An RGL First Edition, 2025
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Roy Glashan's Library
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An RGL First Edition, 2025
Based on an image created with Microsoft Bing software
West, 5 February 1916, with "Ridin' The Lower Line"
Even though Kid Glenn's short temper and quick six-shooter had landed him in the Socorro jail, Kit Carson saw in him the ideal rider for the lower line of the San Mateo range—a line across which both cattle and riders all too frequently disappeared.
"AW, dry up!" In much the same manner he would have used in eliminating a persistently annoying fly, Kid Glenn brought the butt of his six-gun in contact with the track foreman's head.
Immediately thereafter the track boss slumped limply into the sawdust of the Palace saloon floor and the dreamless indifference of one very neatly knocked out.
Many hands laid hold of the Kid and removed his clasp from the barrel of his gun, so that he stood disheveled and disarmed yet still sputtering scrambled profanity, much like a cat on which someone has turned a garden hose.
A deputy sheriff dragged himself away from the congenial employment of watching a poker game, divested the Kid of his belt and holster and what loose change he still chanced to possess. Then, followed by a bunch of the Palace hangers-on, he haled the Kid to the 'dobe jail and thrust him into a room.
The Kid glanced disgustedly at the backless stool, a pail of stale water and the cheap cot.
"This is a helluva hotel you're runnin',"he complained in a voice of wounded dignity. "Sheriff, ain't you all goin' to leave me nothin' to smoke?"
Grinning, the deputy gave him the sack of tobacco and the papers he had removed from his pockets a few moments before, shut the door and left him to smoke and meditate.
This the Kid proceeded to do. He ran a hand through his thatch of wind-burned light hair, narrowed his greenish gray eyes and drew his rather thin features into a frown. Just off the Short Horn Cattle Company's drive from the Mexican market at Chihuahua, he had drifted into Socorro and endeavored to remove the effects of much dust and shouting and hard riding in many drinks of the particular brand of redeye the Palace saloon dispensed.
During the eradicating process, the Irish track boss had engaged him in argument, about just what the Kid now seemed to forget. At any rate the man's loquacious garrulity roused the Kid's always sensitive temper, with the result that he had closed the discussion by introducing that unanswerable authority, Judge Colt. That he had used the butt of the gun, goes to show that he had no really evil animus in the act. The foreman had simply grown tiresome, and the Kid had desired a respite from the chatter. He felt that he had acted very mildly and exercised great control. He felt unjustly dealt with now as he sat and smoked and gloomed in the adobe jail.
Only after much meditation and several cigarettes did he realize that perhaps the trackman's friends might have a right to object to having him knocked in the head. When the idea fully developed, he rose, took a drink from the water bucket, swore feelingly to himself and stretched out on the cot. After a time the fumes of the redeye mounted to his brain like an anaesthetic, and he slept.
He woke with a clearer mind—to a number of things. A good deal of the Palace brand of poison had oozed from his skin during the hot night, or had been dissipated through the process of respiration.
After trying to alleviate a sensation of inward drouth at the pail of brackish water, and awaking a feeling of extreme nausea, the Kid decided that he certainly was in bad. In the light of a saner consideration, he was now ready to admit that his conduct of the night before had been lacking in diplomatic finesse. If instead of hitting the Irishman he had simply poisoned him with a few more drinks of Palace whisky, he could see now that he would have silenced the fellow's too fluent tongue, equally effectively, and at the same time maintained his own freedom of action. Freedom of action in a six-by-eight cell was a limited affair at best. And all at once, because he couldn't have it, freedom of action appeared a very desirable thing to the Kid. He wanted to mount his mustang and ride out where a cigarette would taste cool. He wanted—well, all sorts of things he had never known the full value of before. He swore and sat down on the cot after kicking the backless stool.
Over his breakfast of bread and black coffee he ruminated some more. The worst of it all was, he was not one of the regular Socorro crowd and hence had no license to break Socorro laws. Therefore they'd make an example of him. They'd take him before a justice and fine him good and plenty. If he only had some money he'd pay their old fine, but the money he had made with the Short Horn outfit had gone in buying forgetfulness of the vicissitudes of that job.
