BAD MEDICINE
The house at the horse ranch was a long, low L-shaped adobe structure. The first impression Curly received was that of negligence. In places the roof sagged. A door in the rear hung from one hinge. More than one broken pane of glass was stuffed with paper. The same evidence of shiftlessness could be seen on every hand. Fences had collapsed and been repaired flimsily. The woodwork of the well was rotting. The windmill wheezed and did its work languidly for lack of oil.
Two men were seated on the porch playing seven up. One was Bad Bill, the other Blackwell. At sight of Curly they gave up their game.
“Hello, kid! Where did you drop from?” Cranston asked.
A muscle twitched in Flandrau’s cheek. “They got Mac.”
“Got him! Where? At Saguache?”
“Ran us down near the Circle C. Mac opened fire. They—killed him.”
“Shot him, or——?” Curly was left to guess the other half of the question.
“Shot him, and took me prisoner.”
“They couldn’t prove a thing, could they?”