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Curly

<h2>CHAPTER XXII</h2> <h3>ROBBERY-UNDER-ARMS</h3> In those days of our little unpleasantness in Arizona there was another discussion proceeding along in South Africa. The Boers had their tail up, and the British Army was indulging itself in "regrettable incidents" about once a week. Which I allude to here because the word "regrettable incident" is good; it's soothing, and it illustrates exactly what happened on the night when I delivered Curly, damaged but cheerful, among my cousins, the Misses Jameson. Just to the east of the home inhabited by these ladies occurs the Jim Crow Mine, the same being the very place where the robbers once had breakfast with old man Ryan, making him pay the bill, as aforesaid, which was seventy-five thousand dollars, and annoying. On this further occasion which I now unfold, there were only four men working the Jim Crow claim. It seems they were in the bunk house playing poker until eleven p. m., when their foreman uprose with regrets to surrender his hat, boots, and pants to an avaricious person holding three aces and a pair of jacks. The foreman's warm communications on the subject of cheating were then cut off short by a masked robber standing in the doorway with guns. This robber proposed that all gentlemen present should throw up their hands, and allowed they had a fervent invitation to die unless they stepped out pretty soon to the head of the Jim Crow shaft. Accordingly the sad procession trailed away to the shaft, and one by one the mourners went down in a bucket to a total depth of one hundred and four feet. Then the robber hauled up the bucket to keep them from straying out, and promised faithful that if he heard any noise he would just drop in a few sticks of dynamite. There was not much noise. Meanwhile other earnest young robbers were collecting every citizen who passed the mine, and inviting him to join their surprise-party down at the foot of the shaft. The citizens all accepted, and when some candles, a deck of cards, and a few bottles of nose paint were sent to assist, the levée underground began to get quite a success. Mixed in with these proceedings, and other hold-ups various and swift, was the Chinese cook with a robber holding his tail while he fixed supper for twenty-five men. Afterwards he likewise was handed down the shaft. I should also mention a preacher in a black suit, and a white tie up under his ear, projecting around among the store shed for cases of dynamite. At 12:30 a bunch of cowboys numbering eighteen head, with a cavvyard of ponies, trailed in off the range. After each man had roped and saddled a fresh horse, and fed corn to the same, their reverend pastor put out a relief of sentries, and told the crowd to line up in the rampasture for supper. Naturally these people had to get the provisions off their minds before there was any talk, but then the preacher reared up to address the meeting. "Brethren——" says he. "Look a-here," the new segundo, Black Stanley, started in obstreperous, backed by a dozen men, all seething. "I represents this outfit in starting to buck right now!" "Turn yo'self loose." "We-all has come to an understanding that we ain't agoin' to fool around here any more. These is mean pastures, and we breaks for home." "That's what's the matter!" A lot of robbers began to come to a crisis. "Misteh Stanley, seh," says McCalmont, "you air a judge of rye whisky, and a natural bawn leader of men." The boys began to laugh. "Now," says McCalmont, "all you boys who yearns to get quit of me, and have this judge of rye and natural bawn leader of men to be they'r chief, will arise and join his herd. Yo' hawsses are at the door, so trail yo' spurs along the floor and go!" Not a man moved. "You, Black Stanley, take yo'self and yo' followers, and get absent quick from this camp, 'cause the rest of us has business." Stanley, getting to feel a whole lot lonesome, just dropped his tail, and submitted. "Chief," says he, "I take it all back." "I made you my segundo, Stanley, and you've proved yo'self mighty sudden. I reduce you to the ranks. You, Bowlaigs, act as second in command. And now to business. "First, I want to instil into yo' dim and clouded intellecks that when a member of the gang is captured he has to be rescued. The captured man was my son, and seventeen skunks of you hung fire when I asked for his rescue. These seventeen said skunks is fined half theyr shares of plunder in the next raiding, the same to be paid to those who do most work. Second, the man who rescued my son is Jim du Chesnay here." The Captain laid his hand upon Jim's shoulder. "He is my guest, and as he's not a member of this or'nary low-flung herd, you don't want to tell him awdehs, or oppress him, or stuff his haid with any of yo' dreams. I've a mind to muzzle a few pet liars right now. The speshul liars I see grinning is the ones I allude to particular. "Now you-all is a mighty sight