Stick To Your Saddle

: LUCK
: Crooked Trails And Straight

The old Arizona fashion of settling a difference of opinion with the

six-gun had long fallen into disuse, but Saguache was still close enough

to the stark primeval emotions to wait with a keen interest for the crack

of the revolver that would put a period to the quarrel between Soapy Stone

and young Flandrau. It was known that Curly had refused to leave town,

just as it was known that Stone and that other prison bird Blackwell were br />
hanging about the Last Chance and Chalkeye's Place drinking together

morosely. It was observed too that whenever Curly appeared in public he

was attended by friends. Sometimes it would be Maloney and Davis,

sometimes his uncle Alec Flandrau, occasionally a couple of the Map of

Texas vaqueros.



It chanced that "Old Man" Flandrau, drifting into Chalkeye's Place, found

in the assembled group the man he sought. Billie Mackenzie, grizzled owner

of the Fiddleback ranch, was with him, and it was in the preliminary pause

before drinking that Alec made his official announcement.



"No, Mac, I ain't worrying about that any. Curly is going to get a square

deal. We're all agreed on that. If there's any shooting from cover

there'll be a lynching pronto. That goes."



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. "This

thing of never knowing what minute Soapy will send me his leaden

compliments ain't any picnic. Wisht it was over."



"He's drinking himself blind. Every hour is to the good for you."



Curly shrugged. "Drunk or sober Soapy always shoots straight."



Another day passed. The festivities had begun and Curly had to be much in

evidence before the public. His friends had attempted to dissuade him from

riding in the bucking broncho contest, but he had refused to let his name

be scratched from the list of contestants.



A thousand pair of eyes in the grandstand watched the boy as he lounged

against the corral fence laughing and talking with his friends. A dozen

people were on the lookout for the approach of Stone. Fifty others had

warned the young man to be careful. For Saguache was with him almost to a

man.



Dick Maloney heard his voice called as he was passing the grandstand, A

minute later he was in the Cullison box shaking hands with Kate.



"Is--is there anything new?" she asked in a low voice.



Her friend shook his head. "No. Soapy may drift out here any minute now."



"Will he----?" Her eyes finished the question.



He shook his head. "Don't know. That's the mischief of it. If they should

meet just after Curly finishes riding the boy won't have a chance. His

nerves won't be steady enough."



"Dad is doing something. I don't know what it is. He had a meeting with a

lot of cattlemen about it---- I don't see how that boy can sit there on

the fence laughing when any minute----"



"Curly's game as they make 'em. He's a prince, too. I like that boy better

every day."



"He doesn't seem to me so----wild. But they say he's awfully reckless."

She said it with a visible reluctance, as if she wanted him to deny the

charge.



"Sho! Curly needs explaining some. That's all. Give a dog a bad name and

hang him. That saying is as straight as the trail of a thirsty cow. The

kid got off wrong foot first, and before he'd hardly took to shaving

respectable folks were hunting the dictionary to find bad names to throw

at him. He was a reprobate and no account. Citizens that differed on

everything else was unanimous about that. Mothers kinder herded their

young folks in a corral when he slung his smile their way."



"But why?" she persisted. "What had he done?"



"Gambled his wages, and drank some, and, beat up Pete Schiff, and shot the

lights out of the Legal Tender saloon. That's about all at first."



"Wasn't it enough?"



"Most folks thought so. So when Curly bumped into them keep-off-the-grass

signs parents put up for him he had to prove they were justified. That's

the way a kid acts. Half the bad men are only coltish cowpunchers gone

wrong through rotten whiskey and luck breaking bad for them."



"Is Soapy that kind?" she asked, but not because she did not know the

answer.



"He's the other kind, bad at the heart. But Curly was just a kid crazy

with the heat when he made that fool play of rustling horses."



A lad made his way to them with a note. Kate read it and turned to Dick.

Her eyes were shining happily.



"I've got news from Dad. It's all right. Soapy Stone has left town."



"Why?"



"A dozen of the big cattlemen signed a note and sent it to Stone. They

told him that if he touched Curly he would never leave town alive. He was

given word to get out of town at once."



Maloney slapped his hand joyously on his thigh. "Fine! Might a-known Luck

would find a way out. I tell you this thing has been worying me. Some of

us wanted to take it off Curly's hands, but he wouldn't have it. He's a

man from the ground up, Curly is. But your father found a way to butt in

all right. Soapy couldn't stand out against the big ranchmen when they got

together and meant business. He had to pull his freight."



"Let me tell him the good news, Dick," she said, eagerly.



"Sure. I'll send him right up."



Bronzed almost to a coffee brown, with the lean lithe grace of youth

garbed in the picturesque regalia of the vaquero, Flandrau was a taking

enough picture to hold the roving eye of any girl. A good many centered

upon him now, as he sauntered forward toward the Cullison box cool and

easy and debonair. More than one pulse quickened at sight of him, for his

gallantry, his peril and his boyishness combined to enwrap him in the

atmosphere of romance. Few of the observers knew what a wary vigilance lay

behind that careless manner.



Kate gathered her skirts to make room for him beside her.



"Have you heard? He has left town."



"Who?"



"Soapy Stone. The cattlemen served notice on him to go. So he left."



A wave of relief swept over the young man. "That's your father's fine

work."



"Isn't it good?" Her eyes were shining with gladness.



"I'm plumb satisfied," he admitted. "I'm not hankering to shoot out my

little difference with Soapy. He's too handy with a six-gun."



"I'm so happy I don't know what to do."



"I suppose now the hold-up will be put off. Did Sam and Blackwell go with

him?"



