Bud Daley sat humped over on his wash-bench near the kitchen door of his
unpretentious little ranch-house, staring with moody blue eyes across
the hills. The wash-bench was sloppy with soap-suds, plain evidence that
Bud had performed his ablutions in a violent manner.
And as he sat looking moodily into space, he dangled a none-too-clean
towel in his hands. Just behind him, leaning against the side of the
kitchen door, stood Mrs. Daley, a thoughtful frown on her pretty face.
She was dressed in a plain calico dress, faded from many washings; a
girlish looking woman, whose crown of glorious auburn hair tumbled in
unruly fashion about her face.
Bud’s visible attire consisted of a battered sombrero, a thin blue
shirt, wide open at the neck, a pair of bat-winged chaps, boots and
holstered gun. His thin face was decorated with several days’ growth
of beard. Down in the little corral, which was hooked to the long,
low barn, a roan horse, sweat-marked, rolled wearily.
Bud’s eyes turned from the panorama of low hills, which swept away
across the Modoc ranges, and his fingers searched his pockets for
tobacco and cigaret papers.
“Bud, are you sure?” Mrs. Daley spoke softly, a trifle hopefully.
“Yeah,” Bud nodded and licked the edge of the paper, “I reckon it’s a
fact, May.”
“Then it means that we’re--broke?”
“Broke?”
The match burned Bud’s fingers, and he snapped it away as he turned and
looked at her.
“May, we’re worse than that. I still owe Cleve Lavelle five thousand
dollars.”
“As much as that, Bud?”
There were tears in her voice. Bud laughed shortly and got to his feet.
“Just that much, May.”
“But--but where have the cattle gone? Surely----”
“They’ve been stolen!” said Bud savagely. “Somebody has rustled every
head of Triangle-D stock in the Modoc country. By ----, we haven’t even
got a hide nor a horn to show.
“I told Cleve Lavelle. He was at the round-up, May. They were all there;
every puncher in this country. I tell you, we combed every inch of the
county, and there wasn’t a cattleman there, except me, that wasn’t
satisfied.”
“Was Uncle Jimmy Miller there, Bud?”
“Yeah, he was there. He exploded over it. Just the same as told me I
was a ---- liar. But he found out that I was right. Oh, we’re broke;
that’s a cinch.”
Bud threw the towel aside and backed against the wall.
“But, Bud, we must have had close to five hundred head,” said Mrs.
Daley. “Why, you can’t lose five hundred head of cattle.”
“Can’t we?” Bud laughed bitterly. “I wish you was right, May. I kept
sayin’ the same thing--until I had it proved to me. Somebody
just--well--” Bud shrugged his shoulders wearily--“they took ’em,
thassall.”
“Well--” Mrs. Daley sighed deeply and patted him on the shoulder--“we’re
not very lucky, Bud. Dinner is ready.”
“I’m not hungry, May. It kinda hits me in the pit of m’ stummick.”
“Starving won’t help you any, dear.”
“I s’pose not.” Bud grinned and shook his head. “I reckon I’ve got to
keep m’ head up and m’ stummick full. I wish----”
Two riders swung around the corner of the cottonwood clump beyond the
barn and came toward the house, causing Bud’s wish to go unfinished.
“It’s Uncle Jimmy Miller and ‘Sody’ Slavin,” said Mrs. Daley.
“Two of the toughest old pelicans that ever wore a boot,” remarked Bud
as they rode up and dismounted.
Uncle Jimmy Miller was only five feet four inches tall, thin of frame,
thin of voice, with the whiskers of a gray old bob-cat and an explosive
disposition.
Sody Slavin was nearly six feet tall and so fat that he could hardly
find a saddle-horse strong enough to carry him more than half a day at
a time. Sody talked in a counter-tenor voice and panted at all times.
He was of a nervous temperament and so ticklish that everything annoyed
him. Uncle Jimmy owned the JM outfit--one of the big cattle outfits of
the Modoc--and Sody was his foreman.
“’Lo, Mrs. Daley,” called Sody. “Nice weather we’re havin’.”
“Hello, Mr. Slavin,” she answered, smiling.
“Mister!” he snorted indignantly.
“Mrs.!” she shot right back at him.
“All right, May. I didn’t want to call you May right in front of yore
husband; but if you ain’t scared of him, I ain’t.”
“That’s what polite folks calls ‘small-talk’, I reckon,” observed Uncle
Jimmy. “Anyway, it’s too ---- small to pay for the wear and tear on yore
teeth.”
Uncle Jimmy spat dryly and turned to Bud.
“Well, whatcha know about it, Bud?”
“Not any more than I did before.”
“Uh-huh.” Uncle Jimmy scratched his mustache violently.
“Aw, they must ’a’ strayed,” said Sody. “Dog-gone it, yuh----”
“They did, like ----!” snorted Uncle Jimmy. “Sody, you ain’t got---- My
----, you make me mad, Sody! Must ’a’ strayed! Since when did one brand
of cows all git together and vamoose? Mebbe they didn’t like to
associate with the other brands, eh? Sody, you do think of the dangdest,
craziest answers to questions.”
“Mebbe I’m wrong,” said Sody contritely.
“Mebbe!”
“You ain’t got no better answer,” grinned Sody. “They’re all gone, ain’t
they? They must ’a’ went away together.”
“Yeah! With some range-burglars fannin’ their south ends with a lariat.”
Bud grinned in spite of his loss. To Uncle Jimmy and Sody Slavin,
life was just one argument after another. At times the arguments
grew so personal that Uncle Jimmy would fire Sody. He was known to
have discharged Sody three times in one day, and Sody was known to
have quit his job three times in one day. And the majority of their
arguments were over things that neither of them knew anything about,
which neither would admit.
“Well, let’s not fight over it,” said Bud. “They’re gone, thassall.”
