Maloney nodded. He had felt that emotion a hundred times, though he had never put it into words.
At Willow Wash their ways diverged. They parted with a casual "So-long; see you later." Curly was striking for the headwaters of Dead Cow Creek, where Soapy Stone had a horse ranch.
He put up that night at the place of a nester in the foothills. His host looked at him curiously when he mentioned his destination, but he did not say anything. It was none of his business how many young fellows rode to Soapy"s ranch.
Flandrau took the trail again next morning after breakfast. About two o"clock he reached a little park in the hills, in the middle of which, by a dry creek, lay a ranch.
The young man at first thought the place was deserted for the day, but when he called a girl appeared at the door. She smiled up at him with the lively interest any ranch girl may be expected to feel in a stranger who happens to be both young and good looking.
She was a young person of soft curves and engaging dimples. Beneath the brown cheeks of Arizona was a pink that came and went very attractively.
Curly took off his dusty gray hat. "_Buenos tardes; senorita!_ I"ll bet I"m too late to draw any dinner."
"_Buenos, senor_," she answered promptly. "I"ll bet you"d lose your money."
He swung from the saddle. "That"s good hearing. When a fellow has had his knees clamped to the side of a bronch for seven hours he"s sure ready for the dinner bell."
"You can wash over there by the pump. There"s a towel on the fence."
She disappeared into the house, and Curly took care of his horse, washed, and sauntered back to the porch. He could smell potatoes frying and could hear the sizzling of ham and eggs.
While he ate the girl flitted in and out, soft-footed and graceful, replenishing his plate from time to time.
Presently he discovered that her father was away hunting strays on Sunk Creek, that the nearest neighbor was seven miles distant, and that Stone"s ranch was ten miles farther up Dead Cow.
"Ever meet a lad called Sam Cullison?" the guest asked carelessly.
Curly was hardly prepared to see the color whip into her cheeks or to meet the quick stabbing look she fastened on him.
"You"re looking for him, are you?" she said.
"Thought while I was here I"d look him up. I know his folks a little."
"Do you know him?"
He shook his head. She looked at him very steadily before she spoke.
"You haven"t met him yet but you want to. Is that it?"
"That"s it."
"Will you have another egg?"
Flandrau laughed. "No, thanks. Staying up at Stone"s, is he?"
"How should I know who"s staying at Stone"s?"
It was quite plain she did not intend to tell anything that would hurt young Cullison.
"Oh, well, it doesn"t matter. I ain"t lost him any to speak of," the young man drawled.
"Are you expecting to stop in the hills long--or just visiting?"
"Yes," Curly answered, with his most innocent blank wall look.
"Yes which?"
"Why, whichever you like, Miss London. What"s worrying you? If you"ll ask me plain out I"ll know how to answer you."
"So you know my name?"
"Anything strange about that? The Bar 99 is the London brand. I saw your calves in the corral with their flanks still sore. Naturally I a.s.sume the young lady I meet here is Miss Laura London."
She defended her suspicions. "Folks come up here with their mysterious questions. A person would think n.o.body lived on Dead Cow but outlaws and such, to hear some of you valley people tell it."
"There"s nothing mysterious about me and my questions. I"m just a lunkheaded cowpuncher out of a job. What did you think I was?"
"What do you want with Sam Cullison? Are you friendly to him? Or aren"t you?"
"Ladies first. Are _you_ friendly to him? Or aren"t you?"
Curly smiled gaily across the table at her. A faint echo of his pleasantry began to dimple the corners of her mouth. It lit her eyes and spread from them till the prettiest face on the creek wrinkled with mirth. Both of them relaxed to peals of laughter, and neither of them quite knew the cause of their hilarity.
"Oh, you!" she reproved when she had sufficiently recovered.
"So you thought I was a detective or a deputy sheriff. That"s certainly funny."
"For all I know yet you may be one."
"I never did see anyone with a disposition so dark-complected as yours. If you won"t put them suspicions to sleep I"ll have to table my cards." From his pocket he drew a copy of the Saguache Sentinel and showed her a marked story. "Maybe that will explain what I"m doing up on Dead Cow."
This was what Laura London read:
From Mesa comes the news of another case of bold and flagrant rustling. On Friday night a bunch of horses belonging to the Bar Double M were rounded up and driven across the mountains to this city. The stolen animals were sold here this morning, after which the buyers set out at once for the border and the thieves made themselves scarce. It is claimed that the rustlers were members of the notorious Soapy Stone outfit. Two of the four were identified, it is alleged, as William Cranston, generally known as "Bad Bill," and a young vaquero called "Curly" Flandrau.
At the time of going to press posses are out after both the outlaws and the stolen horses. Chances of overtaking both are considered excellent. All likely points and outlying ranches have been notified by telephone whenever possible.
In case the guilty parties are apprehended the _Sentinel_ hopes an example will be made of them that will deter others of like stamp from a practice that has of late been far too common. Lawlessness seems to come in cycles. Just now the southern tier of counties appears to be suffering from such a sporadic attack. Let all good men combine to stamp it out. The time has pa.s.sed when Arizona must stand as a synonym for anarchy.
She looked up at the young man breathlessly, her pretty lips parted, her dilated eyes taking him in solemnly. A question trembled on her lips.
"Say it," advised Flandrau.
The courage to ask what she was thinking came back in a wave. "Then I will. Are you a rustler?"
"That"s what the paper says, don"t it?"
"Are you this man mentioned here? What"s his name--"Curly" Flandrau?"