Curly Part 25

"Now you know," says Curly, "why we robbers played a hand in yo' game."

"I understand. Say, Curly, I take back all I said about it being bad--this robbery-under-arms. It's the only thing to do."

"Don't you get dreaming," says Curly, "we-all ain't blind; our eyes is open a whole lot wide to truth, and we make no bluff that robbery and murder is forms of holiness."

"It's all right for me. I'm a man, and I'm not a coward, either. But, Curly, you're not fit for a game like this. I'm going to take you away--where you'll be safe."

"And whar to?"

Jim looked at the desert steaming after the rain, hot as flame, reaching away all round for ever and ever. He looked at Curly's wound all swollen up, her face which had gone gaunt with pain and weakness. They were afoot, they were hunted, they had no place to hide.

"Whar do you propose to take me?" says Curly.

"I don't know," says Jim; "perhaps your people aren't so bad after all--anyway, they tried to keep you clean."

"And what's the use of that? D'ye think I want to be alone in the hull world--clean with no folks, no home? Why should I want to be different from my father, and all my tribe? Would I want to be safe while they're in danger? Would I want to play coward while they fight? Shucks! Father turned me out to gra.s.s onced at the Catholic Mission, and them priests was sh.o.r.ely booked right through to heaven. What's the use of my being thar, while the rest of my tribe is in h.e.l.l? I dreamt last night I was in h.e.l.l, carrying water to feed it to my wolves; I couldn't get a drop for myself--never a drop."

"Curly, I've got to save you--I must--I shall!"

She laughed at him. "You! Do you remember me at Holy Crawss when I punched cows for Chalkeye? I might ha' been thar still but for you."

"What on earth do you mean?"

"Jim, I met up with yo' mother, and I didn't want to be bad any more when I seen her."

"She thought the world of you."

The poor child broke out laughing, "Oh, shucks!" Then her face went bitter. "She said she loved me, eh?"

"She said I was a beastly little cad compared with you. When I got home from college she held you up for a holy example, and rubbed my nose in it. She was right--but how I cursed you!"

Curly laughed faint and lay back moaning, for the sun had come hot from the clouds, and she was burning with pain. "So yo' mother claimed she loved me. Well, I know better!"

"Why didn't you stay with her, Curly?"

"I seen her face when she waited for you to come home--you, Jim, and she looked sure hungry. What was I to her, when she seen her own son a-coming? I waited to see you, Jim; I jest had to see you 'cause you was pizen to me. Then I went away 'cause I'd have killed you if I'd seen you any mo'."

"Where did you go?"

"Whar I belong, back to the wolf pack. What had I to do with a home, and a mother, with shelter, and livin' safe, and bein' loved? I'm only a wolf with a bounty on my hide, to be hunted down and shot."

"And you--a girl!"

"No, a mistake!"

Jim pawed out, and grabbed her small brown hand. "You came back," he whispered.

"I came back to see if that Ryan was goin' to wipe you out, you and yo'

people. I came to see you die."

"And saved my life!"

"I reckon," says Curly, "I ain't quite responsible anyways for my life--'cause I'm only a mistake--jest a mistake. I feels one way, and acts the contrary; I whirl in to kill, and has to rescue; I aims to hate--and instead of that I----"

"What?"

"I dunno," she laughed. "Up home at Robbers' Roost we got a lil' book on etiquette what tells you how ladies and gentlemen had ought to act in heaps big difficulties. It sh.o.r.ely worries me to know whether I'm a lady or a gentleman, but it's mighty comfortin' the way that book is wrote. I done broke all my wolves outer that book to set up on their tails and act pretty. Now, if I had the book I'd know how I'd ought to act in regard to you-all."

Jim looked mighty solemn, being naturally about as humorous as a funeral. "Am I nothing to you?" he asked, feeling hurt; but she just opened one eye at him, smiling, and said nothing.

Presently the pain got so bad that she began to roll from side to side, scratching with her free hand at the face of the rock overhead.

"Can't I do something?" says Jim. "It's awful to sit and watch that pain. I must do something."

"If you climb to the top of this rock," she said between her teeth, "you'd see La Soledad. My father's thar."

"I'll run."

"Why run?" She s.n.a.t.c.hed a small round looking-gla.s.s out of the breast of her s.h.i.+rt. "You've only to get the sun on this gla.s.s and flash the light three times upon La Soledad. The man on look-out will see the flash."

"Give me the gla.s.s, then."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Do you know what it means, Jim, if you flash that signal?"

"Rescue for you."

"And for you, Jim? It means that you quit bein' an honest man, it means shame, it means death. Us outlaws don't die in our beds, Jim."

"Give me the gla.s.s."

"No, Jim. Some time soon, when you and me is riding with the outfit, or camped at our stronghold, the army is goin' to come up agin' us--pony soldiers, and walk-a-heaps, and twice guns, to take our water-holes, to drive away our _remuda_, to block our escape trails, to close in on us.

Our fires are goin' to be put out, our corpses left to the coyotes and the eagles."

"Give me that gla.s.s!"

"And my father says that beyond that is the Everlastin' Death."

"Do you think you can frighten me? Give me that gla.s.s!" He s.n.a.t.c.hed the gla.s.s from her hand, scrambled to the top of the rocks, and flashed the light three times upon La Soledad.

A white star answered.

CHAPTER XIX