And all at once the Kid caught his breath. There was that Texas affair— the florid-faced, sandy haired man the Kid had shot. In that episode he had not exercised the control he had exhibited last night. He had used the other end of the gun in its intended fashion, and after that he had fled across the border into Mexico, on the run. If word of it bad drifted out here, they might even try him for murder! They might hang him. The bread turned pasty in his mouth. His head began to ache. He lifted his voice and yelled like a wild beast in a cage for the sheer physical relief of the act.
Still thoughts of the Short Horn job induced others. He turned them over while he smoked a cigarette. After it had gone out for lack of attention, he grinned. There was a man who, if he so elected, could get him out of this hole and do it quick. His name was Carson and he had been buyer and drive boss for the Short Horn people when the Kid joined them at Chihuahua the previous winter. After the drive Carson had gone over to the San Mateo Cattle Company and was with them now. Glenn fancied Carson had always liked him and wouldn't be above lending a helping hand. If he could get word to him it might be arranged. He nodded, got up, began yelling again and kicking on the door. He had a definite purpose in creating a good deal of a row.
Presently that purpose was fulfilled. The jailer arrived with a suggestion that the Kid stop that noise.
Having gained the other's presence, the Kid obligingly complied. "Say," he suggested, grinning, "seems to me I seen Charlie Edwards in town, old hoss. Cain't you all git him to come 'round heah ?"
"I dunno," the jailer considered. "What was you wantin' with Charlie?"
"I wanta git word to a friend of mine," the Kid made frank explanation. "I don't belong on this range no way. You all git Charlie an' I shore will be obliged."
"Well—maybe," the jailer conceded. "On'y don't you-all make any more noise."
"Shore," the Kid assented and went back to his seat on the cot.
Later Edwards arrived. The Kid had known him for some time. He stood and gazed into the cell and fumbled his hat. After a bit he nodded. "I was comin' anyway," he affirmed; "on'y las' night I set into a game. Kid, you shore hev done it good an' plenty. What you-all goin' to do now ?"
"I ain't goin' to do nothin', Charlie," said the Kid. "I reckon you're goin' to do it, old hoss. They'll be puttin' me to work on the rock pile less'en you-all kin git me out'en this. I ain't got nothin' to pay a fine. I'm broke. Looks like they had me both ways from the jack. But jus' you listen to me."
"All right," Charlie agreed. "I'm listenin'. Git it off'en your chest. Whad'je want to hit the Mick fer any way, Kid?"
"I shore oughta hev coppered thet bet," Glenn admitted. "But see here. I'm in, an' I wanta git out. Now ef I could see Kit Carson over to the San Mateo outfit, he'd shore pay my fine an' take me out to grass. I want you-all to ride up thataway an' find Carson, an' tell him I'm heah in a room I don't like. You-all jus' tell Mistah Kit the Kid sent you an' I'll bet he'll mosey right back with you an' pay me out. You-all git a move on, Charlie, 'cause I cain't no ways stand this heah place."
"All right, Kid. I reckon I can light out this evenin' shore." Edwards slapped on his hat and turned away as though his errand might be only across the street, instead of a thing involving a ride of many miles.
In those days men thought little of riding far in order to help a friend. If Carson could get the Kid out of his trouble, Edwards considered it as up to him to get Carson to the Kid. Therefore he lost no time. He walked to the door of the jail.
"S'long," called the Kid.
"The Mick's all right today," Edwards flung back information.
"Shore," Glenn accepted it grinning. "I done knowed he was a bonehaid. That's why I hit him whar I did."
AFTER that days went by and they tried Kid Glenn. It was merely a matter of form.
"Kid," said the judge, "did you hit the Mick?"
"Jedge," said the Kid, "I shore did."
"What fur did you-all hit him, Kid ?" his Honor inquired.
"I was plumb tired of his jaw," the Kid explained. "But—lawsee, Jedge, I on'y guv him one leetle tap on the haid, I didn't hurt him, Jedge. I didn't want to. I never seen him before, an' I ain't no hand to hold a grudge."
