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Updated: June 28, 2025
Wylie's startled eyes told tales when she saw the three men. Her face was ashen. "I'm here to play trumps, Mrs. Wylie. What secret has the Jack of Hearts got hidden from us?" young Flandrau demanded, his hard eyes fastened to her timorous ones. "I I I don't know what you mean." "No use. We're here for business. Dick, you stay with her. Don't let her leave or shout a warning."
Curly had been one of those who had given the invitation. He had taken the hint and left without delay. Now he was paying the debt he owed young Flandrau. Though the role Curly had been given was that of the hardened desperado he could not quite live up to the part. As Buck turned to leave the bunk house the boy touched him on the arm. "How about Cullison?" he asked, very low.
And he was lying comfortably in a clean bed instead of hanging by the neck from the limb of one of the big cottonwoods on the edge of the creek. A memory smote him and instantly he was grave again. "How is Cullison?" "Good as the wheat, doc says. Mighty lucky for Mr. C. Flandrau that he is. Say, I'm to be yore valley and help you into them clothes. Git a wiggle on you."
Flandrau, Senior, did not glance at the sullen face of Lute Blackwell hovering in the background but he knew perfectly well that inside of an hour word would reach Soapy Stone that only an even break with Curly would be allowed. The day passed without a meeting between the two. Curly grew nervous at the delay. "I'm as restless as a toad on a hot skillet," he confessed to Davis.
"And I expect your information is pretty recent." That drew another little laugh accompanied by a blush. "Don't you think I have told you enough for one day, Mr. Flandrau?" "That 'Mr. sounds too solemn. My friends call me 'Curly," he let her know. She remembered that he was a stranger and a rustler and she drew herself up stiffly. This pleasant young fellow was too familiar.
"Are you this man mentioned here? What's his name 'Curly' Flandrau?" "Yes." "And you're a rustler?" "What do you think? Am I more like a rustler than a deputy sheriff? Stands to reason I can't be both." Her eyes did not leave him. She brushed aside his foolery impatiently. "You don't even deny it." "I haven't yet. I expect I will later."
And to his prisoner: "You too." Flandrau saw close at hand for the first time the man who had been Arizona's most famous fighting sheriff. Luck Cullison was well-built and of medium height, of a dark complexion, clean shaven, wiry and muscular. Already past fifty, he looked not a day more than forty. One glance was enough to tell Curly the kind of man this was.
Lute had found a job, he said. "That a paper sticking out of your pocket?" Flandrau asked. Soapy, still astride his horse, tossed the Saguache Sentinel to him as he turned toward the stable. "Lie number one nailed," Curly said to himself. "How came he with a Saguache paper if he's been to Mesa?" Caught between the folds of the paper was a railroad time table.
If they hadn't I could have proved by them I was not one of the men who sold them the stock," Flandrau replied. "Like hell you could," Buck snorted, then grinned at his prisoner in a shamefaced way: "You're a good one, son." "Luck has been breaking bad for me, but when things are explained " "It sure will take a lot of explaining to keep you out of the pen.
"Nope," he answered, hammering down a rivet. Kate called up the hotel where Maloney was staying at Saguache, but could not get him. She tried the Del Mar, where her father and his friends always put up when in town. She asked in turn for Mackenzie, for Yesler, for Alec Flandrau. While she waited for an answer, the girl moved nervously about the room.
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