FullReads

By day they watched the sky-line seeking the slightest sign of moving forms; by night they kept their weapons within easy reach and slept lightly, awakening to the smallest sound. They scanned the earth for tracks and, when they found them, read them with the suspicion born of knowledge of the country’s savagery.

And sometimes other riders came toward them out of the desert to pass on and to vanish in the hazy distance; men who spoke but few words and watched the right hands of the two riders as they talked. But none attacked them or made a show toward hostility. Now and again the pair stopped at a ranch-house or a mine where Breckenbridge added to the county’s money in his saddle-bags.

And as the days wore on, each with its own share of mutual hardship to bring these two to closer companionship, they began, as men will under such circumstances, to unfold their separate natures. Under the long trail’s stern necessity they bared to each other those traits which would have remained hidden during years of acquaintance among a city’s tight-walled streets.

A carelessly spoken word dropped at hot noontide when the water in the canteens had given out; a sincere oath, uttered by the fire at supper-time; a long, drowsy conversation as they lay in their blankets with the tang of the night breeze in their nostrils, gazing up at the splendor of the flaming stars; until they knew each other man to man–and Curly Bill began to feel something like devotion to his purposeful young companion. Thenceforth he talked freely of his deeds and misdeeds.

“Only one man that ever got the drop on me,” the outlaw said one evening when they were lying on their blankets, enjoying the long inhalations from their after-supper cigarettes, “and that was ol’ Jim Burnett over in Charleston, two years ago.”

He paused a moment to roll another smoke. A coyote clamored shrilly beyond the next rise; a horse blew luxuriously feeding in the bunch-grass. Curly Bill launched into his tale.

“He was justice of the peace and used to hold co’t in those days whenever he’d run on to a man he wanted. Always packed a double-barrel shotgun and he’d usually managed to throw it down on a fellow while he tried the case and named the fine.

“Well, me and some of the boys was in town this time and things was slack. Come a Sunday evenin’ and I heard how some married folks had started up a church. I hadn’t been inside of one since I could remember and we all made up our minds to go and see what it was like.

“Things had opened up when we come into the door and we took our seats as quiet as we could. But the jingle of our spurs made some people in the congregation–the’ wasn’t more’n a dozen of ’em–look around. And of co’se they knew us right away. So, pretty quick one or two gets up and leaves, and soon afterward some more, until first thing we knew our bunch was all the’ was stickin’ it out.

“Along about that time the preacher decided he’d quit too, and he was edging off to head for the back door when I got up and told him to stop. Folks said afterwards that I throwed down my fo’ty-five on him but that wasn’t so. Wasn’t any need of a gun-play. I only said that we’d come to see this deal out and we meant to have it to the turning of the last card and if he’d go ahead everything would be all right.

“So he did, and give out a hymn and the boys stood up and sang; and he preached a sermon, taking advantage of the chanc’t to light into us pretty rough. Then it come time for passin’ round the hat and I’ll bet the reg’lar congregation never done half so well by the collection as we did.