Throwing back along my trail, I notice that I've mentioned a whole lot of points about Curly which made him unusual, different from other boys. Remember how he balked and shied at Holy Cross until we allowed him to hole up in a den of his own. He was sure wild and scary of railroads, towns, or a strange house. Except with his own folks, the Balshannon outfit, and me, he was dumb as a bear, and showed wild-eyed fright when strangers spoke to him. The meanest horses went tame at a word from him; no dog ever barked at him except with tail signals of joy; cats followed him around, and any animal who was hurt or in trouble would run to Curly for help. Even the deer knew his calls, and would come quite near while he spoke to them in that low soft voice of his. That voice never broke gruff with manhood, but just stayed sweet, like the sound of running water.

He had a strong face, stern as our desert country, tanned, beautiful no end, so that one caught one's breath at the very sight of him. His smile turned me weak; his voice went through me, and I'm a sure hard case. Everybody just had to love that Curly—a born rider, a wonderful scout, a dead shot, a dangerous fighter, who bore pain like an Indian, and had heaps more sense and courage than Jim his partner.

Why do I say all this? Well, from the first, I saw that Curly youngster was undersized and weak, with a narrow chest and wide hips more like a girl than a boy. A right proper man is strong, rough, hardy; he ought to have a temper and be master, ready to work and fight for his women folk. That Curly broke down and sobbed like a girl after the gun-fight, and in a hundred soft ways was not a proper man. There were often times when I wanted to turn in and lam his head. Then I didn't, but somehow knew that Nature had played some scurvy trick on that well-meaning youngster.

Well, Jim was younger than me, so there's some excuse for him. He was rough on Curly—hostile and contemptuous when the little partner acted feminine. He owned up afterwards he'd behaved like a brute to that poor wounded, helpless critter, loving him all the while, but acting coarse; that humbled Curly, who weakened under his tongue lash, cried at times, and lay for hours sucking the wound on his arm, dumb like a dying animal. Both youngsters were surely miserable on the second and third days they lay together in prison. It was on the second morning that I sent down a doctor from Bisley to fix up Curly's wound.

Late that evening, towards midnight, a crowbar dropped down through the window-gap in the wall, and Jim began to labour out a hole for their escape. He dug out bricks of 'dobe one by one, and while he worked he made poor Curly sing hour after hour, to hide up the sound of the crowbar. Shall I tell you one of the songs? It's a cowboy tune for smoothing the feelings of driven cattle while they bed themselves down for night.

When morning broke Jim piled hay on the burrow he'd made in the foot of the wall, and lay on top, dead weary to get some sleep. At ten o'clock the doctor from Bisley found Curly still singing, light-headed, talking nonsense. The patient said he was a bear, so the doctor gave sleep medicine, and sat beside him. At noon he fed the boys their dinner and went away, but they didn't wake again until supper-time, when the man on guard came in.

"What's for supper?" says Curly.

"Tortillas, frijoles, coffee—same as usual."

"Eat it," says Curly, "'cause I'm only a bear holed up for winter. We don't eat in winter anyways."

"Bears have their coffee," says Jim.

"Oh yes, of course," and Curly fed coffee to the winter bear. That cleared his head, and he sat up watching Jim at work on the little round dishes. The food was frijoles, the same being beans, and tortillas, which is a thin corn-cake, pretty much the same as brown fly-papers, warm and damp, but sort of uninteresting to taste. The coffee was in a brown earthen pot, fresh from the fire, and mighty encouraging. Those three things make the proper feed for Mexicans, the same being simple, uninstructed people, knowing no better. When they feast they make a stew of red pepper, and take a little meat with it; but that dish is a luxury, and hot enough to burn a hole through a brick.

When Jim had eaten everything in sight he started cigarettes, listening to a banjo in the guardroom, a growing hum of talk, and the click of cups, for some Holy Cross riders were there with a jar of cactus spirit, a deck of cards, and other inducements sent in by Captain McCalmont. Jim heard them talking war because they'd never been paid off at Holy Cross, and had six months' wages coming. They allowed that el Chico their young patrone ought to hang, and the guards agreed that such was probable. To-morrow the prisoners were going to be collected by the United States authorities for trial. Jim looked at his partner for comfort, but saw big tears rolling down Curly's face.

"You ought to be ashamed of that," says he.

"It cayn't be helped." Curly swept his arm across his face. "You Jim, we got to part to-night."

"You wild ass of the desert! What's the matter now?"

"You're goin' through that hole to find yo' liberty, but I stay here."

"Stay, and be hanged to you."

"I got to. How should I be with this wound out there on the range?"

"I'll see to that, youngster. It's only a little way to La Soledad, and I'll get you through. It may hurt, but it's not so bad as being hanged."

"I cayn't travel. We're due to be caught and killed. You go alone, Jim."

"We go together and live, or we stay together and die. Take your choice, Curly."

"Oh, I cayn't bear it—you don't understand!"

"I understand you're a little coward!"

"That's no dream."

"You own to being a coward?"

"Yes. All these years I've tried to play the game, to be a boy, to live a boy's life, but now—I'd rather die, and get it finished."

"Why?"

"I've been off my haid last night and all to-day. This pain has stampeded me, and I'm goin' crazy. To-night the pain is worse. I'll be making fool talk, giving myself away, and you'll find me out. It's better to own up than to be found out."

"To own up what?"