wide of bein' perfect thieves; you has weaknesses, some for bad liquor, some for small mean thefts, most for showin' yo'selves off 'sif you was buck-devils, which you shorely ain't. To-night I propose you fast from such-like vanities, and attend strictly to business. Moreover, as some of you ain't got no more sense than a poached cat, I now explains this warpath, lest you get wandering around after the wrong scalp. The objec' of this virtuous night is to steal a millionaire which goes by the name of Michael Ryan, and holes up in a palace cyar on the railroad sidings. If you get him in reasonable preservation, we realise lots of wealth for his ransom; but any blamed fool who spoils him with loose ammunition is robbing his partners of theyr lawful dues." And so, having tamed his wolves, McCalmont gave the orders for the night. Right here I bubble over with remarks on the art of being a villain. Now this Captain McCalmont wasn't a good man exactly, it being his humble vocation to steal everything in sight, and shoot any party who happened to get in the way. He was a sure enough scoundrel, and yet Curly just loved him frantic. Jim trusted him body and soul. I was mighty proud of having his friendship. All his wolves were tame as little children when he led them; every cowboy on the range would have shared his last drop of water with old McCalmont, and even the victims he robbed would speak of him mostly as a perfect gentleman. When he laid a trap that same deadfall looked a whole lot attractive and comforting. "'Scuse me," says McCalmont, springing the steel jaws on his victim. I hope yo're not feeling hurt?" Now if McCalmont had looked like one of them villains I see at the theatre, scowling, threatening, lurid, mean-eyed scareheads, he wouldn't have seen the victim's tail for dust. No, he wasn't like a villain, he was like a man—a white man at that—and when he gave a show it was worth any man's money to see. Just watch his play. Grave City was a plenty big city to attack; it could turn out three hundred riders, anyway, and that mighty sudden, too, in case of robbers. McCalmont had to attack with twenty-four outlaws, and get them away without any holes through their hides. Along towards one in the morning the stable-man at Ryan's livery met with an accident, being clubbed. Then a couple of men walked round the stalls, loosed all the horses, and drove the whole outfit away through the back gate. The same proceedings occurred at the Spur livery, and in all the large stables, until two hundred head of good stock were gathered and run off to the northward. In Main Street, hitched to the snubbing posts, stood a score of saddled horses, a waiting patient to take their drunkards home. These poor creatures were cared for tender by a young man who went along casual, feeding them each a bunch of dry herbs, the same being loco weed, and a heaps powerful medicine. Now we turn to the railroad station, where the main game was being played. At one a. m. the night operator in the depôt remembered all of a sudden that the lady clerk, Miss Brumble, at Contention, had wired him to send on a parcel of stockings by Number 4. The night freight train was pulling out at the time, so he ran across the platform and pitched the parcel into the caboose as the cars went rolling past him. "Miss Brumble's socks!" says he. "All correct!" says the conductor; and the train went rumbling off into the desert. Then the night operator—which his name was Bowles—turned round to point back for his office, and suddenly trod on a preacher. "Pardon me," says the reverend stranger. "Oh, don't mention it," says the clerk, some sarcastic. "'Scuse me, seh, may I venture to—" "Well, what's the matter with you?" "My poor lost brother, I am wishful to be infawmed if Misteh Michael Ryan——" "He's in his car. I'm busy." "Oh, but my deah young friend, these profane cowboys are using such feahful language, because Misteh Ryan refuses to see them, being gawn to bed——" The operator turned on his heel, and turned off growling. "You see," the preacher wailed after him, "they've got a robber." The operator began to nibble the bait. "Robber!" He swung round sudden. "What robber?" "The erring young person is called James du Chesnay." "They've got him? Great snakes!" "Yes, in bondage. They want to be rewarded with earthly dross, instead of seeking for the blessings and comfort which alone——" "And Ryan won't come out?" "I think, seh, that Misteh Ryan is timid, bekase of the shocking profanity of these misguided men, breaking his windows, too. Let me admonish you, my brother, to eschew the company of all——" "I'll fix him," says the operator, and charged along down the platform with the preacher suffering after him. That night operator, Mr. Mose Bowles, surging along the platform to Ryan's car, would have bet his last dollar that the facts were true. He saw three sure-enough cowboys sitting their horses easy in front of the private car, and the preacher was