The trackman, however, had numerous witnesses to prove that had nature endowed him with brains, they would have been sadly disarranged as a result of the Kid's unexpected assault. Popular opinion was decidedly against Glenn, and Justice was not so blind but she could read the popular mind. Referring to the Constitution of the United States which guarantees free speech, the judge deduced that in stopping the foreman's utterance, Kid Glenn had obtruded the rights of that person's citizenship, and thereupon sentenced the Kid to fifty dollars or fifty days. Having no money, the Kid of necessity elected the latter choice. But as he stoutly asserted that a friend would shortly arrive with the specified number of dollars, the judge suspended execution of sentence for a few days. Dollars were preferable in Socorro County in those days, when there was material in plenty from which to enroll rock pile recruits. The Kid, escaping hard labor for the moment, went back to his cell to smoke and wait.
AT the end of a week, Carson rode into Socorro and dismounted at the jail. He was a heavy-set individual with a hooked nose, very dark brown eyes and straight black hair, hinting at a strain of Indian blood. He knew exactly what he wanted, and usually got it with few words. The jailer took him to see the Kid.
"Hullo," said that individual, grinning in a crestfallen way.
"Played hell, didn't you, son?" Carson returned as he took the backless stool.
"I got stuck fer a fifty dollar fine an' I ain't got a red cent," Glenn made rueful admission. "Say, Mistah Kit, give me a job on the range an' pay me out'en heah."
Carson narrowed his brown eyes slightly. He appeared to turn something over in his mind. After a time he nodded.
"All right," he agreed. "I'll git you-all out an' you kin come out to San Mateo an' work. I 'lowed that was what you'd be wantin' when I started over. Well, we're needin' a man like you to ride the lower line."
"I don't keer whar you-all put me," the Kid declared, "jus' so it's off somewhars by myse'f. Ef I've sorter got the hull landscape to my lonesome I git along fust class. But I jus' ain't no use at all in a crowd. Seems like folks jus' nacherally pick on me when I git into town. An' I cain't stand havin' nobody crowd me. I wanta git off to my lonesome right now."
"You'll do it," said Carson, rising. "On the lower line at San Mateo you'll hev twenty miles all to yourself, barrin' a run in with some rustlers maybe. You shore ought to hev room enough to keep you from bein' crowded down thar, I guess."
"Suits me," the Kid accepted on the instant. "When do I git out?"
"We'll be startin' back tonight," Carson told him as he walked out of the cell.
"Sounds good," said Glenn and stopped, grinning. "Lawsee, Carson, they was goin' to put me to work for the county ef you hadn't showed up."
But Carson merely smiled in a somewhat inscrutable fashion and walked off. To tell the truth he was glad of the turn which had brought the Kid into trouble and so given him a much needed man. Be lost no time in settling with the court and thereby gaining the Kid's allegiance and service for what he hoped might prove a considerable time.
TWO ranges of mountains run south and west from the town of Socorro. On the east are the Magdalenas proper. To the west the smaller San Mateo range, according to local nomenclature at least. The atlas gives them both Magdalena, and the inhabitants name them to suit themselves. Toward their northern end, these ranges are connected by a cross-spur making the top of a truncated prism and forming the boundary of what in the early 80's was the San Mateo Cattle Company range—the San Mateo Valley, so called. From the valley the trail to Socorro crossed this northern range by the Almatares Pass, so named from several cottonwood trees beside a spring. Farther along the range at Texas Springs the company had a rock house and several corrals and maintained the headquarters of their range. The valley lying between the east and west ranges and open to the south was an ideal grazing ground, covered the year round with brown-green gramma grass kept fresh by seepage from the hills. Its one salient fault was the open southern end, which made it easy of access to the ever-busy rustler and required an eternal vigilance on the company's part against across the border raids.
On the east are a third series of springs near the mouth of a gorge known as La Perdicita Canyon. In the San Mateo range twenty miles to the west is Canyon Colorado—the red canyon. Here, too, the company had a house and some corrals. An imaginary line connecting these two points constituted the lower line of the range. It was kept patrolled constantly by hardy riders, whose duties consisted in keeping the drifting herds north of the line and the rustlers to the south. Riding the lower line was no sinecure of a job. More than one man so employed had disappeared along with numerous cattle in the past.
One may see then, why Carson was glad to get the Kid, proven rider, quick of temper and equally quick on the trigger, for this particular work. Starting from the canyon on the west, a rider customarily covered the forty miles to Perdicita and returned the same day, unless something happened en route. It required a man of nerve and endurance to stick to the task, and Carson felt he had secured such a one in the Kid.
