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Luck saw to it that Curly got all the credit of frustrating the outlaws in their attempt on the Flyer and of capturing them afterward. In the story of the rescue of Kate he played up Flandrau's part in the pursuit at the expense of the other riders. For September was at hand and the young man needed all the prestige he could get.
About a mile and a half up the line they met Cullison and his riders on the way down. Maloney was with them. He had been picked up at the station. Dick gave a shout of joy when he heard Flandrau's voice. "Oh, you Curly! I've been scared stiff for fear they'd got you." Luck caught the boy's hand and wrung it hard. "You plucky young idiot, you've got sand in your craw.
The fall knocked the breath out of him. "Had enough?" demanded Curly. For answer Blackwell bit his thumb savagely. "Since you like it so well, have another taste." Curly, now thoroughly angry, sent a short-arm jolt to the mouth. The man underneath tried to throw him off, but Flandrau's fingers found his hairy throat and tight- The continuation was not printed at the top of the following page.
The man's black eyes were the sort that never soften toward the follies and mistakes of youth. "You've got the right man all right," he said to Buck without answering Flandrau's cool nod of recognition. "What sort of a reputation has he got?" Buck asked, lowering his voice a little. Kite did not take the trouble to lower his. "Bad. Always been a tough character.
Cranston asked. A muscle twitched in Flandrau's cheek. "They got Mac." "Got him! Where? At Saguache?" "Ran us down near the Circle C. Mac opened fire. They killed him." "Shot him, or ?" Curly was left to guess the other half of the question. "Shot him, and took me prisoner." "They couldn't prove a thing, could they?" "They could prove I wounded Cullison. That was enough for them.
Somebody was pounding on the bedroom door, which probably accounted for Flandrau's dream that a sheriff was driving nails in the lid of a coffin containing one Curly. Mac was already out of bed when his partner's feet hit the floor. "What's up, Mac?" The eyes of the redheaded puncher gleamed with excitement. His six-gun was in his hand.
I notice there's liable to be trouble between Fendrick and the cattle interests over his sheep," the reader answered casually. "Yep. Between Fendrick and Cullison, anyhow." Stone had reclaimed and pocketed his time table. Incidentally Flandrau's doubt had been converted into a lively suspicion. Presently he took a gun, and strolled off to shoot birds.
He was scarcely a human being to them; rather a wolf to be stamped out of existence as soon as it was convenient. A chill ran down Curly's spine. He felt as if someone were walking on his grave. At a shift in the group Flandrau's eyes fell on his friend lying in the sand with face turned whitely to the sky he never would see again.
"I wonder if you would mind if I asked you a question." "You've earned the right to ask as many as you like." "It's about We have been told you know the man they call Soapy Stone. Is that true?" Flandrau's eyes took on a stony look. It was as if something had sponged all the boyishness from his face. Still trying to get him to give away his partners in the rustling, were they?
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