"On the dead thieving," says Mutiny, "that's so!" Then he grinned at me. "Look a-here, Chalkeye, this means that yo' pull out and hit the long trail. Now I want a home for my girl. How much will yo' take for yo' ranche?"
"I'll see you later, Mutiny, and talk; and now shake hands, McCalmont. To-night I'll be on hand like a sore thumb, at La Morita."
CHAPTER XVII
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 shied 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 coarse; 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.