was flushed and there were other indications that he had been drinking.
"Boss, I ain't doin' nothin'," he said, slowly.
"Who said you were?" returned Jim, realizing that he must have looked sharply at the boy.
"You're lookin' for Curly?"
"Yes," answered Jim, suddenly inspired.
"Sheriff Bray just collared Curly. Honest, boss, Curly was behavin' himself strick proper. But Bray has got it in for us Diamond fellars. An'
Curly"--here the cowboy came round the table to be closer to Jim--"Curly was pretty drunk an' noisy. It was a chance for Bray, who'd never had nerve enough any other time. This sheriff is a four-flusher, boss. He's never had one of us in jail yet."
"Which way did they go?" asked Jim.
"Down the street. The jail's across the tracks."
Jim hurried out and in the direction advised, not certain of his position in the matter. Still, he did not take kindly to the idea of one of his cowboys going to jail. Moreover, he had met Sheriff Bray and had not been greatly impressed in that individual's favour. Jim, while crossing the tracks, espied Bray dragging a reluctant and protesting cowboy along the station platform, followed by a small crowd. Running ahead, Jim intercepted them. This cowboy he also recognized, a tall, handsome fellow with curly yellow hair, just now very red in the face, but not so drunk as Jim had been led to suppose.
"Hold on, Sheriff!" called Jim, as he confronted them. "You've got one of my boys. What's the charge?"
"Hullo!" gruffly returned Bray.
He was a burly man, thick-featured, with a bluish cast of countenance, and he wore his sheriff's badge and gun rather prominently. "Oh, it's young Mr. Traft. I didn't know you... Wal, this boy was gettin' a little too obstreperous to suit me. So I'm runnin' him in."
"Obstreperous! What do you mean by that?" demanded Jim, arriving at his decision.
"Wal, thet's what I call it."
"Curly, what'd you do?" inquired Jim of the red-faced, blue-eyed boy.
"Boss, I was singin'," asserted Curly. "This heah one-hoss occifer sings in--choir an' he thinks he's--only singer."
"Wal, you can sing in jail," declared the sheriff, with a gleam in his eye.
"Bray, I reckon you'd better not run Curly in," said Jim, coolly. "Let's walk along across and get away from this crowd. I'll take Curly around the block."
"Say, for a tenderfoot you're startin' fiat in to play a high hand," sneered Bray. All the same, he had his doubts, which Jim was quick to observe.
"Correct, Bray," rejoined Jim, as he took Curly's arm. Between them they walked him away from the curious onlookers, and round a corner to the entrance of the jail. Here Curly's face was a study. Manifestly before Jim's arrival he had surrendered to the majesty of the law, but this amazing champion in the shape of his boss had galvanized him.
"Bray, there ain't none of Diamond outfit ever been--in jail. It's disgrash," he asserted, belligerently.
"I'll vouch for him, Sheriff," added Jim.
"Prentiss, you come along," ordered Bray, roughly.
By this time Jim's blood had grown a little hot. He had recalled what his uncle had said about Bray and thought he might just as well face the issue. He jerked Curly free from the sheriff, and interposed himself between them.
"If you had any charge against Curly I wouldn't interfere. But you haven't. Why, he isn't half drunk."
"I'll arrest you both for resistin' an officer," threatened Bray, his hand going to his hip.
Jim saw the action, followed it with his eye.
"So you'd throw your gun on us," he said, with derision.
"Boss, let go an' stand aside. This heah ain't funny no more," spoke up Curly. The change in him, the ring in his voice, made Jim jump, but he did not release the cowboy.
"No, Curly, I'm responsible here," he replied.
Bray had subtly altered, which fact Jim grasped to have to do with Curly's sudden menace.
"Wal, Traft, I'll let him go in your care," he growled. "But I'm givin' you a hunch. Prentiss said somethin'. This Diamond outfit ain't funny no
"Boss, I ain't doin' nothin'," he said, slowly.
"Who said you were?" returned Jim, realizing that he must have looked sharply at the boy.
"You're lookin' for Curly?"
"Yes," answered Jim, suddenly inspired.
"Sheriff Bray just collared Curly. Honest, boss, Curly was behavin' himself strick proper. But Bray has got it in for us Diamond fellars. An'
Curly"--here the cowboy came round the table to be closer to Jim--"Curly was pretty drunk an' noisy. It was a chance for Bray, who'd never had nerve enough any other time. This sheriff is a four-flusher, boss. He's never had one of us in jail yet."
"Which way did they go?" asked Jim.
"Down the street. The jail's across the tracks."
Jim hurried out and in the direction advised, not certain of his position in the matter. Still, he did not take kindly to the idea of one of his cowboys going to jail. Moreover, he had met Sheriff Bray and had not been greatly impressed in that individual's favour. Jim, while crossing the tracks, espied Bray dragging a reluctant and protesting cowboy along the station platform, followed by a small crowd. Running ahead, Jim intercepted them. This cowboy he also recognized, a tall, handsome fellow with curly yellow hair, just now very red in the face, but not so drunk as Jim had been led to suppose.
"Hold on, Sheriff!" called Jim, as he confronted them. "You've got one of my boys. What's the charge?"
"Hullo!" gruffly returned Bray.
He was a burly man, thick-featured, with a bluish cast of countenance, and he wore his sheriff's badge and gun rather prominently. "Oh, it's young Mr. Traft. I didn't know you... Wal, this boy was gettin' a little too obstreperous to suit me. So I'm runnin' him in."
"Obstreperous! What do you mean by that?" demanded Jim, arriving at his decision.
"Wal, thet's what I call it."
"Curly, what'd you do?" inquired Jim of the red-faced, blue-eyed boy.
"Boss, I was singin'," asserted Curly. "This heah one-hoss occifer sings in--choir an' he thinks he's--only singer."
"Wal, you can sing in jail," declared the sheriff, with a gleam in his eye.
"Bray, I reckon you'd better not run Curly in," said Jim, coolly. "Let's walk along across and get away from this crowd. I'll take Curly around the block."
"Say, for a tenderfoot you're startin' fiat in to play a high hand," sneered Bray. All the same, he had his doubts, which Jim was quick to observe.
"Correct, Bray," rejoined Jim, as he took Curly's arm. Between them they walked him away from the curious onlookers, and round a corner to the entrance of the jail. Here Curly's face was a study. Manifestly before Jim's arrival he had surrendered to the majesty of the law, but this amazing champion in the shape of his boss had galvanized him.
"Bray, there ain't none of Diamond outfit ever been--in jail. It's disgrash," he asserted, belligerently.
"I'll vouch for him, Sheriff," added Jim.
"Prentiss, you come along," ordered Bray, roughly.
By this time Jim's blood had grown a little hot. He had recalled what his uncle had said about Bray and thought he might just as well face the issue. He jerked Curly free from the sheriff, and interposed himself between them.
"If you had any charge against Curly I wouldn't interfere. But you haven't. Why, he isn't half drunk."
"I'll arrest you both for resistin' an officer," threatened Bray, his hand going to his hip.
Jim saw the action, followed it with his eye.
"So you'd throw your gun on us," he said, with derision.
"Boss, let go an' stand aside. This heah ain't funny no more," spoke up Curly. The change in him, the ring in his voice, made Jim jump, but he did not release the cowboy.
"No, Curly, I'm responsible here," he replied.
Bray had subtly altered, which fact Jim grasped to have to do with Curly's sudden menace.
"Wal, Traft, I'll let him go in your care," he growled. "But I'm givin' you a hunch. Prentiss said somethin'. This Diamond outfit ain't funny no
Similar Books
