“Doc thinks he’ll make it all right.”
But there were times when Curly wondered whether it would make any difference to him whether Cullison got well or not. Something immediate was in the air. Public opinion was sifting down to a decision. There were wise nods, and whisperings, and men riding up and going off again in a hurry. There had been a good deal of lawlessness of late, for which Soapy Stone’s band of followers was held responsible. Just as plainly as if he had heard the arguments of Dutch and Kite Bonfils he knew that they were urging the others to make an example of him. Most of these men were well up to the average for the milk of human kindness. They were the squarest citizens in Arizona. But Flandrau knew they would snuff out his life just the same if they decided it was best. Afterward they might regret it, but that would not help him.
Darkness came, and the lamps were lit. Again Curly ate and smoked and chatted a little with his captors. But as he sat there hour after hour, feeling death creep closer every minute, cold shivers ran up and down his spine.
They began to question him, at first casually and carelessly, so it seemed to Curly. But presently he discerned a drift in the talk. They were trying to find out who had been his partners in the rustling.
“And I reckon Soapy and Bad Bill left you lads at Saguache to hold the sack,” Buck suggested sympathetically.
Curly grew wary. He did not intend to betray his accomplices. “Wrong guess. Soapy and Bad Bill weren’t in this deal,” he answered easily.
“We know there were two others in it with you. I guess they were Soapy and Bad Bill all right.”
“There’s no law against guessing.”
The foreman of the Bar Double M interrupted impatiently, tired of trying to pump out the information by finesse. “You’ve got to speak, Flandrau. You’ve got to tell us who was engineering this theft. Understand?”
The young rustler looked at the grim frowning face and his heart sank. “Got to tell you, have I?”