failed? Where is your big estate? Where are your cattle? Where is your wife?" Balshannon's face had gone dead with pain, but he never flinched. "And now," Ryan shouted at him, "you beggared gambler, you broken, shaking drunkard, you shall finish this vengeance on yourself, which you began, which needs no hand of mine! Here!" He ran forward, and jammed a long knife into Balshannon's hand. "Finish! Kill yourself, and have done, for shure an' you're not fit to live, ye filthy beast!" Balshannon was reeling, faint, sick, clinging to the bar for support. "Boys," I shouted, "if Ryan's a man, let him fight. Stand aside, give him room, give him a gun. Patrone, take this gun!" I jumped to his side, jammed one of my revolvers into his hand, then leapt back to my place by the wall. Ryan's tin-horn pets had deserted him; even his son, scared to death, had slunk away. "Help!" Ryan was screaming. "Murther!" But a gun was thrust into his hand, and his own hired thugs shoved him forward to fight Balshannon. "When I call 'Three!'" I shouted, and saw Balshannon stand like a man, cool, steady. "One, two, three!" Ryan fired and missed before my second call, but at the "Three" Balshannon's gun blazed out. I saw a little black hole between Ryan's eyes, and he fell forward all in a heap, stone dead. I reckon that for years I'd been heaps virtuous keeping my quick gun off Balshannon's meat, so now I was full of joy because the patrone had finished up all the unpleasantness and made peace without loss or damage. No grown responsible man had any quarrel left. But then my youngsters weren't grown up a bit, nor responsible, nor anything else, but rattled with a gun-fight too rich for their blood. Curly was scared all to pieces, Jim was right off his head, and as to my three kids outside the window, they had no sense anyways at their best. I ought to have thought of that before; it was too late now. What matter if young Michael eased his feelings by empting off his toy at the patrone? His pellets chipped the ceiling, and did him credit for a pious son, but only got a laugh from Balshannon. Michael just went on popping ostentatious, so Balshannon showed he bore no malice by throwing his own gun on the bar. Then somebody called out for drinks as a sign of peace. But Jim only saw his father being attacked, and he surely never had a sense of humour. He turned his wolf-howl loose, and broke his gun-arm free from Curly's hold, then started splashing lead at Michael Ryan. I saw some fur fly off from the Jew coat, and the next shot dispersed young Michael's hat, but the third struck Low-Lived Joe on the shoulder. Then there was surely war, for Louisiana loved that Joe more than anything else on earth, and all his friends lashed out their guns. Curly knelt quick below the blast of lead, and Jim leapt sudden behind the end of the bar, but in a blaze of flame and rolling smoke I saw Balshannon clutch both hands to his heart, then swing half round and fall. It must have been then that poor Curly fired the two shots which killed Louisiana and Beef Jones, the horse thief. It must have been then that the window close beside me fell with a crash of glass upon the floor, and my three men, all masked, with guns and rifles poured red-hot slaughter into the Ryan crowd. That was bad, but I felt grateful then, while one by one I shot out the swinging lamps which lit the smoke. There were five, making so many shades of deeper gloom, and then dead blackness pierced by flaming guns, and at the end of that silence, with a patter of running feet, the groan of a dying man. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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