“I know it,” nodded Uncle Jimmy. “I know they’re gone, Bud; but
that--that----”
“Your Mister Slavin,” suggested Sody sweetly.
“Yea-a-a-ah!” snorted Uncle Jimmy. “My mister!”
“What’s the joke?” asked Bud.
“Joke, ----!” exploded Uncle Jimmy. “When Sody took that trip to Frisco
he went out to a packin’ plant. I s’pose he lied to ’em about the cows
we’ve got out here, and all that. You know how a danged half-wit like
him would talk. Anyway, I got a letter from the packer, and he says:
“‘Regardin’ a conversation with your Mr. Slavin.’
“My Mister Slavin! He ain’t mine, Bud. That’s the only thing that saves
him. If he was mine, I’d----”
“You wouldn’t have to,” interrupted Sody. “If I belonged to you, I’d
’a’ grieved m’self to death long ago. There is things that flesh and
blood can’t stand.”
“And you’re one of ’em,” declared Uncle Jimmy.
“If the argument is over, we might eat,” smiled Mrs. Daley.
“It never was no argument, as far as I was concerned,” said Uncle Jimmy.
“I--I-- Now, Sody, if you open your danged mouth, I’ll----”
“Who’s openin’ their mouth?” demanded Sody. “You took exceptions to a
statement I made, didn’t yuh? Yeah, yuh did, too. I’ll bet you don’t
even know what I said that started the argument.”
“Don’t I? The ---- I don’t! Huh! Do you?”
“Nope,” said Sody honestly.
Uncle Jimmy stared at him for several moments, his mustache working
violently. Then he turned his head and looked at Mrs. Daley, his face
breaking into an expansive smile.
“May, you sure do look fine,” he observed sincerely. “If I was thirty
years younger, I’d sure steal yuh away from that good-for-nothin’
husband of yours.”
Mrs. Daley laughed lightly, but Bud’s laugh was bitter, as he unbuckled
and kicked off his chaps.
“They’ve stole everythin’ else from me, Uncle Jimmy.”
“Yeah, that’s true, I reckon.”
Uncle Jimmy turned and squinted reflectively at the sunswept hills of
Modocland.
“Yeah, they’ve plumb cleaned yuh out, Bud. ’S far as I can see, yuh
ain’t got hide nor horn in this county. We’ve been free of rustlin’ for
a long time in the Modocs; but every once in a while they steps out and
starts in where they left off. But I don’t sabe it yet--nossir. Mebbe
I’ve lost a few head--I dunno.”
“May jist said that dinner was waitin’,” reminded Sody.
“Well, who said she didn’t?” demanded Uncle Jimmy. “You’re always tryin’
to start an argument, Sody.”
“No such a danged thing!” Sody shook his head violently. “I never start
arguments, Jim. You start ’em, and then----”
“Let’s eat,” suggested Bud.
Thus ended another argument that might have lasted several minutes--and
ended nowhere.
* * * * *
The Fall round-up of the Modoc country had just been completed, and
in all those thousands of cattle there was not a single one bearing
Bud Daley’s Triangle D brand. It was unbelievable, but true. An army
of cowboys had ridden for days, combing the hills so thoroughly that
hardly an animal had escaped them.
And all of them knew that Bud Daley owned at least five hundred head of
cattle, outside of possible increase. Bud had been foreman for Uncle
Jimmy Miller for a year; a top-hand cow-man, who had gained the respect
of every one during that one year.
But Bud was not content with a salary. He had married May Lloyd, the
prettiest girl in the Red Hills range country, and he wanted to make
good for her sake. For a few hundred dollars he had acquired the
Triangle ranch and iron, which he had had registered as the Triangle
D. Bud had a little money, which he invested in stock, starting his
little herd.
Then he had gone to Cleve Lavelle, the political and cattle power of
the Modoc country, and borrowed five thousand dollars, which he
invested in cattle--or rather, all except two hundred dollars. Bud
was a gambler. As soon as his cattle buying was over he went into the
Rest Ye All gambling-house, which was owned by Cleve Lavelle, and won
ten thousand dollars at roulette.
But, instead of paying Lavelle the borrowed money, he went out and
bought cattle with every cent of it. This gave him a respectable-sized
herd, and, barring the unforeseen, Bud Daley was destined to become a
regular cattleman.
Cleve Lavelle came in for a great amount of good-natured joking over
the fact that Bud had cleaned out the gambling-house, but Lavelle
was a cool-nerved gambler and merely smiled. It was all in the game.
Perhaps he felt that Bud should have paid his debts, but did not say
so. Lavelle was close-mouthed, and his square, deep-lined face, thin
lips and level gray eyes told nothing.
Lavelle owned the 76A cattle outfit, located about six miles from the
town of Modoc, where he employed a big crew of cowboys and
broncho-riders. Lavelle broke many horses for the Eastern markets and
took pride in the fact that he had the hardest riding crew of punchers
in the county.
And Lavelle was the political power in Modoc County. He was a mixer,
known as a square-shooter, but the political pot of the county was
mixed in Lavelle’s private office at the rear of the ornate Rest Ye All
gambling-house in Modoc. Whether or not the ingredients were according
to the pure political ideas of some of the people, they were according
to Cleve Lavelle.
Bud Daley had not the slightest idea of who had taken his stock. If he
had, he would not have gone to see Dug Breed, the sheriff, the day after
the close of the round-up. Bud did not like Dug Breed. He had opposed
Dug at the election of the year before, and Dug had not forgotten it. He
was a square-built man, about forty years of age, with harsh features,
narrow lips and eyes that flashed green in anger.
Breed was a competent officer, saying little, drinking none and paying
strict attention to running the sheriff’s office. To him went Bud. He
had heard of Bud’s loss. Every one in the Modoc range knew of it. Breed
had little to say, but Bud felt that he did not believe that the stock
had been stolen.