"Oh, don't be hard on me, Jim! I tried so hard! I was born for a boy, I had to be a boy. Don't you see, girls was plumb impossible in a gang of robbers!"

"Have you gone mad?"

"Oh, you cayn't understand, and it's so hard to say." Curly lay face downwards, hiding a shamed face. "My mother must have made a mistake—I wasn't bawn for a boy."

"Good gracious!"

"I had to be raised for a boy—it had to be done. What else was possible at the Robbers' Roost?"

"And you're not a boy!"

"God help me, I'm only a girl."

"You, a girl?"

"Oh, don't be hard on me—it ain't my fault! I tried so hard to be a man—but I'm crazy with pain—and I wisht I was daid!"

"But I can't believe—it can't be true. Why, I've seen you ride—the first horseman in Arizona, scout, cowboy, desperado, wanted for robbery and murder—you a girl!"

"Have pity! Don't! Don't talk like that—I'm not so bad as you think—I never robbed—I never——"

"You killed men to save my life. Oh, Curly, I'm so sorry I talked like that—I take it all back. I must have been loco to call you a coward—I wish I'd half your courage! I never knew a woman could be brave; my mother wasn't, and all the girls I've known—they weren't like you. Oh, the things you've seen me do, the things I've said—treating you no better than a boy. Can you ever forgive the way I treated you?"

One little hand stole out and touched him: "Stop—talk no more."

A vaquero was singing for all he was worth in the guardroom, to the strum of a guitar, while hands clapped out the time—

Jim set to work to finish his hole in the wall, prying out the 'dobe bricks with his crowbar, and he sure wrought furious, timing his strokes to the clapping hands, the guitar, and the swinging chorus—

The cactus liquor was getting in its work, the guardroom crowded up all it would hold of soldiers, vaqueros, customs men, travellers; then there was dancing, singing, gambling, squabbling, all the row which belongs to a general drunk. Curly was fretted up to high fever, riding herd on a bunch of dream cows, and Jim was pouring in his strength on the 'dobe bricks. At two in the morning the Frontier Guards began to make war talk, wanting to turn the prisoners loose, with a prize for the soldier who got first kill with a gun. On that the Holy Cross vaqueros proposed to rescue their young patrone, and wipe out the Frontier Guards. There was considerable rough house with knife and gun, until the guards subdued the vaqueros, jumped on their heads, and herded them into No. 2 cell as prisoners of war. The vaqueros were just moaning for blood, the Guards turned loose to celebrate their victory with more drinks, and while the row was enough to drown artillery, Jim's crowbar drove a brick which fell outside the wall. Now he had only to pry 'dobes loose one by one until the hole was big enough to let out prisoners. Sometimes he had to quit and hold his breath while the sentry came reeling past along his beat. Once he had to play dead, because a drunken sergeant rolled into the cell to give him a drink of meseal. The sergeant called him brother, hugged him, kissed him, cried, and went away. At three o'clock Jim crawled out through the hole with his crowbar, lay for the sentry, jumped up behind, clubbed him, and got the rifle. Then he dragged Mr. Sentry into the cell, wrapped him in Curly's blanket, and made up a dummy to look like himself in case the sergeant of the guard should remember to call again.

"Curly," he shook his partner out of sleep. "Curly, the spring time is coming—it's time for little bears to come out of hole."

"Yo' gawn all foolish," says Curly, "callin' me a bear. I done forget who I am, but I'm too sure sick to be a bear."

"Let's play bear," says Jim, mighty shy; "I'll bet you I'm first through this hole!"

The guardroom had gone quiet, the men there being just sober enough not to fall off the floor, but the sergeant was droning with the guitar, sobbing out the tail end of the old Lolita song—

Curly was first out through the hole, chasing dream bears. "The wind's in the west," she said, looking at the big stars above.

"Crawl up the wind," Jim whispered. "We want our horses; where are they?"

Curly sat up snuffing at the wind, then pointed. "The hawss smell's thar," she said, "but there's a scent of pony-soldiers too—many soldiers."

Jim trailed over cat-foot to the stable and looked in through the door. A lantern hung in the place, and some of the Frontier Guards sat round a box on the hay gambling earnest. If he went off to a distance, and handed out a few shots to draw the guard away searching, he reckoned there might be time to sneak round and steal a horse before they began to stray back. But then there was Curly all delirious with fever, and whimpering small wolf calls, so that every dog in the place had started to bark. The wolf calls had to be stopped, and a new dream started which would keep the little partner good and silent. That is why Jim took a handful of dust which he said was salt.

"Come along, Curly," he whispered, "we're going to stalk the buffalo; to still hunt the buffalo; we must be fearfully quiet, or we'll never put the salt on their tails. Don't you see?"

"But the buffalo's all gawn extinct!"

"Oh, that's all right; it's not their fault, poor things. Come on, and we'll salt their tails."

"I'm sort of tired," says Curly right out loud, and Jim went cold with fright. He could hear the soldiers squabbling over their game not fifty feet away, then the sound of somebody's footsteps rambling over from the guard-house. A soldier staggered drunk within two yards of him, and rolled in at the stable door.

"Come on, old chap," Jim whispered; "I'm your horse, so climb on my back, and we'll travel."

So he put the little partner on his back, and staggered away into the desert. He had one cartridge in the gun, no water, only the stars to guide him, and at sunrise the Frontier Guards would see his tracks. There was no hope.