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Updated: June 28, 2025
Presently there came a faint far call for help. Curly cantered around the shoulder of the hill and saw a man squatting on the ground. He was stooped forward in an awkward fashion with his back to Flandrau. "What's up?" At the question the man looked over his shoulder. Pain and helpless rage burned in the deep-set black eyes. "Nothing at all.
The settlement showed that the owner of the Circle C was twenty-five hundred dollars behind the game. He owed Mackenzie twelve hundred, Flandrau four hundred, and three hundred to Yesler. With Fendrick sitting in an easy chair just across the room, he found it a little difficult to say what otherwise would have been a matter of course. "My bank's busted just now, boys.
But I know you'll be here in September if you're alive and kicking." Flandrau persisted. "But Luck don't owe me anything, except one pill sent promiscuous to his address. What's he going down into his jeans for? Will you tell me that? And shove them crackers north by east. Got to fill up on something." "Ain't you as good a guesser as I am, Curly?" "Well then, here's my guess. Miss Kate made him."
Since he had come back from the penitentiary he had been lying pretty low, but he brought down from the old days a record that chilled the blood. Curly sloughed his foolishness and came to the point. "You're on, Slats. I'm making that call to you now." The eyes of the two men fastened. Those of Flandrau had quit dancing and were steady as the sun in a blue sky.
Habitually she wore a depressed, hopeless look, the air of pathetic timidity that comes to some women who have found life too hard for them. It had been easy to alarm her. His first question had evidently set her heart a-flutter, but Flandrau had reassured her cheerfully. She had protested with absurd earnestness that she had seen nothing of Mr. Cullison.
It counted for a good deal that Alec Flandrau, Billy Mackenzie, and Luck Cullison were known to be backing him, but it was worth much more that his wife of a week sat beside him in the courtroom. Every time they looked at the prisoner the jurymen saw too her dusky gallant little head and slender figure. They remembered the terrible experience through which she had so recently passed.
"Or you wouldn't have been talking about me," retorted Fendrick acidly. The words were flung at Flandrau, but plainly they were meant as a challenge for Cullison. A bearded man, the oldest in the party, cut in with good-natured reproof. "I shouldn't wonder, Cass, but your name is liable to be mentioned just like that of any other man."
Then everybody, hitherto paralyzed by the sight of a deadly weapon, woke up and took a hand. They dragged the two men apart. Curly was thrust into a barber shop on the other side of the street and Stone was dragged back into the Silver Dollar. In two minutes Flandrau had made himself famous, for he was a marked man. The last words of the straggling desperado had been that he would shoot on sight.
If the old man is absent scenery, you wave your bandanna real industrious. If he is at home, give Laura the tip and she'll know where to find me." The owner of the ranch, as it happened, was cutting trail over by Agua Caliente. "Do you want to see him very bad, Mr. Flandrau?" asked Miss Laura demurely. "My friends call me Curly." "I meant to say Curly." "That's what I thought.
But Flandrau knew they would snuff out his life just the same if they decided it was best. Afterward they might regret it, but that would not help him. Darkness came, and the lamps were lit. Again Curly ate and smoked and chatted a little with his captors. But as he sat there hour after hour, feeling death creep closer every minute, cold shivers ran up and down his spine.
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