“You ain’t sold any stock lately, have you, Daley?” he asked.
“Sold any?” Bud shook his head, and it suddenly dawned upon him that the
sheriff was hinting that he had sold his stock and was trying to claim
that he had been robbed. For a moment he had difficulty in holding his
temper.
“Mebbe,” said the sheriff suggestively, “they were herded out through
the Crooked Cañon country and shipped from Black Wells.”
The Crooked Cañon country lay to the West of Bud’s ranch, and Black
Wells was a small shipping-point thirty miles from Modoc. Before the
advent of the railroad into Modoc, Black Wells had been the shipping
point for all of the Modoc range.
“That’s probably where they went,” admitted Bud slowly. “And Black Wells
ain’t a place where yuh can get reliable information.”
“No, it’s a pretty safe place,” said the sheriff thoughtfully. “Folks
over there mind their own business. This kind leaves you in a bad shape,
don’t it, Daley?”
“Well,” Bud smiled a trifle, “I’ve still got my health and the Triangle
D ranch.”
“I mean--you’re kinda left in debt, ain’t yuh?”
“Am I?” Bud’s lips shut tightly for a moment. “Where did yuh get that
idea, Breed?”
“It ain’t an idea, Daley. In fact, it’s none of my business; but
everybody knows that you couldn’t accumulate a herd of that size in
a year and not be in debt. I hope you’re not. And if you are, I hope
that yuh won’t be stuck for the payment.”
“Stuck for it?”
“You know what I mean--have the ranch taken away from yuh.”
Bud laughed softly as he rolled a cigaret. The ranch-house, brand and
the water-rights to a few springs had cost him less than five hundred
dollars. The repairs would not amount to more than two hundred more.
“You were just gettin’ a good start,” observed the sheriff.
Bud threw away his match and looked quizzically at the sheriff.
“Breed, I didn’t come here for sympathy,” he said slowly. “If that’s
what I wanted, ---- knows I’d never come to you. I’ve been robbed,
dontcha understand? Ain’t it kinda up to you to do something besides
settin’ there and feelin’ sorry for me?”
Breed frowned heavily for a moment, looking down at the toes of his
boots. Bud turned away and moved over to the open door. He had not
expected much from Breed; so he was not disappointed.
“Did you think I was offerin’ you sympathy?” asked Breed.
“I hoped you wasn’t,” said Bud, without turning his head.
“Well, I wasn’t.” Breed laughed shortly and turned back to some papers
on his desk.
Bud turned and looked at Breed, but the latter did not look up. For
a moment Bud’s lips curled with anger, and he rubbed an itching palm
across the brass heads of the cartridges in his belt. He knew that
Breed was a fighter, a dangerous man to provoke; yet every drop of
fighting blood in his body cried out against the injustice of an
officer refusing assistance because of a personal grudge.
But he fought down the desire to tell Breed what he thought of him
and to back up his opinions with hot lead. Bud knew that one of them
would probably never walk out of the place--possibly both. If the
sheriff killed him, it would be easy to explain; but if he killed the
sheriff--that would be a difficult situation.
* * * * *
So he turned, stepped out on the sidewalk and crossed the street to the
Rest Ye All saloon. It was the slack time of the day, and he found Cleve
Lavelle in his private office, reading a newspaper.
Lavelle put the paper aside, motioned Bud to a chair and waited for him
to speak.
“You heard what happened to me, didn’t yuh, Lavelle?” asked Bud.
Lavelle nodded curtly. He did not seem greatly concerned.
“I’m broke, I reckon,” continued Bud. “Somebody has cleaned me out as
slick as a rifle-barrel.”
“I heard about it,” said Lavelle. “Well?”
“Well?” Bud swallowed hard and shifted his position. “Well, I’m broke,
thasall. I owe you five thousand dollars, Lavelle.”
“You do.”
“Due next month,” said Bud.
“The first of the month, Daley.”
“All right. It looks to me like it was just too bad, thasall.”
“You can’t pay it?” Coldly.
“What with?”
“Mm-m-m.” Lavelle rubbed his chin with a hand that was just a trifle
over-decorated with diamonds. Bud estimated that just one of those
white stones would cost more than his debt.
“What’s your ranch worth, Daley?” asked Lavelle.
“That’s a question,” replied Bud thoughtfully. “It ain’t for sale.”
“Possibly not,” smiled Lavelle, “but under the present situation, I
might have to take it over.”
“I reckon I get yore idea,” nodded Bud, “but I didn’t come with that
idea in mind a-tall, Lavelle. Yuh see, it’s like this: yo’re a
gambler, Lavelle. You ain’t got a ghost of a chance to ever get that
five thousand. My ranch ain’t worth a fifth of that amount.”
“I understand that!” snapped Lavelle.
“You’ve set into big games,” continued Bud, ignoring the interruption.
“You’ve been stuck for five thousand dollars lots of times. Did you
quit, Lavelle?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you quit the game, when you was five thousand in it?”
“No.” Lavelle shook his head. “No, I never quit, but----”
“Yo’re into my game five thousand dollars, Lavelle. If you quit now,
you lose five thousand; if you back me again, you’ve got a chance to
get yore money back.”
“Like ---- I have!” Lavelle threw back his head and laughed. “Daley,
you’ve got more nerve than a bank-robber. Do you think I’d gamble at
those odds?”
Bud did not laugh. His blue eyes bored into Lavelle’s face, and his jaw
was set tight.
“You sure make me laugh,” declared Lavelle.
“Ten thousand dollars would put me on my feet, Lavelle,” persisted Bud.
“Inside of three years----”
“They’d clean you out again,” finished Lavelle. “No, you’ve got me all
wrong, Daley. On the first of next month, you be here with five thousand
dollars.”
Lavelle dropped a heavy fist on the polished surface of his desk.
“In the first place, I don’t think that anybody robbed you. It isn’t
reasonable, Daley. Look at the thing right.”
Bud got to his feet and stood looking down at Lavelle.
“Just what do you mean by that remark, Lavelle?”
“Figure it out for yourself, Daley.”
“You mean that I----”
Bud leaned forward, his hands clenched tightly, as he stared down at
Lavelle.
“Hold your temper,” advised Lavelle. “You’re not a good bluffer, Daley.”
“I’m not goin’ to bluff,” said Bud slowly. “I’m goin’ to mean everythin’
I say to you, Lavelle. Yo’re ----”
“Wait a moment,” interrupted Lavelle. “You are going to say something
that you’ll be sorry for, Daley. You already owe me more than you want
to pay, and you are sore because I won’t lend you more. Your opinions
of me are of no interest to any one except yourself; so tell them to
yourself and save trouble.”
Bud relaxed slowly and a grin wreathed his lips. Then he laughed and
turned to the door.
“All right, Lavelle. I reckon that’s good advice. I’m sorry I acted like
a fool, and I’ll try to have that money for yuh.”
Bud crossed the gambling-room and entered the bar, where he found Sody
Slavin and “Dinah” Blewette. Dinah was a little dark-skinned cowpuncher
from the JM ranch, with an impediment in his speech, bow-legs and a
totally bald head.
They greeted Bud effusively and expansively. Between them they owned the
world and were perfectly willing to cut their share to thirds. Would he
accept?
“I ain’t a bit dry,” protested Bud. “Not a danged bit, boys.”
“Bud’s had grief,” explained Sody, while Dinah listened attentively.
“He’s sure had flocks of grief, Dinah.”
“Sh-sure,” agreed Dinah, nodding violently, which caused his sombrero to
shift in a circle on his bald dome.
“I--I--I--I--I----”
“That’s all from you,” interrupted Sody. “Me and Bud will do all the
talkin’, Dinah. Thasall right, we’ll excuse yuh from participatin’ in
conversation. You nod or shake, thasall.”
Dinah’s lips worked convulsively for a moment, as if trying to frame
a protest; but he broke into an expansive grin and turned to the bar,
signaling frantically for the bartender to show more speed.
Bud could not resist their invitation. It had been a long time since he
had taken a drink, and the potent liquor lifted him out of his blue
haze and transported him into a world which was filled with rose-tinted
atmosphere.
Lavelle came through the barroom a little later, but none of the three
cowboys paid any attention to him. Other cowboys, with their round-up
stakes in their pockets, were invading the place, anxious for their
drinks and a chance to woo the Goddess of Luck.
“She’s goin’ to be a big night,” declared Sody. “A big night.”
“Yuh--yuh--yuh--yuh--” choked Dinah.
“Yuh betcha,” said Sody, anticipating what Dinah was trying to say.
“Now, you stop that, Dinah. Yo’re a good cowboy and I like yuh fine;
but you never was intended to talk.”
“Tha--tha--tha--tha----”
“That’s right,” prompted Bud, nodding violently. “We know all about yuh,
Dinah.” And then to Sody, “I’ll make yuh a little bet that Dinah can’t
say ‘Piper Heidsick’ inside of five minutes.”
“Not with me yuh don’t,” grinned Sody. “The last time he tried to say
it, he was plumb unconscious for an hour. My gosh, he jist chokes plumb
to death. Uncle Jimmy wanted him to bring some chewin’ tobacco one day.
Uncle Jimmy chaws Piper; so he tells Dinah to bring him some. ‘Shorty’
Ryan was workin’ out there at that time, and he chaws Star. He wanted
some, too.
“Well, Dinah comes down to the store and horns up to the counter. He
was goin’ to order the Star first. They tells me that he started to
siss-s-s-- You know what I mean? Well, he keeps it up for so long
that everybody thought he was loaded to the gills with sody water.
Dinah sees that it ain’t goin’ to be no success; so he decides to
buy the Piper Heidsick first.
“Well, I reckon the change didn’t do Dinah no good, ’cause he collapsed
before he ever got past the pup part of it.”
* * * * *
Dinah took it good-naturedly, but tried for the next fifteen minutes to
tell Bud that Sody’s story was a ---- lie. Bud knew what Dinah wanted
to say, so everybody was satisfied. Things were going along fine, until
some of the 4-A cowboys came in, loaded for bear.
Among them was “Short-Horn” Adams, a fat-faced, blear-eyed puncher, who
had in some way incurred the displeasure of Dinah Blewette. Dinah was
getting all tuned to sing a song, when he happened to see Short-Horn.
Dinah proceeded to swing his heavy beer-glass overhanded and threw it
with all his strength at his enemy.
It was a good shot--except that Dinah threw it at Short-Horn’s
reflection in the back-bar mirror, causing the big mirror to radiate
cracks in every direction and creating havoc among the stacks of
glittering glassware on the back-bar.
Dug Breed happened to be among those present and proceeded to collar
the luckless Dinah, who was but a handful for Breed. As a result of
his reverse-English marksmanship Dinah would have probably spent the
night in the Modoc jail but about that time Sody Slavin accidentally
tangled his feet with those of Dug Breed, and the sheriff sat down
hard.
And Dinah ducked like a rabbit, although a trifle uncertain of gait,
while the cowpunchers cheered everybody concerned.
Breed got to his feet, blazing with wrath, only to be met with words of
apology and regret from Sody Slavin.
“My gosh, that was awful,” explained Sody. “I dunno how in ---- m’ feet
ever got over there.”
Sody seemed very sincere and serious. Breed glared at him, his fists
clenched tightly at his sides. There was no doubt that the sheriff was
fighting mad.
But Sody ignored the sheriff’s attitude as he kept on explaining:
“I must ’a’ slipped, dontcha know it? I’m sure-footed, too. I must ’a’
stepped on somethin’ with m’ left foot, and m’ right swung like this.”
Sody’s exaggerated slip caused him to lose balance and his swinging
right foot caught Breed on the shin-bone of his right leg. It was a
painful thing. Sody was badly off balance; so he grabbed at the
yelping sheriff and they both went down, half-under a table, with
Sody on top.
The fall half-stunned Breed, but did not affect Sody, who got to his
feet, still apologizing, and dragged his spurred heel across the
sheriff’s knee-cap as he stepped away. Breed struggled to his feet and
leaned on the table, panting and cursing painfully. He was so mad that
his eyes were shut.
Then Bud blundered into the table, knocking away the sheriff’s visible
means of support; and he and Sody went out through the front door. They
heard the sheriff hit the floor again, and his curses were wonderful to
hear; but Sody and Bud were too joyful to care about mere words.
“Oh, m’ ----!” wheezed Sody, clinging to Bud. “It went jist like
clockwork, Bud. Ain’t I the thinker? Ain’t I? And then you moved the
table away from him! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
“He’ll try to kill us both,” choked Bud.
“He can’t. It’s ag’in’ the law, Bud.”
“He’s so mad that the law won’t stop him, Sody.”
“All right,” laughed Sody. “I hope I don’t die so painful that I can’t
take time to think of how I kicked him in the shin, fell on top of him
and then spurred him in the knee. Ha-ha-ha! And every danged bit of it
was accidental, too.”
“I couldn’t help bumpin’ into that table,” added Bud. “I was so drunk I
never knowed what I was doin’. I wonder where Dinah went?”
“He won’t go far,” gasped Sody. “What did the ---- fool bust that mirror
for? Why, he jist whaled away at it with his glass.”
“I--I--I--I--I----”
Dinah stepped out from the dark corner of the building and began his
explanation.
“Wait a minute,” begged Sody. “Let’s get farther away from Breed.”
They went farther down the street and stopped in a dark spot.
“Didja jist want to bust that mirror?” asked Sody. “Don’t talk, Dinah;
nod or shake.”
Dinah shook.
“Accidental?”
Dinah shook again.
“Uh-huh,” reflected Sody. “That’s funny.”
“Say, didja see somebody in the mirror?”
Dinah nodded violently.
“Who?” asked Sody.
“Sh--sh--sh--sh--sh--”
“Stop it!” snapped Sody. “Was it Short-Horn Adams?”
Dinah nodded quickly.
“Well, that’s settled,” said Sody. “Now what do we do?”
“I’m goin’ home,” said Bud. “I’ve got a home and a wife, yuh must
remember.”
“If I was in yore condition, I’d not thank anybody to remind me of it,”
said Sody seriously. “You might as well stay and make a good night of
it, Bud.”
“I’ll be sober by the time I get home, Sody.”
“Yeah--by the time yuh git home. You’ll prob’ly fall off yore horse
before yuh get there.”
“No, I won’t either. You and Dinah better go home, too. If yuh stay
around here, Breed’ll have yuh both in jail.”
“You better stay,” insisted Sody. “You’ll get a lot of good laughs out
of watchin’ him try it.”
But Bud had made up his mind to go home; so Dinah and Sody parted
reluctantly with him and went seeking more fun, while Bud mounted and
rode swiftly out of Modoc.
* * * * *
It was five miles from town to Bud’s ranch, but before he had gone half
the distance he realized that he contained far too much whisky. Solitude
and the swinging motion of his horse caused him to realize also that he
was in no condition to converse with his wife.
“It can’t last always,” he told himself; “so I’ll swing into the hills
and ride it off.”
There was a full moon, which lighted the hills, and a cool breeze that
fanned his fevered brow; but instead of sobering up, he grew even more
intoxicated. In a half-daze, he circled through the hills and came in
at the rear of the ranch.
He could see a dim light in the living-room, and he knew that May was
waiting up for him. He felt sorry for her. He had promised her many
things which she had been denied. Now he was worse than broke. He
remembered dimly that Breed was not going to try to find the stolen
cattle, and that Lavelle had refused to help him again. It seemed like
weeks ago that he had talked with them. He dismounted and dropped the
reins, forgetting to unsaddle his horse.
“To ---- with ’em!” he told himself thickly. “I’ll git along. Tha’s jist
what I’ll do--git along, y’betcha.”
He approached the house from the rear, laughing foolishly at his
erratic progress. At the kitchen door he stopped. The door was open.
A foolish idea took root in his addled brain. He would take off his
boots and sneak in. The idea appealed to him immensely.
So he sat down on the step and drew off his boots, chuckling to himself.
Somewhere he had heard of a drunken man doing that same thing. It didn’t
seem so funny then, but it did now. Perhaps, he thought, May might be
asleep--and never know that he did not come home sober.
He tucked a boot under each arm and crept inside. He could see the light
in the living-room. It was an oil-lamp, turned low. Into the living-room
he went and stopped near the table. The front door, which led out on to
a porch, was open, and he heard voices. They were talking softly.
Bud frowned and listened closely, but could not hear plainly enough; so
he moved over closer to the door. It was a man’s voice and a woman’s. He
could hear them plain enough now. The man’s voice was very distinct:
“Oh, I know--loyalty and all that. But you’ve tried it two years. And
what have you got? Nothing. Why, this ranch wouldn’t bring the price
of two dresses--the kind you ought to have.”
Bud blinked wonderingly, straining his ears for the woman’s reply, which
was pitched too low for him to hear what she said. He looked around the
room, as if wondering if he had entered the wrong house by mistake. Then
the man’s voice again:
“Look at it right. You are young yet; the prettiest woman in this
county. Do you want to throw away your youth? Do you want to look like
the rest of these cattlemen’s wives in a few years, or do you want to
live in luxury, retain your beauty?
“Bud Daley can never hope to give you much. I will admit that Bud is
doing the best he can, but it isn’t enough. As a cattleman, he is a
failure; and you two can’t live on a cowpuncher’s salary. Just now,” the
man laughed, “he is down in Modoc filling his skin with whisky--leaving
you here alone.”
If the woman made any reply, Bud was unable to hear it. He was sober
now. The whisky had evaporated from his brain. He looked down at his
bedraggled socks and at the boots under his arms. He lifted his eyes
and stared toward the door, as the man’s voice continued:
“I remember when you came here to Modoc. I knew then that you were the
most beautiful girl I had ever seen. I pictured you in silks and furs,
May. Since then you have been in my dreams, day-dreams and night-dreams.
You are not happy. No, you are not. Can you look me in the eyes and tell
me that you are satisfied with life? No, I didn’t think you could.
“May, you can’t afford to throw away your life. Bud is man enough to
understand--and if he doesn’t--well, what matter?”
Bud’s face had gone gray in the yellow light of the lamp, and the lines
of his face deepened, as he stared across the room into space. His mouth
was so dry that it was painful, and his eyes ached from the intensity of
looking far into the future.
They were talking again, but he did not listen. The world had gone flat,
stale. He wondered dimly if May had a wrap around her shoulders. It was
cool out there on the porch. He felt cold.
Then he found himself back at his horse and started to mount before he
realized that he still carried his boots. They were hard to get on, and
he wondered why he had ever taken them off. It was a foolish thing to
do, he thought.
He mounted his horse and looked slowly around.
“Where am I goin’?” he asked himself, half-aloud. “I’m ready to go, and
there ain’t no place.”
Somewhere a cow bawled sleepily.
“Wish I was a cow,” said Bud wearily. “Cows don’t think.”
On all sides stretched the moonlit hills, silver, blue and haze that hid
their harsh outlines--a sparkling fairyland, topped with a ceiling of
stars. Bud turned and rode out of the rear gate, heading into the hills;
riding away from humanity, seeking the open places to clear his brain.
On the slope of the hill he drew rein and looked back toward the
ranch-house, where the oil-lamp gleamed, a dull pin-point of yellow
light. It seemed that he could still hear the drone of voices on the
front porch; but it was only the whispering of the breeze through the
purple sage.
“Lavelle, I reckon yo’re right,” he said softly. “Bud Daley can’t ever
hope to give her much. And she can’t afford to throw away her life--look
like the rest of the cattlemen’s wives. I--I never thought about it
thataway, Lavelle.”
Bud sighed deeply and the fumes of the forgotten whisky tasted sour to
his palate.
“Gawd,” he said softly, “you made a wonderful world, but, if I’m any
judge, the makin’ of humanity wasn’t no job for one man.”
Then he bowed his head and rode straight into the hills.
* * * * *
After Bud had left them, Sody and Dinah proceeded to keep out of Dug
Breed’s way and to drink much liquor. Dinah promised Sody that he
would bury the hatchet as far as Short-Horn Adams was concerned and
hold nothing but good thoughts for everybody.
And so passed several pleasant hours in the lives of Dinah and Sody.
The wooden sidewalks became far too narrow for their tread and the
buildings, at times, surged and jerked violently. Then, without any
warning, Dinah’s cup of joy turned sour, and he choked with a great
emotion. In fact, he wept brokenly. Sody tried to cheer him, without
avail. Then a great sadness came down upon Sody, and he cried too.
It is very likely that the tears blinded them to such an extent that
they separated. No one will ever know whether Sody lost Dinah or Dinah
lost Sody. Anyway, as soon as he partly recovered from his crying spree,
Sody went hunting for his little partner.
But in all that vast army of gyrating houses, lamps, cowboys, he was
unable to find the object of his search. From saloon to saloon he
went, but there was no sign of Dinah Blewette. Then Sody decided that
Dinah had gone home; so he went to the hitch-rack, intending to see
if Dinah’s horse was still there.
It was--and so was Dinah. He was sitting on the ground, with his back up
against a post, and Sody did not see him until he stepped on his leg.
“Yuh-yuh-yuh----” began Dinah indignantly.
“Oh, there yuh are, eh?” said Sody.
Sody lighted a match and looked Dinah over. His eyes were swollen and
purple, his nose slightly out of line and he appeared to be minus
several front teeth. Taking him all in all, Dinah was a greatly changed
man.
“Yuh found Short-Horn, didn’t yuh,” commented Sody. “Don’t try to answer
me, Dinah. Every inch of yuh proclaims the fact that you cried yore way
into his heart. My ----, but yo’re a mess!”
He helped Dinah to his feet and backed him against the post, while he
tried to wipe Dinah’s face with a handkerchief, which only increased
the misery of the little cowpuncher.
“Don’t try to tell me what to do,” growled Sody. “Yore face has got to
be set right, or it’ll look awful queer. You ain’t got no sense, Dinah.
Short-Horn is big enough to tie yuh in a knot and hang yuh up to dry.”
“He-he dud-did,” said Dinah sadly.
“Uh-huh.” Sody made a last swipe at Dinah’s face with the handkerchief
and hitched up his own belt.
“Well, we’ll have speech with Mister Short-Horn, Dinah. He’s a powerful
mean critter, the same of which I ain’t too drunk to remember; so I goes
cautious-like. I ain’t takin’ yore troubles upon me, yuh understand.
Yore battles are yore battles, Dinah; but jist now I feels antagonistic
agin’ him and all his ilk.
“Know what ‘ilk’ means, Dinah? Don’t answer me. My ----, I do like these
one-sided conversations. C’mon.”
Sody hitched up his belt, squared around to get his bearings and headed
for the Rest Ye All, with Dinah weaving along in his wake. For all of
his huge bulk, Sody was as hard as nails; but he was cognizant of the
fact that he was just a little too drunk to do a good job of fighting
with his hands.
The Rest Ye All was well filled with cowboys, who were spending their
round-up stakes as fast as possible. The long bar was crowded to
capacity, and the gambling-hall, at the rear, was blue with tobacco
smoke and shifting forms. Sody shouldered his way past the bar, with
Dinah following along in his wake, taking advantage of Sody’s bulk to
clear a trail for him.
Dug Breed was coming out into the barroom, elbowing his way along; but
when he saw Sody and Dinah he turned around and forced his way back.
Breed had heard that Short-Horn Adams had whipped Dinah Blewette, and
he knew that the trail of these two JM cowpunchers would probably lead
to trouble.
And not only that, but Breed held no forgiveness in his heart for what
Sody had done to him earlier in the evening; and he was all primed to
tap Sody over the head with a gun and take him to jail.
Short-Horn Adams was bucking a roulette wheel at the extreme end of the
room and was having no luck whatever. Short-Horn’s voice was plainly
audible as he complained over his ill-luck. Other punchers laughed,
shouted with rough glee and placed their bets.
A dapper little gambler was running the game, his derby hat cocked at
a rakish angle on his head, a cigar held jauntily between his teeth.
Short-Horn glared belligerently at him, as the gambler raked in
Short-Horn’s last bets.
“The house is lucky tonight, gents,” he laughed. “Put down your
contributions and accept our sympathy.”
“Yeah, yo’re sure lucky,” agreed Short-Horn. “I betcha I know what makes
yuh lucky.”
With a sweep of his hand, Short-Horn removed the hat from the gambler’s
head and placed it on his own. Short-Horn’s head was a trifle too small
and the derby fitted down over his brows.
“Now spin yore wheel,” roared Short-Horn. “C’mon, gents. I’ve removed
the curse from our midst, and we c’n break the danged game in three
whirls.”
_Whap!_
Sody’s broad palm descended upon the derby with great force and drove it
down over Short-Horn’s head, covering his face and wedging it down over
his ears. Short-Horn whirled around clawing at the brim of the hat, but
only succeeding in ripping the brim away.
“Now yuh got him, Dinah,” said Sody calmly. “He’s yore size now, li’l
feller. Help yoreself to the mustard.”
And Dinah did not need a second invitation. With both fists he hammered
the blinded Short-Horn unmercifully, while the crowd cheered wildly and
gave him plenty of room. Many of them knew that Short-Horn had beaten
Dinah, and they wanted to see the smaller man even the score, even if
he was doing it unfairly.
While Short-Horn clawed at the hat-brim, which stuck tightly, Dinah
socked him with both fists, driving him back into the roulette layout.
And then, through the cheering crowd, came Dug Breed, shoving his way
to the center, only to be met by Sody Slavin.
“Stop it!” yelped Breed. “I’ll arrest every----”
But his threat was unfinished, when Sody bumped into him, crashing him
back into the crowd. At this moment, Short-Horn managed to get the hat
loose, and charged Dinah, who ducked down and let Short-Horn fall over
him.
“Rattle yore hocks, Dinah!” yelled Sody. “The sheriff is angry with us.
C’mon!”
Sody dived straight at the crowd, with Dinah wobbling after him, and
the crowd surged in behind them, blocking the sheriff and the cursing
Short-Horn, who had a gun in his hand and murder in his eye.
Straight out past the bar went Sody and Dinah, heading for their horses,
which were up the street at the nearest hitch-rack. Sody knew that it
would be dangerous for them to stay in Modoc. It would mean a gun-battle
with Short-Horn and his gang--if the sheriff did not get them first.
They had swung on to their horses and spurred into the street when
they heard the unmistakable thud of a revolver shot, fired from inside
a building. Sody’s horse lurched sidewise and went to its knees, while
Sody flung himself free, bounced to his feet and ran to Dinah, who was
having trouble with his animal.
Up behind Dinah’s saddle climbed the big cowpuncher, while Dinah’s
horse, unused to a double-load, bawled wildly, threw down its head and
bucked out of town, heading for the home ranch.
But the bucking was of short duration, because of the fact that Sody’s
weight was too much for the broncho to handle; but they faded out of
Modoc’s sight so fast that only a wisp of dust blew back to show of
their leaving.
* * * * *
Dug Breed clawed his way to the street about the time that they faded
out. Several others arrived about this time, their interest centered
on Sody’s horse, which sprawled in the middle of the street. The fact
that some one had fired several pistol shots did not alarm them in the
least.
“I heard three shots fired,” volunteered a cowpuncher. “I was comin’ up
the street and I see this horse go down. I think the first shot hit the
horse, but I dunno where they was fired from.”
Dug Breed said nothing. The horse was quite dead; so they unsaddled
it, and two cowboys, using their ropes, hooked on to it from their
saddle-horns and dragged the carcass off the street.
Breed knew that the shots had not been fired by Short-Horn nor by any
one in the Rest Ye All; and he wondered who else had a grievance against
Sody Slavin.
Across the street was a general merchandise store, post office,
restaurant and the Modoc bank. The restaurant was the only one of the
four that was open at this time of night. Farther up that side of the
street were more saloons, but the shots could hardly have been fired
from there.
Beside the Rest Ye All saloon was a big feed store, on one side, and
on the other was another general merchandise store, both closed. Breed
found the cowboy who had heard the shots and questioned him.
“I dunno much about it,” confessed the cowboy, “but they did seem to
come from the other side, and they was kinda muffled, like they was
from inside a house. I heard one shot, and then I seen the horse
fall down. I was kinda interested in that, but I sure heard two more
shots.”
