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Every member of the New York East Conference knows that Dr. Curry's influence was so powerful that he could almost get a majority against it.
Then the leader slapped our cowboys on the shoulders and told them they had done a good job to bring into camp such a rich old codger as Pa was, and then we found that the cowboys belonged to Curry's gang, and had roped Pa in in order to get a ransom.
"What's the use?" Old Man Curry's countenance took on a look of deep concern. "What ails you, son? Ain't you well?" "Well enough, I guess. Why?" "Because I never see you pass up a mortal cinch before." The Kid chuckled mirthlessly. "Old-timer," said he, "I'm up against a cinch of my own but it's a cinch to lose." He returned to his survey of the open field, but Old Man Curry lingered.
The other jockeys dressed in the jockeys' room at the paddock inclosure, but Mose found it pleasanter to don the silks in the tack room of Old Man Curry's barn, which also served him as a sleeping apartment. The old man sat on the edge of Mose's cot, speaking earnestly and slapping the palm of his left hand with the fingers of his right, as if to lend emphasis to his words.
If he could have heard a conversation then going on in Old Man Curry's tackle-room, the figuring would have been easier. "Frank," said the old man, "I had my eye on you to-day. You ain't got designs on that fool's bank roll, have you?" The Bald-faced Kid blew a cloud of cigarette smoke into the air and watched it float to the rafters before he answered question with question.
That night the door of Old Man Curry's tack room swung gently open, and the aged horseman, looking up from his well-thumbed copy of the Old Testament, nodded to an expected visitor. "Set down, Frank, and take a load off your feet," said he hospitably. "I sort of thought you'd come." For a time they talked horse, usually an engrossing subject, but after a bit the conversation flagged.
"And if you'll take a tip from me which you won't because you think you're smarter than I am you'll let Old Man Curry's horses alone. It ain't in the cards that you or me can monkey with those Bible horses without getting hurt. Grab this Fairfax, or whatever they call him now, but count me out." "No-o," said The Sharpshooter, his lips pursed and his brow wrinkled. "I don't want to grab him.
Miles stooped to extinguish a burning match end which the Kid had thrown on the floor, and in that instant the Bald-faced Kid caught Old Man Curry's eye and shook his head ever so slightly. "He ain't for sale," said the owner of Eliphaz. "Not for cash and your own figure?" persisted Miles. Again a wordless message flashed across the tackle-room.
Within half a dozen years I have heard Dr. J. L. M. Curry, a brave, honest ex-Confederate officer, in addressing both the Alabama and Georgia State legislatures, say to those bodies in the most emphatic manner that it was as much the duty of the State to educate the negro children as the white children, and in each case Dr. Curry's words were cheered.
An inquisitive soul is an itching thing and the gathering of information was the Bald-faced Kid's ruling passion. He called at Old Man Curry's stable that evening with a bit of news which he hoped to use as the key to a secret. "Greetings!" said he at the tack-room door. "Thought you'd like to know that Engle has sold Elisha. Pete Lawrence bought him for three hundred dollars.
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