He explained matters to him on the way from Socorro to Texas Springs. "Kid," said he. "there's been a lot of rustlin' goin' on down our way of late. Them feller's is gittin' pretty bold. They don't even take the trouble to run 'em across the line no more. They takes 'em down an' sells 'em at San Marcial. You-all want to keep your eyes peeled."
"What do you-all do with 'em ef you cotches 'em, Mistah Kit?" Glenn asked in softly drawling tones. "In Texas we all don't 'low to cotch 'em alive at all."
"Nuther do we," Carson told him. "Less'en they surrender, that is. Mostly they show fight, an' quite a lot of 'em hev got hurt now an' ag'in."
"They wouldn't do nuthin' to me then ef I was to 'get' a rustler?" the Kid inquired in musing fashion.
"Not unless they guv you a medal," Carson said with a thin-lipped smile and a glint of satisfaction in his eyes.
Glenn nodded. "All right. I'll keep a lookout fer 'em," he agreed.
AS a matter of fact, he took to his new occupation like a pup to sucking eggs. He had asked to be alone, and never was a wish more fully gratified. Twenty miles to Perdicita. Twenty miles back to Colorado, and never a thing to do, save keep his eyes on the cows. Kid Glenn, pushing his mustang through the grass, sang at the birds in a high sweet tenor and turned the drifting cattle back from the line, and smoked and thought of all manner of things. Over at Perdicita he would unsaddle and let his pony rest, eat a bite and sprawl in restful ease. And after a bit he would start back to Colorado. Nobody molested him and he was content. Carson's headquarters at Texas Springs were miles to the north. The Kid rarely saw anyone from there unless he needed provisions, or some order was sent out to him. In those days Kid Glenn lived the simple life.
And he did his work well. Not only did he feel an obligation to Carson, but he knew very well that Carson could measure his movements from the Texas Springs ranch-house, through what the Kid demominated as "them bi-norculars of his'n." It was in such fashion that he referred to a pair of high-powered field glasses which Carson always carried with him and through which he was in the habit of inspecting the condition of affairs in the valley and the daily drift of the herds. The glasses gave Glenn a sense of being under his employer's eye, though it is to be doubted if he would have acted differently than he did had they not entered the equation at all. In those days of ready friendship or hatred, men were usually friend or foe to the end. It is therefore probable that the Kid would have been just as loyal to the man who had paid him out of the Socorro jail. Be that as it may, they saved Carson many a mile of riding—and then took him on a wholly useless journey.
Because there came a day when, sweeping the plain with their lenses, he failed to pick up the spot which should be the Kid riding west in the afternoon.
There had been a clockwork regularity about Glenn's schedule. Hence, when the glasses failed to show man or pony, Carson began a systematic survey of the plain.
As always in the afternoon the herds were drifting far south and close to the lower line. So much Carson saw and then began to follow back along the Kid's route from Perdicita, expecting to see his man appear. Instead he picked up three horsemen riding in from the south. A vague uneasiness filled his mind. The riders were approaching with the easy yet rapid gait of men to the saddle born, although even the powerful glasses failed to reveal their identity. Once more Carson searched for the Kid and finally found him, just leaving the concealment of the hills at the canyon mouth and riding in such a way as to intercept the other riders' course. Apparently he was in no hurry, merely letting his pony amble along.
Little by little the three men and the single rider approached. Presently Carson saw the three stop and, in a moment, the flirting of a handkerchief. It was the plainsmen's signal of peace. In those days when men went armed with six-guns and suspicion, others meeting them declared their state of mind before coming into range.
The Kid evidently accepted the token at face value, because he rode up to the group and stopped.
But from a quiet beginning the drift of conversation appeared to take on a more serious tone. Carson saw the strange riders gesticulate and point, while the Kid sat seemingly unmoved. In the end the three put spurs to their mounts and galloped off toward Perdicita. The Kid rode slowly westward again with an occasional backward glance.
After a time the riders were lost to sight behind the point of hills from back of which Glenn had emerged. The Kid stopped, stared at the spot where they had vanished, and then glanced at the sun. Abruptly he wheeled his horse and started back along his own track at a lope. Patently to the watcher Glenn had made up his mind as to some sort of action.
