Curly Part 22

THE REAL CURLY

Throwing back along my trail, I notice that I've mentioned a whole lot of points about Curly which made him unusual, different from other boys.

Remember how he balked and s.h.i.+ed at Holy Cross until we allowed him to hole up in a den of his own. He was sure wild and scary of railroads, towns, or a strange house. Except with his own folks, the Balshannon outfit, and me, he was dumb as a bear, and showed wild-eyed fright when strangers spoke to him. The meanest horses went tame at a word from him; no dog ever barked at him except with tail signals of joy; cats followed him around, and any animal who was hurt or in trouble would run to Curly for help. Even the deer knew his calls, and would come quite near while he spoke to them in that low soft voice of his. That voice never broke gruff with manhood, but just stayed sweet, like the sound of running water.

He had a strong face, stern as our desert country, tanned, beautiful no end, so that one caught one's breath at the very sight of him. His smile turned me weak; his voice went through me, and I'm a sure hard case.

Everybody just had to love that Curly--a born rider, a wonderful scout, a dead shot, a dangerous fighter, who bore pain like an Indian, and had heaps more sense and courage than Jim his partner.

Why do I say all this? Well, from the first, I saw that Curly youngster was undersized and weak, with a narrow chest and wide hips more like a girl than a boy. A right proper man is strong, rough, hardy; he ought to have a temper and be master, ready to work and fight for his women folk.

That Curly broke down and sobbed like a girl after the gun-fight, and in a hundred soft ways was not a proper man. There were often times when I wanted to turn in and lam his head. Then I didn't, but somehow knew that Nature had played some scurvy trick on that well-meaning youngster.

Well, Jim was younger than me, so there's some excuse for him. He was rough on Curly--hostile and contemptuous when the little partner acted feminine. He owned up afterwards he'd behaved like a brute to that poor wounded, helpless critter, loving him all the while, but acting coa.r.s.e; that humbled Curly, who weakened under his tongue lash, cried at times, and lay for hours sucking the wound on his arm, dumb like a dying animal. Both youngsters were surely miserable on the second and third days they lay together in prison. It was on the second morning that I sent down a doctor from Bisley to fix up Curly's wound.

Late that evening, towards midnight, a crowbar dropped down through the window-gap in the wall, and Jim began to labour out a hole for their escape. He dug out bricks of 'dobe one by one, and while he worked he made poor Curly sing hour after hour, to hide up the sound of the crowbar. Shall I tell you one of the songs? It's a cowboy tune for smoothing the feelings of driven cattle while they bed themselves down for night.

"Soh, Bossie, soh!

The water's handy neah, The gra.s.s is plenty heah, An' all the stars a-sparkle Bekase we drive no mo'-- We drive no mo'!

The long trail ends to-day, The long trail ends to-day, The punchers go to play, And all you weary cattle May sleep in peace for sure-- Sleep, sleep fo' sure.

The moon cayn't bite you heah, Nor punchers fright you heah, And you-all will be beef befo'

We need you any mo'-- We need you mo'!"

When morning broke Jim piled hay on the burrow he'd made in the foot of the wall, and lay on top, dead weary to get some sleep. At ten o'clock the doctor from Bisley found Curly still singing, light-headed, talking nonsense. The patient said he was a bear, so the doctor gave sleep medicine, and sat beside him. At noon he fed the boys their dinner and went away, but they didn't wake again until supper-time, when the man on guard came in.

"What's for supper?" says Curly.

"_Tortillas_, _frijoles_, coffee--same as usual."

"Eat it," says Curly, "'cause I'm only a bear holed up for winter. We don't eat in winter anyways."

"Bears have their coffee," says Jim.

"Oh yes, of course," and Curly fed coffee to the winter bear. That cleared his head, and he sat up watching Jim at work on the little round dishes. The food was _frijoles_, the same being beans, and _tortillas_, which is a thin corn-cake, pretty much the same as brown fly-papers, warm and damp, but sort of uninteresting to taste. The coffee was in a brown earthen pot, fresh from the fire, and mighty encouraging. Those three things make the proper feed for Mexicans, the same being simple, uninstructed people, knowing no better. When they feast they make a stew of red pepper, and take a little meat with it; but that dish is a luxury, and hot enough to burn a hole through a brick.

When Jim had eaten everything in sight he started cigarettes, listening to a banjo in the guardroom, a growing hum of talk, and the click of cups, for some Holy Cross riders were there with a jar of cactus spirit, a deck of cards, and other inducements sent in by Captain McCalmont. Jim heard them talking war because they'd never been paid off at Holy Cross, and had six months' wages coming. They allowed that el Chico their young patrone ought to hang, and the guards agreed that such was probable.

To-morrow the prisoners were going to be collected by the United States authorities for trial. Jim looked at his partner for comfort, but saw big tears rolling down Curly's face.

"You ought to be ashamed of that," says he.

"It cayn't be helped." Curly swept his arm across his face. "You Jim, we got to part to-night."

"You wild a.s.s of the desert! What's the matter now?"

"You're goin' through that hole to find yo' liberty, but I stay here."

"Stay, and be hanged to you."

"I got to. How should I be with this wound out there on the range?"

"I'll see to that, youngster. It's only a little way to La Soledad, and I'll get you through. It may hurt, but it's not so bad as being hanged."

"I cayn't travel. We're due to be caught and killed. You go alone, Jim."

"We go together and live, or we stay together and die. Take your choice, Curly."

"Oh, I cayn't bear it--you don't understand!"

"I understand you're a little coward!"

"That's no dream."

"You own to being a coward?"

"Yes. All these years I've tried to play the game, to be a boy, to live a boy's life, but now--I'd rather die, and get it finished."

"Why?"

"I've been off my haid last night and all to-day. This pain has stampeded me, and I'm goin' crazy. To-night the pain is worse. I'll be making fool talk, giving myself away, and you'll find me out. It's better to own up than to be found out."

"To own up what?"

"Oh, don't be hard on me, Jim! I tried so hard! I was born for a boy, I had to be a boy. Don't you see, girls was plumb impossible in a gang of robbers!"

"Have you gone mad?"

"Oh, you cayn't understand, and it's so hard to say." Curly lay face downwards, hiding a shamed face. "My mother must have made a mistake--I wasn't bawn for a boy."

"Good gracious!"

"I had to be raised for a boy--it had to be done. What else was possible at the Robbers' Roost?"

"And you're not a boy!"

"G.o.d help me, I'm only a girl."

"You, a girl?"

"Oh, don't be hard on me--it ain't my fault! I tried so hard to be a man--but I'm crazy with pain--and I wisht I was daid!"

"But I can't believe--it can't be true. Why, I've seen you ride--the first horseman in Arizona, scout, cowboy, desperado, wanted for robbery and murder--you a girl!"

"Have pity! Don't! Don't talk like that--I'm not so bad as you think--I never robbed--I never----"

"You killed men to save my life. Oh, Curly, I'm so sorry I talked like that--I take it all back. I must have been _loco_ to call you a coward--I wish I'd half your courage! I never knew a woman could be brave; my mother wasn't, and all the girls I've known--they weren't like you. Oh, the things you've seen me do, the things I've said--treating you no better than a boy. Can you ever forgive the way I treated you?"

One little hand stole out and touched him: "Stop--talk no more."

A _vaquero_ was singing for all he was worth in the guardroom, to the strum of a guitar, while hands clapped out the time--