Curly Part 8

"How do you know?"

"Unhappily, my sacred calling has left me quite unfamiliah with the carnal affairs of this most wicked country."

"Well, what's wrong? The bank wired yesterday morning that they held money to meet this draft. Stone showed me the telegram."

"Up to noon," said the preacher, "there was money in the bank; some forty thousand dollars in the name of Jabez Y. Stone, ready to meet yo'

draft, and pay for the cattle."

"I know that!"

"At noon yesterday that money was withdrawn from the bank."

"Impossible!"

"Jabez Y. Stone had given a previous draft to another man for the money.

The other man got the plunder--the--ahic!--dross, I mean. Oh that we poh mortals should so crave after the dross which perisheth!"

"Don't preach!"

"Oh, my young brother, the little word in season----"

"I wish it would choke you. Now who drew that money?"

"A carnal man--yo' fatheh's mortal enemy--Misteh Ryan."

"Ryan! Ryan!"

"Misteh George Ryan, yessir. To-day yo' father presents a worthless paper at the bank in exchange for his breeding cattle. Oh, how grievous a thing it is that deceitful men should so deceive themselves, preparing for a sultry hereafter. Think of these poh dumb driven cattle, exchanged for a bogus draft upon a miserable, miserable bank--how----"

"Luis!" Jim yelled, and his segundo, old Luis Terrazas, came a-flying.

"Luis, take the men home--I've got to go back to Lordsburgh."

"Stay!" The preacher lifted his hand, brushed back the hat from his face, and stared into Jim's eyes. "Chalkeye Davies is yondeh at Lordsburgh thar--you can trust him, eh? Send a letter to Chalkeye; ask him to wire the sheriff at Albuquerque to hold that thar train of cattle pending inquiries."

"I'm going back myself. You stand aside!"

"Seh, if you don't ride straight for Holy Cross, you ain't goin' to see yo' mother alive--she's sinking rapid."

"How do you know what's happening at Holy Cross, at Grave City, and at Lordsburgh, and all these places a hundred miles apart?"

"Have I said anything, boy, that you cayn't believe?"

"You lied when you said you were thirsty, when you claimed to have walked, when you made out you couldn't catch your horse, and couldn't ride--you lied, and you're a liar!"

The preacher reached for his hip, and a dozen revolvers covered him instant.

"Seh," he said, quite gentle, "my handkerchief is in my hip-pocket; observe me blow my nose at yo' remarks."

He trumpeted into his big red handkerchief.

"Why do you make this bluff," says Jim, "at being a preacher, when you've been all your life in the saddle?"

"Yo' questions, seh, are personal for a stranger, and the character you gave me to yo' greasers was some hasty, and the salute of guns you offer makes me feel unworthy. As to your thanks for an honest warning to save yo' lost cattle and haste to yo' dying mother----"

Jim flushed with shame.

"I beg your pardon, sir."

"And you accept my warning?"

"If you'll prove you forgive me by shaking hands, Mr.----"

"Misteh? Just call me friend--no more. And Jim, when you've been to Holy Crawss, yo' natural feelings will call you swift to Grave City, where you'll find your father in mortal danger, I feah."

"In mortal danger?"

"Unless," said the stranger, "a mere friend can save him."

Jim looked into this stranger's face, at the tanned hide, seamed and furrowed with trouble, the strong hard lips, twisty with a sort of queer smile, at the eyes, which seemed to be _haunted_.

"Sir," he said, "I'll do what you tell me."

So he took paper and pencil from his wallet, leaned over the horn of his saddle, and made it desk enough for what he had to write.

"Will this do?" says he, pa.s.sing his letter to the stranger.

"Yes, I reckon. Add, sonny, that Misteh Michael Ryan's private cyar is due from the east to-morrow, with the Pacific Express. It's timed to reach Grave City at 10:05 p.m. Chalkeye will be thar."

Jim wrote all that down, then looked up, fearful, surprised at this preacher knowing so much, then glanced all round to see which man had the best horse for his message.

"Onate!" he called.

"Si senor."

"Take this letter, Onate, to Mr. Chalkeye Davies in Lordsburgh. Then you'll follow me home."

Onate uncovered, took the letter, and bowed his thanks. "Gracias senor, adios!" and curved off swift for Lordsburgh.

Then Jim saw the preacher's eyes boring him through.

"You will shake hands?" he asked.

"With a glad hand," said Captain McCalmont. "Put her thar, boy! I hope when we meet up again you'll remember me as a friend."

So the great robber swung his horse, and spurred up back to his hilltop, while Jim and the _vaqueros_ burned the trail for home.