Carson frowned. More and more as he watched he had become filled with uneasy speculation. Riders along the lower line other than San Mateo cowboys usually meant trouble. For some time the rustlers had been quiet, too, which seemed an ominous sign. Furthermore, the horse of one of the three men had tallied fairly well, in so far as he had been able to determine, with the description of the mount of a noted rustler and outlaw, one Curly Jake, a halfbreed ruffian of the worst frontier type.
A noted cattle thief, the man plied his calling in the open because of his evil reputation and the fact that no one with sufficient temerity to attempt the ending of his career, had been found. He had made the San Mateo people much trouble, running their cattle away in bunches and openly laughing at their attempts to prevent his raids. The outlaw had a band of companions similar to himself, and, like wolves, they generally hunted in pack. It was suspected, if not actually known, that Curly Jake knew the fate of more than one rider of the lower line who had disappeared in the past, and Carson had had Curly in mind when he employed the Kid.
Now he debated his course. As was his custom when inspecting the range, he had ridden well along the hills from the house at Texas Springs. And he was alone. But—he had told the Kid to be on the watchout for men of the fustier type, and Glen's actions had said as plainly as words that he had deliberately let the strange riders disappear into the mouth of Perdicita Canyon for just one reason—to set himself on their trail and follow it at his own discretion. That would be like a man of the Kid's youth and stripe. And Carson reached a decision.
Whirling his horse, he set off for Texas Springs at a run. He had recalled the saying that "in numbers there is strength," and it seemed likely to him that if the Kid followed the three horsemen very far he was likely to need help.
At the springs Carson found Jack Rhodes and a second cowboy, recounted what he had seen and ordered them to get their horses and accompany him at once.
"I don't know what the Kid's up to, of co'se," he observed as they started. "But he followed them hombres back to'ards Perdicita an' I reckon he may need help in playin' his hand."
"Ef one of 'em was Curly Jake, the Kid won't be in no shape ter appreciate it when he gits thar, mos' likely," Rhodes, who rode next to Carson, opined. "Thet Curly's a bad man, Kit. I reckon the Kid's about due to get his'n."
"I don't know it was Curly for shore," Carson pointed out. "I was on'y jedgin' by his hoss—too far off to make sartin. Still, I dunno. The Kid's greased lightin' with a gun. Trouble is he's too quick, mostly "
"He couldn't be ef it was Curly shore 'nuff," Rhodes maintained and sank his voice as he continued. "Listen. You-all don't reckon we don't sabe his play, an' he's aimin' to cotch up an' throw in with them?"
"No, I don't," Carson said shortly and drove his horse down the trail toward the sweep of grass-covered plain.
DUSK found the ranch-men sweeping across the plain. It was Carson's purpose to follow the general line of the Kid's daily patrol, past the point of the hills back of which the hypothetical rustlers had disappeared and so come eventually on Glenn or his body or some sign of the men he had trailed. Rhodes' suggestion that Glenn might have decided to join forces with the men he had been hired to frustrate had occurred to Carson already. But he had thrust it mentally from him then, just as now he had thrust it aside in words.
Dusk deepened into night as they rode. Now and then they passed the dark bulked mass of a part of the drifting herd. Now and then a horse stumbled, lurched, evoked from its rider a low-toned oath. The mouth of Perdicita Canyon came closer, loomed dark in the flank of the Magdalenas, and Rhodes dragged his horse to a plunging halt.
"Listen!" he called tensely. "Did you heah thet?"
"Shore." Carson assented. Somewhere a horse had nickered softly. "Reckon it might be the Kid's mustang," he suggested. "He might hev left it in the cave. Le's have a look."
Close by the mouth of the gorge there was a recess known to the ranchmen as the "cave"—though in reality it was no more than a space roofed by an overhang of rock.
Carson slid to the ground and his companions followed. They crept toward the face of the cliff.
Again the pony nickered from below it, and a moment later the three men found him with hanging reins, standing in. the rocky pocket.
Carson struck a match. "It's the Kid's," he declared an instant afterward. "Looks like he'd left him an' followed them jaspers into the canyon on foot. Maybe it wouldn't be a bad notion fer us to follow suit."
