The Project Gutenberg eBook of The range-boomer

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Title: The range-boomer

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Release date: July 25, 2026 [eBook #79180]

Language: English

Original publication: New York, NY: The Ridgway Company, 1922

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79180

Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RANGE-BOOMER ***

THE RANGE-BOOMER

by W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Tangled Trails,” “Ajax for Example,” etc.

The dull hum of conversation in the Thunder County courthouse died down as the door leading to the jury room opened and twelve men filed out. They were all hard-bitted men, wearing the stamp of the range. There was not a hint of the verdict on their impassive faces as they moved into their seats.

From the opposite side of the room, through the door leading to the jail, came the sheriff and a deputy with their prisoner, a tawny-eyed, lithe young man, who walked forward with a half-smile on his thin lips as he looked at the twelve men who had decided his fate.

The judge, portly and gray-haired, came in slowly and sat down behind his desk. The courtroom was filled to suffocation, for the case had caused much local interest and range folks like to sit in court when the case has any interest to their business.

Seated just inside the railing reserved for the principals in the case were four people—two men and two women. One of these men was a giant, with a great shock of grizzled hair and mild blue eyes, which belied the fighting-power revealed by his massive, deep-lined face. He was “Flint” Moore, owner of the Box M cattle outfit, and father of “Wild” Moore, the tawny-eyed prisoner.

Beside him sat his wife and his daughter, Patricia, known as “Pat,” while with them sat “Bud” Deal, the foreman of the Box M. Patricia had the same tawny eyes as her brother, and black hair and a creamy skin which defied tan. Her mouth was full-lipped and her nose was just a trifle tilted. Patricia had been the cause of many a cowboy’s day dreams, but they all grew love-shy under the gaze of her yellow-brown orbs and went away afraid to speak their feelings.

All except Bud Deal, the champion rider and pistol shot of the Thunder Range. Bud’s coal-black eyes clashed with Pat’s tawny ones—and the black eyes won. Bud was thirty years of age, slender, with the face of a Spaniard and the nerve of a wild-cat. Few people loved Bud Deal; but they all respected his ability. He was a first-class cow-man.

Flint Moore’s eyes turned from the jury, flashed to his son and centered on the sheriff, who turned his head. Their eyes met. It was only a flash, yet it was full of bitter hatred. Between Flint Moore and the sheriff, Jeff Garvin, was bad, bad blood. Garvin was nearly as large a man as Moore, with sandy hair and mustache. His eyes were deep set and steel-gray in color.

For several moments there was tense silence in the little courtroom, broken finally by the creak of the judge’s old swivel chair as he faced the jury and said—

“Gentlemen, have you reached a verdict?”

A tall man, with a long, thin face, stood up, hitched nervously at the waist-band of his overalls and said softly:

“Yes, sir, judge, we has. Here is our verdict.”

He held out a sheet of paper to the clerk, who handed it to the judge.

Every one in the courthouse leaned forward, watching the face of the old judge for a hint of the verdict. He glanced down at Flint Moore and handed the paper to the clerk to read aloud.

The drone of several flies, buzzing up and down the dusty windows, was plainly audible.

Then the clerk read—

“We, the jury, find Wild Moore—uh—”

The clerk turned the sheet of paper around to better catch the light from the window.

“We, the jury, find Wild Moore not guilty as charged.”

For an instant there was silence. Then a huge sombrero sailed up from the rear of the room and seemed to skate along the ceiling. Following it came the suppressed yelp of an enthusiastic cowboy—

“Ee-e-e-e-e-yah!”

The judge hammered on his desk, as he got to his feet, but his voice was not heard above the commotion. Flint Moore had got to his feet and stepped closer the sheriff, who had also got up. Patricia and her mother had rushed to Wild and were smothering him in their embrace.

The sheriff was angry, explosively angry, and did not conceal it. Cowboys vaulted the railing to shake hands with Wild Moore and some of them jostled the sheriff nearer Flint Moore. It was like holding a flame near powder for those two men to be near each other.

“That was a —— crooked verdict!” snapped the sheriff, glaring into Flint Moore’s face; and a second later the sheriff went crashing backward into a jumble of loose chairs from a smashing blow to the jaw.

The prosecuting attorney threw himself in front of Flint Moore, trying to stop him, but a huge shoulder crashed into his chest, tossing him aside. The sheriff heaved himself up from the floor, drawing his gun as he came, but Bud Deal sprawled into him, clutching his gun-hand, while other men grasped the sheriff to prevent a killing.

In the middle of the railed space stood Flint Moore, alone, Colt in hand. Jud Frawley, the deputy, was watching him closely, but making no effort to mix into the game. He knew that Flint Moore was in a killing mood.

“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” cried the judge, trying to elbow his way off his platform; but a number of fight-loving cowboys blocked him from interfering.

The jury had mixed into the quarrel, and it began to look as if the Thunder County court would become a wreck, as far as the interior was concerned. Patricia stepped in and put her hand on her father’s arm.

“Stop it, dad,” she ordered. “Let’s not make things any worse than they are. Nothing can be gained by fighting.”

The boys had managed to take the sheriff’s gun away from him and now the judge was heard above the uproar.

“Clear the courtroom!” he commanded. “This is a disgrace, gentlemen.”

“The whole —— case was a disgrace!” rasped Flint Moore. “Let that star-packin’ coyote loose and fill his arms with guns.”

“Dad!” chided Pat. “Don’t say foolish things. Let’s all go home and call it a day.”

“Good idea,” said Wild Moore, smiling. “Has been quite some day, folks. C’m on, dad. Yuh can’t get no battle out of Jeff Garvin, ’cause he ain’t got no gun—and yore lookin’.”

Jeff Garvin heard the implication, but he did not reply. He was white-hot. His jaw still ached from Flint Moore’s fist, but he knew that the men would not permit him to make any attempt to retaliate. He shifted his glance to Wild Moore, and his eyes clashed with those of irresponsible youth. Then Wild Moore laughed mockingly and turned his back on the sheriff.

Flint Moore turned away and left the courtroom with his family and Bud Deal. Several of the jury shook hands with Wild at the courthouse steps and slapped Flint on the back, telling him to forget Jeff Garvin.

Other men argued with Jeff Garvin, telling him to forget Flint Moore; but Jeff Garvin said nothing. He was a powerful man and jealous of his prestige in the Thunder Range. He had been chief witness against Wild Moore, in which Wild had been accused of rustling cattle. Every one knew that the hard Winter had hit the Box M, and that Flint Moore was pinched for ready cash. Wild was an inveterate gambler—a plunger, and it was reported that he owed some large poker bills. He had suddenly acquired a lot of money. His poker bills were paid and he plunged heavier than usual.

A bunch of seventy steers had disappeared from the ranch in which Jeff Garvin owned half-interest. Garvin knew that several small herds had disappeared prior to his own loss. He wanted to talk with Wild Moore about several things, but Wild was missing. Several days later he showed up and plunged into the gambling-halls. When the sheriff questioned him he merely laughed and told the sheriff to go to a place which, they say, is hotter, on an average, than Fourth of July in Yuma.

Thereupon the sheriff arrested him and tried to build up his case against him, but cattle jurors must be shown something material. In fact, a rustler must almost be found with the stolen animal—to be branded a rustler.

“Whitey” Allen, one of Moore’s punchers, rode out with them from Oxbow, while the crowd from the courthouse watched them go and speculated on what would happen when Flint Moore and Jeff Garvin met again.

Oxbow was the county seat of Thunder County, an unpretentious little cow-city at the terminus of a railroad branch. It had been a stage-station, a trading-post, and the advent of a railroad, the appointment as a county seat, had changed it little.

There was a main street, narrow, dusty, fortified on both sides by unpainted, false-fronted buildings. There was a cross street started, which did not continue beyond a few more buildings of the same type of architecture. There was nothing in Oxbow to attract tourist nor capital. It squeaked in the Winter blizzards and creaked in the Summer heat. Men died with their boots on, and the survivors went on in their own dumb way, talking cattle prices, trading horses and whittling chairs.

When poker, faro and roulette palled, they pitched horseshoes for twenty dollars a corner or spat at a crack for the price of a steer. It was little wonder that Wild Moore’s trial had been of interest.

Whitey Allen was a thin, emaciated, tow-haired cowboy, whose features seemed to blend. He was one of those indescribable individuals who are like a sketchy drawing to which neither shade nor high-light has been added, or a half-tone drawing of a cowboy’s body with the head and face merely indicated.

None of the party had much to say during the ten mile ride to the Box M, which consisted of a rambling old ranch-house in the cottonwoods along Leloo Creek. There were several pole corrals, a long shelter shed and a one-story bunk-house.

Thunder Range was mostly low, rolling hills, which stretched Eastward to the high banks of Bitter River and Westward to the high range of the Thunder Mountains, which circled the big range like a crescent. There was plenty of water, and just now the hills were ablaze with Spring wildflowers and new bunchgrass, which grew up as if nature sought to cover the bones of the stock which she had wiped out with a terrific Winter.

Every ranch on the range had suffered, but none so heavily as the Box M. Magpies chattered over their nest-building in the willows along the stream. Prairie-dogs whistled from the sides of the hills, and overhead, high in the blue haze, flocks of geese and brant honked their way to the Northern lakes.

It was twilight when they rode into the Box M ranch and dismounted beside the rambling old porch. Deal and Whitey took the horses to the sheds, while the family went into the house. Flint Moore seemed to have aged ten years in a week. Wild was silent; but there was a gleam of exultation in his tawny eyes. He faced his father across the center table in the living-room and a defiant look came into his face as he waited for his father to speak.

“Son,” Flint Moore spoke very softly. “Son, where did you get that money yuh was spendin’ so free?”

Wild Moore threw back his head.

“Jeff Garvin asked the same question, dad.”

“I know he did—but you ain’t goin’ to give me the same answer yuh gave him.”

“Ain’t I?”

Flint Moore shook his head.

“No, son.”

“Havin’ money ain’t no crime.”

“No-o-o it ain’t no crime; but after the Winter we had it’s —— noticeable, son.”

Wild laughed.

“Everybody’s so —— poor around this forsaken country that an extra two-bits makes folks suspicious that yo’re a thief.”

“This ain’t no time for jokin’, son. Yo’re goin’ to tell me where yuh got that money, and I’m goin’ to tell the Thunder Range folks where yuh got it. The Box M and the Moore family comes clean with God and man. Now, talk.”

Wild Moore’s eyes narrowed as he looked at his father. He was not a dutiful son; and Flint Moore knew that his question would not be answered. It was with misgivings that Flint Moore had watched the growing-up of his boy. He had never shown affection for any one. There was a queer, wild strain in his blood, which grew into a devil-may-care attitude toward every one and everything. He was a throwback to some remote ancestor, whose eyes were a yellowish brown—probably a laughing, king-hating swashbuckler, who swore allegiance to no power.

Patricia had the same eyes, but Flint Moore knew that Pat was just a sweet, warm-hearted girl, who loved this wild-riding brother, but did not ask his love in return. Perhaps she understood him better than the rest.

For a full minute the two men watched each other. Came the jingle of a spur on the threshold and they turned to see Bud Deal standing in the doorway. Flint Moore had no way of knowing how long he had been there.

“Didja want that roan mare turned into the hills?” asked Deal softly. “Her back’s kinda sore.”

Flint Moore nodded.

“Yeah. Yuh might put a little axlegrease on the spots, Bud.”

Bud nodded in agreement, but made no move to leave. He produced a cigaret paper and tobacco and began leisurely to roll a smoke. Wild relaxed and accepted the “makin’s” from Bud, while Flint Moore studied them closely. Somehow, it seemed to him that the coming of Deal was a bit too opportune. It had saved Wild the clash, which was most surely due between them, when he had refused to explain where the money had come from.

Patricia came into the room, her eyes shining as she threw one arm around her father’s shoulders and patted him on the cheek.

“Just think, dad; this is the first time in three weeks that we have all been able to eat together. Isn’t it fine? I have never had much use for the law; but I was mighty grateful when it spoke up and told us that we didn’t have a thief in our family.”

Wild turned and stared at her.

“Didja have to have the law tell yuh that?”

Bud Deal laughed softly over his cigaret. Patricia did not reply, but her eyes did not waver.

“I hope the law—” began Flint Moore softly, but did not finish.

“I—I think we had better eat supper,” stated Patricia sadly.

“I don’t reckon I’m hungry,” grunted Wild, and turned out of the door, jingling his spurs down the steps and walking away toward the bunk-house.

Bud Deal tossed his cigaret away and turned to Flint.

“Yuh hadn’t ought to try to make him tell——”

“Yo’re only the foreman, Deal,” Flint Moore’s voice was as cold as ice. “Yore business is not connected with my personal affairs. Sabe? You must ’a’ been there quite a while before yuh jingled that spur.”

Deal’s dark face flushed, but he did not reply. Pat looked keenly at him and he tried to smile. Flint Moore turned away and went slowly to the dining-room door, where he turned his head.

“Deal, yuh better give Whitey his time tonight. There ain’t enough work around here for all of us, and I’ve got to cut down expenses. May sell out—I dunno.”

Deal nodded.

“All right, boss. I reckon we’ll get along.”

Flint Moore went into the dining-room, and Deal turned to Pat.

“The old man’s kinda upset, honey.”

“Don’t you think he has a right to be, Bud?”

Bud grinned and shook his head.

“Not a bit. The jury cleared him as clean as a whistle, didn’t they?”

“The jury—yes. Wild refused to testify. There was only the sheriff’s suspicions to pass judgment upon, and you know that no cattle jury will accept suspicions, Bud. That jury knew that Jeff Garvin hates dad.”

“Well, that trial is all over, and your dad ought to forget it. A young feller don’t like to have anybody hornin’ into his business, and I can see why Wild—see how he feels about it.”

“Perhaps you can, Bud,” replied Pat softly, and Bud wondered why she emphasized “you” so strongly.

They went into the dining-room together.

II

It was just at the hour when night fades into the pale shades of the dawn. No. 52 was thirty minutes behind schedule, which accounted for the extra throb and sway of the long string of Pullmans, as the huge compound engine thundered its way around the curves of the Snake Creek hills.

Suddenly there came the screech of brakes and the train ground to a shuddering stop. There was no sign of water-tank, station or signal. The front end of the train was just around a sharp curve.

A man darted back from the engine, running close to the side of the baggage car. He stepped in between the baggage car and the next coach, broke the air-hose, lifted the coupler and swung out, waving his free hand. As the engine started ahead he swung up on the rear of the car and the engine and one car went on around the curve.

In the rear of the engine cab stood a masked man, with a pistol in each hand. Lying half across his seat was the fireman, a bloody welt on his head, while the engineer looked straight ahead and drove according to directions. The fireman had attempted to fight the two masked men, and had paid for his foolishness. A mile farther on the man gave the command to stop, forced the engineer to precede him out of the cab, and the two of them went back to the baggage car.

Under the baggage car, huddled on the precarious rods was a man. His face was covered with a once-clean bandanna handkerchief to protect him from the stinging particles of dust. His clothes were driven full of grit and he was smoke-blackened until it was impossible to tell whether he was a white man or a negro.

The halting of the train had been a godsend to him, as he was nearly exhausted from an all-night grip of the rods, where he had fought against sleep and exhaustion. He could see the lower half of the engineer’s and the masked man’s bodies, as they came to the door of the baggage car. He saw the other man come from the rear of the car and join them.

He strained his ears to hear what was being said, but was unable to get more than an occasional word. He heard some one mention “dynamite” and a little later, “good sense.” Then he heard the door slide back in its grooves.

He relaxed for a moment and reached for his cigaret papers and tobacco. He grinned through the grime on his face at the cigaret he managed to make. It was greasy from his fingers, and his dry tongue had little power to seal the smoke.

Suddenly there came a crash above him—a jerking crash, which almost threw him off the rods. His cigaret fell to the road-bed and he clung with both hands. The three men dropped back to the ground, and he could see that one of them was carrying a canvas sack, which was heavy with its contents. One of the men started toward the engine.

It suddenly struck the man on the rods that this was a train hold-up. One of the men seemed to take a backward step, and from up by the engine came the dull report of a pistol. The man who had staggered went to one knee and the other sprang to him. The man on the rods could see that this kneeling man was completely masked. The other was firing toward the engine.

He stopped and helped the other to his feet, and as he did so he dropped his pistol to the rocky ground. He yanked the other man to his feet, swept up the pistol, and the two of them slid off the grade into the brush, taking the heavy canvas sack with them.

The man on the rods uncoiled swiftly and crawled out the opposite side of the car, and a moment later the engine and car began backing swiftly toward the rest of the train. The man had rolled into the brush and stayed concealed until the engine had disappeared around the curve.

Then he got to his feet and crossed the track, looking curiously in the direction taken by the bandits. It was a heavily wooded slope, and the two men were nowhere in evidence. He glanced down at the ground. A bent and blackened silver dollar lay among the rocks and near it was a small, almost triangular piece of pearl. He picked it up and studied it, and finally put it into his pocket. Then he crossed the track and plunged into the hills, going in the opposite direction to that taken by the bandits. He swore softly at himself for being fool enough to leave the train at that time. He realized that the rods of that train, even if he was discovered at the next stop, would be safer than being found in the hills.

He watched the train pass the spot of the hold-up, roaring its way to the next stop to spread the alarm, which would send mounted men on the trail of the outlaws. In a few hours the hills would be searched by men who knew every inch of them.

The man plunged on over a ridge and down into a ravine, where he found a stream of water. In lieu of soap he used sand, and did not cease scrubbing until he was restored to his normal color. He was wearing a cheap flannel shirt, an old vest, overalls and short boots. His hat was a nondescript sombrero.

When he had laundered himself as well as possible he sprawled at the edge of the stream and drank deeply. The reflection of his own face in the pool seemed to amuse him. All his life Jimmy Devlin had smiled at his own features; for Jimmy Devlin was far from handsome.

Jimmy’s hair was a cross between a roan and a sorrel. It would not part. His eyes were very blue and deepset. His nose was a trifle too generous and had been knocked a bit askew in a fight. His mouth was large and seemed to hold a perpetual smile. He was thirty-two years of age; five feet eleven inches tall and weighed a hundred and seventy-five. He was an expert cow-hand, willing to argue anything from psychoanalysis to the right way to bake a bean—and had just got out of the penitentiary, after fifteen months served on a three-year sentence.

Jimmy had been sent up for doing just what he had seen these two men doing a short time before. According to the records of Red Lodge County, Jimmy Devlin was a bold, bad train-robber.

This was one of the reasons why Jimmy did not want to be picked up by the officers. Inside his vest pocket were his parole papers. He knew that the officers would be very glad to find him, and he also knew that he would have a hard time making them understand that he had nothing to do with it.

If he had been found on the rods of that robbed car he might have been able to convince them that he had nothing to do with it; but a paroled train-robber’s words are of little weight, especially when zealous officers are seeking some one to imprison.

Therefore, Jimmy Devlin headed once more into the land of purple sage and dim trails. He felt that he was many miles removed from the spot where he had been arrested and tried, and there was little danger of any one knowing him. Jimmy hated the parole. He would have to stay within the boundaries of the State, and to report at regular intervals to the sheriff of the county. Just now he felt of the bit of paper sewed inside his vest pocket, and it brought a frown, as he plodded along.

He stopped and looked across the hills, which stretched away to the horizon, an endless sea of hill-waves. As far as he could see there was no hint of a squatter’s cabin nor sign of barbed-wire fences. Thunder Range was still the open land—a land of the dim trails.

Suddenly Jimmy’s serious face broke into a smile and his hand crinkled the paper in his pocket.

“Sure,” he muttered, half-aloud, “I should be glad that the paper says Montana instead of Rhode Island, because I hear they have a small area down there.”

He turned and started through the sage, disturbing the day dreams of a jack rabbit, which darted from in front of him and went spindle-legging its way down the hill, gathering speed at every jump, until it became but a gray blur in the sage.

“You should be glad, too,” chuckled Jimmy, as the rabbit faded from view. “Sure, you’d only get goin’ good and run off the edge into the ocean.”

Jimmy hitched up his pants and started on, hat in hand. Here was a big, free land—an empire of hills and valleys, far from real civilization; yet Jimmy Devlin felt that he could not be a part of it. He could never be a free man, as long as he must report to the law.

“Twelve wise men said I was a train-robber,” he muttered softly, “and who am I to dispute twelve wise men?”

He shaded his eyes with his hand and glanced around, as if challenging some one to dispute the question.

“Three years they gave me to repint of my sins, and in fifteen months they got tired of feedin’ me. Repint on your own meal-ticket, says they. Be a good citizen from now on, lie to the sheriff fluently, and by doin’ so ye may save the State the cost of feedin’ ye slumgullion stew and the wear and tear on large rocks.”

Jimmy grinned and scanned the country.

“Talkin’ to meself like a shepherd. I must take another name, that’s very sure, except with the sheriff—bad luck to him. Still, he may not be a bad sort. I hope I get a job before the hills are full of man-hunters—so I do.”

He topped a rise and stopped. Before him spread the Thunder Range. He could see the great crescent of mountains, the long, sloping foot-hills. He took a deep breath and shook his head in wonderment.

“Sure I’m a lucky devil, so I am. I was in the Thunder country and didn’t know it.”

He scanned the country and looked back, where he could see the dim, green line of Bitter River.

“It’s the place,” he muttered. “I’m too far South yet, though. Sure, I wonder if he did what he said he would? Wish I knew where he was, the poor divil. He wanted to go to Arizony and try to fight the pain in his chest. I was fool enough to cut into the game and let the sheriff chase me. I thought I had a fast horse; but I miscounted me speed per mile.

“Ah, well, it was only fifteen months. I hope that some soft-hearted Mick will help me out in return, if I ever need it. Fifteen months in the penitentiary and further orders not to leave the State. Mebbe it was worth it—I dunno. Talkin’ to meself again! Hm-m-m!”

He shook his head and started toward the North.

III

Jeff Garvin opened his mail, which had collected for several days. It was mostly reward notices, which he scanned and tossed aside. Rewards for yeggs, counterfeiters and even the lowly pickpocket. The sheriff passed them all until he came to a letter which bore the imprint of the State penitentiary. He opened it and frowned over its contents.

Jud Frawley looked up from his newspaper when the sheriff grunted aloud.

“They’ve paroled Jim Devlin,” stated the sheriff.

“Who is he?” asked Frawley. “Oh, yeah. He was sent up before we went into office, wasn’t he, Jeff?”

“Uh-huh. Robbed a train in Silverbend County and they trailed him plumb over here before they got him.”

“And never got the money, did they?”

“Nope. He got away with twenty thousand dollars. Now they let him out on parole and he’ll likely dig it up, thumb his nose at the law and live easy.”

“Did you know him?” asked Frawley.

Garvin shook his head.

“Never even seen him. Heard all about the case. Swore he didn’t know a thing about it, but they sent him up. Why, he was ridin’ a pinto, with a white rump. The sheriff of Silverbend had follered that pinto for a week. They gave him three years. ——! I’d serve fifteen months for twenty thousand dollars.”

Frawley nodded in agreement and folded up his paper.

“Seen anything of any of the Box M outfit lately?”

The sheriff snapped around in his chair.

“None of ’em been here in ten days—not since the trial. Mebbe I made a fool of myself, Frawley; but I was sore. That —— Wild Moore would make anybody sore, and his father——”

The sheriff snapped back to his desk and began writing on some legal papers. Frawley nodded, deep in thought. Then—

“Wasn’t it reported that Devlin was killed in a jail-break?”

“Yeah. A month ago. Newspapers never get things right. It was denied later. Anyway, he wasn’t, or they couldn’t parole him, that’s a cinch.”

The sheriff picked up the letter again and scanned it. He grunted something unintelligible and turned to Frawley.

“Where do yuh reckon this letter has been all this time? Posted two weeks ago.”

Frawley got up and examined the postmark. It was quite true that the letter was two weeks old.

“Likely got shoved aside,” said Frawley, slowly. “It don’t matter none, does it, Jeff?”

“No, but it might ’a’ been somethin’ important.”

Frawley pursed his lips and went back to his chair. He had been carrying that letter in an inside vest pocket ever since the morning it arrived, but he wasn’t going to tell the sheriff. The vest had not been worn since that morning until now. Still, it was not important.

A man, bareheaded and in his shirt-sleeves, came in the door and walked to the sheriff, to whom he handed a telegram, watching the sheriff read it. Frawley got up, as if to get a peek at the message, which had suddenly galvanized Garvin into life.

“Listen to this, Jud,” ordered the sheriff, and read the message aloud:

“NUMBER FIFTY-TWO HELD UP BY TWO MASKED MEN IN SNAKE CREEK HILLS AT DAYLIGHT THIS MORNING. FIREMAN JOHNSON KILLED. BLEW SAFE AND GOT AWAY WITH BIG SHIPMENT OF GOLD. TRAIN WAS STOPPED AT FIRST CURVE NORTH OF SNAKE CREEK BRIDGE. ENGINEER SAW ROBBERS GO EAST FROM RAILROAD.

(signed) SHERIFF FRANKLYN, COTTONWOODS.”

“Snake Creek Bridge,” mused Frawley. “No use goin’ down there, I don’t reckon. They’ll have hours start of us.”

“Cinch,” agreed the sheriff. “Only thing we can do is to go out the Box M road and cut across the hills to Snake Creek. It’s almost a cinch that they won’t try to hide out East of Bitter River. Mebbe we’ll cut their trail some’ers.”

“Take a pack-outfit?” queried Frawley, and the sheriff nodded. “One horse. Throw on enough for about four days, Jud. Better pack the brown mare. She’s got more speed than the rest. I’ll wire to Franklyn and tell him we’ll work the Thunder Range, but for him to watch that they don’t get across into the breaks of Swan River.”

Jud Frawley worked swiftly and in half-an-hour they were ready to hit the trail.

Both men were well mounted and the small pack was diamond-hitched to a rangy brown mare.

Without causing any questions or excitement they rode out of town, heading down the dusty road, which led to the Box M. They covered ground swiftly, with the pack-mare swinging along at a stiff gallop. Both men knew it might be a hard trip, with the odds greatly in favor of the hunted. There were hundreds of places in the east side of the Thunder Range where two men might hide out indefinitely. It was a case of cutting their trail, more by accident than design, because the range was full of loose horses, some shod, some barefooted.

Jeff Garvin did not intend to stop at the Box M ranch. He knew that his presence was not at all desired at that certain place. The enmity between him and Flint Moore was of many years’ standing, and was caused by a horse race and the native truth of an Indian.

It was only a cayuse race, yet much money had been wagered. Flint Moore had a horse in the race as did Jeff Garvin. Both owners were too heavy to ride their own horses, and expect to win; so Garvin suggested that they each hire an Indian boy to ride.

Moore agreed and selected his boy the day before. That night Garvin drank much whisky and made many bets on his horse. Moore took part of the bets, in which Garvin gave foolish odds. Moore’s horse won.

An hour or so after the race Moore found his jockey, almost beaten to death, and doctored him back to life. The Indian boy told Moore that Garvin had tried to kill him. After much questioning Moore found that Garvin had bribed the Indian boy to throw the race. He had given the boy ten dollars to do this, but the boy had not understood the white man’s crooked scheme and had ridden to win.

Moore hunted out Garvin and found him in a gambling hall. Before the crowd, Moore told what the Indian boy had told him and then proceeded to whip Garvin. It was a complete job. Later that night, some one hit Moore over the head with a gun and robbed him of his own money and the winnings of the race. The next day Garvin had plenty of money, but Moore could not prove who hit him. From that time on there was an enmity which grew with the years.

The sheriff and his deputy rode past the sagging gate to the ranch-house, and started into the hills, past the corrals, when they met Patricia, leading her saddle-horse. She watched them ride up to her and made no effort to avoid them.

Garvin eased himself in his saddle and glanced back at the ranch-house before he said—

“Yore dad at home?”

Pat shook her head.

“No.”

“Yore brother?”

“Why do you ask?” Pat looked straight at him, and Garvin smiled.

“Then he ain’t, eh? Where’s Bud Deal and Whitey Allen?”

“Whitey isn’t working here. Hasn’t been here for about ten days.”

“Which don’t tell me where Bud Deal is,” reminded Garvin.

“No?” Pat was not a bit afraid of Jeff Garvin. “Perhaps you had better find Bud Deal and ask him.”

“Yeah,” nodded the sheriff. “Mebbe it would pay me to do just what yuh say. They’re all out in the hills, ain’t they?”

“Are they?” queried Pat interestedly. “Know any more news about our affairs, Mr. Garvin?”

Garvin swore under his breath and spurred ahead. Jud Frawley grinned at Pat and lifted his hat as he followed the sheriff. Down in his heart Frawley applauded Pat Moore, and he was not going to let Garvin’s prejudices against the Moore family change his opinion that Pat was about the finest girl he ever met.

The sheriff led straight into the south, until the broken hills concealed them from the ranch-house; then he turned his horse at right angles and swung up the bottom of a dry ravine. They climbed to where the ravine forked and the sheriff stopped and dismounted.

“What’s the big idea?” queried Frawley, as he watched the sheriff swing his field-glasses over his shoulder.

“We’ll climb up here to the top and watch that —— ranch, Jud. I ain’t takin’ no chances this time. Flint Moore needs money pretty danged bad, I’m tellin’ yuh. Him and that go-devil son of his ain’t home, and I’m goin’ to see when and from which way they do come.”

“How about Bud Deal?” asked Frawley, as they settled down in the rocks, looking down at the distant ranch-house.

“All depends,” grunted Garvin. “I’m lookin’ for two men ridin’ together. Bud Deal is goin’ to marry that yaller-eyed girl, and the Box M needs money pretty danged bad.”

Frawley grunted and stretched out in the shade. As far as he was concerned it was all right. He would rather lie in the shade than to ride in the sun, and if the sheriff wanted to loaf on the job, he was willing to help him.

It was about four o’clock when the sheriff picked up the two riders heading toward the ranch-house. It was Flint Moore and his son, beyond a doubt. Frawley took the glasses and nodded in agreement.

“Still that don’t spell nothin’,” stated Frawley, as he handed the glasses back to Garvin. “Two men ridin’ together don’t mean they robbed a train.”

“Ke-rect!” snapped the sheriff. “But it resembles such to the extent that I’m goin’ to find out where they’ve been. It’s about twenty-five miles from here to where that hold-up was pulled off, Jud. Come on.”

Garvin got to his feet and started down the hill toward their horses.

“Think a little about this, Jeff,” cautioned Jud, angling down the hill, digging his high-heels into the turf. “Flint Moore ain’t no shrinkin’ vi’let, and he hates you a lot. Wild ain’t exactly got any cause to love yuh—and they’re both pretty —— fast with a six-gun.”

Garvin turned at the horses.

“Stay out of it if yo’re scared, pardner; but I’m goin’ down there. Sabe?”

Frawley swung to his saddle and circled the pack-mare.

“I ain’t afraid, Jeff; and you know it. We’ll just be rammin’ ourselves against hot lead, thasall. Lemme go in alone and talk to ’em.”

“Fine chance!” sneered Garvin. “Have folks find out that I was scared of Moore. No, we go in together, or I go in alone.”

“All right, all right,” grunted Frawley. “Statistics shows that most men die before they reach thirty years of age, and I’m ten years over the average right now.”

Flint Moore and his son reached the ranch-house ahead of the sheriff and his deputy. Flint had gone into the house, while Wild had taken the horses to the corral. Garvin and Frawley rode boldly through the gate and up to the porch.

Flint Moore stepped out on the porch, minus his belt and gun and carrying a newspaper. He stared at Garvin steadily, wonderingly. Then he said—

“What do you want here, Garvin?”

“Just a little information, Moore,” replied the sheriff easily, noting with satisfaction that Moore was unarmed.

He eased himself in the saddle and dropped the reins over the saddle-horn.

“Where yuh been, Moore?”

“Where have I been?” Flint Moore repeated the question.

“Uh-huh.”

Moore took several moments to collect his thoughts, and then—

“What business of yours is where I have been?”

“None—mebbe. Saw you and yore son ridin’ in and I’d kinda like to know where you’ve been, thassall.”

Moore frowned. It was inconceivable that the sheriff should ride in and ask where he had been—especially as he and Garvin were sworn enemies.

“I don’t sabe your reasons, Garvin; and it’s none of your —— business where we’ve been.”

Garvin fidgeted with his bridle reins.

“Have you met anybody who could swear where yuh was at a certain time?”

Moore frowned and shook his head.

“Didja leave home today?”

“No, we left yesterday. Now, what in —— is all this about?”

“The train was held up at Snake Creek bridge this mornin’ about daylight,” replied Garvin slowly.

The newspaper slipped from Moore’s hand. For a moment he stared at Garvin and then came straight down the steps and up to the horses. Garvin’s hand slid to his gun. He had felt the weight of Flint Moore’s fist and was not going to take any chances.

“You accuse me of doing that?” Moore’s voice was very low, but distinct.

“Don’t get het up,” advised Garvin. “If yuh didn’t, yuh can prove yuh didn’t, can’t yuh?”

“Can you prove I did, Garvin?”

“I reckon,” said Garvin slowly. “I reckon we’ll let the jury decide that.”

Garvin’s hand came up quickly and his pistol pointed at Flint Moore.

“Yo’re under arrest, Moore. Don’t move,” and then to Frawley, “Go and get the kid, Jud.”

As Frawley turned his horse toward the sheds Pat came out on the front porch. For a moment she stared at her father and the sheriff and then she came down the steps and up to them. She looked at the pistol in the sheriff’s hand and at her father’s tense face.

Wild Moore came out of the stable and saw Frawley riding toward him. He could see his father standing beside the sheriff’s horse, with Pat a few feet away.

He knew that something was wrong and waited for Frawley to come up. Frawley was doing something he did not want to do; but he was only the sheriff’s hired man.

“I reckon yo’re under arrest, Wild.”

Wild Moore looked up at him. He did not dislike Jud.

“What for?”

“Sheriff thinks that you and yore dad held up the train at Snake Creek this mornin’.”

“The —— he does!” exploded Wild, and walked rapidly up to the sheriff, paying no attention to the gun.

“What’s all this fool talk about?” he demanded.

Frawley rode up beside him and waited for the sheriff to speak.

The gun turned slowly to cover Wild, and the sheriff spoke to Frawley—

“Take his gun, Jud.”

The tall deputy dismounted and removed the gun from Wild’s holster.

“Wild, can’t you prove where you were yesterday and today?” asked Pat. “Didn’t you see anybody?”

Wild shook his head.

“Never seen a soul, Pat. We made camp at Dancin’ Flats last night. Why, we wasn’t within eight miles of the railroad.”

“Well,” said the sheriff, “I reckon you can saddle up again and come with me to Oxbow.”

“You mean—” began Flint Moore.

“Jail—sure,” nodded the sheriff. “If yuh can prove yuh didn’t do it—fine. I’m listenin’ for a proof.”

“And while you are listening for innocent men to prove their innocence, the real robbers are making their way to safety,” said Pat.

Garvin laughed aloud and started to drop his pistol back into its holster. His prisoners were unarmed. He looked down at Pat.

“Sister, that sounds real smart; but I’m one hombre that yaller eyes and a smooth tongue never did faze.”

Flint Moore was only a few feet away from the sheriff, and his spring caught the sheriff unawares. His arms circled the sheriff’s body, and a backward heave, with his knees braced against the horse’s side, threw Garvin out of the saddle and sprawling to the ground. Like a flash, Flint Moore tossed aside the sheriff’s gun and waited for him to get up.

Jud Frawley started forward as if to help Garvin, but Wild tripped him with an out-flung foot and he almost fell over the sheriff. Before he could regain his balance Wild dived into him, knocking him sidewise and almost under his frightened horse, where Wild yanked his gun from its holster and secured his own from where it had dropped in the mixup.

Jeff Garvin struggled to his feet, cursing madly, and rushed at Flint Moore. They were nearly equal in size, but Flint Moore had whipped him before and both men knew he could do it again. This knowledge won for Flint, just as it lost for Garvin.

Moore smashed through Garvin’s clumsy guard and drove him across the yard with terrific smashes, which Garvin could not block. Garvin fought back like a tiger for a moment, but a blow to the jaw took all the strength from his muscles, and a second later a haymaker swing crashed against his chin and he went down like a stricken steer.

Flint Moore turned toward the porch, where Wild and Pat were sitting side by side. On the steps sat Frawley, his hands on his knees, a half-smile on his face. Moore noticed that Wild was dangling a pistol in his hand.

“That,” declared Frawley in appreciation, “that was complete and plumb sudden. Fallin’ around thataway caused me to miss a little of it. Kinda like a prizefight I was to in Pendleton once. They rung the bell and I turned m’ head to spit. Missed the fight, by jing! Hope he seen me start to help him.”

Flint Moore leaned against the porch and watched Garvin struggle back to his feet. He was a badly whipped man and did not seem to know just where he was going.

“Busted his rudder!” exclaimed Frawley, and then to Wild, “Mind lettin’ me steer him?”

Wild grinned and shook his head. Frawley got Garvin by the arm and led him back to his horse, where Garvin clung to a stirrup and tried to clear his brain. Frawley turned to Flint Moore.

“I reckon he won’t take yuh with him this evenin’.”

“I reckon he will!” retorted Flint. “If he don’t take us in with him, we’ll take him in with us. He’s made his arrest, now he’s got to make good on it. Go get the horses, Wild.”

Garvin got slowly on his horse. He was sore from his beating and his head ached badly. Flint Moore walked in close to him, and Garvin flinched at the feel of the muscular hand on his knee.

“Garvin, if you ever speak to my daughter or about her, I’ll beat you to death.”

Garvin nodded with evident understanding and caressed his aching jaw. He dreaded having to speak to any one.

Mrs. Moore was busy in the kitchen at the rear of the house and knew nothing of the turn of events until Pat went into the house and told her. They both went outside as Wild rode up leading his father’s horse.

The leavetaking was short. Mrs. Moore, a patient little woman, bowed her head sadly over the inevitable. She knew that they were not guilty, but that the sheriff would try to make them as much trouble as possible.

Pat and her mother stood on the porch and watched them ride away, with Garvin, unarmed, riding in the lead, closely followed by Frawley, also unarmed. Flint Moore and Wild rode side by side. Frawley turned and waved his hat at the two women, as he yelled a good-bye to them. Garvin rode straight ahead, never taking his eyes off the road. He knew that Oxbow would laugh when they heard how he had brought in his prisoners; and Jeff Garvin hated to be laughed at.

Frawley did not mind. In fact he was secretly pleased over the turn of affairs. It had looked to Wild as if Frawley had started ahead to assist the sheriff, when Flint Moore yanked him from his saddle; but the fact of the matter was that Frawley intended to jump Garvin for his words to Patricia.

IV

Jimmy Devlin disliked walking and refused to take it in large doses. In fact, he did not have a definite destination in view. He wanted to get a job on a cattle-ranch. He had been unable to prove his innocence at the time of his trial, but the brand of train-robber sat lightly on his shoulders. He whistled softly to himself and kept to the low ground, taking no chances of being seen and picked up as a suspect.

He had felt sure that he would find a ranch, where he could get a meal; but no ranch could he find, and hunger grew great within him. A well-directed stone secured a small brush-rabbit, which he dressed at a small creek and prepared for broiling.

He was about to light a fire, when he saw a rider cutting along the sky-line, traveling north. It was Bud Deal, heading for the Box M, but Jimmy did not know him.

“Ah-ha!” grunted Jimmy aloud. “That’s either an officer of the law or an innocent man; otherwise he wouldn’t be skylarkin’ along on the top of the hills. I should be wise and crafty, so I should; but eat I must, even if I’m spotted by me firelight and hung at daylight.”

Even a fat, young brush-rabbit is not exactly food for the gods, when salt is conspicuous by its absence; but Jimmy ate it all, loosened his belt and curled up on the ground.

The heat of the day gave way to the chill of night, and Jimmy grew uncomfortable. Finally he got to his feet and gazed off across the hills. A moon was coming up behind the Thunder Range. Far away came the mournful yelp of a coyote.

“Ye have nothin’ to yowl about,” commented Jimmy aloud. “From what I can see, ye have plenty to eat. Old Man Winter sure stocked up your grub-box, ye loafer. I am no —— owl, but I’d rather walk than freeze, and I’ve a hunch I’m goin’ to find a ranch pretty soon.”

He stamped out the remains of his little fire and started climbing the hill. He stopped at the top and scanned the country. A mile away glimmered a tiny light in a window at the Box M.

“There it is,” whispered Jimmy. “Me guidin’ star.”

His voice lifted in a lilting Irish tenor—

“Like a candle that stays in a window at night,

Your fond love has cheered me and guided me right.”

For Jimmy Devlin could sing, and many a crowded bunk-house had remained hushed long after his voice had died away. Jimmy had only sung once in prison. It was not allowed; but one night, long after the corridors were quiet, his voice was lifted in melody and he sang “My Wild Irish Rose.”

A burly guard, with a deep brogue, came to his door and haltingly commanded him to “desist that yowlin’!” But it was only after the last note had died away. Jimmy said nothing, but a prisoner across the corridor swore feelingly at the guard, who made no reply. Even prison guards are human.

Jimmy struck a well-worn cattle-trail, which led him straight to the ranch-house. He could smell the odors of cooking, as Mrs. Moore cooked supper for Bud Deal. He could see two people standing on the front steps, back-lighted by the lamplight from the open door.

Jimmy did not know just what conditions might be found at this particular ranch-house; so, instead of walking boldly to the people on the porch, he stopped and announced his coming with an old cowboy song:

“I’m so goshawful hungry, I’m plumb out of breath;

If some one won’t shoot me, I’ll sure starve to death.”

Jimmy waited a moment, and then a girl’s voice replied—

“Grub-pile!”

“’Tis heaven,” muttered Jimmy and came up to the porch. Pat Moore and Bud Deal looked curiously at him, as the lamplight showed his homely features. Jimmy smiled and removed his hat.

“Friends, it is not me mind that makes me a night intruder; because I have a control over me own brain, but the stummick of me contains nothin’ but a tiny brush-rabbit, half-cooked and unseasoned. Could ye give me a bit to eat and a place to sleep?”

“Yore kinda off the beaten trails, ain’t yuh?” asked Bud Deal.

Jimmy knew that Bud Deal thought he was a common tramp.

“Aye; but the best of us get off wrong, pardner.”

“Come in,” said Pat kindly. “Can you eat ham and eggs?”

“Lord love ye!” gasped Jimmy. “I could that.”

The three of them walked into the dining-room, and Jimmy bowed low to Mrs. Moore, who was just coming in with a platter of food.

“Mother, this man just walked in, and he said he was very hungry,” stated Pat.

Mrs. Moore smiled at Jimmy—

“You are welcome to what we have, I am sure.”

“And who could ask for more, ma’am? The fruit of the beautiful hen and the runnin’ gear of the noble hog is a fit repast for the gods. I thank ye from me heart.”

Bud Deal had studied Jimmy a bit closer in the light. His clothes were of the range—not the kind a tramp would wear. Jimmy had picked them up at a second-hand store.

“Cow-hand?” asked Bud.

Jimmy looked up and reached for the sugar—

“Aye.”

There was something about this glib-tongued, homely young Irishman that appealed to Pat. She was also of Celtic blood, but several generations removed. This man had come out of the night with a smile and a song, just when they needed a smile and a song. He was soft of tongue, ready of wit, and Pat felt that he would fight just for the love of battle.

Jimmy stole occasional glances at Pat. She was a new type to him.

“Irish, except for the eyes,” he reflected to himself. “I wonder now if a heart of gold has anythin’ to do with colorin’ her eyes? Jimmy, you paroled bandit, take your thoughts off the lass.”

He glanced across the table at Bud Deal. Jimmy did not like Bud. The swarthy face, coal-black eyes, the small, pointed mustache, sleek, black hair—none of Bud Deal’s features appealed to Jimmy. Bud was handsome, graceful—a dashing figure of a cowboy; but Jimmy disliked and feared that type.

“You’re a clever divil,” reflected Jimmy. “Slick as silk, and unless I misdoubt ye, my lad, ye wouldn’t be of much value in backin’ up a friend. Ye think too much of your good looks—more than ye would of friendship.”

Jimmy smiled at Pat.

“I was so hungry that I forgot me manners. My name is Jimmy Smith.”

Pat smiled back at him.

“Out here we wait for folks to tell their names. My name is Patricia Moore.”

Jimmy got to his feet and bowed.

“Miss Moore, it is the greatest pleasure of me life.”

He turned to Mrs. Moore, before Pat had a chance to introduce them, and held out his hand.

“Mrs. Moore, I know ye are; and ’tis a pleasure to come out of the night and meet a lady like ye.”

He turned to Bud Deal, who was looking on, a slight sneer on his lips.

“Mr. Smith, this is Mr. Deal,” said Pat.

“How do ye do, Mr. Deal,” said Jimmy, bowing.

Neither of them offered his hand. Pat noticed this and frowned slightly.

“Mr. Smith can share the bunk-house with you tonight, Bud,” said Pat.

Bud grunted and finished his coffee. Pat and her mother went into the living-room and Jimmy sauntered out on the porch to smoke a cigaret. A collie pup came up and nuzzled at him and Jimmy took the woolly little fellow in his arms. The pup squirmed with delight and Jimmy sat down on the steps to play with it.

He could hear Pat and her mother talking and some of the fragments of conversation came plainly to his ears. They were talking about the holdup and the arrest. Bud Deal came out on to the porch and jerked his head toward the bunk-house.

“I’ll show yuh where to sleep, Smith.”

“Sure, that’s a welcome sound, pardner. I’m dead on me feet, and a bed sounds like the tinkling of cymbals to me ears.”

Inside the bunk-house, Bud pointed out a bunk. Jimmy sat down and slowly drew off his boots.

“Not much of a crew around here, eh?” he queried.

Bud Deal shook his head.

“Nope. Sheriff took the boss and his son to jail this afternoon.”

Jimmy looked down at the boot in his hand and then at Bud.

“For what?”

“Holdin’ up a train.”

“Indeed? Holdin’ up a train, eh?”

“This mornin’,” mumbled Bud, as he licked the edge of a cigaret paper.

“So lately?” Jimmy considered the boot closely. “Well, well! Sure, it must be the girl’s father and brother.”

“Yeah,” rather indifferently. “Flint Moore’s her dad. Brother’s name is Wild.”

“Now that’s too bad, so it is,” Jimmy’s voice grew sympathetic. “What proof did the sheriff have?”

“Proof?” Bud shook his head. “I dunno. Seems that he was just lookin’ for two men on horseback.”

“Which proves nothin’,” grinned Jimmy. “Sure they can bail themselves out, can’t they?”

Bud shook his head slowly.

“I don’t think so, Smith. You see, the robbers killed the fireman.”

“That’s right, they—um-m-m!”

Bud turned and looked curiously at Jimmy.

“What did you say?”

“I was just goin’ to say that it comes under the head of murder, which ain’t bailable.”

Bud nodded, although seemingly not satisfied. Finally he said—

“Where did you come from, Smith?”

“Me?” Jimmy grinned slowly. “It would take a lot of tellin’, Deal. All me life I’ve been comin’ from some place. Ask the wind where it comes from. I’m a drifter—a boomer, a man without a home. I was born with an itchin’ foot, and I have neither kith nor kin to say that I may not scratch it where I will.”

“Where are you goin’?” asked Bud.

“The same thing applies,” smiled Jimmy. “If I had a job I might tarry a while right here.”

Bud smoked for a while in silence. Then:

“I dunno what I can do for yuh, Smith. I’m goin’ to Oxbow in the mornin’ and see the old man. Yuh might stay here until I get back, and maybe they’ll want a man to help me, now that the two of them are away. You might as well take the job, if there is a job.”

“Sure. Well, I’ll pound me ear a few, pardner. I ain’t had a real sleep for so long that I’ve began to think that I traded me bed for a lantern. Good-night.”

“Good-night,” grunted Bud.

Jimmy was awakened by the sound of galloping hoofs. He glanced around the bunk-house, trying to remember where he was. Bud Deal was not there, so after a moment’s reflection, Jimmy decided that the galloping horse meant that Bud was on his way to Oxbow.

He got up and dressed quickly. Somehow he was glad that Bud Deal was going to be away for a while. The collie pup was sitting on the low step of the bunk-house, as if waiting for Jimmy to come out, and met him with a yelp of joy. Jimmy’s heels were blistered from his walk of yesterday; but he forgot them and romped with the pup.

Suddenly the pup shot between Jimmy’s legs, tripping him, and Jimmy sprawled ungracefully on his face, while the overjoyed collie yipped with delight.

“Have you no consideration for the cook?”

Jimmy sat up and blinked at Pat, who was standing on the porch of the ranch-house, looking seriously at him. He got to his feet and recovered his hat, which the collie tried to take from him.

“My apologies to the cook, Miss Moore. The blessed pup made me forget that I had overslept. Look at the face of him, Miss. Sure, he’s laughin’ at us both. Has he anythin’ against the cook?”

Pat laughed. Jimmy’s serious expression was irresistible.

“Come in and eat your breakfast, Mr. Smith.”

Jimmy laughed and romped around to the kitchen door, where he knew he would find a wash-basin and cold water. Pat went through the house and came out of the kitchen door, where great masses of hop-vines twined over the porch and half-masked the rear of the building.

Another dog sauntered up from the stables and Jimmy stood, basin in hand, and watched it.

“That is Klooch,” said Pat. “She’s the mother of the pup.”

“Half-wolf, so she is,” smiled Jimmy. “The father of the pup must ’a’ been pure collie, because the pup don’t show any wolf strain, Miss.”

Klooch stopped a few feet from Jimmy, watching him closely with her half-closed, almond-shaped eyes. The wolf blood showed in her every action.

“No one has ever made friends with Klooch,” stated Pat. “She merely tolerates us.”

Jimmy held out his hand to Klooch and started toward her.

“Look out for her,” cautioned Pat. “She’ll snap.”

“She will not,” contradicted Jimmy and placed his hand on the wolf-dog’s head.

Klooch made no move to show fight. Her eyes shut to mere slits and not a muscle of her body moved, while Jimmy rubbed her muzzle and scratched her ruffed neck.

Jimmy turned back to his wash-basin. Pat looked wonderingly at Klooch, who moved in closer and watched Jimmy. Finally the wolf-dog nuzzled at Jimmy’s hand.

“Why, she never did that before in her life!” exclaimed Pat.

Jimmy tossed the basin of water aside and smiled at Pat.

“Ye’ve all been afraid of her, miss. ’Tis the wolf in her, which mistrusts fear.”

Jimmy followed Pat into the kitchen, closing the screen door behind them. Klooch and her pup followed up on the vine-covered porch and sat down in front of the door, looking inside. Pat told her mother of Klooch’s actions and pointed her out, sitting before the door, evidently waiting for Jimmy to come out.

Mrs. Moore smiled and said:

“It is hard to deceive a baby or a dog. I think it would be still harder to deceive Klooch. Animals and babies have an instinct which tells them good from evil in human beings.”

Jimmy blushed at the compliment and bent over his breakfast.

“Sure, ye overrate me, ma’am. I’m just a lazy, wasteful drifter and if there’s any good in me it’s buried deep under a pile of sins.”

“You have never failed to help a friend,” stated Mrs. Moore, with conviction.

“Well, now,” Jimmy frowned thoughtfully, “it seems that I haven’t always been careful to find out who I was helpin’. There’s a wide difference between what is known as friendship, ma’am. Just knowin’ folks and bein’ able to call ’em by their first name don’t mean that they are your friends. Ye may find a friend in a flash, or ye may go all your life without one. Clear skies and fair weather is a poor barometer. ’Tis only when the storms hit ye, that ye need friendship.”

Mrs. Moore sighed and tucked away a stray wisp of gray hair. Pat leaned against the doorway, deep in thought. Jimmy lifted his head and looked at Mrs. Moore’s patient face.

“Mrs. Moore, it comes to me that foul weather has hit the Box M, and that ye are in need of a friend.”

Pat looked up quickly—

“Did Bud tell you?”

“Aye,” softly.

“They are both innocent.”

Jimmy nodded slowly.

“No doubt they are; but bein’ innocent is only personal satisfaction, unless ye can prove it to the judge and jury. Ye’ll find few mind-readers siftin’ evidence in a court of law.”

As Jimmy turned back to his food the collie pup set up a vociferous barking and raced around toward the front of the house. Mrs. Moore walked into the living-room and on to the front porch. Jeff Garvin was just about to dismount from his horse.

When he spoke it was plainly audible to Pat and Jimmy.

“Mrs. Moore, I want your husband’s gun—his pearl-handled six-shooter.”

“Why—I—I don’t know—” faltered Mrs. Moore.

Pat whirled from the doorway and glided softly into the living-room, out of sight of Jimmy.

“He didn’t have a gun on him,” explained Garvin. “I rode out to get his gun.”

Jimmy heard Mrs. Moore turn and come back into the living-room, followed by Garvin, jingling his spurs and walking heavily. Jimmy got to his feet, and as he did he glanced out of the kitchen door and saw Pat dart past the vines and go toward the barns.

Jimmy walked slowly to the living-room door, where he stood and looked at Garvin’s back. Mrs. Moore was evidently searching in a bed-room for the gun, while he looked on. After a few moments Mrs. Moore said:

“I am sure I do not know where it is. When he was not wearing it he kept it hanging in his belt at the head of the bed.”

“Yeah?” Garvin’s query was sarcastic. “Well, now that seems kinda funny, don’t it? Ha, ha, ha!”

“I’m sure that no one has—did Mr. Moore tell you where it was?”

“Didja think he would? I’ll find that gun if I have to take this ranch apart! Sabe?”

Garvin whirled on his heel and started toward the front door, when he happened to see Jimmy. He stopped short and stared at him.

“You spoke of takin’ the ranch apart,” reminded Jimmy seriously.

Garvin stared at him and Jimmy returned the stare with interest. Garvin’s face showed the effects of the fight of the night before and Jimmy smiled at these unmistakable marks of conflict.

“Who in —— are you?” growled Garvin.

“No reply from the defendant,” grinned Jimmy. “The son-of-a-gun refuses to answer.”

Garvin snorted disgustedly. Jimmy’s easy manner and wide grin rasped on his nerves. But Garvin did not want trouble—not physical trouble.

Pat came up to the front door and simulated great surprize at seeing the sheriff.

“I hardly expected to see you today.”

“Mm-yah!” snarled Garvin. “Know where yore dad’s gun is?”

“My dad’s gun? Didn’t he have it on last night?”

“He did not! I’m out here to get it. Sabe?”

“Easy,” cautioned Jimmy. “File the point off your voice, pardner. The lady has nothin’ to do with her father’s gun.”

“Where do you come in on this?” demanded Garvin.

“Right at this point,” replied Jimmy, all trace of his smile vanishing. “You came here to run a bluff on two ladies, didn’t you? You was goin’ to take the ranch apart, wasn’t you? Well, start in.”

“Mebbe you don’t know who I am,” Garvin glowered at Jimmy. “I represent the law in this county, young feller.”

“Oh, ye do, do ye? Represent the law accordin’ to the statutes?”

“I sure do!” snapped Garvin.

“Then go back and git a search warrant. Ye have no right to come into this ranch-house and ransack the place, without a warrant. Now, git out!”

Garvin’s face flushed scarlet and he scratched an itching palm against his holster. He hated to let this outsider tell him his duty. Finally he walked to the door and turned for a parting shot.

“There’s a penalty for withholding evidence in a case like this. I’ll come back with a warrant and enough men to comb every inch of this place. I have a description of Flint Moore’s gun—now, I want the gun.”

Garvin clumped down the steps and got on his horse. Pat and Jimmy watched him ride away and Jimmy noticed that Pat sighed with relief when the sheriff had disappeared.

“I do not understand it at all,” said Mrs. Moore, almost on the verge of tears. “I really thought that they would be back before this. Surely they can furnish bonds.”

Pat shook her head.

“Mother, this is not a case of getting bonds. The robbers killed the fireman.”

“Will they have to stay in jail, Pat?”

“I—I’m afraid they will, mother.”

Jimmy walked out on the porch and sat down. There was nothing he could do to lessen Mrs. Moore’s grief, and he wanted to think a little. Klooch and the puppy came around the house and up to him. The wolf-dog put her chin on his knee and looked up at him with her squinted wolf-like eyes.

Jimmy rubbed her muzzle, absently, thinking about the details of the hold-up—the details he had seen. Why did the sheriff want that gun so badly? Was it of a distinctive type, which might have been noted by the engineer or the express messenger?

He rubbed his nose and squinted down at the wolf-dog—

“Klooch, would any self-respectin’ robber pack a gun which any one might identify?”

The dog peered up at him with her inscrutable eyes. The pup chased a buzz-winged grasshopper toward the barn, but was outwitted. Jimmy smiled at the pup’s antics. Suddenly it looked back toward the porch, hesitated for a moment and then trotted to a small pile of loose lumber beside the bunk-house and began to paw at it.

Jimmy watched it for a while; but the pup finally tired and came back to the porch, where it curled up in the shade. Jimmy could hear the subdued tones of the two women; but was not able to hear what they were talking about.

He got up and walked slowly down to the bunk-house. There was no question in his mind that Pat had hidden the six-shooter. He walked past the bunk-house, stopped at a corral, where several horses were standing in the meager shade, switching their tails at the annoying flies.

Then he came in at the rear of the bunk-house and around to the side where the lumber was piled. He lifted several of the boards aside, knelt down and picked up a heavy Colt gun, which he shoved inside his shirt, replaced the boards and sauntered inside the bunk-house, without being seen from the ranch-house.

The puppy had seen Pat hide the gun, and with the curiosity of a puppy, wanting to investigate, had made the hiding-place plain to Jimmy Devlin, alias Smith.

He examined the gun. It was a .45 Colt, with a six-inch barrel and beautiful pearl handle. A small triangular piece had been broken from the lower inside corner of one of the pieces of pearl.

Jimmy squinted at this closely and then reached in his pocket for the piece of pearl he had picked up at the scene of the hold-up. It fitted exactly.

He dropped the piece of pearl into his pocket and sat down on the edge of a bunk. There was not the slightest doubt that it was Flint Moore’s gun—and it was the gun, or one of the guns, used at the hold-up. It was an easy gun to identify. Few cattlemen carry a pearl-handled gun, especially of that weight and length.

Jimmy examined it closely. The barrel was clean and every chamber loaded.

“The lass will be worried when she finds it’s gone,” reflected Jimmy, “but a lumber-pile is a poor place to hide anythin’. ’Tis a good feel of a gun and I hate to lay it away.”

Jimmy rubbed his chin thoughtfully and looked at the gun. A grin rippled across his lips and he shoved the gun inside his shirt and walked outside. He picked up a piece of a cedar board and examined it, after which he walked down back of the corrals, sat down in the shade of a willow clump and began to whittle.

V

Bud Deal spent the greater part of the forenoon with Flint and Wild Moore, in their quarters at the jail. Flint Moore had not engaged a lawyer, because he did not think there was sufficient evidence against them to demand legal assistance.

Bud had circulated around Oxbow, getting opinions and from what he had heard it seemed likely that both of the Moores would be held for the next term of the superior court. Oxbow was laughing at Jeff Garvin for the way he brought in his prisoners, but Oxbow knew that Flint Moore and his son were hard men to handle.

“Looks kinda like Garvin was set on makin’ us a heap of trouble,” agreed Flint. “There ain’t a bit of evidence against us, except that we rode in from that direction.”

“Where was you that day, Bud?” asked Wild.

“Well,” grinned Bud, “I reckon I was closer to the hold-up than you was, as far as that’s concerned. I slept at Crazy Horse Springs that night and worked kinda northwest to the foot of the range. I never seen a soul. My idea is that them two bandits went straight across Bitter River and into the Silverbend Hills.”

“Leaves the Box M kinda short-handed,” mused Flint.

Then Bud told them of the range-boomer who drifted in the night before and offered to take a job.

“Take him on,” advised Flint. “Yuh can’t work the place alone, Bud.”

They fixed up the details. Bud said he would hitch up the buckboard team the next morning and bring in the women, and also bring in some clean clothes. Frawley locked up the cell after Bud came out, and walked outside with him.

“What do yuh think of the proposition, Jud?” queried Bud.

Frawley considered the question for a moment.

“Bud, I don’t think they can hang the deadwood on them folks, a-tall; but they sure can hand ’em a bunch of grief. Garvin hates Moore and when yuh hate a man it kinda makes yuh blind to right and wrong.”

“I reckon so,” nodded Bud. “Well, I’ve got to go back to the ranch. See yuh tomorrow, Frawley.”

Jud watched him ride up the street. Bud was the best rider in the country—and he knew it. He rode a spindle-legged sorrel, which was famed for its speed at a quarter-mile—a sleek, nervous animal, whose hoofs seemed barely to spat the earth as it fretted against the curb-bit.

Jud shook his head and reached for his cigaret papers.

“I ain’t no free-nol-o-gist,” muttered Jud, “and I ain’t no good at prognosticatin’; but I’ll be teetotally —— if I trust that hombre. ’F a fly lit on him it would skid and bust a leg—and when yuh find a slick cowpuncher—ha’r-oil, per-fume and—aw, shucks!” Jud gave it up in disgust.

Then Bud Deal met Jeff Garvin on the road. They pulled up in the shade of a cottonwood and exchanged views on the weather.

“Didja get it?” asked Bud. Garvin shook his head.

“No. It wasn’t there.”

Bud had started to lick his cigaret paper, but looked up quickly.

“Wasn’t there?”

Garvin shook his head and told Bud what happened at the Box M. He was peeved because Bud hadn’t told him about the new man.

“I never thought about him, Jeff,” assured Bud. “He don’t amount to nothin’. But where is that —— gun, do yuh suppose?”

“You find it,” ordered Garvin. “I need that gun danged bad. Course the engineer can’t exactly identify it, but he said one of ’em had a long, black Colt, with pretty pearl handles, and that he would swear it was a .45.”

Bud nodded.

“I’ll find it, Jeff.” Then as an afterthought: “You better have a talk with Frawley. He talks too much.”

“What about?”

“Says that he don’t think Moore is guilty, and that you just arrested him because yuh hate Moore.”

“Zasso! Well, I’ll talk to him about it. Comin’ in tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I’ve got to bring in the women. Prosecutin’ attorney wouldn’t let ’em out on bail, eh?”

Garvin grinned.

“How could he? Murder charge. See yuh tomorrow—and I want that gun. Adios.”

Bud rode on down the dusty road, a rutty, yellow ribbon, full of chuck-holes from the Spring thaws. Thunder County roads were not built for fast traffic, being used more as the shortest distance between two points than as the easiest line of travel.

It was supper-time when Bud rode up to the gate to the Box M. He sat on his horse and seemed lost in contemplation of the rambling, old, homey-looking ranch-house, lying half in the shade of the cottonwoods. Beyond it he could see the long, low shelters and pole corrals, backed by the tall willows and the green masses of cottonwood foliage. To the right of the ranch-house was the long log bunk-house. From far back in the willows of Leloo Creek a rooster crowed shrilly. The odors of cooking were wafted to his nostrils.

Bud seemed to rouse from his reverie and smiled softly to himself. He could see Bud Deal in sole charge of the Box M, doing as he pleased. It was true that the Box M was in bad shape financially, but....

Pat came to meet him as he rode up toward the house, and asked for the news. Bud had little to tell, except that the prosecuting attorney had refused bail, and that her father and brother were to be held until the next term of court.

“I’ll take you and your ma in to see ’em tomorrow,” said Bud. “Better rustle up some clean clothes to take in with yuh, Pat.”

He started to ride on, but turned back.

“Met Garvin, as I was comin’ out. Said he wanted yore dad’s pistol. Know where it is?”

Pat smiled.

“Garvin threatened to take the ranch apart, but when he saw Mr. Smith he stopped bluffing.”

“Did Smith stop him from searching?”

“Yes. Told him to get a warrant.”

“Oh, he never even looked for the pistol, eh?”

“Started to,” smiled Pat. “Why does he want the thing?”

“I dunno. Suppose he’ll have to have it, Pat. Anyway, a six-gun is only a six-gun, and little good it will do him.”

Bud turned back and rode down to the corral, where he unsaddled, turned the horse into the corral and hung his saddle and bridle under the eaves of a shed.

As he started for the ranch-house, Jimmy cut across from the bunk-house and intercepted him. Jimmy was carrying an old cartridge belt and holster, which he showed to Bud.

“Anybody goin’ to care if I wear this thing?” asked Jimmy.

Bud looked curiously at the belt and shook his head. “No, I don’t reckon so. Don’t even remember who owns it.”

Jimmy buckled the belt around his waist, adjusted it to a fit over his hips. From inside his shirt he took out a big, blued Colt .45, with plain, dark wood handles, and fitted it into the old holster.

“Ye get tired of havin’ a large gun rubbin’ your ribs,” smiled Jimmy, patting the holster.

He twisted the gun to loosen up the harsh leather and dropped it in again.

Suddenly he lifted his hand above his waist, fingers splayed far apart. His hand snapped down and up, almost too fast to follow with the eye, and the big gun was tensed at his hip, with the hammer at full cock.

Bud had smiled at the makeshift belt and old, warped holster; but now the smile left his lips. Bud knew he was fast with a gun—faster than any man in the Thunder Range; but here was a man, working under the handicap of an ill-fitting holster and an extra heavy gun, able to shade the swiftest draw Bud had ever made.

“Sure, I need practise,” smiled Jimmy apologetically.

“Hm-m-m!” grunted Bud seriously. “I reckon we better go and eat supper.”

“If you’re goin’ to town soon, would ye mind gettin’ me some shells for this gun?” asked Jimmy. “Sure, I’ve only got six to me name. It’s a .45.”

“Mebbe there’s some around here,” replied Bud. “Flint Moore uses a .45, and he may have some extra shells.”

Pat looked curiously at the gun hanging to Jimmy’s belt, and Jimmy smiled softly.

“Sure, ma’am, I have to dress accordin’ to the prevailin’ styles. With the sheriff gallivantin’ around arrestin’ men because they ride horses, which are goin’ north, and the innocent trains bein’ held up on the iron highway, I suppose I must burden meself with armament.”

“God forbid that we have any more trouble,” sighed Mrs. Moore.

“Aye,” nodded Jimmy. “’Tis a good wish, ma’am.” Then to Pat, “Mr. Deal tells me that your father has a gun of this same size. Do ye know if he has any shells?”

“I’ll get his belt,” said Pat, and left the room.

Bud frowned at Jimmy.

“Couldn’t you wait? I said I’d get them for you, Smith.”

Jimmy made no reply. He wondered what Bud meant. Pat came into the dining-room and placed a heavy belt and holster on the table beside Jimmy. About one-third of the belt-loops were filled with .41 caliber cartridges.

Jimmy slipped several loose and looked at them closely. He lifted his eyes and glanced across at Bud Deal, who was busily engaged with his meal.

Jimmy put the cartridges back into the loops and handed the belt across the table to Bud, who looked up wonderingly.

“What’s the idea?”

“Would ye look at the size of them shells?”

“Where does the joke come in, Smith?”

“Observe closely that they are .41’s, will ye? The ladies will also examine the caliber numbers.”

Mrs. Moore and Pat looked at the cartridges, and Jimmy handed the belt to Pat.

“Will ye please put this in a safe place, ma’am?”

Pat nodded, with no understanding of the reasons for this, and started for the door.

“Where is the gun?” asked Bud.

Pat turned and looked at him.

“Dad’s gun? Which one, Bud?”

“The pearl-handled one.”

“That’s the one the sheriff was after,” interrupted Jimmy, getting up from the table. “Sure, he was mad as a wet hen. I misdoubt his statement to take the ranch apart to find that gun.”

Jimmy laughed and went out the rear door, going back to the bunk-house. Klooch and her puppy met him at the door and went with him; the puppy vociferous in its admiration for Jimmy, the wolf-dog slow and easy of movement, pacing beside Jimmy and looking up at him through slit eyes, as if wondering deeply why she admired this human being above all.

Pat leaned against the kitchen door and watched Jimmy disappear with the dogs, while Bud finished his meal, frowning at her. He couldn’t afford to let her get away from the fact that he was going to marry her. He must tell this wild Irishman to keep his distance. He got up from the table and went out on the front porch to smoke, while Pat and her mother washed the dishes.

Klooch came up from the bunk-house and walked past him. He spoke to her and snapped his fingers, but she merely turned her head and walked on. Bud had never placed a hand on this dog, and it irritated him to think that this stranger could make friends with her right away.

Klooch sauntered past him, but turned and trotted back to the bunk-house with the long, swinging trot of a wolf and squatted on her haunches in front of the door.

The sun went down behind the big curve of the Thunder Range, tinting the peaks with a glow of gold, and the vast reach of foot-hills and tiny valleys seemed to blot out in a sweep of misty blue. Night-hawks boomed and skirled in the air over the cottonwoods, a pair of magpies flapped their way down the stream, chattering harshly. From afar came the plaintive bawling of a calf.

Pat came softly out on the porch and stood near Bud, leaning against a porch-post, looking off across the hills. Bud moved uneasily and looked up at her.

“Pat, when do we get married?”

Pat did not reply. It seemed as if she had not heard Bud’s question. From down at the bunk-house came Jimmy Devlin’s voice, singing, and a hush seemed to settle over the Box M.

“You may search everywhere,

But none can compare

With my wild Irish Rose.”

Jimmy was putting the love of his Irish soul into his voice—

“... And some day, for my sake,

They may let me take

The bloom from my wild Irish Rose.”

Jimmy’s voice died away, and there was silence for a while before Bud got to his feet and said softly—

“Pat, when do we get married?”

Pat turned her head and looked at him.

“I don’t know, Bud. Sometime—perhaps.”

Pat turned and walked slowly into the house. The tip of the rising moon silvered the Box M, and seemed to throw a direct beam across the ground in front of the bunk-house, where the wolf-dog sat waiting patiently. Bud snapped his cigaret away viciously and muttered to himself—

“That —— range-boomer!”

He got to his feet and started down to the bunk-house. He heard Klooch growl softly and saw a shadowy figure move in between the bunk-house and the corral. The figure stopped in the shadow. Bud glanced quickly around and shifted his direction, as if to go to the corral. The figure fell in behind him, and the two of them stopped out of ear-shot of the bunk-house.

“I told yuh not to come here!” growled Bud. “Whatcha want, Jim?”

Moonlight showed the face of a big Indian of perhaps fifty years of age, dressed in calico shirt and overalls.

“Waum sick,” he grunted. “Waum-sick-cole-sick. All the time cultus wauwau. Mebbyso hyas wauwau.” Which meant that some one had fever and chills, talked deliriously and might shout out loud at any time.

“What do yuh want me to do?” asked Bud. “You want medicine?”

“Whisky. Heap sweat. Mebbyso memaloost.”

“Might not be such a —— bad thing at that,” grunted Bud as he led the Indian down behind the corrals and into the willows along the creek.

From the hollow snag of an old tree he drew out a gallon demijohn, half filled.

“If you get drunk I’ll scalp yuh!” grunted Bud. “No more whisky! You sabe that? No more! Keep away from here after this. Whisky all gone, Jim.”

“Kloshe,” came a sibilant cluck as the Indian glided away in the willows, hugging the demijohn.

“Good, eh?” muttered Bud, and retraced his way back to the corral, where he noisily replaced some bars and carried a coil of rope back to the bunk-house.

The Indian had said, “mebbe memaloost,” which translated means, “might die,” and Bud seemed to derive a certain amount of satisfaction from this thought. The rattling of the bars and the carrying of the rope were merely an alibi, in case any one had seen him go to the corral.

Klooch growled at him as he came up to the door. Klooch hated a rope. She knew it to be a symbol of captivity and an instrument of torture. Neither did Klooch like Indians, and Bud carried the Indian scent from his conversation in the willows. He cursed softly at the dog and went into the bunk-house.

VI

The next morning Bud hitched a team to the buckboard and drove up to the house to get Pat and her mother. Jimmy held the team by the bits, while the women got in.

“I’ll get yuh some shells in town, Smith,” said Bud. “You kinda stick around here and take care of the place today. We’ll be back late, I reckon.”

“Can I get you anything in town?” asked Pat.

Jimmy smiled and shook his head.

“Thankin’ ye very kindly, but I have need of nothin’, miss. All of ye come back safe, which is enough bringin’, I think.”

Pat smiled softly, but Bud scowled and gathered up the lines. Mrs. Moore looked gravely at Jimmy and flashed a sideways glance at Pat. Mrs. Moore knew that Jimmy meant for Pat to come back safely. Bud knew this, too; but his quick glance at Pat’s face gave him no assurance that she had or had not understood Jimmy’s meaning.

Jimmy stepped away from the horses and swept off his hat as the high-spirited broncos yanked the light vehicle past him and headed down the dusty road.

He stood, hat in hand until they disappeared, and then walked swiftly to the corral, where he selected a saddle, blanket and bridle. He took a coiled lariat rope and went over to a corral, where several horses browsed around over a scattering of hay.

“Ignorance of the lot makes me cast at beauty,” grinned Jimmy, shaking out his loop.

The horses whirled and started circling the corral, kicking up a cloud of dust. Jimmy turned slowly, swinging his loop. Suddenly he jerked the rope forward and the loop sailed over the backs of two horses and dropped over the head of a hammer-headed roan.

The roan plunged and reared, shaking its head like a hooked trout trying to loosen the hook. Jimmy went slowly along the rope, talking softly to the animal. The others bunched across the corral and snorted their disfavor of such actions.

The coaxing voice seemed to drive the fear from the roan and it allowed Jimmy to rub its muzzle.

“You’re a fine little animal, so ye are,” soothed Jimmy. “A fine bit o’ a horse; but I’d feel more satisfied if ye had saddle-marks.”

He led the animal outside and held up the saddle for its inspection. The roan snorted in wonderment and Jimmy rubbed his chin. He looked back at the other horses, but none of them showed any saddle-marks.

“Likely none of ye have been ridden,” mused Jimmy. “Well, roan, ye can’t any more than dump me.”

He managed to get the bridle on, after much persuasion and main strength, and then tied a handkerchief across its eyes. The roan only flinched when the saddle was put on, but it arched its back under the pull of the cinch.

Jimmy lost no time in preliminaries. He threw the reins over its neck, swung into the saddle, settled himself and reached over, yanking off the blind.

The removing of that handkerchief seemed to release a mighty power within the roan. It whirled like a flash, sprang into the air and came down, with all four feet bunched together, in a jarring crash, bounding from there like a rabbit, reversing in mid-air and hitting the ground with every muscle tensed.

Jimmy had swung sidewise in the saddle, hooked one foot almost under the roan’s shoulder and threw all of his weight on the other foot, taking the jar off his body to a great extent. The roan’s head seemed fastened between its forelegs, but Jimmy made no effort to draw it up. He was doing an exhibition ride, minus an audience.

The roan bawled like a calf, took several stiff-legged hops and began a weaving buck, known as the “worm-fence.” Up past the ranch-house they went and down along the fence, with the roan using every trick known to outlaw buckers. But the rider still remained.

At the gate it whirled, rearing wildly, but Jimmy slapped it across the head with his hat and it sprang ahead, throwing itself from side to side in a desperate effort to shake the man loose. Jimmy threw himself sidewise to escape smashing his leg against the corral fence, and horse and rider went down in a heap of dust and broken poles.

Jimmy was unhurt and on his feet when the horse got up, and without a moment’s hesitation he mounted again. The roan trembled and heaved from the effort and fall, and Jimmy waited calmly for a continuation, which did not come. He spoke to the roan, spurred it gently with his heels and the animal walked away with him. Jimmy got off and opened the gate. He expected the roan to buck again when he got on, but the roan was no longer a bucker. It had used every trick in its repertoire—why repeat?

Jimmy found the roan hardly bridle-wise but willing to be taught.

“Fifteen months hasn’t hurt me for ridin’,” grinned Jimmy aloud, patting the roan’s neck. “I might do better if I wore spurs; but spurs hurt. Cuttin’ and slashin’ with sharp spurs is no square deal. Ye roan divil, I hope ye appreciate that I gave ye an even chance.”

They crossed Leloo Creek and headed into the hills. Wild flowers carpeted the ground, making the hills look as if they were covered with giant Oriental rugs. The coulées were filled with cottonwood and poplar, which added a fresh note of green, while the green-gray of the mesquite made it a wonderland of color.

Up on the point of a bluff a coyote was busily engaged in remodeling last year’s den and making it habitable for this year’s family. She saw Jimmy and paused in her work to watch him pass. A big, gray badger trundled out of his way and stopped to peer at him from the cover of a granite outcropping.

He rode around the head of a draw, which was filled with trees and brush. The roan pricked up its ears and slackened its pace, as a big, black-tail doe trotted out of the brush and looked at them inquiringly.

“Good-morning, Mrs. Deer,” called Jimmy, and the doe nosed higher in the air, sniffing cautiously for a moment and then moving away like a shadow.

Jimmy rode to the top of the ridge and stopped.

Below him the rolling hills stretched far away to the banks of Bitter River, which was the dividing-line between Thunder County and Silverbend County. To the left, a mile or so away, was a peculiarly shaped rock butte, like a giant platform. It was known as the Devil’s Rostrum, or the Devil’s Pulpit. Jimmy looked at it and a smile of reminiscence came across his face.

“Sure, that’s the place. Over fifteen months ago and it seems yesterday that I met him on that ridge beyond. He told me he’d leave half the money in a little cabin down the coulée below that tall cliff. I wonder did he?” Jimmy wrinkled his nose from the smoke of his cigaret. “Bedad, I’m no receiver of stolen goods, but I’ve a curiosity to see if the poor divil kept his word.”

He rode straight toward the butte. A number of cattle had been caught on that hillside in a blizzard and their bones, gnawed clean by the wolves and coyotes, looked like clumps of strange plants. Here and there were small bunches of cattle, wearing the Box M brand, their sides already filling out with the luscious grass of Spring.

Jimmy rode past the big butte and swung to the left to the edge of a deep, brush-filled coulée. He followed a deep cattle-track to the bottom and came out into a small clearing, where a tiny cabin was hidden in the trees. A small pole corral was built at the right-hand side of the cabin, using one side of the cabin for part of the enclosure. The corral was empty, but a saddle hung on a peg near the door.

“Somebody livin’ in it, from the looks of things,” reflected Jimmy as he dismounted and tied his roan to the corral fence near the door.

No one answered his knock, but the door creaked at his touch, showing that it was not fastened. He pushed it open and looked inside. It took him some time to get his eyes accustomed to the dim light after the bright sunlight. There was some one moving inside, and he discovered that the somebody was on the floor, about midway of the room. A strong odor of liquor pervaded the place.

He walked inside. The person on the floor appeared to be an Indian and said Indian was just as drunk as a human being could possibly get. One arm was lovingly twined around a demijohn.

A white man was sitting on the bed, braced against an extra roll of bedding—a white man, his face was the color of wet clay, his eyes wild with fever. Jimmy stared at him wonderingly. The wild look seemed to leave the sick man’s eyes and he stared at Jimmy.

“Jimmy Devlin’s ghost!” he exclaimed in a weak whisper.

“Ye poor divil,” grunted Jimmy. “’T’is no ghost I am, Whitey Allen.”

“Alive?” gasped Whitey, and relapsed in a fit of coughing, which racked his thin frame. Jimmy waited until he recovered.

“Aye—alive, Whitey, me lad. And ye never reached Arizona after all. Hard, hard luck. Have ye been here all this time?”

Whitey Allen stared at the ceiling for a moment and nodded. Jimmy looked down at the Indian, who was snoring contentedly, and stirred him with his foot.

“And this has been takin’ care of ye, eh? Drunken Injun. Some white man, with the soul of a coyote, has sold ye fire-water. ’T’is a shame, so it is. Have ye no doctor, Whitey?”

Whitey Allen shook his head.

“No, I don’t need one.”

Jimmy nodded sadly. Whitey Allen had told him over fifteen months before this that nothing but Arizona would save him from tuberculosis. He and Jimmy had bunked together in the eastern part of the State. Jimmy had drifted on and had not seen Whitey until one day a little later he met him near the Devil’s Pulpit.

Haltingly he had told Jimmy of a train robbery in the county to the east, across the Bitter River. He had robbed a train to get money enough to go to Arizona to win back his health; but the sheriff was close on his trail, and he knew the sheriff would win.

Jimmy’s heart went out to Whitey, and his impulsive Irish blood made him offer himself as a sacrifice. He made Whitey trade horses with him, which gave Jimmy a pinto of peculiar markings. Whitey had cried like a baby over it all, and swore that he was going to leave half of the money under the floor of that certain cabin in the coulée to the left of the Pulpit, where Jimmy could find it. Jimmy led the sheriff a merry chase; but was captured. He had no alibi.

He sat down on a broken chair and looked at Whitey. There was no question in Jimmy’s mind about Whitey’s being in the last stages of the disease. It seemed hard that he must pass out under these conditions. He could imagine Whitey in that leaky little cabin during the terrible Winter. No wonder the man was dying.

The stove was a mass of rust-eaten sheet-iron and looked as if it might fall apart under the weight of a skillet. A small dry-goods box, nailed against the wall, was used as a cupboard, and its visible contents would hardly make a meal for one hungry man.

“Sure, we’ll have to get ye out of here, Whitey,” said Jimmy cheerfully. “A drunken Injun is —— poor company for a sick man.”

Whitey shook his head.

“Lemme alone, Jimmy. I’m fine. Please don’t try to move me—please.”

“Well, may the divil fly away with ye!” grunted Jimmy. “I’d only do it for your own good. Did ye know the judge gave me three years and the State got tired of me in fifteen months? I’m out on parole.”

Whitey choked softly.

“I’m—sorry, Jimmy. Somebody got that money—the money I was leavin’ for you.”

“Aw, to —— with the money! I would never take it, even if I did earn it in that human corral.”

“I planted yours,” said Whitey painfully. “Under the floor, like I said, but——”

“Forget it, Whitey. Tell me about yourself.”

“I’m here yet,” Whitey smiled sadly. “I hid out here for a while, thinkin’ maybe they’d find me. I got worse and had to stay. The big Injun took care of me. Thassall.”

“Where did he get the whisky, Whitey?”

“I dunno. Came in last night with the jug and drank himself pink.”

“And feeds ye on slumgullion, I suppose. Man, ye need milk and eggs and nursin’.”

“Jimmy, will you promise me one thing?”

“I’d be hard-hearted as ——, if I didn’t. What is it?”

“Don’t tell anyone I’m here. I’ll get along.”

Jimmy studied Whitey for a while. It seemed strange that he preferred to die alone. Human nature is a queer combination of desires, and Jimmy knew this. Perhaps Whitey had a good reason for it. Disease plays queer pranks with a man’s mind, and it might be that Whitey had an aversion to seeing any one.

“You’re free, white and twenty-one,” said Jimmy slowly. “If ye desire it that way, Whitey—God bless ye. But can’t I do nothin’ for ye?”

“Nothin’,” said Whitey shortly. “Just lemme alone.”

He coughed deeply and settled down on his pillow. Jimmy watched him for a few minutes and went to the door. The drunken Indian snored harshly and rolled over, still clutching the demijohn.

Jimmy untied the roan and vaulted into the saddle. He studied the cabin for a while, rode around the open side of it and into the coulée, taking a cattle-trail, which led out at the head of the coulée and on to the ridge.

He had ridden perhaps two miles, sitting loosely in the saddle, deep in thought. He wanted to help Whitey, but did not want to break his promise to tell no one. He felt the roan throw up its head and slow its pace. He glanced up and saw Jeff Garvin riding down the slope toward him.

Jimmy stopped and waited for Garvin to come up.

“Kinda warm,” remarked Garvin, shoving back his hat and wiping his brow with his sleeve.

“Sure it is,” agreed Jimmy, turning in his saddle and looking back toward the coulée, “I’ve been kinda lookin’ around and it seems that the Winter did ruin a lot of good beef.”

Garvin nodded and squinted across the hills.

“Did yuh come up that brushy coulée?”

Jimmy nodded.

“Yes. I swung into it below that old cabin and came out at the head of it.”

“Anybody livin’ in the cabin?”

“No. Wouldn’t be fit for anybody to live in.”

Garvin nodded as if just a trifle disappointed. Jimmy did not want Garvin to go down there and find Whitey Allen and the drunken Indian.

“Been over to the Box M today?” asked Jimmy.

Garvin shook his head.

“Naw. I passed the bunch goin’ to town.” He yawned sleepily and relaxed with a grin. “I wonder where in —— that pearl-handled gun is.”

Jimmy said nothing. If Garvin only knew it, that gun was hanging within his reach right now; but the plain wood handles, stained dark by rubbing with powdered pencil lead, bore little resemblance to those beautiful pieces of pearl. Garvin eased himself sidewise in his saddle and squinted at Jimmy.

“Pardner, where did you come from?”

Jimmy stared down at the ground thoughtfully for a few moments and then grinned at Garvin.

“Do I look queer? Is there anything about me that seems different from other folks? Do I wear strange raiment or cut my hair unlike other men?”

“Why ask all them questions?” grunted Garvin.

“Because folks are always askin’ me where I came from. What in the —— has me last stoppin’ place got to do with you or any one else?”

“Strangers ain’t never very numerous around here,” replied Garvin evenly, “and you kinda drifted in at a bad time.”

“Well,” Jimmy’s eyes twinkled, “well, should I go back and get a fresh start? Or is it that you’ve found you arrested the wrong parties?”

Garvin glared at Jimmy for a moment, struggling to keep his temper, and then,

“Which don’t tell me who you are or where you came from, pardner.”

“No,” softly, “and that’s only a part of it, sheriff.”

The smile had left Jimmy’s good-natured face, and his blue eyes seemed to fade to a steel-gray. Garvin started to say something, but changed his mind. He turned, as if to ride away.

“Talkin’ now might save yuh trouble.”

“Sure now, I never depend on me tongue to keep me out of a bit o’ trouble. Good afternoon.”

Jimmy shook up the roan and rode straight up the slope, while Garvin rode along the side of the hill, heading back toward Oxbow.

“Now why did he speak of that little cabin?” reflected Jimmy. “I had to lie to him about the place, but I’m sure the lie hurt no one. Poor Whitey. Nursed by a drunken Injun. He needs good care and he needs good eats. I’ve heard that eggs and milk is the proper grub. Hm-m-m! From the looks of him he’d keep the chickens and the cows workin’ a day and night shift.”

Jimmy rode slowly back toward the Box M, deep in his thoughts; letting the roan take its own way.

VII

Mrs. Moore, Pat and Bud went straight to the office of Dave Cleland, the prosecuting attorney. He had known the Moore family for years, and sympathized with them; but his duty was to prosecute, in spite of friendship. He shook hands with them and patted Mrs. Moore on the shoulder. Cleland was tall and thin, with keen eyes, sharp nose and partly bald head. He smoked flake-cut tobacco in a well-seasoned cob-pipe and spent a great part of his time stuffing in fresh tobacco.

“Are you going to keep my husband and son in jail, Dave Cleland?” demanded Mrs. Moore.

Cleland refilled his pipe slowly and lit a match on his shoe sole.

“Well, Mrs. Moore, I—I wish I could turn ’em both loose; but I can’t. Judge Whaley will be here this week and give them a hearing. As far as I can see, there is no evidence; but the sheriff assures me that he’ll have the evidence. It appears that the bulk of the evidence centers in and around a pearl-handled pistol of large caliber.”

Pat flushed slightly. Bud had been watching her closely, and wondered what she knew about this gun.

“My husband had such a gun,” declared Mrs. Moore.

“Hm-m-m!” Cleland seemed to have trouble with the stem of his pipe. “I believe so. In fact I have seen it myself; but it can only be put into evidence in its material form.”

“Then you—the law can not do a thing until after the hearing takes place?” queried Pat.

“I’m sorry,” said Cleland. “Honest, I am sorry, Patricia. Please don’t hold this against me, will you? I am only a tool of the law.”

“Of course you can not help it, Dave. You are only performing your duty.”

As they left the office Cleland walked to the door with them, his arm around Mrs. Moore’s shoulders. He thought a lot of Mrs. Moore, and it distressed him to think that he was partly instrumental in bringing sorrow to them.

They went to the sheriff’s office, which they found to be locked. They had met Garvin on the road. He had barely nodded to them. There was no way of getting into the jail to talk of Flint Moore and Wild. While they debated the situation, Jud Frawley rode in and dismounted across the street.

He saw the three in front of the sheriff’s office and crossed the street to them. Frawley owned a bony, seamed countenance, which never seemed to change expression, being habitually serious. He was of medium height, slightly bowed of legs and walked with a slight limp, a memento of a gun-fight with a Mexican, in which Frawley got a bullet in the knee and the Mexican got attended by the coroner.

“Kinda lookin’ for yuh, Jud,” greeted Bud Deal, but Frawley ignored the greeting until after he had shaken hands with Mrs. Moore and Pat.

“Lookin’ for me?”

“Yes,” said Pat. “We want to see dad and Wild.”

“Shucks!” Frawley looked utterly downcast. “I reckon I’m goin’ to be about as much use to you as a tack-hammer in a blacksmith shop. Garvin cut my picket-rope yes’day.”

“Discharge you?” asked Pat, quickly.

“Yes’m—kinda like that. Yuh see, me and him looks out upon the world with different kind of eyes, and Garvin reckons that he sees a lot better than I do. Anyway—” Frawley shook his head—“my eyes ain’t like no spy-glass, the same of which yuh can twist a screw and make the things fit for anybody.”

“Then we won’t be able to see them?”

Mrs. Moore was very near tears. It was hot in front of that building, and the dust from a passing wagon drifted into their faces. Frawley looked sadly at her.

“Mrs. Moore, ma’am—yuh sure got my p’mission. ’F I had a key I’d sure let yuh in—you and li’l Pat.”

In spite of the situation Pat smiled. Jud Frawley had always called her little Pat. Bud looked quickly at Frawley. He had only mentioned Mrs. Moore and Pat.

“I did want to see him,” sighed Mrs. Moore. “It isn’t right, Jud. And we’ve got some clean clothes for them.”

“I’ll see that they git the clothes,” volunteered Jud quickly. “Leave ’em with me and I’ll hang around till Garvin shows up.”

“Mebbe he won’t let you in,” suggested Bud.

“The —— he won’t!” exploded Frawley. “’F he tries to stop me I’ll nail the seat of his pants to the floor and leave him there to starve.”

Bud laughed sneeringly, but Frawley merely looked keenly at him.

“You don’t believe dad and Wild held up that train, do you, Jud?” asked Pat.

“——, no! Ex-cuse my profanity, folks. I ain’t in no way connected with the law now, and I can talk up in church without havin’ some sneakin’ coyote packin’ the talk to the sheriff. I hope the party what told him about me will tell Jeff Garvin that I’m doin’ a little investigatin’ on m’ own hook.

“You folks set easy. I know it ain’t right to keep yuh from seein’ the old man and the kid; but yuh sure can see ’em at the trial. Folks around town are wonderin’ what Garvin is holdin’ ’em for. He showed he didn’t have much brains when he arrested Wild that time; and he knows danged well that he won’t never git elected again if he gits tangled up and falls down in this arrest.”

“He likely thinks he is right,” said Bud slowly.

“Yeah!” snapped Frawley. “Mebbe yuh mean, he’s tryin’ to make folks think he thinks he’s right.”

Bud did not say whether that was his meaning or not. He knew that Frawley suspected or knew that he, Bud, was the one who warned Garvin against him, and that Jud was working on a dangerous angle.

“You folks want to go right back?” asked Bud.

“Mother and I are going to do a little shopping,” said Pat. “It will take us an hour or so. Perhaps by that time Garvin will be back. If he isn’t, Jud, we’ll leave the clothes with you.”

“I’ll sure see that they get ’em,” nodded Frawley, and walked back across the street.

Bud walked up the street with the women, but left them at the door of Colgate’s store, after telling them that he would keep an eye out for Garvin.

Bud was sincere in that statement. He really did want to see Garvin, but it was not in connection with the desires of the Moore family. He circulated around the town, taking a drink here and there, discussing cattle and getting opinions on the coming court hearing of the Moores. Oxbow, or rather the majority of Oxbow, did not believe that Flint Moore was guilty.

Wild had been mixed up in many escapades, and had but recently been tried for a similar offense; which caused some to utter the old quotation—where there is so much smoke there must be some fire. Oxbow knew that Flint and Wild Moore had come to jail, herding their captors ahead of them. Therefore, Oxbow laughed at Garvin. Jud Frawley laughed as hard as they, and gave Flint and Wild all the credit for the capture.

Oxbow knew that Jud Frawley was no coward. He had been tried by fire many times. They resented the fact that Frawley had been discharged. Crime had become too frequent in Thunder County, and Jeff Garvin was in a fair way to become greatly disliked by the law-abiding element of the country.

Bud Deal found some who favored Garvin and hoped for a conviction of the Moores, but they were greatly in the minority. Bud did not commit himself. He wandered around until noon and then found Mrs. Moore and Pat. They were not ready to go home yet. Mrs. Moore wanted to wait longer and see if the sheriff did not come back; so Bud left them at a restaurant.

It was about two o’clock when Garvin came back. Bud saw him across the lower end of the street, heading for his little barn behind the jail. Bud was careful to see that no one else had observed Garvin, and then sauntered down an alley and around the rear of some buildings to the barn. Garvin was unsaddling his horse as Bud came into the doorway.

Garvin turned and looked at Bud, but did not speak.

“How are yuh, Jeff?” greeted Bud.

“I’m all right, I reckon,” grunted Garvin, as he hung up his saddle.

He came closer to the door and peered out, as if thinking that some one was with Bud.

“I’m alone,” assured Bud grinning, and told Garvin that Mrs. Moore and Pat were waiting for a chance to get into the jail.

Garvin scowled blackly.

“But they don’t know you’re in town,” stated Bud. “They talked with Frawley.”

“I fired him!” snapped Garvin. “He talked too much.”

“Yeah? And yuh told him that I said he talked too much,” accused Bud coldly. “Yuh didn’t need to put me in bad with Frawley.”

“Zasso?” Garvin’s teeth snapped. “Lemme tell yuh somethin’, Bud; you was in bad with Frawley before I ever mentioned yuh to him. He said he’s goin’ to find out where you was the mornin’ of that train robbery.”

Bud’s face did not change expression. He prided himself on his poker-face. Garvin watched him closely. There was evidently no complete understanding between Deal and Garvin, and both were fishing for a lead to work on. Bud glanced over at the horse.

“Been in the hills, Jeff?”

“Uh-huh. Took a little pasear over around the Devil’s Pulpit.”

“Yeah?”

Bud’s hand slid from his hip and his fingers softly caressed the silver studs on his holster. It was a perfectly natural move—yet suggestive.

“See anybody?”

Bud’s voice was pitched low, and his eyes squinted keenly at Garvin.

Garvin nodded quickly.

“Yeah. Talked with a feller.”

Bud’s hand twitched closer to the butt of his gun, but his face did not change. Garvin was very close to death. His next words meant life or death to him; but he did not know it.

“That new puncher yuh got, Bud.”

“Oh!” breathed Bud, and relaxed slightly. “Where did yuh find him?”

“Out near the Pulpit. Said he was lookin’ over the stock. I seen him ride out of the upper end of the big coulée, and went down to see who he was.”

“What was he ridin’—what kind of a horse?”

“Roan—hammer-headed, with black tail and mane. Didn’t see any brand.”

“The Whistler!” Bud’s eyes opened wide. “Do yuh mean to say he was ridin’ that outlaw—ridin’ him in the hills?”

“I dunno the bronc—only by reputation. Mebbe it was.”

“The Whistler was in the corral,” stated Bud; “I rounded him up with some loose stock a few days ago. I kinda thought I might sell him to some Wild West show or a circus. Mebbe he’d bring some money at a rodeo; but if this feller, Smith, is ridin’ him——”

“Has anybody ever stayed with him?” asked Garvin.

“‘Bunchgrass’ Billings stayed with him for six jumps,” smiled Bud, “and Bunchgrass is the best rider West of the Dakota line.”

Garvin rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“Bud, who in —— is this here Smith feller?”

“Got me guessin’,” admitted Bud. “He can draw a six-gun so —— fast that yuh can’t see it comin’; and if he can use Whistler for a ridin’-horse——”

“I’m bettin’ that his name ain’t Smith.”

“Names don’t mean nothin’,” grunted Bud. “What did he have to say?”

“Not much. Said he just came up the big coulée.”

“Anythin’ else?”

“Just some personal remarks.”

Bud grinned. He knew that Garvin had questioned Jimmy and that the quick-tongued Irishman had given him some very pointed answers. He felt that Jimmy had not visited the old cabin, but wanted to be sure.

“Wonder if the snow busted in that old cabin in the big coulée?”

“I don’t reckon so. Smith said it wasn’t fit for anybody to live in, but he didn’t say it was busted in.”

Bud’s eyes narrowed as he looked down at the floor of the stable. Smith had been at the cabin. This was something he had not looked for. He looked up suddenly to see Garvin squinting closely at him, as he said—

“Deal, what about that old cabin in the coulée?”

Bud looked away for a moment and back to Garvin.

“What about it?” Bud glanced around outside the door, as if fearful of being overheard.

“Garvin, what about the money that was cached in that cabin?”

Garvin seemed taken aback at the question, but tried to smile as he said—

“What money?”

“You know —— well what money, Garvin. The night that Whitey Allen got drunk and told about finding all that money under the floor of that cabin, you heard him telling me.”

Bud paused and his hand caressed his holster. Garvin only seemed mildly curious, although he was trembling inside.

“You arrested Whitey Allen that night and scared him into givin’ you half of it. I waited until mornin’ to go out there. Wild Moore saw you arrest Whitey, and went down to the jail——”

“He did not!” denied Garvin.

“No, you didn’t see him,” admitted Bud, “but he heard yuh talkin’, I reckon. Anyway the money was gone when I got there. You and Whitey showed up later, and didn’t find it. I reckon that was the money that Wild was payin’ out so free just before yuh arrested him.”

“Well?” grunted Garvin. “Any harm in that? It must ’a’ been the money that feller Devlin stole and planted just before the sheriff caught him. Where is Whitey?”

“I dunno,” lied Bud. “He left the country. Do you think that Flint Moore and Wild Moore were the ones that held up the train?”

Garvin laughed softly.

“They are if I can cinch it on to ’em. If I only had that —— gun. Where is it, Bud?”

“—— if I know; but I have an idea. You let things alone out there, Jeff; and mebbe I can find the thing.”

“Think it’s been hid?”

“That gun,” said Bud slowly, “that gun was in that holster when I left for town that mornin’.”

“How do you know?”

“I seen it,” declared Bud. “I went to the door to speak to Flint and I seen the gun there.”

Garvin picked up a straw and chewed thoughtfully on it for a while. He twisted his head a trifle and looked keenly at Bud as he said:

“Deal, I reckon we understand each other. You find that gun and turn it over to me before the trial. After that we’ll talk business.”

Bud’s eyes shifted from the sheriff and he turned toward the door.

“You keep out of sight, Garvin. Them —— women won’t help matters none by talkin’ to Flint and Wild.”

Bud started to go out of the door, but turned.

“Suppose Flint Moore swears that he never had that gun on him that day?” he asked.

Garvin grinned.

“Can he prove it?”

“Might—by Wild.”

“Fine proof,” laughed Garvin. “Don’tcha worry.”

“So-long,” grunted Bud.

He found Mrs. Moore and Pat ready to go home. He reported that Garvin had not returned, and Pat gave the clothes to Frawley to give to them.

“I’ll tell ’em all about yuh bein’ in to see ’em,” said Frawley, “and if they want to send yuh any word, I’ll ride in with it.”

“Jud Frawley, you are a darling,” declared Pat.

“Aw-w-w!” choked Frawley. “I—I—So-long.”

Frawley stood on the sidewalk, hat in hand and watched them drive out of town. For a long time after they had disappeared he still stared down the road. As he turned around he saw Garvin walking between the jail and the office.

Frawley’s first impulse was to follow the buckboard and bring them back; but he changed his mind, picked up the bundle of clothes and walked down to the office. Garvin was standing near his desk as Frawley came in. He glared at Frawley, who walked close to him and said:

“I want to see Flint Moore, Jeff. Got some clothes for him.”

Garvin shook his head.

“No, I reckon yuh can’t.”

“Can’t I?” Frawley let the bundle drop to the floor, which left his right hand free. “Can’t I? You open up that jail and let me in, or I’ll make you so —— sick that all the doctors in the country would give yuh up.”

“Whatcha want in there?” Garvin’s voice was not very strong. He knew that Frawley was no bluffer. “Lemme search that bundle before yuh go in. How do I know yuh ain’t got a gun or a file or——”

“Yuh heard what I said, didn’t yuh?” asked Frawley.

“You’ll get in bad with the law,” whined Garvin.

“With you, yuh mean, Garvin. I don’t mind.”

Garvin opened the rear door and they went across the alley-way to the jail door.

Jimmy spent a bad afternoon at the Box M. He turned the roan back into the corral and sat down in the shade. Jimmy could understand suffering and he knew that Whitey Allen must have went through the tortures of hell during the last fifteen months.

Klooch and her puppy had met him when he arrived, and now the wolf-dog sat on her haunches beside him, with her muzzle on his knee. The puppy chased its tail for a while and curled up at Jimmy’s feet. Heat waves danced and shimmered across the hills. Flying grasshoppers buzzed and snapped like tiny fire-crackers. A magpie balanced on a tall, leaning pole, flipping its long tail jerkily and scolding harshly.

A small herd of cattle drifted down a dusty cattle-trail, passing the ranch on their way to water. Opposite the ranch-house they stopped as with one accord, looked curiously toward the house for a moment and went on. They were from far back in the hills, but were drifting down for the earlier grass in the bottoms.

Jimmy noted all these things subconsciously. He wanted to help Whitey Allen. There were many things he wanted to do. The fact that Flint Moore’s cartridge belt held only .41 caliber cartridges gave him food for thought. Where was the .41 caliber gun? Perhaps Pat knew. She had hidden the .45.

He shook his head and rubbed Klooch’s muzzle.

“I dunno, do you, Klooch? She’s a fine tangle, dog. I know that eggs and milk is the proper thing for old Whitey, but I’ve got to pack ’em to him while no one is lookin’ on.”

Jimmy got to his feet and squinted at the sun. It would be sundown in an hour or so.

“I can’t find eggs in the dark,” he reflected. “If I make the trip at night I better collect the hen-fruit in the light of day.”

He walked down to the old barnlike sheds, where chickens scratched in the loose hay.

“I never was familiar with cackle-berries,” he stated to the hens, “but I’m hot on the trail of your productions.”

He slid the barn-door back and went inside, leaving Klooch and the puppy out in the yard. He searched the mangers and the loose hay, but eggs were scarce. He did not hear the arrival of the buckboard, which brought Bud Deal and the Moore family back to the ranch.

Bud was anxious to find Jimmy and if possible to learn if he had really passed the little cabin in the coulée. He unhitched the team and turned them into the corral. The Whistler was in the corral and Bud noticed the imprint of a saddle still on its back. Jimmy was back, that was sure. He went to the bunk-house.

Pat wondered where Jimmy was. Somehow she wanted to get back to the ranch and see him. She stood on the porch of the ranch-house, looking around. Suddenly she saw Klooch and the puppy, standing near the door to the largest shed, and it flashed into her mind that they were waiting for Jimmy to come out. She went straight down to the door, spoke to Klooch and slid back the door.

Jimmy had found one egg. He put this into his hat, while he continued the search. As he emerged from around a stall partition he almost ran into Pat. He stared at her wonderingly—stared at her as if she had suddenly materialized out of the dusty sunlight shining through the cracks of the log barn.

For a moment Jimmy stared and then remembered the egg. He did not want to explain about the egg, because in explaining about the egg he would have to tell her about Whitey. He shifted the hat partly behind him.

“Sure, I didn’t know ye was home so soon,” he said nervously. “Did ye just come?”

“A few minutes ago,” smiled Pat. “I wondered where you were; but when I saw Klooch and the puppy waiting at the door——”

“Ah, yes, I see. I was just lookin’ around the place, Miss. I—I——” Jimmy faltered as he noticed that Pat had glanced at the hat, as if trying to see what was inside.

In desperation he shifted the hat, grasped the top of the tall crown to try and protect the egg, and put it on his head. The stiff crown, crushed around the egg, seemed to hold it firmly for a moment, but Jimmy’s heart sank with a sickening thud, as he heard the egg thwack against the top of his head.

“Hot in there,” muttered Jimmy weakly. “Mebbe we better go outside.”

But Pat was staring at him closely. From under the sweat-band of his hat came a trickle of thick moisture. It slid stickily down his forehead, shifted its course at the bulge of his eyebrow and shot down the bridge of his long nose.

“Have you been hurt?” asked Pat seriously, although her eyes danced.

“Aye,” muttered Jimmy, looking cross-eyed at the trickle down his nose.

Then he sniffed quickly.

“From the odors of it, I’m thinkin’ the hurt is of long standing, miss.”

Pat tried to suppress her mirth, but the effort did not prevent tears from gathering in her tawny eyes and trickling down her cheeks. Jimmy looked at her with unutterable sadness and chagrin, as he said—

“Sure, now, I ask you to please not weep over the misfortunes of an undeserving divil like meself, miss.”

Jimmy took off his hat, turned it inside out and slapped it against the partition of the stall, while the bulk of the egg, released from the confines of the sweat-band, cascaded down over his forehead in a shower of yellow yolk.

Pat fairly shrieked at the sight, but Jimmy calmly mopped his head with a handkerchief until it was as free of egg as possible, and then he, too, leaned against the partition and shook with laughter.

“Jimmy, you’re a sight for the gods,” laughed Jimmy.

“Jimmy, you’re a sight for any one,” corrected Pat. “Tell me why you put that egg in your hat, will you?”

Jimmy sobered. He had forgotten that it might require an explanation. He walked slowly to the half-open door and went outside. Pat came out behind him and the two of them leaned against the door and looked at each other.

“I don’t want to lie to you,” said Jimmy sadly. “I don’t mind lyin’ to some folks, but——”

“I don’t want you to lie,” replied Pat. “If you can’t tell me the truth——”

She broke off as Bud Deal came from in front of the bunk-house and crossed over toward the corral. He saw them, but did not stop.

When he was almost to the corral gate he stooped down and picked up a paper, which had been half-ground into the dirt under a horse’s hoof. Bud was not over a hundred feet from them. He opened the trampled paper.

Jimmy’s hand flashed to his vest pocket and his heart skipped a beat. His mind went back to the bucking roan and he realized that the parole paper had fallen from his pocket during the ride.

Bud did not turn and look toward Jimmy, but put the paper in his pocket and walked to the corral fence, where he looked at the horses, turned and went to the ranch-house.

Pat turned and looked at Jimmy. The lines of his face were deeper than ever and his eyes were squinted as if from deep suffering.

“Jimmy, what is the matter?” asked Pat.

It was the first time she had called him Jimmy, except in jest. He looked at her and shook his head:

“I can’t tell ye, Pat. It ain’t no hurt that any one can help. I—I kinda forgot meself, I reckon.”

“Is it something about Bud Deal?” anxiously.

Jimmy shook his head.

“No—not yet. Aw-w-w, it’s nothin’ to worry about.” Jimmy forced a smile. “Sure, I’ve got egg smell all over me.”

Pat shook her head.

“Jimmy, can’t you tell me your troubles? Sometimes it helps to share misery.”

“Bless your heart!” exclaimed Jimmy, taking a deep breath. “I’ve a soul full of misery, but I can’t burden your shoulders with it.”

“Jimmy, what did you want that egg for?”

Jimmy looked closely at her. He wanted to tell some one. He felt that he could trust Pat to help him and to keep his secret.

Somehow he felt as if he had known her for years.

“Pat,” he said softly, “I’m tellin’ you a secret. Within ten miles of here is an old bunkie of mine, who is dyin’ from tuberculosis. He’s like an animal, which gets hurted bad and crawls away to die. He don’t want me to tell anybody about him, Pat. There’s nobody but a drunken Injun to take care of him. I stole that egg to take to him. It—it was the only egg I could find.”

“Oh, Jimmy, I’m sorry.” Pat’s eyes filled with ready tears. “Can’t I help you? We’ll take him eggs and milk and——”

Pat stopped. Jud Frawley had ridden in past the bunk-house and swung toward them. He took off his hat before he dismounted.

“Jud Frawley, what are you doing out here?” asked Pat.

Frawley half-smiled and glanced from one to the other.

“Jud,” said Pat, “this is Mr. Smith. Jimmy, meet Jud Frawley.”

They shook hands and Frawley turned to Pat.

“I saw your dad and Wild. They’re fine. Shall I put my horse in the corral?”

“Going to stay all night?” asked Pat eagerly.

“I am, if somebody don’t run me away,” grinned Frawley. “I’m workin’ for the Box M now. Flint Moore hired me today. Now I’ll put up my horse.”

Frawley nodded to Jimmy and led his horse towards the corral gate.

“You’ll like him,” said Pat. “He was Garvin’s deputy, but Garvin fired him. I don’t think that Bud is going to like it much though. Jud is just like one of the family. He calls me little Pat, because he used to hold me on his knee.”

“Lucky divil,” muttered Jimmy.

Pat laughed.

“That was when I was a tiny girl.”

“It would be a sweet memory just the same—and after all—” Jimmy shook his head—“I have no memories worth lookin’ back at, Pat. I will have—now.”

“When you busted an egg on your head, Jimmy?”

“Aye—and talkin’ with you about it.”

There was silence between them for a few moments and then Pat said—

“Jimmy, when did you discover this old bunkie of yours?”

“Today. I saddled that hammer-headed roan and happened to run across this feller.”

“You rode the Whistler horse?”

“I dunno. Sure, I believe he did whistle. Good horse, after he got tired of buckin’.”

“No one has ever ridden the Whistler, Jimmy.”

Jimmy led the way to the corral and pointed out the roan. Pat nodded slowly.

“First it’s Klooch and then the Whistler. Do you love wild things, Jimmy?”

“Aye.”

“Will you sing for me tonight?”

Jimmy looked at her and then away across the hills, where the sunset tinted the western curves of the Thunder Range. His eyes drifted back to her face and he said:

“Would ye hold it against me if I didn’t, Pat? I’ve no heart for a song this night.”

“Then some other time, Jimmy?”

“Aye—if there is some other time.”

They walked silently to the house. Bud Deal stood in the kitchen door and watched them, a sneer on his lips. He knew that Pat was deeply interested in this wild Irishman; but he knew he could kill that interest very easily now. He was willing to sit back and look on, like a player in a poker game who holds a royal flush, feeling sorry for the puny efforts of his opponents.

Frawley followed them up to the house. Bud scowled at Frawley and wondered what he was doing there. He had not seen Frawley ride in. Mrs. Moore was cooking supper as Jimmy and Pat came in, with Frawley close behind them. Bud sauntered in, nodding curtly to Frawley. Mrs. Moore looked at Frawley, and he grinned widely.

“Another boarder, Mrs. Moore,” boomed Frawley. “I’m a hired cowpuncher now—hired out to the Box M.”

“Well, bless my soul!” exclaimed Mrs. Moore. “Now, that’s fine, Jud. You got into the jail and——”

“I sure did,” nodded Frawley. “Both feelin’ fine, but dog-goned sorry that yuh didn’t get to see ’em.”

“Who hired you, Frawley?” asked Bud.

“Flint Moore.”

Bud bit the edge of his lips, staring down at the floor. When Wild Moore had been arrested the first time Bud had been made foreman of the ranch. Since then nothing had been said to change his standing. Flint Moore had told him to discharge Whitey Allen, because there was not enough work for an extra man. Now, Flint Moore had hired Frawley, without consulting Bud, and Frawley was the last man Bud would ever have hired.

Bud glanced up at Frawley and turned to look at Jimmy.

“Well, I don’t sabe the idea, Frawley. There ain’t work for so many punchers around here. Flint told me to hire Smith; but I reckon I’ll have to let him go now.”

Frawley’s eyes were upon Pat, while Bud was talking, and a quizzical expression flashed across his face. Frawley could read emotion, and he knew that Pat did not want this Smith person to leave the Box M.

He glanced at Jimmy, who was leaning against the side of the doorway, slowly rolling a cigaret. There was a bit of sadness about his homely face. Frawley noted the heavy gun hanging at his thigh; the easy pose of his muscular body. Frawley knew men, and he knew that this man was a born fighter. He looked at Bud, whose swarthy face was undeniably handsome; his body as lithe as the frame of a greyhound. Frawley half-shook his head as he turned from Bud, as if discarding him in his mental choice.

“I don’t reckon that anybody will have to go,” said Frawley slowly. “Flint Moore knowed that Smith was here.”

“The business can’t stand it!” Bud’s voice snapped.

Frawley rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“Well, Bud, you can use yore own judgment. Smith stays, if he wants to.”

“Yeah?” Bud looked quickly at Frawley. “Well, whatcha know about that? How long you been runnin’ this ranch?”

Frawley slowly drew out a massive silver watch and peered at the dial.

“Lemme see. About four or five hours.”

“What do yuh mean?”

“Flint Moore asked me to take charge of the ranch until he got back.”

Bud did not say a word; but his heart sank within him. What did this mean? Had there been a leak somewhere that had caused Flint Moore to hire a man over him? Bud glanced at Pat and saw her half-smiling at Jimmy.

Bud’s temper flashed hot in his black eyes, but he shut his teeth hard. In his pocket he had the evidence that would disrate Jimmy in the eyes of Patricia Moore. For a moment he struggled against his temper, fighting back the impulse to unmask Jimmy Devlin. No, he would wait and see what the law did with Flint and Wild Moore. If there were not sufficient evidence to hold them he would turn the parole over to Garvin. It would show that Devlin had lied about his name, and Devlin would have to prove his whereabouts at the time of the robbery. Bud forced a smile and sat down at the table.

“I talked with Flint about that pearl-handled six-gun,” said Frawley.

No one made any comment and Frawley did not continue.

Pat went out on the front porch. No one could see her from the dining-room, as she went softly down the porch steps and down to the bunk-house, where she quickly threw aside the boards of the little lumber-pile. The gun was not there.

She went back to the porch, where she sat down and tried to think. Who had seen her put the gun under that lumber? Bud had not been there. Jimmy and Garvin were the only two who could have taken it. But perhaps someone had found it later. She wondered dully whether Garvin had the gun and would exhibit it as evidence at the hearing.

She wondered why Jimmy had suddenly seemed hurt. One moment he had been light-hearted, with a laugh on his lips, and the next moment he had seemed to grow old with suffering.

She could hear the rattling of dishes in the dining-room as the men ate their dinner, but there was little or no conversation. In a little while Bud Deal came out carrying his hat. Pat glanced up at him, but he was busy with his own thoughts. Frawley drifted to the doorway, filling his pipe, and Bud glanced back at him.

“Reckon I’ll ride to town tonight,” observed Bud and walked down the steps, going straight to the corral.

He seemed to walk very straight, holding his head high.

“Kinda knocked the starch out of Bud, I reckon,” observed Frawley slowly. “But it’ll all come out in the wash.”

Jimmy came out and stood at the edge of the porch, looking down toward the corral, where Bud was saddling his sorrel. Pat glanced up at Jimmy. There was nothing of the devil-may-care expression left to his features. His eyes were narrowed to mere slits and the lines of his homely face were like carved flint.

Suddenly he jerked away from the railing, walked down the steps and went straight toward Bud Deal.

Pat got to her feet as if to follow him, but Frawley spoke softly and she stopped.

“Easy, little Pat. I dunno what it’s about, but——”

Bud Deal turned as Jimmy came up to him and they looked into each other’s eyes at close range. Pat and Frawley could see that Bud was speaking, but no words came to them.

Suddenly Bud seemed to jerk away and reach for his gun. Bud was the fastest man in the Thunder Range with a gun. But Jimmy’s move was as quick as Bud’s—quicker, because his left fist caught Bud under the chin, while Bud’s gun was only half-way out of its holster.

Bud dropped in a heap. The sorrel whirled sidewise against the side of the corral, snorting and trying to break away. Jimmy seemed to drop almost as quickly as Bud, and to the two people on the porch he seemed to be holding Bud against further action. But he got to his feet and backed away from Bud, as he removed the cartridges from Bud’s gun and replaced it in its holster.

Bud rolled over, got slowly to his feet and looked at Jimmy, who handed him the cartridges. Pat and Frawley were unable to hear what either of them were saying. Bud got to his feet, rubbed his chin, as if it pained him greatly, and untied his horse. Without a backward glance he rode out of the ranch-house gate and headed for town.

Jimmy had asked Bud for the parole paper, which he had found; but Bud refused even to admit that he had found such a paper. Bud had said that it was kind of Jimmy to admit that he was a paroled thief, and that Pat would love to know it.

Anyway, Jimmy had the paper in his possession again. He walked slowly back to the porch, where Pat and Frawley waited for him.

“Sure, I’m sorry there had to be an audience,” said Jimmy sadly, and then to Frawley: “I’m thinkin’ I’d better be goin’ along, Mr. Frawley. The Box M don’t owe me any salary.”

“Go away?” asked Pat quickly.

Frawley sucked on his pipe and his eyes twinkled as he looked at them.

“Aye. There’s good reasons, ma’am.”

“My name is Pat—Jimmy.”

Jimmy smiled at her.

“And there’s no better on earth.”

“I don’t reckon there’s any need of yuh leavin’ us,” observed Frawley. “Stay a while, anyway.”

Frawley yawned and went back into the house, where he started a conversation with Mrs. Moore. Jimmy seemed to be smiling at his own thoughts and looked to see Pat looking at him.

“Feel better now, Jimmy?”

“Aye. But I have no right to be here—to talk with ye, Pat. It ain’t right, except within me heart, which only knows about me. Ye wonder why I clouted Bud Deal, and I don’t want to tell ye. For the life of me I can’t, Pat. It won’t be long until ye know. Sure, it’s been like Heaven to me—this knowin’ all of ye; givin’ me somethin’ to look back at in the years to come.”

“But you are not going away, Jimmy.”

“Not tonight, at any rate,” smiled Jimmy.

Pat nodded as she looked down at the big gun in Jimmy’s holster. Jimmy looked down at the gun and up at her.

“Did you have that gun when you came here?” asked Pat.

Jimmy smiled softly.

“I never lie to my friends, Pat. Never hide anythin’ and let a pup see you hide it. It arouses their curiosity.”

“But—” faltered Pat.

“Aye,” nodded Jimmy. “I am at this moment sittin’ on two pieces of pearl, which repose serenely in me hip-pockets.”

Mrs. Moore came to the door and called:

“You folks had better come in the house. It’s getting chilly out there. Maybe Mr. Smith will sing for us.”

Pat smiled at him and repeated her mother’s question, with her eyes. Jimmy got slowly to his feet.

“I have it in me heart to sing—now.”

VIII

Bud Deal rode away from the Box M in a daze. He was unable to explain things to himself. Jimmy’s blow had come like a flash of bright lights. He had expected Jimmy to reach for a gun, and his eyes had flashed to Jimmy’s right hand, leaving Jimmy the chance he needed to send over a knock-out punch.

Bud realized before he got to his feet that Jimmy had taken that paper from his pocket; but now he searched his pockets to be sure. It was gone. He drew up his horse and looked back toward the Box M, already blotted out in the shadows of night.

Pat and Frawley had both seen what happened, and the humiliation burned deeply in Bud’s soul. He had the reputation of being the fastest gunman in the country. Bud had whipped bigger men than Smith with bare hands. Now this soft-spoken Irishman had ignored his swift gun-play and knocked him down with his fist, taken away his gun and given it back—empty. All in the presence of the girl he meant to marry.

Instead of going toward Oxbow he swung off the road and headed toward the Devil’s Pulpit. It was dark now, but he needed no light, and the sure-footed sorrel picked its own trail.

Far off in a cañon an owl hooted, like a distant railroad engine whistling for a clear signal. A wild-cat padded its way across an open space, a gray shadow which snarled and was gone. A coyote silhouetted for a moment against the sky-line of a butte and faded out.

The Devil’s Pulpit showed black against the sky-line, its eastern side a sheer drop of a hundred feet into the brushy coulée. Bud rode in at the top of the coulée and went down into the brush, following a cattle-trail, until he came in at the rear of the tiny cabin. A faint glow of a candle through the chinks between the logs showed him that the occupants were awake, although there were no voices to be heard.

The door was open, which emitted a faint glow of light. Bud dismounted near the door.

“This is Bud,” he called softly, and a voice inside said, “Come in.”

Whitey was propped up in bed, his face gray and drawn in the flickering light from the one candle on the table. The Indian was not there. On the bed beside Whitey lay a Winchester rifle and a Colt pistol.

“How yuh feelin’?” asked Bud.

“How in —— do yuh expect a feller to feel?” asked Whitey hoarsely. “Nothin’ to eat, —— little to drink and a Injun for a nurse. I suppose yo’re sorry I’m alive.”

“Cut out that kinda talk!” snapped Bud. “I’ve done all I could, Whitey. Yuh got to figure that I couldn’t sneak over here every day. Pretty near able to get up?”

“I dunno how able I am,” grunted Whitey, “but I know —— well I’m goin’ to get up pretty soon. That bullet busted a rib, and I don’t think there’s any lead in my lung. Must ’a’ kinda horned in and out, bustin’ the rib. Rib stuck in me, I reckon. Now, tell me what’s new.”

Bud told him of the arrest of Flint and Wild Moore for the robbery of the train.

“Aw, ——!” grunted Whitey. “Why didn’t Garvin pick on somebody else. It’s a cinch they can’t convict Flint Moore.”

“It saves further investigation,” grinned Bud. “By the time they’re cleared, the trail will be cold. Somethin’ else, Whitey. The money you found under the floor of this shack was the money Devlin was sent up for stealin’.”

Whitey looked keenly at Bud. The flickering candle light made a grotesque shadow behind him on the wall. A huge moth fluttered in out of the dark and almost extinguished the candle.

“You remember hearin’ about Devlin, don’t yuh?” asked Bud.

“Yeah. It was his money, eh? Well, what of it?”

“He’s near here, Whitey. I gave him a job on the Box M. Said his name was Smith. He’ll be lookin’ for the money, I reckon. Mebbe he forgot just where he put it, ’cause he was ridin’ this way, lookin’ around, I reckon.”

“He was sent up for three years, wasn’t he?” asked Whitey.

“Paroled,” grunted Bud, rubbing his sore chin. “He’s my ace-in-the-hole. If they don’t cinch Flint and Wild Moore, I’ll bet I can lay the deadwood on Devlin.”

“Why lay it on anybody?” croaked Whitey. “You better keep out of it, Bud. You git too —— anxious and folks will be wonderin’ why. You keep your mouth shut.”

Bud grunted. He did not like Whitey’s tone. Anyway, Bud was getting nervous.

“The engineer recognized that pearl-handled gun,” said Bud, but added quickly, “I mean he got a good look at it, and that’s the evidence that Garvin is lookin’ for.”

“Where is it, Bud?”

“—— if I know. The sheriff had taken ’em to jail when I got back that night; so I hooked Flint’s .41 and slipped the .45 in its place. When Garvin tried to find it, the danged thing was gone.”

“Looks kinda funny,” observed Whitey. “Who’d take it, do yuh suppose?”

Bud shook his head slowly, deep in thought. Suddenly he rubbed his hand across his face.

“By ——! I wonder if that could be it? Whitey, that Devlin is packin’ a .45 and he only had six shells. No, that one has plain wood handles.”

“What’s the idea?” croaked Whitey.

“He wanted more shells,” mused Bud aloud. “Pat got the old man’s belt—the one he wore that day—and it was full of .41 cartridges. They can prove that the old man was packin’ a .41.”

“The fireman was killed with a .45?” queried Whitey.

Bud nodded.

“That’s why we need that pearl-handled .45.”

“Well, I’m —— glad his blood ain’t on my hands,” said Whitey thankfully.

“Shut up!” snapped Bud nervously. “You’re as much to blame as I am. Anyway, he shot you, didn’t he? I didn’t think he’d be able to do anything, after the clout I gave him with that gun-barrel.”

“I’m glad I didn’t kill him,” repeated Whitey. “I’ve never killed anybody, Bud. I thought I was goin’ to die here alone, and I was afraid I had killed him. He fell back into the gangway of that engine——”

Came a slight sound at the doorway, and the figure of a man bulked grotesquely in the dim light. Bud Deal seemed to sway sidewise and from his hip flashed a stream of orange flame, followed by the crash of a pistol.

The candle swayed in its insecure foundation of melted wax and fell to the floor from the concussion of the heavy pistol and the crash of a falling body.

For a moment or two there was silence, broken only by the labored breathing of the two men.

“Light a—a match!” breathed Whitey jerkily.

Bud broke several matches, trying to scratch one. The yellow flame seemed weak and nearly flickered out again as Bud recovered the candle and applied the match. Both men looked toward the door, where the man sprawled flat on his face, just inside.

Bud went slowly over to him and held the candle closer.

“That —— Injun!” he grunted. “The Injun, Whitey.”

“Killed him?” croaked Whitey.

Bud examined him closely by the candlelight and got to his feet.

“Almost between the eyes, Whitey. He never knowed what hit him.”

“More blood,” muttered Whitey weakly. “More blood. What did yuh shoot him for, Bud?”

“—— him, he came sneakin’ in. Didn’t he? I didn’t know who he was. It was his own fault, Whitey—wasn’t it?”

“You shot too quick,” complained Whitey. “Now, what will yuh do?”

“Quit your croakin’!” ordered Bud. “Let me think, can’t yuh?”

Bud sat down on the edge of the bunk, half-turned from Whitey, who slid down lower on his bunk, with one hand over the butt of his six-shooter. Somehow, Whitey had the feeling that Bud wanted him out of the way, too.

But Whitey and Bud were not the only ones to hear the report of Bud’s pistol. Sheriff Garvin was doing a little night prowling on his own account. His talk with Bud had showed him that Bud had guilty knowledge of who had robbed that train and where the money was hid.

There had been considerable mention of the little cabin in the brushy coulée below the Devil’s Pulpit. While Garvin was very willing to arrest the guilty parties, he was also more than willing to get in on the plunder—if he could do it in a way which would not cause trouble for him.

He had been perfectly willing to take his share of the money, which Whitey was purported to have found under the floor of that cabin. In fact, he had coerced Whitey into a promise of a fifty-fifty split. But Whitey had talked too much, and some one had lifted the cache ahead of them. There was no question that this some one was Wild Moore.

Now, he was on a little tour of investigation. He had ridden to the top of the ridge on the east side of the Pulpit and was gazing down into the coulée, a dark mass in the dim light, when the report of Bud’s pistol came floating up to him.

But for this shot, Garvin would have probably spent the night in the shelter of the Pulpit, where he could watch any early morning action in the coulée. He listened closely for a while and then rode slowly down the side of the coulée, picking his way carefully, until he reached the heavy brush of the bottom.

He dismounted and stood beside his horse for a while. It was very dark down there, and Garvin was not entirely sure just where the cabin was located. It was very still in the thick brush. Garvin was not always a coward; but he recognized his limitations. He could not move silently in this brush, and he could not afford to make a noise.

He heard the nicker of a horse and grasped the muzzle of his own mount just in time to stop it from making a reply. This nicker came from further up the coulée and to the left.

Garvin spent an anxious half-hour, listening for more sounds; but none came. Then he left his horse and began moving slowly up the coulée, taking a few steps and waiting silently for a full minute. Garvin was cautious.

Suddenly he touched a fence. His hand moved along the horizontal pole until he reached a post. He knew that he was at the little corral, and by following this fence a short distance he could reach the cabin. Going to the left would bring him to the front of the cabin, so he decided to travel to the right and make his approach from the rear.

He went carefully until he reached the corner of the cabin. He could see no lights nor hear any sounds, but his nostrils could detect the faint odors of recent cooking. He moved about half-way of the rear of the cabin, when he heard the sounds of some one coming from up the coulée. Whoever it was, they were not moving cautiously. He could hear the swish and breaking of brush and the heavy footfalls of a horse, and suddenly the bulk of a horse and rider seemed almost to move into him.

Garvin flattened himself against the cabin, gun in hand, as the horse and rider passed him and went to the front of the cabin.

He could hear the man dismount and go into the cabin.

The cabin had been chinked with the usual pieces of split wood and mud, which had fallen away in places, but Garvin seemed unable to find an opening large enough to give him a view of the interior, even after the occupant had lit the candle. He could hear their conversation, which was worth as much to Garvin as a view of the men.

“Well, that’s fixed.” Garvin recognized Bud Deal’s voice. “Nobody can hang that on to us, Whitey.”

Garvin grinned to himself when Bud called Whitey by name, and listened closely for a reply.

“Mebbe not,” croaked Whitey. “Who’s goin’ to take care of me now?”

“I dunno,” grunted Bud, “but it’s a cinch you’ve got to get out of here. Yuh can’t let Devlin find yuh here.”

Garvin’s left ear suffered from compression, as he leaned closer to the rough log. His mind flashed to the notice of parole and he wondered where Devlin figured in on this deal—and where he was now.

“Where’ll I go?” asked Whitey weakly. “Yuh can’t get a hole shot in yore lung and keep changin’ yore residence every little while, Bud.”

For a while there was silence, broken by Whitey’s question.

“Bud, you ain’t touched that sack, have yuh?”

“Naw! You know —— well I ain’t. What chance have I had to touch it?”

“I dunno, Bud. All I ask is that yuh shoot square with me. We’re fifty-fifty on this, yuh remember. I git to wonderin’ about it and—— Bud, yuh don’t suppose anybody is liable to find it, do yuh?”

Bud snorted his disgust at Whitey’s fears.

“Find it? Who in —— would ever climb to the point of the Devil’s Pulpit? Do yuh think anybody would cross all that slide-rock and pick that one little spot?”

“You done the hidin’,” said Whitey slowly. “I didn’t see yuh put it away, Bud.”

“Well, it’s where I said it was. Right where the point comes down in the coulée, where the solid rock goes into the ground at the edge of the slide. There’s a hollow kinda underneath that point. ——! That money could stay there a million years and nobody would ever find it.”

Garvin smiled to himself, and listened for more disclosures, which did not come. Finally Bud got to his feet.

“I dunno just what we’re goin’ to do, Whitey. You get along as well as yuh can and I’ll see yuh tomorrow night. Flint Moore hired Jud Frawley, —— him! Made him foreman. He suspects somethin’, I think; so I’ve got to be careful. I’m supposed to be in town now, so I reckon I better go there to be able to prove where I was. Can’t take a chance on a —— thing now. Just as soon as yo’re able—we’ll drift.”

Garvin was unable to get Whitey’s reply. He heard Bud mount his horse and a moment later he rode past the rear of the cabin, passing close to Garvin, and disappeared in the night. Garvin moved away from the cabin, circled the corral and went back to his horse.

Garvin had learned a lot of things. He knew that Bud and Whitey had held up the train and killed the fireman and that Whitey had been wounded. He knew where the money was concealed, unless, of course, Bud had lied to Whitey.

He knew that Smith was Devlin. Garvin grinned to himself as he felt his way back to his horse. There was only one thing that he did not know, and that was the cause of the shot he had heard. From the conversation, he would deduct that Bud had been there a short time previous, and for some reason had come back.

Garvin reached his horse and swung into the saddle. He could look almost straight up at the rim of the Devil’s Pulpit, an inky blot against the sparkle of the stars. At the foot of this, where the angle of the cliff broke at right angles, like the corner of a sky-scraper, was twenty thousand dollars.

“Twenty thousand!” grunted Garvin aloud, trying to visualize that great amount. “Why worry about re-election?”

He spurred his horse down the coulée, where he could strike the gentle slope, leading back to the top. He wanted to get his hands on that treasure sack; but he had no desire to grope his way over treacherous slide-rock and brush-tangle in the dark. Tomorrow would be another day.

The following morning at breakfast, Jud Frawley lost no time in assuming command of the Box M.

“Mrs. Moore wants to go to town today and see if she can see the folks, and I’ll take her in. Bud, you make a circle in the Squaw Creek country and kinda estimate what’s in there. Lot of cattle wintered in there last year, and Flint’s kinda anxious to find out how many of the Box M are scattered in there.”

Frawley turned to Jimmy.

“Smith, there’s a lot of work here to do. Yuh might look over the corrals, for one thing. Lot of posts need resettin’. Bunk-house needs cleanin’. Dump the straw out of them ticks and fill ’em up again. Danged if I like to sleep on a hard straw-tick.”

“Pat goin’ in with yuh?” asked Bud.

“No.”

Frawley gave no reasons for Pat staying at the ranch. Bud got up from the table, and without a word to any one, went straight to the corral. Mrs. Moore and Pat were in another part of the house, when Bud rode back and dismounted at the porch.

“Want the field-glasses,” he grunted, as he lifted them from the wall, where they hung in their leather case.

Frawley and Jimmy came out on the porch as Bud rode away. The butt of a rifle protruded from the scabbard under his right knee.

“Mebbe he thinks he might run across a bear up there,” observed Frawley. “Wild country up there, Smith.”

Jimmy nodded over his cigaret. Frawley looked curiously at him and said—

“I don’t reckon that Bud Deal’s got a great lot of use for either one of us, Smith.”

“I’m thinkin’ there’s a world of truth in that,” said Jimmy seriously.

“Yuh don’t think much of him yourself, do yuh?”

Jimmy lit his cigaret and inhaled deeply.

“Mister Frawley, it takes all kinds of people to make a world, and Bud is just one of the kinds. I don’t hate him, because—” Jimmy scratched his chin, as if searching for words to describe his point. “Sure, there’s only the thickness of a cigaret paper between love and hate; but ye don’t love any one who means nothin’ to ye. Neither can ye hate a man, who—who ye never could love. To love or hate, ye must feel that the person has a soul, which I can’t feel of our compadre Bud.”

“Pat is goin’ to marry him, I hear.”

Jimmy did not look at Frawley, who watched him closely; but there was only a sudden tightening of the muscles of Jimmy’s mouth, which might have been caused by holding the cigaret, the smoke of which drifted unminded into his eyes.

Jimmy slowly removed the cigaret, crushed it carefully between his thumb and finger and let the contents sift to the floor of the porch.

“I’ll be goin’ to work now,” said Jimmy slowly, and went down the steps.

He found a crowbar and a shovel and selected the far side of the corral to start operations. He saw Frawley hitch up the team to the buckboard and drive up to the house; and later he saw them leaving for Oxbow. It was getting hot; but Jimmy dug savagely at the rocky soil. A number of the posts were tottering—rotted away at the ground.

“You boomer!” he told himself savagely. “You paroled thief! What right have ye to care for anybody? Go on away from here and forget such fool ideas. Bud Deal must be all right, or she wouldn’t think of marryin’ him.”

Jimmy sent the sharp end of the heavy crowbar deep into the gravel, twisting and turning it as if it weighed only a few ounces.

“Are you going to enlarge the corral, Jimmy?”

He turned his sweat-streaked face and looked at Pat, who had come unnoticed and was leaning against the fence, watching him curiously. He glanced down at the post-hole and suddenly realized that he had dug at least two feet away from the original hole.

“Aye,” he muttered foolishly, and broke into a grin. “Sure, me mind is not broad enough to handle the north end of a crowbar and play civil engineer at the same time. Why did ye not go to town?”

“I wanted to help you gather eggs, Jimmy. You haven’t forgotten your sick friend, have you?”

Jimmy shook his head.

“No, I’ve not; but Mister Frawley mapped out me day’s work and I must be doin’ it.”

“Suppose,” smiled Pat confidentially, “suppose I was the one who mapped out the work, Jimmy. Jud won’t expect to find much done when he gets back, but he won’t mention it.”

“Ye—ye framed it to stay with me?” Jimmy wiped his face with his sleeve. “Why did ye do that, Pat?”

“I wanted to help you.”

He shook his head slowly.

“Ye shouldn’t ’a’ done it, Pat. Sure, I appreciate it, y’ betcha; but bein’ here all alone with me, and ridin’ into the hills——”

“What do you mean?” demanded Pat.

“Frawley told me!” Jimmy was closely examining the crowbar—“Frawley told me about you—and Bud Deal.”

“Oh!” softly. “And you—you respected his rights?”

Jimmy looked up quickly.

“I’d thank him to respect mine.”

Pat stepped over and put her hand on his arm.

“Jimmy, I—I think you are the squarest shooter I ever met. Jud Frawley is only the foreman of this ranch. If you don’t think I am the boss—ask Jud or dad. Now, let’s go and find those eggs.”

Jimmy stared at her for a moment and his hand went to the brim of his sombrero in a half-salute.

“I never dispute me commandin’ officer. We’ll rustle the eggs.”

Pat had already “rustled” the eggs and had made up a compact bundle of eggs, jam, pickles and fresh bread to take to the sick man. Jimmy saddled her horse, a brown mare, and put a saddle on the Whistler, while Pat stood aside, expecting the notorious outlaw to show its true colors again. But Whistler submitted quietly to the saddle and only acted a trifle stubborn after Jimmy had settled into the saddle.

They rode out of the main gate, swung a trifle southeast and crossed Leloo Creek, from where they climbed a sloping hogback ridge.

About a mile from the ranch-house, in almost the same place where Garvin and Frawley had watched the place on the day of the robbery, sat Bud Deal, with his field-glasses, watching the ranch. Bud had felt sure that Devlin had been to that cabin; but Whitey had not intimated a thing that would corroborate his suspicions. If Devlin had cached that money under the cabin floor he would most surely search for it, and would find Whitey.

Bud scowled through the glasses as he watched Jimmy and Pat ride up the ridge, and as soon as they were out of sight he mounted and rode swiftly down past the ranch-house and into the hills, following them.

Jimmy and Pat traveled slowly along the ridge and swung around the head of a draw, which led back to Leloo Creek. This brought them in on the right-hand side of the big coulée and across the coulée from Devil’s Pulpit.

A light wind swept the hills, rippling the grass and flowers as it might ripple a great lake of gaudy colors. Jimmy and Pat had done little talking, as it was almost impossible to ride side by side; but when they struck the flat country, Jimmy spurred up beside her and both horses fell into a slow walk.

“Sure, this is God’s country,” said Jimmy. “Did ye ever see so much color? ’Tis skies of blue, a breeze like the perfumed breath of the gods and a flower garden from Paradise.”

“Yes,” nodded Pat, “and in the Winter?”

“Aye. But for every love there’s a hate, Pat.”

“I suppose so, Jimmy. Poor old dad. Hundreds of cows lost in the big blizzard, which means thousands of dollars. Still he doesn’t complain. Now, he’s in jail, and the law says he must stay there until—— Jimmy, what in the world is that?”

Pat pointed at the brushy side of a small coulée, where a weird figure had appeared. It was the figure of a man, standing with arms outstretched, as if invoking the gods. His clothes were almost all torn from his body and his face was an indistinguishable mass, which looked like blood and dirt.

They rode in closer, but the figure gave them no heed.

“Why, it’s old Indian Jim!” exclaimed Pat. “What in the world is the matter with him?”

Jimmy spurred in closer and peered at the Indian. His hair and the upper part of his half-naked body was crusted with blood and dirt, and his chest and arms had been scratched deeply from mesquite snags.

“What in the divil happened to ye?” asked Jimmy.

The old Indian turned slowly and seemed to see them for the first time. He moved slowly backward, with arms still outstretched, whirled suddenly and bounded across the coulée, screeching like a panther. Over the far side he went, running swiftly, and disappeared into another ravine, which led into the big coulée at the foot of Devil’s Pulpit.

“Crazy as a March hare!” grunted Jimmy. “He’s been hurt in the head, I’m thinkin’. What do ye make of it?”

Pat shook her head. “I do not know, Jimmy. Old Jim always seemed sane; but he would do anything for a drink of liquor. Perhaps he got drunk and hurt himself.”

“By golly, that’s the Injun who was takin’ care of my sick friend!” exclaimed Jimmy to himself. “I wonder if somethin’ has happened to him. Ye never can trust a drunken Injun—nor a drunken white man, for that matter.”

They rode on toward the rim of the big coulée, watching for another glimpse of the Indian. A dense patch of brush masked their approach to the edge. Jimmy tied the horses in the brush and he and Pat walked out to where they could get almost a bird’s-eye view of the coulée. Across from them was Devil’s Pulpit, and below, hidden in the brush, was the little cabin. From their elevation they could see the sweep of open country at the head of the coulée, and to the right the hills swept off to the blue haze of Bitter River.

A drifting herd of cattle went slowly along the sky-line to the left and far behind the Pulpit. An eagle circled high in the air; without visible movement, like a bird-figure suspended on invisible wires. Far down the coulée a blue-jay chattered violently at intervals.

“A picture of peace,” muttered Jimmy softly, “but down in that brush is a half-naked war-whoop, without brains enough to know sic ’em. Mostly always peace is like that, Pat. Ye never can tell by the label.”

Pat nodded absently, squinting across the coulée.

“Jimmy, look over at the bottom of the Pulpit. Look at the spot near where the rock comes to the brush. See the place, which looks like the corner of a building?”

“Aye,” grunted Jimmy. “Now what do ye suppose any man would want there?”

The tiny figure of a man was plainly visible, as he came down along the side of the Pulpit. For a few moments he disappeared, as he entered a heavy growth of brush, but reappeared again closer to the corner. At that distance it was impossible to see just what he was doing, as he blended with the rocks and foliage. But very soon he was retracing his steps, going back toward the top of the ridge.

“That wasn’t the Injun,” declared Jimmy. “He could not get there so soon.”

“Shall we go on down to the cabin?” asked Pat.

“I’ve a hunch to stop here a while,” smiled Jimmy, and added, “and anyway, I’m goin’ down there alone, Pat.”

“I am going with you,” declared Pat.

“I’ve had little experience with women,” said Jimmy seriously, “but they do tell me they’re not open to conviction, so I’ll not argue with any of them.”

Jimmy looked back across the coulée. The figure of a mounted man was riding down the right-hand side of the ridge, which led from the pulpit—far enough back to conceal him from any one in the coulée, but visible to Pat and Jimmy. They watched him finally ride down into the coulée, far below the little cabin.

At times they could see him through the trees and brush, and it appeared that he was crossing the coulée and heading toward them. He passed out of sight into one of the draws on their side.

Jimmy turned and looked toward the head of the coulée. A wild range steer, like a tiny silhouette, was trotting along the sky-line, and in a few moments they were able to distinguish a horse and rider coming over the sky-line behind the steer, but the rider came down the hill instead of keeping to the sky-line.

“Some one else is comin’,” grunted Jimmy, pointing out the rider to Pat. “We’ll be havin’ a quorum soon, I’m thinkin’.”

“Is it just a chance, or is there a reason, Jimmy?”

“I dunno, Pat. These two won’t meet. Anyway, it’s interestin’ to sit here and make bugaboos and bloodthirsty men out of ordinary, hard-workin’ range riders. Sure, I love to build me own heroes and villains. It’s the Irish in me which loves to see a bomb behind every bunch of chin-whiskers or to picture a colored waiter as a head-huntin’ Dyak, sneaking softly down through the steamin’ jungle, instead of a perfectly harmless hired man, comin’ between tables with a bowl of steamin’ mulligan.”

“You are a dreamer, Jimmy,” smiled Pat. “And still you whipped Bud Deal.”

“Is he hard to whip?”

“They say he has never met his match with fists or a gun.”

“Well, now,” smiled Jimmy, “I shall try me best to be afraid of him. Sure, I didn’t know about him.”

Pat looked at Jimmy and shook her head slowly.

“You will have to try real hard, I think. You had no trouble with Klooch and you rode Whistler—and knocked Bud Deal down, when he started to draw his gun.”

“He wasn’t lookin’ for it, Pat. Mebbe we’d make a real pretty fight—I dunno. I’m sure I don’t—sh-h-h!”

The sound of a walking horse drifted to their ears. It was passing between them and their horses, from the sound. Then, through an opening in the brush, they saw Jeff Garvin, riding slowly. He had something in front of him in the saddle. He passed out of sight, and a moment later there was no sound from his horse.

Jimmy raised up slowly and motioned to Pat to remain where she was. He wormed his way around through the brush for about fifty feet, where he could see Garvin, sitting motionless on his horse and looking toward the head of the coulée.

Jimmy turned his head. The other rider was coming slowly to the edge of the coulée, and Jimmy recognized Bud Deal’s sorrel. He glanced back at Garvin, who turned his horse back into the brush and dismounted. For the space of a full minute he remained motionless. Just in front of him was a small ravine, full of rocks and brush, and Garvin seemed to be considering this spot. Finally he took what looked like a dirty canvas sack and went over to this little ravine.

It took him some time to select a certain spot, after which he appeared to conceal the sack. Then he got to his feet, gazed for a few moments toward the horse and rider far beyond, and then went back to his horse, where he waited until Bud Deal had disappeared in the brush.

Garvin seemed undecided about which way to go, but finally rode into the brush, heading toward the spot where Bud had disappeared.

Jimmy slipped back to Pat and motioned for her to follow him. He told her nothing; but led her to the little ravine, where, from under a pile of rocks, which looked as if they had been in place for centuries, he drew out the canvas sack.

“Our friend Garvin hid it,” grinned Jimmy, as he unwound the string and peered inside. “Holy smoke! Would ye look at this, Pat?”

He opened the sack for her inspection, and she gazed wide-eyed at a jumble of yellow-backed currency and minted gold. The sack would weigh about twenty pounds, but the bulk of the money seemed to be in currency.

“What is it?” gasped Pat, staring at Jimmy.

“Unless me thoughts are wanderin’, that’s the money which was stole from the train. The sheriff has your father and brother in jail for the deed, while he goes around hidin’ it. Can ye beat that for inconsistency?”

Pat looked blankly at the money and Jimmy grinned up at her.

“I wonder if Garvin was one—sure, that was him at the foot of the Pulpit. Now, I’m beginnin’ to see a bit clearer.”

“What will we do with it, Jimmy?” nervously.

Jimmy stood up with the sack in his hands, and looked around.

“We’ll shock Mister Garvin, I’m thinkin’. Come on.”

He led the way back to where they had sat, and picked a spot near the edge, where he placed the sack under the side of a large granite outcropping and covered it with other rocks. When he had finished the job, no one would ever suspect that the rocks had been placed there by human hands.

“Remember this place, Pat,” said Jimmy seriously. “Ye may have to find it alone. We want that money to go back to its rightful owners.”

“Why will I have to find it alone, Jimmy?”

“I only say that ye may, Pat. Life is uncertain, ye know.”

“But this robbery does not concern you. There is no danger for you, Jimmy—is there?”

“The good Lord only knows, and He ain’t exposin’ nothin’ to mortal man, little Pat. Let’s quit arguin’ and do a bit o’ lookin’.”

They moved back to the rim of the coulée, where they could remain concealed, yet be in a position to watch the whole sweep of country.

IX

Bud Deal was worried. He had intended to keep Pat and Jimmy in sight, but had missed them; for the reason that they had swung around to the right of the Pulpit. He had no idea of what he was going to do, but he wanted to be sure what they did.

Something seemed to be pulling him down to the cabin. A premonition that all was not well down there annoyed him. He did not want to run into Pat and Jimmy, because it might be difficult to explain what he was doing down there, when Frawley had sent him the opposite direction from the Box M.

Bud’s conscience did not bother him over the shooting of the Indian. He had loaded him on his horse, taken him back up the coulée and dumped him in the brush down in a deep, dry water-course. Anyway, thought Bud, old Jim was worthless, and his demise would save the price of many quarts of liquor. Old Jim knew too much anyway.

Bud rode slowly down into the coulée, watching closely for any sign of Pat and Jimmy. It was almost a sure thing that Devlin would not take Pat with him when he tried to recover the missing money, so Bud felt fairly safe in going down there. Suddenly he had a curiosity to take a look at the Indian’s body and see if it was well-enough hidden.

He left his horse on the old cattle-trail and went on foot through the brush to the edge of the deep wash-out, where he leaned over the edge and peered down.

The Indian’s body was not there. Bud stepped back from the edge and glanced quickly around. This was the place. He looked again, leaning closer and examining the white boulders at the bottom. On one was a dark stain.

Bud straightened up and leaned back against the trunk of a small tree. Who had found the Indian? Did some one see the deed and remove the body? For a moment Bud’s nerve oozed out of his finger-tips; but he snapped back to normal, dangerous as a tiger.

He walked back to his horse, going softly as an Indian, his eyes sweeping every inch of the woods. The blow of not finding the body of his victim had dulled his sensibilities, but had sharpened his caution. Some one knew.

He rode slowly down through the brush, gun in hand. Just before he came out into the tiny clearing at the rear of the cabin, he drew up his horse and watched. A pair of magpies flew from the corral fence and lit on the peak of the cabin, where they fluffed their feathers and settled down, as though for a stay.

Bud scowled. Magpies do not ordinarily perch on the top of an occupied cabin, because the magpie is born with a fear of man—especially men who carry guns. Bud rode out of the brush and the magpies streaked for the trees, cackling loudly with fear. Bud dismounted at the door and went inside through the open door.

The cabin was empty. The old stove had been upset and the box cupboard had been wrenched from the wall. Blankets were strewn on the floor as if they had been dragged from the bunk, and left where they fell. On the floor near the bunk was the barrel and breech of a rifle, with the butt missing. It had been broken off.

Bud looked foolishly around the room, and backed to the door, as if afraid some one or something might materialize out of thin air and confront him in that dim, disordered cabin.

He even backed away from the open door and went to his horse, his mind in a turmoil. What had become of Whitey? Who had demolished things inside the cabin? Where was the dead Indian? Bud shut his teeth hard and tried to think calmly. Who would do this, and why?

His thoughts only ran in circles. He lifted his head and looked up at the Devil’s Pulpit, where the eagle circled high above the top. Whitey knew where that money was—and Whitey was gone. Bud spurred his horse straight through the brush, regardless of thorn or tangle, and climbed to the edge of the slide-rock, where he dismounted and scrambled on afoot.

He had lost all sense of caution now, as he panted over the loose, flat rocks, which slipped and tilted under the soles of his high-heeled boots. The perspiration beaded his forehead and ran into his eyes, but he clawed his way up to the apex of the Pulpit like a hunted animal going to its den.

He flung himself flat against the rock, sank to his knees and clawed inside the opening, where he had hidden the sack of money. It was not there.

He shut his eyes and remained for a while, with his hand still within the empty cavity in the rock. He slowly drew out his hand, turned his body and slid to a sitting position, facing the coulée. For several minutes he was as motionless as a figure of stone, his eyes staring straight ahead, like the eyes of the blind, which are open, but see not.

His hand came up and slowly wiped the perspiration from his brow as he reacted from the succession of shocks. Then Bud Deal cursed; cursed with a withering flow of bitter profanity, directed at the unknown who had done all this. His soul seemed to open and vomit curses, as a machine-gun vomits bullets. It was not the slow bitter curses of defeat, but the snappy, biting words, which seemed fairly to sear his lips. Bud’s soul was at white-heat, and it showed in his half-closed eyes, which seemed to flash, like tiny points of light.

He heaved himself to his feet and went stumbling and sliding back down the hill to his horse, where he mounted. As he turned his horse to ride toward the head of the coulée he saw a man ride into an opening in the bottom of the coulée. It was Garvin, but Bud was unable to tell just who it was. The man stopped and seemed to be watching down the coulée. He did not see Bud up there in the shadow from the Pulpit.

Bud slowly drew his Winchester from the scabbard under his leg. It was about four hundred yards to the man and horse, and Bud deliberately screwed up the sight for that elevation. Bud’s sorrel turned its head to one side, as it felt its rider lift the gun.

The sorrel was too well gun-broke to let its rider fire past its ears. Bud drew down slowly until the ivory bead centered on the rider, and pressed the trigger. The heavy report seemed to echo from the Pulpit, like the double report of two shots, and rattled off through the cañon like a clap of thunder.

The horse dropped forward, as if its forelegs had been cut from under it, and the rider pitched forward over its head. Bud realized that he had shot low, dropping the horse. The rider scrambled to his feet and sprang for the cover of brush, while Bud shot again and again, until the magazine of his rifle was empty. He knew that he was missing—that he was shooting wildly.

He crammed shells into the loading-gate of his gun, whirled his sorrel and rode through the brush, cutting down the hill to reach the bottom below the cabin. He was not going to let that man get away alive if he could help it.

Pat and Jimmy had not seen Bud until he fired the first shot. The cabin was well screened from them; so they had not seen him ride down there. His first shot had caused them to look across at the Pulpit, where they could see him through an opening in the brush. Pat started to her feet to try to see who he was shooting at; but Jimmy drew her down again.

“Don’t let any one see you,” he cautioned. “Never mind who he’s shootin’ at. From the shells he’s wastin’, I’ve an idea he ain’t doin’ so well as might be wished for.”

“But what is it all about, Jimmy?” Pat’s eyes were wide with the wonder of it all. “Who is Bud Deal shooting at?”

“I’ve no idea at all, Pat, unless it might be Mister Garvin, who imitates a pack-rat by hidin’ stuff.”

“But why should Bud Deal shoot at him, Jimmy?”

Jimmy looked at Pat and she turned her head nervously, peering down into the coulée.

“Are ye afraid for Bud Deal?” asked Jimmy softly.

She looked at him curiously.

“Afraid for him?”

“Aye.”

“Why, Jimmy.”

“He—he might get hurt, ye know.”

She bit her lip and looked back into the coulée, while Jimmy watched her closely. Then she turned and looked straight into his eyes, as if trying to read his thoughts.

“Jimmy, why is Bud Deal over here when he started for Squaw Creek?”

Jimmy grinned.

“Mebbe he lost his way.”

“Don’t joke with me. Why did you take that gun from under that lumber-pile, where I hid it, and change the handles? What do you know about that robbery?”

“I—I needed a gun,” stammered Jimmy, “and—and I hate them darned slick pearl-handles.”

“All right,” said Pat evenly. “Now, what do you know about that robbery?”

“Quite a lot.”

“How do you know quite a lot?”

“Because I was there,” grinned Jimmy.

“You?”

Pat leaned forward, wide-eyed.

“You were there?”

“Under the car,” nodded Jimmy. “I saw the men who did the job; but they was masked. I’ll tell ye why I changed them handles, Pat.”

Jimmy reached in his hip-pocket and brought out the two pearl-handles. From his watch-pocket he took out a small, triangular piece of pearl and fitted it into the broken corner of one of the pieces of pearl.

“I seen one of ’em drop his gun,” explained Jimmy. “When they left I got off the train, and I found this piece of pearl. I think the butt of the gun hit a rock when it fell. I dunno why I picked it up.”

Pat looked dumbly at the piece of pearl and turned away, gazing across the coulée.

“It was my dad’s gun,” softly. “I—I don’t know what to think.”

“Aye, but he wasn’t carryin’ it, Pat.”

“It was in his holster, hanging on the bedpost, when Garvin came for it that day.”

“Sure it was; but the shells in that belt are all .41’s. Would he be packin’ a .45 gun and .41 shells?”

“Jimmy, you say you saw these men? Was one of them a big man—bigger than Garvin?”

“He was not.”

“Oh, Jimmy, can you swear to this?”

“Aye,” sadly. “But my oath wouldn’t be much good, Pat. The court would not accept my testimony.”

“Why not?”

Jimmy shook his head slowly.

“Don’t ask me that. I’ll tell ye soon, I’m thinkin’—but not now.”

They both turned back to watching the coulée. There was no sign of Deal or Garvin. A gust of wind seemed to set the whole coulée into action, as it rippled the trees. Jimmy glanced up at the sky. Behind the Thunder Range great clouds were rolling into view, which would soon blot out the sun.

“We’re in for a wettin’,” declared Jimmy, pointing at the thunder-heads. “She’s goin’ to pop things wide open in a short time, I’m thinkin’.”

“We are neither sugar nor salt,” smiled Pat, “and a little water will not hurt us.”

Another gust of wind whirled down the coulée. The big eagle, which had been sailing serenely around the Pulpit, suddenly tacked straight into the wind, dropping lower and lower, until it blended with the rocky butte.

Jimmy had been watching it. Suddenly he leaned forward and looked closer. About fifty feet from the summit a figure came into view—the figure of a man. Jimmy called Pat’s attention.

“That is the crazy Indian!” she exclaimed. “Look at him! He’s going through the same actions as he was when we first saw him.”

It was true. He seemed to have moved forward a trifle, standing on a ledge of rock, with arms outstretched, head thrown back, as if invoking the storm. He was only a tiny figure, far away on the side of that seemingly sheer cliff; but the clear atmosphere etched every line of him clearly.

“What in the divil is he standin’ on?” queried Jimmy. “And how did the poor old war-whoop get up there?”

For a full minute or more the Indian held the pose, while Pat and Jimmy scanned the place to see how he got up there. Then the Indian seemed to back into the cliff and disappear.

“Sure, he’s got a cave up there,” grunted Jimmy. “Did ye notice that his body kinda went down when he backed up? The shelf of rock is tilted, which masks the entrance to the cave.”

“But how does he get up there?” queried Pat.

“There’s a way, and it’s likely easy,” grinned Jimmy, “only nobody knows it, except the Injun. Do ye know much of him, Pat?”

She shook her head. “Not much. He has been around here a long time. They say he was a powerful man before whisky ruined his muscles. They say that old Jim never broke his word to any one. Dad always said that Jim was just as honest as a dollar.”

“He was takin’ care of my sick friend,” said Jimmy.

“Old Jim? Taking care—why, he’s insane!”

“Aye. The poor feller is in a little cabin down there in the brush. We better hunt a shelter, Pat.”

The sun had already been blotted out and a low rumble of thunder seemed to vibrate the earth. Forked streaks of lightning split the black mass of storm clouds, which were sweeping swiftly toward them.

“We’ll go down to the little cabin, Pat,” said Jimmy. “It ain’t much, but mebbe it will stop a bit o’ the downpour.”

They hurried to their horses and untied them. Whistler was terrified at the storm, which was already flattening the brush around them.

Jimmy managed to mount, after he had helped Pat into her saddle; but both horses flatly refused to face the storm, which was already into them. Lightning seemed to play all around them, and the thunder was like the jarring of mighty guns.

Jimmy pulled his hat low over his eyes and spurred the roan to the edge of the coulée. Pat’s horse followed closely, almost crowding the roan off its feet. The side of the coulée was steep and covered with rocks and brush, with an occasional tree.

Straight down the hill, twisting and turning, went the two horses. Around them wind howled, though as yet there had been no rain. Up near the foot of the Pulpit a tall, dead tree snapped off like a match and fell far down across the slide-rock.

Jimmy and Pat fought their way down the hill and reached the bottom some distance below the cabin, just as the first gust of rain struck them. It stung like hail and the horses swung around, with their heads away from it. Another gust of stinging rain and then the downpour.

The world seemed blotted out in the whirl of the elements. Jimmy crowded the roan in beside Pat and quickly knotted a rope around her horse’s neck. He tried to tell her that he was doing that to keep them from being separated, but the wind snatched the words from his mouth and he could not even hear his own shouting.

Came a blinding flash of white light, which lighted the world as bright as sunlight, and then a terrific crash, which fairly staggered the horses. For a few moments the world seemed stilled. It was as if a giant cannon had been fired and the gunners were watching for the effects of the projectile. Then there came a dull roar, like the starting of a giant engine.

Jimmy turned his head and tried to see what it meant. It sounded like water now—the roar of a waterfall. He could hear the splash of it. Then it broke out of the storm pall—a rushing river, white-crested in the dim light.

“A cloudburst!” yelled Jimmy, spurring into Pat’s horse and swinging the animal toward the side of the hill. “Ride like the divil, Pat.”

But the water was into them before they could get into action—at least eight feet of it, compressed within the walls of that coulée and running like a mill-race. Brush and trees seemed to rise out of it and fall splashing, like some water animal playing. The horses and riders were swept along with it. Jimmy swung in close to Pat to steady her in the saddle. The only thing to do was to try and ride it out or to fight it until the peak of the flood was past.

There was little left of the storm, which had done its damage and hurried on. The lightning was almost as bright as before, but the thunder showed that the main part of the storm was moving away fast. The water and sky were almost black, and the floating débris made it difficult for a horse to swim safely.

A bunch of connected logs almost drove into them, and Jimmy knew it was part of the little cabin. Whitey must be drowned.

“Anyway,” he reflected, “he had to go soon—and time meant little to him.”

“Jimmy!” cried Pat, leaning closer to him. “We’ve got to get out of this! This cañon breaks off into a deep gorge down here, and if we go over that——”

The wind swept away the rest, but Jimmy knew what she meant. It was a bit lighter now and he could see that they were a little to the right of the center of the flood, but there was quite a distance between them and the higher ground of the side.

He managed to turn both horses almost around and start a fight to get within reach of the bank. They could already hear the heavy roar of water falling a long way and Jimmy knew they were but a short distance above where the coulée dropped off into the deep gorge, which was probably a tributary to Bitter River.

The horses were almost exhausted from their swim and were making little headway toward the bank. Jimmy managed to take the lariat rope off Pat’s saddle. He had snubbed the lead-rope of Pat’s horse to his saddle-horn; and now he quickly knotted the end of the lariat around his own horse’s neck, leaving the loop and the rest of the rope free.

Inch by inch they fought almost against the swiftly running flood, working a trifle closer to the bank all the time. The world seemed filled with roar of falling water. Pat’s wet face showed ashen, but her jaw was set and she never looked back. Jimmy looked at the bank and back at Pat.

“When I swing around, hammer the hide off your horse!” he yelled.

He whirled the Whistler toward the bank, but the current sent them drifting again.

“Swim, ye outlaw divil!” yelped Jimmy, drawing himself up on the saddle, where he knelt, rope in hand.

Fifty feet—forty feet—thirty! They were beginning to swing out again.

“Hold fast!” yelled Jimmy.

He threw out the coils of rope, slipped the loop around his arm and sprang as far as possible toward the shore.

He went out of sight, but came up, fighting his way. His feet touched bottom and he surged forward, half-choked. Out to waist-deep he went before the horses took up the slack on the rope.

The shock threw him into the water, but he came up in shallower water, braced taut against the rope. He could see that both horses had whirled and were trying to face the water again. Foot by foot he fought his way to the shore, straining every muscle. The looped rope cut his muscles until his left arm seemed lifeless.

With a last despairing burst of power he ran knee-deep in water, slackening the pull on the rope, but gaining the shore, where he flung himself around a small tree, snubbing the rope tight.

Slowly the two horses drifted into the shore, swinging on the rope until their feet touched bottom. For a few moments they shook and panted from their efforts.

Jimmy managed to release his numbed arm and tried to stand up; but the effort was too much, and he sat down beside the tree. Pat spurred the horses up to him, leading the Whistler.

He looked up at her wearily and smiled foolishly.

“Little Pat, are ye all right?”

“All except one thing, Jimmy.”

“What’s that?”

“The eggs are all smashed.”

“Oh!” Jimmy looked back across the water and wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Well, it’s just as well they are, Pat. Sure, the poor divil won’t have any use for eggs now, I’m thinkin’.”

The roar of the falls seemed louder now and they looked at each other, knowing what it would have meant.

“You saved my life, Jimmy,” said Pat simply.

“Mine, too,” grinned Jimmy. “I think we better go home and get some dry clothes.”

He unfastened the ropes, climbed stiffly into his saddle and they rode up the side of the coulée. The sun broke out suddenly and the world sparkled again. Up above the Devil’s Pulpit the big eagle was soaring again, and a mist seemed to float out of the depths. They reached the top of the hill and stopped to rest their horses. Jimmy looked at Pat and a smile spread over his homely face.

“Ye look like a drowned kitten, and I suppose I look beautiful meself. There was one unfortunate thing about it, Pat.”

“What was that, Jimmy?”

“It isn’t Saturday night—bad luck to it.”

Garvin hadn’t the slightest idea who had fired the shot that killed his horse, but he knew where the shots had been fired from. After he had ducked into the brush he got a glimpse of a mounted man riding into the brush near the foot of the Pulpit.

He could see that the rider was cutting down the hill, evidently with the intention of intercepting him, in case he went on down toward the cabin. Garvin was no such fool. He knew that the other man had a rifle, and had the odds in his favor.

Garvin crossed back across the coulée, keeping in the deep cover, and climbed up through the brush toward where the man had done the shooting. It was slow, difficult going, as he wanted to keep concealed. He could see the big storm coming and he thought he might stop in the shelter of the Pulpit until it was over.

But when he had reached a point just beyond where Bud had turned from firing the shots, he saw the horse and rider about two hundred yards below him. Bud had dismounted and was working his way farther toward the cabin, but staying up on the side of the hill. He was getting into a position where he could command the clearing around the cabin. He had not tied his horse, but had dropped the reins, which constituted a tether to a range-broken horse.

Garvin chuckled to himself. By working carefully he could sneak down on this man. The noise of the storm would cover his approach. A flash of lightning and a sudden snap of thunder caused Bud’s sorrel to whirl away, ignoring its training. Another crash, and the frightened horse came running up the hill, straight for Garvin. A whirl of rain blotted out the horse for a moment, but Garvin could see it was coming straight to him. Brush and rocks impeded its progress, but Garvin would never have been able to stop it, except for the fact that one of its fore-legs tangled in the reins, almost throwing the animal.

Garvin clutched it by the headstall and succeeded in whirling it around. Rain and wind tore into them and the horse reared and snorted, but Garvin managed to get into the saddle and ride into the shelter of the Pulpit.

A few moments later came the cloudburst. The Pulpit seemed to shake to its very foundations, and small rocks rained off the ledges like hail. Garvin spurred out into the open, braving the storm rather than falling rock, and headed for Oxbow.

He knew this horse belonged to Bud Deal, and that Bud would, in all probability, have to walk back to the Box M; but he needed the horse as badly as Bud did. He felt sure that Bud suspected that he, Garvin, had lifted the cache. He also felt sure that Bud would never dare accuse him openly.

Flint and Wild Moore would get a hearing tomorrow and Garvin did not care which way it went. He hated them both, but his suddenly acquired wealth softened this a trifle. He would serve out his term and quietly disappear. He could dispose of his holdings easily, which would alibi him for having money. Taking it all the way around, Jeff Garvin was very well satisfied with his day’s work.

Bud Deal had not missed his horse until he realized that the storm was out of the ordinary, and went back to get the animal. Rain was blotting out the landscape and he could see only a short distance. Luckily for him he climbed higher, thinking perhaps the horse had gone up the hill, and when the cloudburst came he was just above the rushing torrent.

He climbed still higher, fighting against the storm, until he reached the crest of the hill to the right of the Pulpit. He knew that nothing could live in that mad rush of water, and he laughed aloud to think that the man who had lifted the cache was probably down there. He had shot this man’s horse and had every reason to believe that this man was still down in the bottom of the coulée. He hadn’t the least idea where Whitey had gone. If Whitey was still in the coulée he would be drowned.

Whitey was physically unable to take the money and make a getaway. Bud felt sure that the old Indian was dead, which removed him from any part in the deal. Devlin had not had time to take the money and get away with it. Frawley didn’t, because he was in Oxbow. There remained one possibility—Garvin.

Garvin had done this! Bud clenched his teeth. He had divulged too much to Garvin. Had Garvin found the body of the old Indian and was holding it as a club over him? Bud waited for the storm to break, but could see nothing of his horse.

It made things bad for him, because he would have to walk back to the ranch and lie about the losing of the horse. He looked back toward the coulée and scanned the dripping hills.

“That —— sorrel must ’a’ got caught in the flood!” he exclaimed aloud. “I’ll have to invent a cloudburst in the Squaw Creek country, where I lost my horse and saddle. Then I’ll sneak in here later on, find the wreck of my saddle and plant the —— thing. If I only knew where Pat and that danged boomer were I’d feel a heap easier in my mind.”

It might not be so hard to hoodwink the folks at the Box M, after all. If that was Garvin down there in the coulée, there was a good chance that he was dead now; but if he wasn’t—— Bud shook his head slowly and stared into space from under his dripping hat-brim. He was going to kill Garvin just as soon as possible.

X

Pat and Jimmy reached home several hours before Mrs. Moore and Jud Frawley came back from town, and found dry clothes. Pat supplied Jimmy with some of Wild’s clothes, which fitted a trifle snug. The rest she dried out in a short time beside the bunk-house stove.

Garvin had appointed Pete Havez deputy, and Pete was in charge of the office and jail when Jud and Mrs. Moore arrived. Pete was a saturnine young man, who was ambitious to be known as a gunman.

Pete had been kicked from cow-ranch to cow-ranch until he grew too big to stand for further kicking, and the balance of his education—his post-graduate course, as it were—consisted of learning how to make a hair-brand, mark playing-cards and draw a six-shooter.

Physically, Pete was not a marvel. His face was thin and dark, with close-set black eyes, a nose, which had been classically Roman until a cowpuncher tested its resiliency with a neck-yoke, and a mouth full of very bad teeth. He was of medium height, slightly bowed in the legs and had a peculiar shamble in his walk.

Pete had met them at the office door. Jud Frawley had known Pete for years, and cared less for him every year. In fact, Jud had predicted that Pete would be hanged, as soon as his body got heavy enough to break his neck.

Jud made known their wants. Pete took them under advisement. He was not a rapid thinker and back in his small brain lurked the feeling that Garvin might not care to have Frawley talk to Flint Moore.

“Can’t do it, Jud,” he drawled slowly. “Nobody’s goin’ to talk to m’ prisoners.”

Pete gazed lovingly at his nickel-plated insignia of office, which was placed prominently on his vest. The next instant a strong hand grasped his collar, while another took up the slack of his overall-seat, and he fairly looped the loop, landing upside-down in a corner of the office. His gun flipped out of its holster and skated off across the floor.

“You got the keys to the jail, ain’t yuh?” asked Jud in a conversational tone of voice.

Pete looked up at him and nodded dumbly. He got to his feet, tested himself for possible dislocations and let them into the jail.

Pat and Jimmy laughed at Jud’s serious description of how Pete had acted during the interview. They had told of the missing gun, and both Flint and Wild declared that neither of them wore that .45 on that day. Wild wore a .44 and Flint a .41. Neither of them had any idea where that .41 was now, and they also realized that their oath that neither had the pearl-handled .45 on that day would not help them to any extent, in case the gun was found and identified.

They found out that the hearing was to be held the next day, and unless Garvin already had the gun, there would be no evidence to hold them any longer.

Jimmy had cautioned Pat to make no mention of what they had seen that day. Jimmy felt sure that Whitey was dead, and with him went all hopes of establishing his innocence of the crime for which he had served time in the penitentiary. Jimmy had intended getting a written confession from Whitey, if possible. Now, there was no one in the world to help him prove his innocence.

It was supper-time when Bud Deal arrived. He had circled the ranch to come in from the direction of Squaw Creek. Frawley and Jimmy were sitting on the ranch-house porch, when Bud showed up, limping from blistered heels, a figure of dejection.

“What happened to you?” asked Frawley.

Bud sat down on the porch and eased his aching feet.

“Cloudburst. Caught me in one of them narrow Squaw Creek cañons and drowned my sorrel. Dang near drowned me, too. Had to walk all the way home.”

“Ain’t you been on the range long enough to keep out of cañons when a storm is comin’?” asked Frawley.

“Aw, ——!” snorted Bud, getting to his feet. “How’d I know it was goin’ to bust so quick? Think I went down there to try and drown myself?”

Frawley continued to draw on his pipe, indifferently to Bud’s outburst. Pat came to the door to call the men to supper. Bud stared at her, but she turned and went back into the house. Jimmy was paying no attention to Bud, who noticed that Jimmy was wearing a faded plaid flannel shirt, which had belonged to Wild. It fit tight over Jimmy’s muscular body and threatened to burst across the shoulders as Jimmy folded his arms and looked up at Bud.

“Where did ye say that cloudburst was?”

Bud looked at Jimmy closely. What did this range-boomer know about the cloudburst? Was he trying to catch him in a lie?

“Squaw Creek,” replied Bud and limped down toward the bunk-house.

Jimmy and Frawley watched him go inside and close the door.

“Where did you and Pat go today?” asked Frawley.

Jimmy grinned slowly.

“Would ye mind if I didn’t tell ye—now, Mister Frawley?”

Frawley squinted at Jimmy for a moment and put his hand on Jimmy’s knee.

“Smith, I reckon yore a square-shooter. Yuh ain’t got the face of a mean hombre.” Frawley jerked his head toward the door and leaned closer. “I been watchin’ you and little Pat, and I sabe the fact that she cottons to yuh, Smith—which ain’t yore name, no more than mine’s Goldberg.”

Frawley paused and seemed undecided just how to say what was on his mind.

“You ain’t far enough removed from Ireland to get the name of Smith, but that ain’t nothin’ against yuh. I’m Irish, too. Names don’t count. What I want to know is this: Can yuh come clean to little Pat? Does that borrowed name mean that yuh done somethin’ yuh hadn’t ought to ’a’ done—somethin’ that might hurt her?”

Jimmy was looking at Frawley, but now he turned and stared off across the hills. Frawley noticed that his face was tense, his muscles set—like a man watching a terrific struggle. For a full minute Jimmy did not move. Then his body relaxed and he turned to Frawley with a smile.

“Mister Frawley, I’ll be goin’ away tonight. Between me and you, I can say that I’ve done no wrong; but twelve men have said that I sinned against society. It’s twelve to one, and I—I lose.”

“Can’t yuh prove nothin’?” softly.

“Not now. I’m glad ye spoke as ye did, Mister Frawley. I’ve said no word to Pat that a brother wouldn’t have spoken to her. Me name is not Smith—it’s Devlin.”

Frawley slowly took his pipe from between his lips.

“Devlin? The train-robber?”

“Devlin,” said Jimmy slowly, “the man they say robbed a train.”

For a while neither man spoke. Frawley got to his feet, as Pat came to the door again.

“How many times do I have to call you to supper?” she demanded. “Have you lost your appetites?”

Jimmy got to his feet as Pat turned back inside. Frawley held out his hand to him.

“Devlin, I don’t believe them twelve men had the right dope. I’m pleased to meetcha.”

They shook hands solemnly and went into the house.

Bud did not come to supper until the rest were almost finished. He tried to make light of the loss of his horse and saddle. He would go back there in a day or two and try to recover his saddle. He described in detail the cloudburst and his fight for life, while Pat watched his face closely. She knew that Bud lied about where the flood had happened, but she did not know he had not been in the water. Jimmy was silent through the meal and excused himself before the rest were finished. Frawley and Mrs. Moore left the room and Bud and Pat were together.

“Were you ridin’ with that range-boomer today?” asked Bud.

Pat looked up quickly.

“What makes you think so?”

“Your horse and the Whistler look it,” grunted Bud just a trifle sarcastically.

“Well, suppose we were?” challenged Pat.

Bud leaned across the table and lowered his voice.

“Yuh ought to find out a few things about a feller before yuh go ridin’ in the hills with him.”

“Yes?” Pat’s tawny eyes were half-closed as she looked straight at Bud. “Suppose you tell me about him.”

“Yuh think I can’t?” Bud fingered his mustache nervously. “Mebbe you’d like to know his name ain’t Smith? How would yuh like to know that you’ve been ridin’ the hills with a paroled thief?”

Pat sprang to her feet and leaned across the table.

“I think you lie, Bud Deal!”

Bud laughed mockingly and shook his head.

“No, I don’t lie. That’s what we fought over. I found him out; sabe?”

Pat knew that Bud was telling the truth; but she did not want to believe it.

“His right name is Jim Devlin,” said Bud gloatingly, as he got up from the table. “Ask him if it ain’t.”

Pat had heard of Devlin. She turned slowly and went to her room, passing Frawley, who had come to the door. Bud looked up at him. Frawley had heard Bud expose Jimmy, and his blood boiled. He knew that Bud had deliberately tried to hurt Pat, and that he had succeeded very well.

For a few moments the two men looked at each other. Neither spoke as Bud walked past Frawley and went outside. Frawley crossed the living-room to Pat’s door, which was open. Pat was standing beside her dresser, staring at the wall, but she turned as Frawley came up.

“You heard what Bud said?” asked Pat.

“Uh-huh,” nodded Frawley. “Devlin told me who he was. Bein’ innocent and bein’ able to prove it is two different things. He’s goin’ away tonight.”

“Going away?” whispered Pat. “Tonight?”

“Uh-huh. I been thinkin’—kinda. He broke that Whistler horse to ride. When yuh come right down to it, that horse don’t belong to anybody. My saddle’s gettin’ kinda old, and I need a new one—kinda.”

Frawley scratched his chin.

“Hate to see a feller walkin’—kinda.”

“Jud Frawley,” said Pat softly, her eyes filling, “when God made you he broke the mold. Do just as you please. I need a new saddle-blanket and a bridle—kinda.”

Frawley half-smiled at her imitation of him and patted her on the shoulder.

“Keep grinnin’, little Pat. Mebbe she’ll all come out in the wash.”

Jimmy was leaning on the corral fence, with Klooch and the puppy beside him, as Frawley came out of the house. The Whistler, which had moved in close and was nuzzling at Jimmy, snorted at the approach of Frawley and walked away.

“Pat knows,” said Frawley. “Bud told her who you are.”

“That’s kind of him,” said Jimmy shortly.

“She said to give yuh that Whistler horse. There’s a saddle, a blanket and a bridle yuh can have, Devlin.”

Jimmy looked quickly at Frawley.

“What’s the idea?”

Frawley lit his pipe and puffed violently for a moment.

“I think she expects yuh to come back—kinda. And she don’t want to have yuh walk and get yore feet sore.”

“I hope she’s right,” Jimmy smiled sadly and patted Klooch. “It don’t look very good right now, but ye never can tell. Anyway I’ve a memory of two fine women and one square-shootin’ man. I’ll be goin’ now, I think.”

“Better wait until mornin’.”

“Why prolong it? Deal knows who I am, and if I stay I may not forgive him for the tellin’ of it to—her.”

“Won’t yuh go and tell Pat good-by?”

“I’m thinkin’ it’s better this way, Mister Frawley. I’ll wait and say hello, instead.”

XI

Whitey Allen painfully raised his head and looked at the figure huddled at a tiny fire just beyond the mouth of the short cave. Beyond he could see that twinkle of stars. He sank back and gazed up at the rock roof, as he tried to connect up the events of the day. He knew he was in a cave, but he had no idea where that cave was located.

He remembered that old Indian Jim had returned to the cabin, coming in softly, like a hunting animal. Whitey was powerless for a minute. He felt that Bud had killed the old Indian, but after the shock of seeing him had passed he realized that the bullet had only shocked.

Old Jim was a horrible object. The bullet had struck him almost between the eyes and had plowed its way around the side of his skull. The Indian’s face and upper body was clotted with blood, his clothes nearly all gone. Whitey spoke to him, but the Indian did not hear him. His eyes were wild and he mouthed a language which Whitey had never heard.

He appeared to be hunting for some one. He would go to the door, look out, and come back, searching the room. Suddenly he saw Whitey and pounced upon him like a wild beast. Whitey was weak, but fought desperately to break the clutch of the Indian. They crashed into the wall, knocking down the cupboard and falling into the stove. Whitey remembered little after this.

The Indian had taken him to a cave—but for what? Whitey realized that his wound had broken open again and that he was much weaker than before his fight in the cabin. He called to the Indian, who did not lift his head. Whitey crawled painfully to the mouth of the cave and tried to get to his feet.

“Kopet!” hissed the Indian. Whitey knew that kopet meant “stop!”

“What’s the matter with yuh, Jim?” asked Whitey.

“Mesika sick—Nika kloshe nanitsh.”

“I’m sick, eh?” muttered Whitey. “You take care of me?”

“Kloshe!” grunted the old Indian.

Whitey studied the silent figure for a while. He felt sure that old Jim was crazy from the shock of the bullet. He had known old Jim slightly, but Bud had known him for years. Bud had told him that old Jim never broke his word. Bud had told old Jim to take care of Whitey—told him to stay with him all the time.

Now, the old fellow had been knocked silly from the pistol shot, and the only remaining instinct in his brain was to guard Whitey. This did not please Whitey, who had no desire to live in a cave with a crazy aborigine. He was too weak to stand, so he tried to crawl out and see where he was.

Old Jim pounced upon him like a flash and dragged him back into the cave.

“Kopet!” hissed the old buck.

Whitey was willing to stop. Old Jim was far from gentle in his handling. He went back to hump over his fire, while Whitey sprawled on the floor of the cave and watched the tiny flicker of the fire on the rocky points of the cave roof.

Whitey had gotten to a point where he hardly cared what happened to him. Many things he had forgotten. It took him some time to remember where that money had been hid, and he wondered if it was still there. Somehow, he did not care so much. He was glad that Bud, instead of himself, had killed the fireman. Whitey did not want to die a murderer.

While Whitey dozed and the Old Indian sat humped up over his tiny fire, Jimmy Devlin came across the hills toward the Devil’s Pulpit. It was his intention to cut across into Silverbend County, probably to Cottonwood.

He followed the route taken by Pat and himself and came out to the edge of the coulée almost at the place where they had remained concealed. For a long time he sat on his horse, living over the events of the day. Just a short distance to his left was the hiding-place of enough money to enable him to live comfortably, but he did not want it.

He knew that Pat would see that it was returned to its rightful owners. The Devil’s Pulpit loomed blackly against the stars. Suddenly there came a tiny gleam of light against the side of the cliff, like the light of a candle. Several times it flared up, only to die down again, leaving the side of the cliff a wall of darkness.

“It’s that old Injun’s light,” muttered Jimmy aloud. “I wonder what he’s doin’ up there.”

Whistler moved uneasily, trying to look back. Jimmy turned in his saddle. Between him and the brush a pair of eyes seemed to glow like yellow fire. Jimmy stared at them for quite a while, but they did not move.

“Klooch!” breathed Jimmy softly, and the shape of the wolf-dog trotted out of the dark and up beside the horse, where it stood and peered across the coulée.

“Klooch, why did ye come?” asked Jimmy. “Will I have to take ye back, I wonder?”

He dismounted and sat down on a rock beside Klooch, running his hand through her ruff and over her muzzle.

“I’m thinkin’ I’ll keep ye, Klooch. They’ve no use for you back there. We’ll be a fine three, I’m thinkin’. A wild horse, a wolf-dog and a paroled thief.”

Klooch pulled away from him and looked at the Pulpit, where the light sparkled again. She growled deep in her throat and lay down beside him.

“Ye don’t like it, eh?” grunted Jimmy. “Well, we’ll wait for mornin’ and see about it. None of us three are in any hurry, ’cause we ain’t goin’ no place.”

He loosened the saddle-cinch, tied the Whistler to a scrub snag and sat down to wait for daylight.

At intervals the light flared, as old Jim placed fresh fuel on the flames. When the first hint of dawn came he looked at Whitey, sprawled on the rocks, and slipped silently away.

Whitey had been waiting his chance and as soon as the Indian disappeared he crept to the ledge. He realized that he was over half-way up the Pulpit. Apparently the rock broke sheer below him, and there was no way of going up to the top of the Pulpit. Beyond him, to the left, was a narrow ledge.

He crawled out on this and peered down. Suddenly the old Indian appeared at the foot of the cliff and shambled away into the brush. Whitey crawled around this ledge and in behind a spire of rock, where he found another cavelike place—a sort of chimney, angling downward. It was a place of easy descent for a normal person, but Whitey was far from normal. Every move was torture.

There was a strong possibility that he would fall and perhaps kill himself; but he reasoned that even that was better than being cooped up in a cave with a crazy Indian. He slid his legs over the opening and started down.

It seemed hours until he came to the lower opening, where he came out into daylight. A series of ledges, like giant steps, seemed to lead down a wide crevice, masked with brush and scrubs. Utterly exhausted, he dragged himself over the slide-rock and into the brush just before the old Indian came through the small opening and back up the route to the cave.

Whitey saw old Jim disappear into the crevice, and he knew it would only be a short time until he would be hunted. Whitey’s one idea was to escape the Indian, but he also wanted to take that money—or at least his half of it.

Dragging himself as a wounded animal might, he got to the point of the rock, where Bud had told him the money had been cached. The place was there, as described, but the money was gone. Whitey turned, his back to the rock, and huddled down while the insane Indian, like a hunting-dog, followed him unerringly.

Whitey made no effort to escape. He was half-conscious when the Indian picked him up, as a man might pick up a child, and started back to the cave with him.

Jimmy had seen the Indian leave the cave and go the length of the narrow ledge, where he disappeared. Later he had seen him appear at the foot of the cliff and go into the brush. He had not seen Whitey, because Whitey had crawled instead of walking.

Jimmy was curious to know why the Indian was living up there and keeping a fire burning through the night. He rode down the hill and into the coulée with Klooch leading the way. The cloudburst had swept the coulée clean of down-timber, and not a stick was left of the little cabin. The brush was flattened and mud-filled, which made it look like the bed of a river.

Jimmy rode to the edge of the slide-rock and tied the Whistler to a tree. He climbed up to the clearing where he had seen the Indian. Klooch cast about with her nose to the rocks and growled deep in her throat. The Indian scent was strong, and Klooch hated Indians. Straight to the foot of the broken ledges led the wolf-dog, with Jimmy sliding and slipping behind her.

Klooch stopped only long enough to see Jimmy was coming and started on up the rock. Where an ordinary dog would have balked, Klooch sprang and clawed her way up. She stopped at the mouth of the chimney and sniffed inside, hackles erect. Jimmy panted up to her and they both investigated the thing.

“Sure, we’ve got to play Santa Claus,” grinned Jimmy. “Can ye climb a stovepipe, Klooch?”

Jimmy made a move to go inside, but Klooch sprang in ahead and began clawing her way upward. Jimmy helped her at times, but she needed little help. Twisting and turning they came to the opening behind the spire and beheld the ledge, which extended around the corner. An odor of fire and roasting meat came to their nostrils.

Jimmy tried to make Klooch follow him, but she moved out ahead, where he could not pass her.

“Then take it easy,” whispered Jimmy. “Go slow.”

Klooch seemed to sense the need of caution, for she crept lower along the ledge, ears back as if ready for a rush.

“You’re a he-man’s dog, so ye are,” reflected Jimmy, loosening the gun in his holster. “I’d rather be backed by the likes of you than by many men I know.”

Straight ahead they went, slowly. Klooch fairly crawled on her belly now, and Jimmy hugged the narrow ledge. He could look straight down into the big coulée and it seemed a mile down to the tips of the trees. The circling eagle cast a shadow across the ledge, and Jimmy glanced up at it, high above him.

Suddenly the ledge widened a trifle and Jimmy turned his back from the wall. Just in front of him was the wider part of the ledge in front of the cave, and standing almost within reach of him was the insane Indian.

He was looking at Jimmy, and apparently oblivious of the wolf-dog between them. He had a heavy hunting-knife in his hand, with which he had been cutting up a rabbit, which was sizzling on the small fire.

There was little about the old Indian to make any one believe he was even part human, except his shape. His face seemed entirely animal, and had not been washed since Bud had shot him. The upper part of his body was nude and was streaked with dried blood and yellow dirt from the muddy coulée. His hair seemed to stick out like a roach, except where it was plastered tight to his head.

Only for a moment did he stare at Jimmy, and then, with a grunt, like an enraged animal, he sprang toward him. As the Indian leaped Klooch shot straight into him, fangs bared and without a sound. They seemed to meet in mid-air and lock together. Into them came Jimmy with a rush, grasping the Indian’s knife-hand in time to save the dog, and the three of them went down in a heap, almost off the edge.

The Indian’s head struck the rock and fairly rebounded; but it took all of Jimmy’s strength to hold him down, even after he was knocked half-unconscious. Jimmy managed to turn him over on his face and to tie his hands with the short rope that the Indian used in place of a belt.

Klooch watched the operation closely and only moved back when the Indian was rolled over on his back, helpless. Jimmy stood up and wiped the perspiration from his brow. Klooch was moving into the cave, growling deep in her throat, and Jimmy followed her in to where Whitey lay on his back, looking blankly up at him.

“Whitey!” exclaimed Jimmy wonderingly. “Whitey, I thought ye was dead!”

Whitey’s eyes told him that he was not dead, but his lips barely moved and an unintelligible mumble came from his throat. Jimmy picked him up and carried him to the ledge, where he laid him down near the old Indian.

Whitey revived enough to turn his head and look at the Indian, and a sigh of relief came when he could see that the old man was a captive. Jimmy sat down and rolled a smoke, which he lighted and gave to Whitey, who thanked him with his eyes as he puffed slowly.

The Indian glared at Jimmy like a trapped animal as he strained at his bonds. Klooch watched the Indian closely, ready to throttle him if he attempted to get up. Whitey shifted to an easier position and looked at Jimmy.

“How did yuh find me?” he whispered weakly.

“Trailin’ the Injun,” smiled Jimmy.

“Oh, that —— Injun!” Whitey’s voice seemed thin and querulous, as if he had suffered much. “Jimmy, he’s as crazy as a loon. Picks me up and slams me all around. He carried me up here.”

“How do ye feel, Whitey?”

“I’m all through, Jimmy. Blood poison, I think.”

“Blood poison?” echoed Jimmy. “Did ye get cut?”

“Shot,” whispered Whitey. “Shot in the lungs.”

“The divil ye are! Well, now ye need a doctor, old-timer; but how am I to——”

Whitey shook his head.

“No use, Jimmy. I’m numb all over and I wouldn’t last that long. I want to see the sheriff, though.”

Whitey’s jaw set and he tried to shift his body, but the pain was too great.

“Jimmy, I’ve been double-crossed, and I want to save a man who was awful good to me. I’m afraid—I—can’t—make—it—though.”

“Whitey, I—I want ye to square me with the world, if ye can. It can’t harm ye to let the world know that I did not hold up that train, and it will do me a lot of good.”

“God knows I want to, Jimmy,” whispered Whitey eagerly. “You’re the squarest man I ever knowed. You gave me a chance, pardner—a chance that a saint would never have given me, and—and I lied to you. Jimmy, I lied!”

“Lied to me?”

“Yes. I wasn’t dying from consumption, Jimmy. I lied to yuh, because I knowed you’d help me. You always helped others. I went to work for the Box M outfit, while you was in jail.

“I was afraid to touch that money I had hid under the floor of the old cabin. I heard that you had died in prison, and it almost drove me crazy thinkin’ about it. I—I got drunk and bragged about finding money under the cabin floor.”

Whitey’s voice croaked to a stop and he shut his eyes. Jimmy thought for a moment that Whitey had passed on, but he recovered.

“Wild Moore got the money, Jimmy. He didn’t know who it belonged to. He went to Cottonwood, where he made a killin’ at roulette. I knew he got it, and I told him so. Wild was square about it, and gave me back the original money. It’s cached under the bunk-house floor at the Box M.”

Whitey’s voice drifted to a weak whisper again. “Bud Deal and I stole the cattle that Wild was arrested for. We knew they couldn’t cinch him. Bud Deal shot the Injun and cached the body, but I reckon the bullet was too soft or the old buck’s head was too hard. Gawd, I wish he’d let me alone, Jimmy.”

“Who double-crossed ye, Whitey?” asked Jimmy.

“Bud Deal. We—” Whitey seemed to be groping for words. “We robbed a train. I—I got shot—Bud—shot—fireman. I—I—Jimmy, Bud lifted the cache, —— his sneakin’ soul! Have yuh got a pencil and paper, Jimmy? I—I can’t live long and I—want—to—write—it—out.”

Jimmy searched his pockets, but he knew it was useless. He had paper, but no pencil.

“Have ye no pencil, Whitey?”

Whitey shook his head weakly.

“No, Jimmy.”

He seemed to slide lower in the rocks and his eyes closed wearily. Jimmy shook him, but there was no response. Klooch sniffed at him and turned away.

Jimmy sat down on his heels and considered his next move. Whitey was dying, and with his death would go all hope of clearing the Devlin name. He realized that he could not carry Whitey around that cliff and down to the horse. The old Indian had twisted on his side and was staring at Jimmy, with flat, lack-luster eyes.

“What you talk?” asked Jimmy. “Sabe English?”

The Indian did not even blink. Jimmy was not familiar with the different Indian tongues, but he did know a little of Chinook, the trade-language.

“Kumtuks Chinook?” he asked.

The Indian blinked and hissed—

“Kwish!”

“Ah-ha!” grunted Jimmy. “Kwish, eh? If I ain’t mistaken, that means ye refuse to have anythin’ to do with me. Now, me high-toned laddie-buck, I’m bossin’ this perch, and if ye don’t do me biddin’ ye’ll be shakin’ hands with some of your happy-huntin’ ancestors.”

Jimmy stepped over, picked up the Indian’s knife and cut his bonds. The Indian sat up and flexed his arms, while Jimmy leaned against the rock wall, his .45 set at his hip. He was taking no chances this time. The Indian got to his feet and looked around. Klooch crouched a few feet away, blocking the Indian from the exit.

“Lolo!” snapped Jimmy, pointing at the unconscious Whitey. The Indian stared at Jimmy and at Whitey.

“Lolo,” he clucked. “Lolo?”

Jimmy nodded.

“That means ‘to carry,’ don’t it? Well, go ahead and carry him down out of this.”

“Hyak lolo!” snapped Jimmy impatiently.

Without a word the old Indian picked Whitey up in his arms, slung him across his shoulder and started along the ledge, with Klooch going ahead and Jimmy carefully bringing up the rear.

It was a strange procession around the narrow ledges and down the chimney. Klooch never failed to watch the Indian, who, even with his burden, was able to travel faster than Jimmy. The Indian blocked the light from below so completely that Jimmy was forced almost to feel his way down the chimney, and he had barely got into it before the Indian and Whitey disappeared out the bottom.

Jimmy knew that the Indian had the start of him, and he skinned knee and elbow in his rapid descent. He landed at the bottom in a shower of rubble and jumped out onto a ledge, where he could look down.

The Indian had reached the bottom of the cliff, with Whitey, and now he started to run for the brush, going straight toward Whistler, who was tied in plain sight.

But the Indian made a great mistake when he started running. If he had walked he might have reached the horse, but the minute he started running Klooch knew that something was wrong. She had been undecided what to do, but now she ran angling with the Indian, flashed between his legs and threw him spinning. Before he could get up she was on him, pinning him down, her fangs at his throat.

Whitey was almost flung into the brush and seemed to collapse, like a dummy figure, cast aside. Jimmy hurried down over the stone steps and went to Whitey. He was still alive. In the fall his forehead had come in contact with a sharp rock, which did not improve his condition to any great extent. He was still unconscious.

Jimmy went over to the Indian. Being thrown into the slide-rock had not helped him physically but the sullen glare seemed to have left his eyes and a look of half-intelligence had taken its place.

“Whisky!” he grunted.

Klooch surged forward at the sound of his voice, but Jimmy drew her aside. The Indian got to his feet and felt tenderly of a skinned elbow. He looked at Jimmy and at Whitey and mumbled something under his breath.

“What did ye say?” asked Jimmy.

“Halo kumtuks,” he replied slowly, shaking his head.

“You don’t understand, eh?” grunted Jimmy. “Well, me red-corpuscled friend, I’m glad ye’ve got to a point where ye’ll admit it. Bud Deal came near knockin’ the kumtuks out of ye for good. You sabe Bud Deal mamook poh mesika?”

The old Indian stared at Jimmy for a moment and then slowly touched his hand to his forehead.

“Bud Deal?” he asked, half-clucking, half-hissing the English name.

“Sure he shot ye,” nodded Jimmy, and pointed at the horse and at Whitey. “Put him on the horse. You sabe? Lolo kiuatan.”

The Indian limped over to Whitey, picked him up in his arms and approached Whistler. Jimmy soothed the animal, while the Indian placed Whitey on the saddle.

“Now, that’s the —— of it all!” grunted Jimmy. “He won’t stay on and I’ve no rope.” Jimmy scratched his head for a moment. “The Whistler will likely pitch like the divil, with two on his back; but mebbe I can hold him down until he gets used to it.

“Mesika klatawa kopa kiuatan.” This to the Indian, ordering him to ride on the horse.

Jimmy held Whistler tight while the Indian crawled on behind the saddle, steadying Whitey as he got on. The half-broke outlaw surged and humped its back wickedly, but Jimmy held its head tight, talking soothingly. The nature of the ground precluded any chance for Whistler to buck, and cause serious injury to himself, and after a few moments, Jimmy led the way around the base of the Devil’s Pulpit, leading the horse by the reins, while the old Indian rode behind the saddle with both arms around the unconscious Whitey. Beside the horse paced the wolf-dog. Straight across the hills they went, heading for Oxbow—twelve miles away.

XII

Bud Deal knew nothing about Jimmy’s departure from the Box M, as no one had taken him into his confidence regarding the matter. Bud wondered why Jimmy was not sleeping in the bunk-house. He thought perhaps it was because he had been exposed as a thief and preferred to sleep elsewhere.

The next morning Bud discovered that Whistler was not in the corral and that Jimmy did not show up for breakfast. Pat did not eat breakfast with the rest. Mrs. Moore seemed preoccupied and Frawley ate silently, except to ask Bud to harness the buggy team for them.

Bud’s nerves were getting frayed. He finished his meal and looked up to find Frawley staring at him rather quizzically.

“Where’s Smith?” asked Bud.

Frawley’s eyes did not shift from Bud’s face as he replied.

“Yuh mean Devlin, don’t yuh?”

Bud glanced up at Mrs. Moore. She was not looking at him. He looked back at Frawley.

“Well?”

“Devlin,” said Frawley slowly. “Devlin went away last night.”

“Where to?”

“He didn’t say where he was goin’.”

“Rode Whistler, didn’t he?”

Frawley nodded and shoved back from the table.

“You hitch up the team for the women. Me and you will ride horseback. That hearin’ is today and they’ll likely want us both there. —— shame to keep folks in jail until some poker-playin’ judge gets time to decide whether they’re guilty enough to be tried or not.”

“Aw, they’ll likely get loose,” grunted Bud, as he got up from the table. “If Jeff Garvin had twice as much sense he’d be half-witted.”

Bud went down to the corral and Frawley turned to see Pat standing in the doorway. She was dressed for the trip.

“Did he say anything?” asked Pat, and then added, “Devlin?”

Frawley shook his head.

“No, he said it was better not to, little Pat. Did yuh notice that Klooch is gone?”

“I wonder if she followed him?” mused Pat aloud. “He was the only human being she ever showed affection for, and I—I hope she did go with him, Jud.”

Frawley nodded.

“I sure hope she did. Bud will be here with the team in a minute.”

The ride to Oxbow was uneventful. Pat drove the buggy team, while Frawley and Bud rode behind them over the rough road. Frawley noticed that Bud was wearing a shoulder-holstered gun in addition to the one in the holster at his hip. It looked to Frawley as if Bud was looking for or expecting trouble.

Bud was riding a buckskin horse, a short-coupled animal, and a very plain stock saddle. He missed the feel of his dancing sorrel and the ornate saddle to which he had been accustomed.