plumb correct about the way they talked. Bowles saw the prisoner, bound hand and foot, on a led horse, and that was Jim beyond all doubt, looking plenty discouraged. Bowles knew that Ryan had offered rewards most bounteous for Jim's body; he hungered for a portion of the plunder, and when he swung himself up the platform on the end of the car his batterings on the door was full of enthusiasm. "I feah," says the preacher, "that yo're spoiling the paint. Take thought, my friend, how expensive is paint like that!" The cowboys were backing their horses away beyond range of the car lamps, out of sight. "Mr. Ryan!" Bowles shouted, "urgent telegrams! Come out!" A nigger porter slid open an inch of the door. "You go way," says he; "Mass' Ryan he plumb distrackful. Go 'way." "Let me in, you fool!" Bowles wrenched the door wide open, and jumped into the car; then there were mutterings and voices, the lighting up of the far end of the Pullman; and after a while came a fat young man bustling out on the platform. He wore a fur coat, bare legs, and slippers, cussing around most peevish. "'Scuse me," says the preacher, "I am an unworthy minister, a 'Ticular Baptist, and I could not heah the feahful profanity of these rude men without shedding tears. May I esco't you, seh, to see this prisoner?" Bowles and the negro stood on the car platform watching, while the preacher led Ryan off into starlight. "My heart quakes at the feah that these cowboys have gawn away. Please step this way—and 'ware stumbling on these sidings—this way, Misteh Ryan—this way——" The voice died away, and Bowles was putting out to follow, when all of a sudden he and the negro were seized from behind, gagged, roped, and generally detained. Off among the sidings Mr. Ryan had a gag in his mouth, a rope round his elbows; then felt himself caught up into the starlight and thrown on a horse while his feet were hobbled under the animal's belly. In the station a robber was playing tunes with an axe on the keys of the telegraph, and the wires were being lopped with a pair of shears. Speaking generally, a whole lot of silence was being procured, and from a robber point of view things worked harmonious until the first bunch of riders went thundering away into the desert. As it happened, the City Marshal and his deputy, Shorty Broach, straying into these premises to send off a telegram, found the operator and the negro lying gagged and bound on the platform; so when they heard the robbers loping off they sized up the whole situation. They were just too late to get robbers, but plenty swift in turning out the town. This news of a fresh outrage hit old Grave City sudden, surprising, right in the middle of sleep time, and the whole town swarmed out instant like a hornets' nest for war. Some of the people were full of sleep, others were full of whisky; some had their war-paint, some had a blanket; but all of them felt they were spat on, all of them howled for vengeance. For a whole week the town tribe and the range tribe had been at war, and here was some idiot making a howl about robbers! This was certainly another case of cowboys in town, and the verdict was sudden—to lynch the cowboy leader, Mr. Chalkeye Davies. It being some expedient first to catch this Chalkeye, these warriors began to make haste and get mounted for pursuit. But from the first things seemed to go wrong, for one after another the horses which had been standing in the street went jumping roaring crazy, pulling back till their reins broke, bucking off their saddles, whirling around the town, and stampeding away to the desert. The people saw that loco weed had been prevailing over the plain sense of these animals; then they found the stables an aching solitude, and the telegraph wrecked to prevent them calling for help, and everything done thoughtful and considerate by felonious parties unknown who had stolen the only millionaire in Arizona. Soon they remembered there had been a whole lot of unpleasantness between Mr. Ryan and Chalkeye. Thus the more they considered, the more their noses went sideways of the truth, smelling the poisonous iniquities of this Chalkeye outlaw. The town was left afoot, and yet from private stables horses were raked up, enough to mount a posse of thirty men. By this time it was too late to chase, but the Marshal reckoned that, with a shine of bicycle lamps, he could track until daylight, and keep on the robbers' trail until he got more help. He never ruminated on the thoughtful, prophetic way in which these motions were foreseen. Just abreast of the Jim Crow Mine the leading horse of that posse blew up with a loud bang, and Shorty Broach was projected into a prickly-pear bush. That is how he got his new pseudonym, which is Pincushion Shorty to the present day. On the whole that posse concluded to go home rather than face a pavement of live dynamite. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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