"Maybe," Rhodes agreed. "Ef he lef' his hoss heah, I reckon it can't be fur, an' ef we was to ride in we'd shore make some noise.'
"Correct," said Carson. "We'll leave ours heah with his."
Returning to their mounts, they led them to the cave and, leaving them there, essayed the dark gorge of the canyon on foot.
Possibly half an hour had passed, when suddenly Carson paused. "Hold on! Look thar!" he hissed and pointed to a dull, unsteady glow against the canyon wall before them, a flickering radiance.
"Campfire," Jack Rhodes breathed beside him. "Wall—thet settles it. They're thar. Thar's a spring up thisaway as I remember. Looks like they'd camped beside it. But whar in hell's the Kid?"
"Dunno," said Carson. "Anyway, thet fire's jus' beyond the next turn. Come on an' le's have a look."
He moved forward and his companions followed to a point where a rocky shoulder marked an angle in the canyon. There they once more paused and hugged its shadow and peered around it—at a camp-fire with three men seated about it in the midst of a little boulder-strewn flat. The firelight flickered upon them, and showed in its sheen upon body .and bridle and saddle where, a little space back from the fire, their horses stood.
"That's them," Carson whispered. "That's the hoss I seen."
"Yep, an' one of them hombres is Curly Jake," Rhodes added. "I seen the jasper once. Well, I reckon thet settles it. Ef the Kid come up with 'em, I reckon they got him."
"I dunno," said Carson, studying the scene before him.
"Nuther do I for sartin, of co'se," said Rhodes. "It jus' seems likely. Wall, what do we do now; jump 'em an' shoot it out—or quit ?"
"Wait," Carson admonished. "I ain't so shore but what the Kid may be up somewhar hereabouts jus' the same. Him leavin' his hoss an' trailin' 'em on foot like he done, looks like he'd knowed jus' about what he was up against. Maybe—"
He bit off his words and strained forward staring as, from out of the darkness beyond the circle of firelight, there came a shouted challenge.
"Hi, you coyotes! Grab your guns!"
"The—Kid!" Jack Rhodes mouthed.
Then tragedy stalked upon the scene. Things happened swiftly after that warning shout. The three outlaws by the fire seized their weapons and sprang erect, firing in the direction from which it had come. Yellow spurts of flame flashed from their guns. And out of the night beyond them, came other, answering stabs of flame.
Pop! Pop! pop! Pop, pop, pop! The sounds of the firing came to the watchers' ears, caught up, magnified, flung back in heavy reverberations from the canyon walls.
Then one of the men by the fire was sagging, was bending at the knees, was sinking down as one suddenly very tired. And one of them plunged face downward in the way a man falls when death overtakes him on his feet. The last of them was kneeling, still firing, but weaving drunkenly as he knelt, until he swayed quite over and sprawled upon his side. Next Kid Glenn was striding into the circle of the firelight, was bending in its flicker apparently to inspect— the crown of his Stetson hat.
"HI, Kid! Kid Glenn!" Carson was bawling, running toward him, his companions at his heels.
"Hullo, yerself. That you, Mistah Kit?" Glen straightened, turned toward Carson's voice at the sound of his approach.
"Yep." The ranch boss strode into the firelight, bent and inspected one of the three examples of Kid Glenn's markmanship, then turned to where the Kid was standing. "Been havin' a leetle trouble ?"
"Well, yes, a leetle." The Kid fumbled his hat.
Carson's lips twitched grimly. "Know who you got?" he demanded.
"Well, yes—I reckon. I 'low the hombre you was lookin' at jus' now was this heah Curly Jake I been hearin' right smart about," Glenn said. "The other two, Jake called Johnson an' Red— which, as applyin' to the last, wasn't his moniker at all, seein' as I knowed him wunst, though I ain't seen him fer quite a spell. They was pardners of Jake's all right."
"Just how did this play come up?" Carson asked.
"Why, it was thisaway, Mistah Kit." The Kid replaced his hat. Briefly he recounted the meeting Carson had witnessed through his glasses that afternoon. "What do you all reckon them coyotes wanted with me, Mistah Kit?" he asked at last.
"Wanted you-all to throw in with 'em most likely," Carson suggested.