"No. He went alone."



"Have you seen Sam yet?"



"No, but I've seen Laura London. She's all the nice things you've said

about her."



Curly grew enthusiastic, "Ain't she the dandiest girl ever? She's the

right kind of a friend. And pretty--with that short crinkly hair the color

of ripe nuts! You would not think one person could own so many dimples as

she does when she laughs. It's just like as if she had absorbed sunshine

and was warming you up with her smile."



"I see she has made a friend of you."



"You bet she has."



Miss Cullison shot a swift slant glance at him. "If you'll come back this

afternoon you can meet her. I'm going to have all those dimples and all

that sunshine here in the box with me."



"Maybe that will draw Sam to you."



"I'm hoping it will. But I'm afraid not. He avoids us. When they met he

wouldn't speak to Father."



"That's the boy of it. Just the same he feels pretty bad about the

quarrel. I reckon there's nothing to do but keep an eye on him and be

ready for Soapy's move when he makes it."



"I'm so afraid something will happen to Sam."



"Now don't you worry, Miss Kate. Sam is going to come out of this all

right. We'll find a way out for him yet."



Behind her smile the tears lay close. "You're the best friend. How can

we ever thank you for what you're doing for Sam?"



A steer had escaped from the corral and was galloping down the track in

front of the grandstand with its tail up. The young man's eyes followed

the animal absently as he answered in a low voice.



"Do you reckon I have forgot how a girl took a rope from my neck one

night? Do you reckon I ever forget that?"



"It was nothing. I just spoke to the boys."



"Or that I don't remember how the man I had shot went bail for a rustler

he did not know?"



"Dick knew you. He told us about you."



"Could he tell you any good about me? Could he say anything except that I

was a worthless no-'count----?"



She put her hand on his arm and stopped him. "Don't! I won't have you say

such things about yourself. You were just a boy in trouble."



"How many would have remembered that? But you did. You fought good for my

life that night. I'll pay my debt, part of it. The whole I never could

pay."



His voice trembled in spite of the best he could do. Their eyes did not

meet, but each felt the thrill of joy waves surging through their veins.



The preliminaries in the rough riding contest took place that afternoon.

Of the four who won the right to compete in the finals, two were Curly

Flandrau and Dick Maloney. They went together to the Cullison box to get

the applause due them.



Kate Cullison had two guests with her. One was Laura London, the other he

had never seen. She was a fair young woman with thick ropes of yellow hair

coiled round her head. Deep-breasted and robust-loined, she had the rich

coloring of the Scandinavian race and much of the slow grace peculiar to

its women.



The hostess pronounced their names. "Miss Anderson, this is Mr. Flandrau.

Mr. Flandrau--Miss Anderson."



Curly glanced quickly at Kate Cullison, who nodded. This then was the

sweetheart of poor Mac.



Her eyes filled with tears as she took the young man's hand. To his

surprise Curly found his throat choking up. He could not say a word, but

she understood the unspoken sympathy. They sat together in the back of the

box.



"I'd like to come and talk to you about--Mac. Can I come this evening,

say?"



"Please."



Kate gave them no more time for dwelling on the past.



"You did ride so splendidly," she told Curly.



"No better than Dick did," he protested.



"I didn't say any better than Dick. You both did fine."



"The judges will say you ride better. You've got first place cinched,"

Maloney contributed.



"Sho! Just because I cut up fancy didoes on a horse. Grandstand stunts are

not riding. For straight stick-to-your-saddle work I know my boss, and his

name is Dick Maloney."



"We'll know to-morrow," Laura London summed up.



As it turned out, Maloney was the better prophet. Curly won the first

prize of five hundred dollars and the championship belt. Dick took second

place.



Saguache, already inclined to make a hero of the young rustler, went wild

over his victory. He could have been chosen mayor that day if there had

been an election. To do him justice, Curly kept his head remarkably well.



"To be a human clothes pin ain't so much," he explained to Kate. "Just

because a fellow can stick to the hurricane deck of a bronch without

pulling leather whilst it's making a milk shake out of him don't prove

that he has got any more brains or decency than the law allows. Say, ain't

this a peach of a mo'ning."



A party of young people were taking an early morning ride through the

outskirts of the little city. Kate pulled her pony to a walk and glanced

across at him. He had taken off his hat to catch the breeze, and the sun

was picking out the golden lights in his curly brown hair. She found

herself admiring the sure poise of the head, the flat straight back, the

virile strength of him.



It did not occur to her that she herself made a picture to delight the

heart. The curves of her erect tiger-lithe young body were modeled by

nature to perfection. Radiant with the sheer pleasure of life, happy as

God's sunshine, she was a creature vividly in tune with the glad morning.



"Anyhow, I'm glad you won."



Their eyes met. A spark from his flashed deep into hers as a star falls

through the heavens on a summer night. Each looked away. After one

breathless full-pulsed moment she recovered herself.



"Wouldn't it be nice if----?"



His gaze followed hers to two riders in front of them. One was Maloney,

the other Myra Anderson. The sound of the girl's laughter rippled back to

them on the light breeze.



Curly smiled. "Yes, that would be nice. The best I can say for her--and

it's a whole lot--is that I believe she's good enough for Dick."



"And the best I can say for him is that he's good enough for her," the

girl retorted promptly.



"Then let's hope----"



"I can't think of anything that would please me more."



He looked away into the burning sun on the edge of the horizon. "I can

think of one thing that would please me more," he murmured.



She did not ask him what it was, nor did he volunteer an explanation.

Perhaps it was from the rising sun her face had taken its swift glow of

warm color.