The Complete Works of O. Henry

'Damn all family feuds and inherited scraps,' muttered Ranse vindictively to the breeze as he rode back to the Cibolo.

Ranse turned his horse into the small pasture and went to his own room. He opened the lowest drawer of an old bureau to get out the packet of letters that Yenna had written him one summer when she had gone to Mississippi for a visit. The drawer stuck, and he yanked at it savagely--as a man will. It came out of the bureau, and bruised both his shins--as a drawer will. An old, folded yellow letter without an envelope fell from somewhere--probably from where it had lodged in one of the upper drawers. Ranse took it to the lamp and read it curiously.

Then he took his hat and walked to one of the Mexican jacals.

'Tia Juana,' he said, 'I would like to talk with you a while.'

An old, old Mexican woman, white-haired and wonderfully wrinkled, rose from a stool.

'Sit down,' said Ranse, removing his hat and taking the one chair in the jacal. 'Who am I, Tia Juana?' he asked, speaking Spanish.

'Don Ransom, our good friend and employer. Why do you ask?' answered the old woman wonderingly.

'Tia Juana, who am I?' he repeated, with his stern eyes looking into hers.

A frightened look came in the old woman's face. She fumbled with her black shawl.

'Who am I, Tia Juana?' said Ranse once more.

'Thirty-two years I have lived on the Rancho Cibolo,' said Tia Juana. 'I thought to be buried under the coma mott beyond the garden before these things should be known. Close the door, Don Ransom, and I will speak. I see in your face that you know.'

An hour Ranse spent behind Tia Juana's closed door. As he was on his way back to the house Curly called to him from the wagon-shed.

The tramp sat on his cot, swinging his feet and smoking.

'Say, sport,' he grumbled. 'This is no way to treat a man after kidnappin' him. I went up to the store and borrowed a razor from that fresh guy and had a shave. But that ain't all a man needs. Say--can't you loosen up for about three fingers more of that booze? I never asked you to bring me to your d--d farm.'

'Stand up out here in the light,' said Ranse, looking at him closely.

Curly got up sullenly and took a step or two.

His face, now shaven smooth, seemed transformed. His hair had been combed, and it fell back from the right side of his forehead with a peculiar wave. The moonlight charitably softened the ravages of drink; and his aquiline, well-shaped nose and small, square cleft chin almost gave distinction to his looks.

Ranse sat on the foot of the cot and looked at him curiously.

'Where did you come from--have you got any home or folks anywhere?'

'Me? Why, I'm a dook,' said Curly. 'I'm Sir Reginald--oh, cheese it. No; I don't know anything about my ancestors. I've been a tramp ever since I can remember. Say, old pal, are you going to set 'em up again to-night or not?'

'You answer my questions and maybe I will. How did you come to be a tramp?'

'Me?' answered Curly. 'Why, I adopted that profession when I was an infant. Case of had to. First thing I can remember, I belonged to a big, lazy hobo called Beefsteak Charley. He sent me around to houses to beg. I wasn't hardly big enough to reach the latch of a gate.'

'Did he ever tell you how he got you?' asked Ranse.

'Once when he was sober he said he bought me for an old six-shooter and six bits from a band of drunken Mexican sheep-shearers. But what's the diff? That's all I know.'

'All right,' said Ranse. 'I reckon you're a maverick for certain. I'm going to put the Rancho Cibolo brand on you. I'll start you to work in one of the camps to-morrow.'

'Work!' sniffed Curly, disdainfully. 'What do you take me for? Do you think I'd chase cows, and hop-skip- and-jump around after crazy sheep like that pink and yellow guy at the store says these Reubs do? Forget it.'

'Oh, you'll like it when you get used to it,' said Ranse. 'Yes, I'll send you up one more drink by Pedro. I think you'll make a first-class cowpuncher before I get through with you.'

'Me?' said Curly. 'I pity the cows you set me to chaperon. They can go chase themselves. Don't forget my nightcap, please, boss.'

Ranse paid a visit to the store before going to the house. Sam Rivell was taking off his tan shoes regretting and preparing for bed.

'Any of the boys from the San Gabriel camp riding in early in the morning?' asked Ranse.

'Long Collins,' said Sam briefly. 'For the mail.'

'Tell him,' said Ranse, 'to take that tramp out to camp with him and keep him till I get there.'

Curly was sitting on his blankets in the San Gabriel camp cursing talentedly when Ranse Truesdell rode up and dismounted on the next afternoon. The cowpunchers were ignoring the stray. He was grimy with dust and black dirt. His clothes were making their last stand in favour of the conventions.

Ranse went up to Buck Rabb, the camp boss, and spoke briefly.

'He's a plumb buzzard,' said Buck. 'He won't work, and he's the low- downest passel of inhumanity I ever see. I didn't know what you wanted done with him, Ranse, so I just let him set. That seems to suit him. He's been condemned to death by the boys a dozen times, but I told 'em maybe you was savin' him for the torture.'