"You called it," Glenn assented, nodding. "They done 'lowed as how tonight they was due to run a right smart bunch of beef across the line. An' they guv me a invite. 'Lowed they'd split with me ef I'd come in. But, lawsee, I couldn't see it, so I turned 'em down."
"Why?" Carson queried sharply.
"Why—" the Kid produced tobacco and papers, began rolling a cigarette and grinned—"I was still owin' you-all some money on thet jail fine—an' I 'lowed as how you might hev them bi-norculars of yours turned thisaway this evenin' like as not."
"I did," Carson told him gruffly.
"Then I reckon thet's what brung you-all ovah." The Kid lighted his cigarette and pinched out the match.
"We thought you might need help after I saw you take the back track," Carson said. "Go on—spill the rest of it, son."
"Well, when I didn't agree to chip in they got real hostile," Glenn resumed. "Fust off they ordered me not to drive no cows back away from the line but to jus' let 'em drift, an' then they tole me to do some driftin' out'en this part of the country myself. 'Lowed ef I didn't, they'd shore come back an' git me some dark night. Then they rid off, which looked plumb foolish to me. 'Cause ef I told a man I was aimin' ter git him, I wouldn't hev postponed the exercises none at all. So, after they left, I got to thinkin', an' the more I thought, the more it looked as if I was in some danger of gittin' got. That bein' the case, it 'peared as though if there was any gittin' to be done I might as well buy a stack in the game myself. So—well, I 'lowed I'd go back. It was gittin' late an' I hurried right smart, an' when I got to the mountain I lef my hoss an' snuk up here on foot quiet like.
"An', lawsee, it was jus' like I kuowed it would be, Mistah Kit. These heah rustlers hed builded 'em a fire heah at the spring an' was cookin' grub while they waited fer it to git dark enough to pull their raid. I crept up close an' I could see 'em good. An' I had to laff. Their talk of gittin' me shore did look funny, when you looked at it like I did from whar I was lyin' behind a rock. I could have got 'em easy from thar. Me not bein' an Injun, though, I waited a while an' then I stood up an' yelled at 'em to go fer their guns an' we shot it out. But them hombres was powerful slow' 'ceptin' Curly Jake. It was him shot me through the hat. He done thet fust off, an' then I turned loose my wolf. An' that's all."
"Yeah—that's all," Carson said in a tone of admiration. "We heard you invite Curly Jake an' two of his men to a shootin' bee, an' then git 'em three to one in a fair square fight. That's all, but it looks like it had been enough."
"Fer them," Kid Glenn agreed, nodding. And suddenly he smiled in self-conscious fashion. "On'y it ain't quite all of it, Mistah Kit, I reckon. The rest of it makes me feel plumb foolish."
"As how ?" Carson eyed him.
"Well," the Kid flung the stub of his cigarette into the fire, "you all remember my tellin' you I'd killed a man in Texas 'fore I stampeded down Chihuahua way whar we met up?"
"Shore," Carson nodded. "What about him?"
"Nuthin'. 'Ceptin'," the Kid jerked a hand toward one of the bodies sprawled in the flickering light, "that's him. The one Curly called Red. I told you I done recognized him this evenin' an' I did. Seems like thar musta been some mistake about my killin' him in Texas, 'cause it wasn't ontil tonight I really finished the job. What about these heah bodies, Mistah Kit? Reckon we oughta cover 'em up?"
Carson nodded again and the four of them set to work. An hour later the burial was completed, the site of it marked by a pile of rocks, and the four men were stumbling down the canyon to where they had left their horses.
They found them, swung to the saddle and rode west to a point where the men from Texas Springs turned north.
"Reckon I'll be late gittin' to Colorado," the Kid said then. "But I reckon there won't be so much beef goin' over the line after this. Well s'long."
He rode into the night and presently they heard him singing:
"Oh bury we not on the lone prairie-e-e-e
Where the wild coyotes howl over me "
It was part of one of the innumerable verses of the "Cowboy's Lament" It was the requiem of Curly Jake and his fellows sung in Kid Glenn's clear, high pitched tenor voice.
"The danged gun-slinging', singin' fool," Jack Rhodes chuckled as he rode along with Carson and his comrade, underneath the stars.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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