Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: June 28, 2025
Voices called to him from the plain below. He answered, and presently circled down into the gulch which led to the open. At the gulch mouth he came on a little group of people. One glance told him all he needed to know. Kate Cullison was crying in the arms of Curly Flandrau. Simultaneously a man galloped up, flung himself from his horse, and took the young woman from her lover.
The old Arizona fashion of settling a difference of opinion with the six-gun had long fallen into disuse, but Saguache was still close enough to the stark primeval emotions to wait with a keen interest for the crack of the revolver that would put a period to the quarrel between Soapy Stone and young Flandrau.
Soapy and Bad Bill weren't in this deal," he answered easily. "We know there were two others in it with you. I guess they were Soapy and Bad Bill all right." "There's no law against guessing." The foreman of the Bar Double M interrupted impatiently, tired of trying to pump out the information by finesse. "You've got to speak, Flandrau. You've got to tell us who was engineering this theft.
Curly was not playing to win money so much as to study the characters of those present. Bill he knew already fairly well as a tough nut to crack, game to the core, and staunch to his friends. Blackwell was a bad lot, treacherous, vindictive, slippery as an eel. Even his confederates did not trust him greatly. But it was Soapy Stone and young Cullison that interested Flandrau most.
A bullet had plowed through the boy's skull. Softly Flandrau put the head back in the sand and rose to his feet. The revolver of the dead puncher was in his hand. The attackers had stopped shooting, but when they saw him rise a rifle puffed once more. The riders were closing in on him now. The nearest called to him to surrender.
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.
"Don't you think we'd better let Uncle Alec find out? He's not so likely to stir up curiosity," Curly suggested. "That's right. Let me earn my board and keep," the owner of the Map of Texas volunteered. Within a quarter of an hour Alec Flandrau joined the others at the hotel. He was beaming like a schoolboy who has been given an unexpected holiday.
Blackwell had no science. His arms went like flails. Though by sheer strength he kept Flandrau backing, the latter hit cleaner and with more punishing effect. Curly watched his chance, dodged a wild swing, and threw himself forward hard with his shoulder against the chest of the convict. The man staggered back, tripped on the lowest step of the porch, and went down hard.
Mac personated the sheepman, came into the room, hung up his hat, lounged over to the poker table, said his little piece as well as he could remember it, and passed into the next room. Flandrau, Senior, taking the role of Cullison, presently got up, lifted his hat from the rack, and went to the door. With excitement trembling in her voice, the girl asked an eager question.
Soapy made no comment in words, but he looked at Flandrau with a new respect. For the first time a doubt as to the wisdom of letting him stay at the ranch crossed his mind. His suspicion was justified. Curly had been living on the edge of a secret for weeks. Mystery was in the air. More than once he had turned a corner to find the other four whispering over something.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking