as 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?"

"They could prove I wounded Cullison. That was enough for them. They set
out to hang me. Later they changed their minds."

"How come you here? Did you escape?"

"Nope. Friends dug up bail."

Cranston did not ask what friends. He thought he knew. Alec Flandrau, an
uncle of Curly, owned a half interest in the Map of Texas ranch. No doubt
he had come to the aid of the young scapegoat.

"I'll bet the old man was sore at having to ante," was Big Bill's
comment.

"Say, Soapy has been telling me that the Cullison kid is up here. I reckon
we better not say anything about my mixup with his folks. I'm not looking
for any trouble with him."

"All right, Curly. That goes with me. How about you, Blackwell?"

"Sure. What Sam don't know won't hurt him."

Curly sat down on the porch and told an edited story of his adventures to
them. Before he had finished a young fellow rode up and dismounted. He had
a bag of quail with him which he handed over to the Mexican cook. After he
had unsaddled and turned his pony into a corral he joined the card players
on the porch.

By unanimous consent the game was changed to poker. Young Cullison had the
chair next to Flandrau. He had, so Curly thought, a strong family
resemblance to his father and sister. "His eye jumps straight at you and
asks its questions right off the reel," the newcomer thought. Still a boy
in his ways, he might any day receive the jolt that would transform him
into a man.

The cook's "Come and get it" broke up the game for a time. They trooped to
supper, where for half an hour they discussed without words fried quail,
cornbread and coffee. Such conversation as there was held strictly to
necessary lines and had to do with the tr