Pat drove the team into the livery-stable, but Bud and Frawley dismounted at a hitch-rack, where a number of horses were already tied. There were more than the usual number of saddle-horses and vehicles at the racks, caused no doubt by the trial. A cowboy rode in behind Bud and dismounted.

“How are yuh, Bud,” he called, but Bud did not hear him.

“‘Chuck’ Ames yellin’ at yuh,” said Jud Frawley, and Bud turned his head.

“Howdy, Chuck.”

“Been tradin’ horses with Garvin?” asked Ames.

Bud squinted at the cowboy, who was loosening his saddle-cinch.

“Whatcha mean, Chuck?”

Ames removed his hat and wiped his brow.

“Just wonderin’, thassall. I seen Garvin ridin’ yore sorrel into town yesterday.”

“My sorrel?” Bud looked at Frawley and back at Ames. “Yuh must ’a’ been seein’ things, Chuck.”

“Yeah? Reckon I know that sorrel kinda well, don’t I? The danged thing cost me two months’ wages, when I bet that ‘Blondy’ Woods’ black mare could beat him. Anyway, I’m bettin’ it was yore sorrel, and yore saddle. I’d know that dew-dadded saddle anywhere.”

Bud said nothing. Frawley turned and went toward the sidewalk, while Ames fished out the makings of a cigaret and rolled a smoke.

“I’d sure know that sorrel and saddle,” repeated Ames as he licked the edge of the cigaret paper.

“——!” snapped Bud and started across the street.

Ames looked after him, an amused smile on his lean face.

“Whatcha know about that?” he grunted aloud. “Reckon I kinda rubbed the Box M dude the wrong way. And he’s packin’ two guns, too. Hm-m-m!”

Ames shook his head and turned toward the nearest saloon.

Bud was growing desperate. He had lied about the loss of his horse and saddle never thinking for a moment that Garvin had taken it. The whole thing was plain to Bud now. He had killed Garvin’s horse in the coulée, and Garvin had taken his sorrel. Garvin had taken that money, too.

Bud turned into the nearest saloon and got a drink. He was not a drinker, but he needed bracing. Pete Havez was in the saloon, idly fingering a deck of cards. He watched Bud take several drinks alone, and also got a glimpse of the extra gun inside Bud’s unbuttoned vest. Pete knew that when a man as well acquainted as Bud Deal was drank straight whisky silently and alone, it meant that he was priming himself for trouble.

Therefore Pete slid out of the place and went to find Jeff Garvin. He found Garvin in the Cheyenne saloon, leaning on a bar, talking with some cattlemen. Garvin was slightly intoxicated and in very good spirits. He caught Pete’s signal from the doorway and came out as soon as he could get away.

“Bud Deal’s in town,” said Pete. “He’s drinkin’ whisky all alone and he’s got two guns on him. Got a shoulder-holster on under his vest.”

“Yeah?” Garvin shoved his sombrero back on his head and looked quizzically at his new deputy. “Did he say anythin’, Pete?”

“He ain’t talkin’ to nobody,” declared Pete. “Kinda makes yuh feel that he’s a rattler, without rattles.”

Garvin grinned widely. He had drunk just enough to make him reckless.

“Suppose he’s huntin’ trouble with me, Pete?”

“I dunno, Jeff; what do you reckon?”

“I reckon,” said Garvin, pulling his hat down over his brow, “I reckon I better find out.”

“Better do some thinkin’ first,” advised Pete; “Bud Deal’s —— fast with a gun.”

Garvin seemed to consider this worthwhile advice. He was not sure that Bud knew of the lifted cache or not; but the chances were good that he did. He did not doubt that Bud knew he had taken the sorrel. Taking it all in all, Bud had reasons to hunt trouble with him.

“Deal ain’t gittin’ drunk, but he’s likely gittin’ plum bad,” offered Pete.

“Cinch,” grunted Garvin. “You watch him, Pete. Kinda move around with him, if yuh can, and if he gets too danged ornery we’ll snub him up tight.”

Pete grinned and nodded. He loved a task of this kind. It savored of real detective work, and also might offer him a chance to prove that he was some adept with the short gun himself. Pete got a drink at the next saloon and went hunting for Bud Deal.

He had no desire to face Bud in battle, but—if he could down Bud in a fight it would be the makings of him as a gunman. The “if” loomed large in front of Pete, and he decided to take things easy.

Bud Deal came out of the saloon door as Pete came down the sidewalk. Bud’s hat was pulled low over his eyes and he stood in the middle of the sidewalk, hands on his hips. Pete’s rapid walk slowed down as he neared Bud, and he turned to go into the door. But Bud stepped in front of him.

“Yuh found Garvin, did yuh?” rasped Bud.

“Gug-Garvin?” stammered Pete nervously.

“Yuh went out to find him,” declared Bud, “and yuh wouldn’t ’a’ come back unless yuh found him.”

Pete’s eyes glittered dangerously, but he made no move. They were so close together that the first shot would not save its shooter unless it was instant death.

Suddenly Bud’s left hand shot out and caught Pete by the shoulder, yanking him sidewise, and a fraction of a second later Bud’s right fist hooked into Pete’s jaw, knocking him backward against the building.

Bud stepped into him, yanked Pete’s gun from its holster and tossed it into the middle of the street. Before the dazed deputy knew what was going on he was kicked into the street, where he fell flat on his face in the dust.

Bud turned on his heel, settled his hat more securely over his eyes and went down the street, while Pete sat up in the street and sneezed the dust out of his nose and mouth. He felt of his holster and looked foolishly around. Just beyond him lay his six-shooter.

He limped out to it, put it in its holster and went toward the sheriff’s office, holding his jaw in one hand and caressing the slack of his pants with the other. He knew that his stealthy getaway from the saloon and his sudden return had told Bud where he had been. He decided that Bud was not only a dangerous fighter, but had brains as well.

Whisky seemed to have no effect on Bud, except to make him more cool. He had made up his mind that he was never going back to the Box M ranch. He could not explain the loss of his horse to them, without admitting that he lied. He gazed into an empty glass, eyes half-shut, and pondered the situation. He felt that there was a decided break between himself and Pat. There would not be enough evidence to hold Flint and Wild, and when they got back some one would be let out—and that some one would be he.

He was sure that Whitey was dead, which removed some worry from his mind. Garvin had taken the money. Who had removed the dead Indian? Bud filled his glass again and drank it in a single gulp. Should he kill Garvin? He took out a silver dollar and glanced at both sides. Why not let the dollar decide?

He flipped the dollar with his thumb. It clattered on the bar and rolled off the opposite side. The bartender stepped in close and glanced down.

“See which side’s up!” growled Bud.

The bartender grinned widely.

“Can’t be done, pardner; it fell in the wash-tub.”

Bud whirled on his heel and started for the door.

“Yuh got four-bits comin’,” yelled the bartender, but Bud went on out, while the bartender rolled up his sleeve and searched for the money.

“Every —— thing goes against me!” snarled Bud aloud as he got outside. “Mebbe I better go easy.”

The click of poker-chips, the call of the dealer lured him into the Telluride barroom and gambling-parlor, where he appropriated a seat and bought chips. He lost twenty dollars in two hands and drew out of the game.

He had began to grow irritable. Bud was not naturally an optimist, and he fell an easy prey to extreme pessimism. He had a few more drinks, but whisky only dulled his nerves more and made his outlook a dreary indigo. He imagined that the whole world was against him and he laid his plans accordingly.

He would meet Garvin and force him to tell where that money was. Yes, he would likely kill Garvin after he had all this information, but that was a mere incident. He could take that money and fade out of the country. He wondered why he didn’t do that before.

He went into a restaurant and ordered a meal, but his appetite deserted him and he left after drinking a cup of strong coffee. He met Pat and Mrs. Moore, but did not speak to them. Pat turned and looked curiously at him. A little farther on he met Frawley.

“Time to go up to the courtroom, Bud,” said Frawley.

“Court-room?” queried Bud absently. “Oh, yeah. Funny I forgot about it. When did yuh come in, Jud?”

Frawley half-smiled. He knew that Bud was drunk and had forgotten that they had ridden in together.

“Goin’ up now?” asked Frawley.

Bud stared vacantly at him and nodded. They walked to the courthouse and went upstairs.

Quite a crowd had already gathered in the courtroom. Men spoke to Frawley and Bud, calling them by their first names. Frawley replied to the greetings, but Bud ignored them all. They went to the front of the room and took seats inside the railing, where Bud humped over, elbows on knees, and stared at the blank wall.

The place filled up in a short time. Dave Cleland, the prosecutor, came in and sat down beside Frawley. Bud merely glanced at him. Mrs. Moore and Pat arrived and sat down near. Another man came, a stranger. He was tall and thin, with gray hair and a heavy mustache, and wore “store” clothes. He sat down inside the railing. Bud lifted his eyes and looked at him. It was the engineer of that train.

He merely glanced at Bud, but to Bud it was a glance filled with meaning. Bud set his jaw and humped lower. He reviled himself for being a fool. He should have known that the engineer would be there. Suddenly he almost laughed aloud at the thought of the engineer being able to identify either of the two robbers. They had been heavily masked. Bud shook his head. He must be losing his reason—getting nerves.

Suddenly there came a stir in the room as the big, gray-haired judge came out of his chamber and sat down at his desk. Oxbow had no police judge before whom men might have a hearing; and it required that they be held until the arrival of the circuit judge.

Bud watched the door through which the prisoners would come, and his hand unconsciously loosened the pistol in his belt. The room had grown very quiet. The big clock on the wall tick-tocked loudly. Heavy boots creaked as men leaned forward to whisper to each other, and from here and there came the clink of spurs.

The door opened and Pete Havez stepped in and aside to let Flint and Wild Moore in, followed by Garvin. They took seats at a table. Whether by chance or design, Garvin sat down at the table, with Flint Moore between himself and Bud Deal.

The judge lost no time in opening the investigation. The engineer was sworn and took the stand. His testimony was already known. No, he did not recognize the prisoners as the men who had held up the train. He did not observe whether either of them was as large a man as Flint Moore.

The subject of pistols was brought up, and the engineer stated that one of them had a big pearl-handled Colt pistol, and he was willing to swear that it was a .45 caliber. He was shown the muzzles of three pistols, and was able to pick the .45 from a .38, .44 and .45.

Outside of that about the gun, the engineer’s testimony was vague and useless to the prosecution. Garvin was called to the stand. He seemed reluctant to leave his place behind Flint Moore but went to the witness chair slowly, keeping his eyes on Bud, who did not look directly at him.

Garvin’s testimony drew a laugh from the crowd, as the prosecutor drew out the details of the arrest and what followed. Oxbow knew that Flint and Wild had come to Oxbow, herding the sheriff and deputy unarmed.

Garvin admitted that he had no evidence against them, other than they had ridden in from that direction on the day of the hold-up. He said that he suspected them, from that reason and also from the reason that he knew that the Box M was in bad shape financially. Later on his suspicions were strengthened by learning that one of the robbers used a pearl-handled Colt .45. Flint Moore owned such a gun.

The court asked for the gun as evidence and Garvin stated that the gun had never been found, and intimated that some one had secured it ahead of him and concealed it.

Flint Moore took the stand, after Garvin had gone back to his seat, and told his story. He had no alibi. They had been within a few miles of the railroad. There was nothing further to tell. Wild was not called. Frawley was put on the stand and drew a laugh, with his description of the arrest. He knew nothing about the gun.

“I will put Bud Deal on the stand,” said Cleland.

Bud looked up foolishly. He had not expected to be put on the stand. He got slowly to his feet and walked to the chair, where he took the oath. Cleland’s voice seemed miles away, as Bud looked into the sea of faces. Cleland was saying something about the gun, and Bud heard himself saying that the gun had been hanging at the head of Flint Moore’s bed after the hold-up. He could see Garvin leering at him; but his tongue ran on.

“Somebody stole the gun. Mebbe it was Devlin. He had a .45.”

“What Devlin?” asked Cleland.

“The Devlin, who was sent to the pen. He’s out again. Been working on the Box M, under the name of Smith.”

The courtroom buzzed.

“Who hired him?” asked Cleland.

Bud pointed at Flint Moore.

“He did. I told him——”

Flint Moore surged to his feet.

“I’ve never seen this Devlin. Deal told me that——”

“Order in the court!” roared the judge. “There is only one witness chair!”

“When did this Devlin come to the Box M?” asked Cleland.

“The night of the robbery,” replied Bud.

“Where is he now?”

Bud looked down at Mrs. Moore and Pat, and shook his head.

“I dunno. Frawley gave him an outfit last night and started him out of the country, I reckon.”

Cleland turned and looked at Garvin.

“Did you know that Devlin was in the country?”

Garvin smiled and shook his head.

“I think he’s a —— liar!” snapped Bud, leaning forward in his chair.

Some cowboy in the back of the room cheered and the crowd laughed heartily, while the judge pounded on his desk and roared for order.

“Another outburst like that and I shall clear the court!” roared the judge, and turned to Bud. “You are not up there to give opinions, young man!”

Garvin’s lips were white with wrath and his right hand was clenched around the butt of his gun under the table.

“Where were you on the day of the robbery?” asked Cleland.

Bud jerked up his head at the question and stared at the prosecutor.

“Me? Why, I—I was out on the range.”

“Down near Snake Creek?”

“Say, you can’t put no deadwood on me!” snarled Bud. “I don’t know anythin’ about the robbery.”

Cleland grinned. He was making Bud angry, and an angry witness is easy to tangle.

“What kind of a gun did you carry that day?”

Bud’s face paled and he half-closed his eyes, as he stared at Cleland. This was getting too personal for Bud and he set his nerves to carry it off right.

Suddenly there came a commotion at the door and everyone turned. A voice swore openly, wonderingly, and the crowd at the back of the room parted to let a strange party through.

It was the old Indian, a ghastly caricature of blood, dirt and matted hair, carrying the half-conscious form of Whitey Allen on his back. At the Indian’s heels came the wolf-dog, and limping behind them came Jimmy Devlin.

Every one in the courtroom stared at them as they came up the aisle, straight toward the judge. Bud Deal, white-faced, his eyes wide and staring, got out of his chair like a sleep-walker and moved aside as the Indian came slowly up and placed Whitey in the witness chair. Then the Indian slumped down on the edge of the platform, while Devlin stepped in, facing the court.

Pat started to her feet, but Frawley grasped her arm, drawing her back. Garvin half-sprawled across the table, gawping at them.

“Sure, I think I’ve come to the right place,” said Jimmy slowly. “We had a divil’s own trip, and all for the lack of a pencil.”

Whitey had opened his eyes and looked around. He was so weak that it was only with the greatest effort that he could remain erect in the chair.

“We made it, Whitey,” said Jimmy triumphantly. “This is the place to talk.”

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded the judge.

Bud’s eyes blinked rapidly as he stared at the Indian he thought he had killed and at Whitey, who must have perished in the cloudburst. His arms twitched and he tried to make himself believe that it was only a nightmare.

“Can ye talk, Whitey?” asked Jimmy. “Try it, pardner.”

Whitey moistened his lips and swallowed with difficulty. After a few attempts he said weakly, hoarsely:

“Jimmy Devlin wasn’t guilty. I—robbed—that—train—last—year. He—he—gave—me—a—chance.”

“Eh? What’s that?” questioned Cleland, while every one leaned forward to hear what Whitey was saying.

Pat had gotten out of her chair and was standing with her hands clenched in front of her as she stared at Jimmy.

“Devlin—wasn’t—guilty,” said Whitey weakly. “Don’t—you—believe—me?”

“What does this all mean?” questioned the judge.

Men were getting out of their seats and crowding forward. Bud’s eyes shifted as he tried to see a way out of the room, but all exits were blocked by the curious crowd.

Cleland turned to the judge.

“He means that Devlin wasn’t guilty of the crime he was convicted of, judge.”

Whitey nodded and tried to smile, but the smile faded as his eyes turned and he saw Bud Deal. Whitey did not have an ounce of strength left, but every bit of hate in his dying body flashed to his face and his weak voice shrilled:

“Bud Deal, you’re a dirty thief! You lifted that cache! You——” Whitey slumped, exhausted—arms falling on either side of the chair.

Bud leaned back against the railing, as if bracing himself, one hand clutching the lapel of his unbuttoned vest and the thumb of the other hand hooked over his belt above the holster. Men moved silently and swiftly from behind him. Garvin got half-way to his feet, one hand on the table. Jimmy stood easily beside Whitey’s chair, but his good-natured smile was not in evidence. The big Colt rested in its holster, just in front of his thigh. He was looking at Bud Deal as he spoke directly to him.

“Deal, ye made a bad mistake, when ye didn’t be sure ye killed the Injun.”

Bud’s body tensed, but he made no reply.

“Whitey told me all about it, Bud Deal. The old buck had a hard head and the bullet played ring-around-the-rosie.”

Jimmy looked at Garvin.

“Sheriff, ye may as well turn them folks loose and quit tryin’ to fool the law.”

“Whatcha mean?” snarled Garvin, but his heart sank within him.

Pete Havez had moved out of his chair and was backed against the railing, ready to draw.

“Judge, the Moores are innocent,” stated Jimmy, keeping his eyes on Garvin and Bud. “There’s a showdown comin’ real soon and I want ye to know things. Deal, don’t ye move a finger. Garvin, you’re too nervous to shoot straight. Deputy, ye better keep out of this, ’cause it don’t concern ye.”

Jimmy’s voice seemed to sing-song, without any particular inflexion.

“Will somebody get a doctor for Whitey Allen? He’s got a lot of things to tell yet, and they’re worth hearin’. He was one of the men who held up that train and he got shot. His pardner double-crossed him by liftin’ the cache, and now Whitey wants to clear the Moores and put the deadwood where it belongs.”

“What cache did Bud lift?” asked Frawley.

“That’s a lie!” Bud fairly screamed. “I didn’t lift any cache!”

Jimmy held up his hand for silence as he shook his head in confirmation of Bud’s denial.

“Whitey Allen was wrong there. He thought that Bud had double-crossed him and taken the money, but Bud did not take it.”

Jimmy turned his head slightly and looked at Garvin.

“Do ye want me to tell who did take that money?”

Garvin’s lips barely moved as he said—

“What do yuh mean?”

Jimmy leaned forward a little and his right hand came up a trifle higher than his waist, fingers spread. Bud Deal had seen Jimmy do that before.

“Ye know what I mean!” Jimmy’s voice snapped in the silent room.

Whitey Allen seemed to regain consciousness for a moment at the sound of Jimmy’s voice and his eyes opened.

“I—I’m glad,” he croaked, “I’m glad it was Bud Deal instead of me that killed the fireman. He shot——”

Bud Deal’s move was too swift to follow and Whitey’s confession was never finished. The windows of the little courtroom shook with the concussion of Bud’s heavy pistol and Whitey pitched forward out of his chair.

Garvin’s hand swung up, clutching a pistol, but he was too late.

Jimmy’s hand flashed up holding the big gun, but Frawley had flung himself into Bud and Jimmy could not shoot without danger of hitting Frawley, who seemed to have missed his tackle and was clawing desperately to clutch Bud’s gun.

Bud whirled toward Garvin, whose hand had swung up from beside the table, and the fact that Garvin shot wide-armed and cramped by the table caused him to miss Jimmy by scant inches.

A fraction of a second later Jimmy shot—so close to the report of Garvin’s gun that few people knew that both men had fired. Garvin crumpled back in his chair and his pistol thudded to the floor.

Pete Havez, ignorant of Garvin’s reasons, but thinking it was his duty, was shooting at Jimmy—shooting wildly. Jimmy whirled and shot once more—shot almost over Flint Moore’s head, and Pete Havez spun on his heel, fired a wild shot at the ceiling and draped himself across the railing.

Bud Deal had torn away from Frawley, tripping him as he got away, and had fired twice at Jimmy—twice at a distance of ten feet, and missed—missed because the old Indian was diving at him, arms outstretched.

He swung his pistol and struck the Indian over the head, kicked at him as he fell, and then whirled, vaulted the railing and tore for the rear door, with his two guns driving back the crowd.

But the crowd was willing to get back. Many of them had slid down between the seats, flat on the floor to be safe from flying lead. Bud raced for the door, where he whirled and shot the length of the room at Jimmy, who was vaulting the railing, and the bullet splintered a window back of the jury-box.

Klooch darted past Jimmy as he went out of the door and down the stairs. Bud raced for the hitch-rack, which was across the street from the courtroom, and was half-way to the horses, when Jimmy came out the lower door.

Bud whirled, as the wolf-dog ran into him, and shot almost into her face. The bullet ripped along her head and the flash of powder blinded her; but she had stopped him in his flight.

The crowd had rushed to the windows of the courtroom. Some one threw a chair through one of them, to view the street better, and the chair crashed into the dust near Jimmy.

Bud was standing about half-way across the street, with his feet braced far apart, gun held hip-high. His hat was gone. He had dropped one gun in his flight, and now he had only one cartridge left in that gun, with which he had done all his shooting—five shots.

Klooch was groveling in the street, trying to paw the pain from her burned head. Jimmy was moving slowly toward Bud, his gun swinging easily in his hand, when out of the lower door appeared the Indian, coming in behind Jimmy.

His face was a welter of fresh blood from the blow, which Bud had dealt him with a gun-barrel; but he did not waver, as he came into the street, head held low, his back bent, arms held wide, as if to grasp something.

A voice from one of the windows called a hoarse warning to Jimmy; but the Indian walked past him, giving Jimmy no heed, going straight toward Bud.

Bud lifted his gun and took deliberate aim at the advancing Indian, but the Indian came on unfaltering. Bud’s arm shook with the strain of holding the gun. He could not pull the trigger.

He had only one shot left. The Indian was unarmed. It flashed through Bud’s mind that Jimmy was the one to shoot. He could use the empty gun on the unarmed Indian.

Now the Indian was between Bud and Jimmy, coming slower. Bud sprang aside to fire his last shot, but he had forgotten the wolf-dog. His feet tangled in a squirming snapping bulk and he fell heavily, his gun slipping from his hand as he fell.

As he sprawled in the dust, the Indian dived into him. For a moment they seemed to tangle in a whirl of arms and legs, and then the Indian staggered to his feet, with his arms locked around Bud’s body. They swayed for a moment. Like a flash the Indian shifted his hold, lifted Bud off his feet and threw him upside-down; and before any one could anticipate his next move he picked Bud up in his arms, slung him across his shoulder and ran up the street toward another hitch-rack. Bud was as limp as Whitey had been.

Jimmy watched them go, but made no effort to stop the Indian. He caught Klooch by the scruff of the neck and drew her to him, while he knelt in the street and tried to examine her burns and bruises. The crowd poured out of the courtroom and filled the street. Frawley and Pat were the first ones to reach Jimmy. Men were yelling at each other, running for their horses.

“My ——!” exclaimed Frawley. “Look at the Indian! He’s on Whistler and he’s got Bud in his arms!”

Jimmy glanced up the street. The Indian had mounted the roan outlaw and had Bud draped across the saddle in front of him. Men ran out from across the street and tried to stop them, but the Whistler whirled and came straight down the street, running hog-wild, with reins flying. More men tried to stop them, but Whistler never wavered, while the Indian leaned forward, both arms holding Bud’s limp body, riding out of town like a tornado.

“The Injun wants to pay Bud for that shot in the dark,” panted Jimmy. “The old boy got a nasty bump on the head out at the Pulpit and it kinda cleared his mind. Whitey told him that Bud shot him.”

Men were mounting to give chase, yelling orders, asking questions. Pat turned to Jimmy, her face gray with the horror of it all, and took hold of his arm. Flint Moore came up to them, staring at Jimmy and Pat, who were looking into each other’s faces. Mrs. Moore and Wild came to them.

Horses were passing them, showering the dust and gravel of the street as they started out to follow the Indian and his burden. Klooch sniffed at Jimmy and stood up, putting her paws on his chest, while her burned eyes blinked open and she gave a short bark.

“Glory be!” exclaimed Jimmy. “Look, Pat! The wolf-dog’s eyes are open again. Oh, ye blessed wild divil! Ye came to me in the night, so ye did.”

“A lot of eyes have been opened today, Jimmy,” answered Pat slowly, as she turned to her father and said, “Dad, meet Jimmy Devlin.”

Flint Moore squinted into Jimmy’s eyes, as they gripped hands.

“Son,” said Flint Moore softly, “why didn’t you kill Bud Deal?”

Jimmy shook his head slowly.

“Sure, I’m not clear in me own mind yet. Mister Frawley got before me in the courtroom and I could not shoot. Out here—” Jimmy glanced across the street—“out here I had no fear of his gun. Bedad, I believe I thought it was empty, and—and—” Jimmy smiled wistfully—“and who am I to be shootin’ up train-robbers?”

Wild Moore stepped in and held out his hand just as Dave Cleland bustled into them breathlessly.

“Garvin got it through the shoulder!” he exclaimed. “Pete Havez wasn’t so lucky, but he’ll get well. Whitey Allen must have been almost dead before Bud shot him. Now, I want to shake hands with Devlin. I’ll see that you get complete exoneration, Devlin.”

Cleland bustled away, spilling half a package of flake-cut tobacco over the edge of his pipe-bowl and trying to light the empty pipe.

Frawley turned to Flint Moore.

“I reckon I’ll get my horse and follow the chase, Flint. I’ll drop in to see yuh in a few days.”

“Why—why—” faltered Flint.

“No, I’ve resigned,” grinned Frawley. “The Box M can’t afford to pay wages to more than one man, and I reckon Devlin’s goin’ to quit bein’ a boomer.”

Frawley walked swiftly toward the hitch-rack. Jimmy looked at Pat slyly and a sober expression crossed his homely face as she asked, “Are you, Jimmy?”

“I’m thinkin’,” said Jimmy slowly, “that I’d kinda like to be able to answer folks, when they ask me where I came from—and the Box M is easy to say.”

XIII

It was twilight again at the Box M, and the Thunder Range had flung its long shadows across valley and hill. Questions had been asked and answered, until every one at the ranch understood the things that had come to pass during the past few days. Flint Moore and his wife sat in the little living-room, facing each other across the table in silent contemplation of the future.

Wild stood in the lighted doorway, leaning against the door-sill, looking at Pat, who was sitting on the porch steps. A string of shadowy cattle figures drifted down past the fence, going to water. From somewhere a calf bawled plaintively. High overhead a number of night hawks skirled as they circled swiftly in search of food.

From down at the bunk-house came the voice of Jimmy Devlin singing “The Holy City.” It was a new song to the range-land—sung in a slurring tenor, which seemed to melt away into the night.

“Jerusalem, Jerusalem, lift up your voice and sing.”

“That is he,” said Mrs. Moore, leaning across the table toward her husband. “Could a man who sings like that be bad, Flint?”

Flint Moore shook his head:

“No, mother. If Pat wants to marry him—he can’t be very bad. Listen, Mary.”

Jimmy’s voice came clearly to them—

“The world grew dark with mystery and all around was still, when the shadow of a cross arose upon a lonely hill.”

Pat lifted her head. A man was riding in from down by the gate. He drew rein and listened to the song until it was finished and rode up to the porch. It was Frawley. He dismounted and came up to the porch, calling a soft greeting to Pat and Wild.

Flint Moore and his wife heard him and came outside.

“I just stopped for a minute,” said Frawley. “The rest of the posse went straight back to Oxbow.”

“Did you catch the Indian?” asked Flint.

Frawley shook his head.

“No. We trailed them to the foot of the Devil’s Pulpit, where we found the horse; and a little later we found them both, lying at the foot of the Pulpit—dead. I think the Indian tried to climb the rock with Bud and slipped, or they fought up there.”

“Well,” said Flint Moore softly, “maybe it was best that way, Frawley.”

“Yeah, I reckon. Well, I’ll be goin’ on, folks. Good-night.”

Frawley rode away into the night. The rest of the family went into the house, leaving Pat alone on the porch, as a shadowy figure came from the bunk-house and walked slowly toward her, with the wolf-dog beside him. He stopped a short distance away and appeared to hesitate.

“Who goes there?” challenged Pat softly.

Jimmy chuckled, and replied—

“The ex-range-boomer.”

“Where are you from?”

“The Box M,” said Jimmy quickly, “where I hope to stay so long they’ll assess me as personal property.”

“If they do,” said Pat softly, “I’ll be willing to pay the taxes.”

Then Klooch blinked her sore eyes and wondered in her own dumb way whether she wasn’t a bit fooled into thinking that Jimmy was a one-dog man. He seemed to forget her for so long.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

This story appeared in Adventure Magazine, July 30, 1922. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.

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Table of Contents

THE RANGE-BOOMER

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