Breed crossed the street and walked past the restaurant. There were
several diners within, busily engaged with their food. He walked past
the store, which was unlighted, the door locked. The post office was
locked, blinds drawn.
But in front of the Modoc bank he stopped. There was glass on the
sidewalk, which had fallen from one of the front windows. A closer
examination showed that almost the entire pane was missing.
“Did somebody shoot from inside the bank?” wondered Breed as he peered
in through the broken window.
He broke away some of the jagged glass and prepared to climb within, but
changed his mind. It might look bad, he thought.
It was only a short distance to the home of Frank Jordan, president of
the bank, and Breed negotiated it in short order.
Jordan was asleep, but Breed beat a tattoo on the door with the muzzle
of his gun and soon aroused him.
“This is the sheriff,” informed Breed. “One of the front windows of the
bank has been smashed out.”
“Smashed out?” Jordan grew very wide awake. “Who smashed it?”
“----, I dunno!” snapped Breed. “Hop into yore pants and let’s find out.
And don’t forget yore key.”
Jordan appeared in a few minutes, and they hurried down to the bank.
Breed told him nothing about the shots nor of the dead saddle-horse,
but Jordan volunteered the information that George Findlay, the
cashier, intended to work late that evening.
“Did he have anythin’ agin’ Sody Slavin?” asked Breed.
“Slavin? That big cowboy? Why, I--I really can’t say, sheriff. Not that
I know of. In fact, I doubt that George knows him.”
Jordan grunted wonderingly at the broken window and opened the door. The
bank was lighted with oil-lamps, which it took several moments to find
in the dark. The vault door was wide open, as was the inner door.
Jordan gawped wildly around, while Breed walked to the vault door and
peered inside.
“Look over there!” exclaimed Jordan, pointing back toward the door.
Just to the left of the door, directly below the smashed window, was the
huddled body of the bank cashier. Breed went swiftly to him, turning his
face up to the light.
“Is he dead?” asked Jordan hoarsely.
“Yeah.” Breed squinted at the window and back at the dead cashier.
“He’s been hit over the head,” said Breed. “Mebbe that didn’t stop him;
so they used lead on the poor ----. Better take a look at the vault,
Jordan.”
They left the body lying there and went to the vault, carrying a lamp.
Swiftly the banker examined the place, but shook his head wearily.
“I can’t tell how much, if anything, is missing, sheriff. It will take a
complete check to tell. I am afraid that the Modoc bank is hit hard.”
He stooped and picked up several loose bills which had been dropped on
the floor. The sheriff picked up several silver dollars, and among them
was a silver piece, which was not a dollar. He looked closely at it.
“What is it, sheriff?” asked the banker.
“A rosette,” said Breed thoughtfully.
“A rosette?”
“Yeah. One of them ornaments that punchers wear on the side of their
chaps. I’ll keep this, ’cause it might come in handy.”
They went back into the room, and the banker closed the vault, while
Breed studied the case. There was a spot of blood on the floor near
the vault door. The cashier was wearing a coat. Just to the right of
the front door, the sheriff picked up a black hat.
“That’s George’s hat,” said the banker.
“They probably laid for him,” said Breed. “When he came out the door
they herded him back in here, made him open the vault and then sapped
him over the head. They probably thought he was hit hard enough to
make him lay still; but he recovered and tried to make a getaway. They
missed him with one shot and smashed the window. That bullet killed
Sody Slavin’s horse. The other two got George. You stay here while I
get the coroner, Jordan.”
“Have you any idea who did it?” asked Jordan.
“If I have, I ain’t yellin’ it,” said Breed, and slammed the door behind
him.
He felt of the hammered silver rosette as he hurried along, and the feel
of it brought a grin to his lips.
* * * * *
It was after nine o’clock the following morning, when Bud Daley rode up
to his stable. All night long he had ridden the hills, and his horse
stumbled wearily to a standstill, its head hanging.
And Bud was just as weary as the horse. His face was gray and drawn from
his mental battle, but his lips were drawn tightly in a stern resolution
to put the case squarely up to his wife. He felt that he would know in a
moment just how she felt about it.
She came out through the kitchen door as he dismounted, shading her
eyes from the sun, and walked slowly toward him, while he yanked the
saddle from his horse.
Another rider was coming in toward the ranch, and Mrs. Daley turned to
look at him. It was Dug Breed, the sheriff. He raised his hat to Mrs.
Daley and dismounted beside her, as Bud came up to them.
“Hello, Dug,” said Bud wearily.
He felt that Breed was out there because of what happened the night
before, and grinned slightly, as he remembered that he had knocked the
table away from the sheriff.
“Mornin’, Bud,” said Breed softly. “Been ridin’?”
Bud looked at his wife. Her general appearance indicated that she had
spent a sleepless night. Breed looked at Bud’s horse, which was rolling
in the dust beside the corral. It was easy to see that the horse had
traveled many miles during the night.
“Yeah,” Bud nodded slowly. “I’ve been ridin’. Why?”
“Where yuh been ridin’ to, Bud?”
“What’s that to you, Dug?”
“Mebbe a lot--mebbe a little, Bud. Can yuh prove where you’ve been
ridin’?”
Bud shifted uneasily and his eyes hardened.
“Where was you about midnight, Bud?” asked Breed.
“None of your ---- business!”
Bud’s body tensed angrily and his right hand dropped to his side. Mrs.
Daley looked from one to the other quickly and started to put her hand
on Bud’s arm, but he stepped aside.
“I ain’t goin’ to quarrel with yuh, Bud,” said Breed slowly. “You don’t
have to tell me where you’ve been, if yuh don’t want to. But, under the
circumstances, I’ve got to arrest yuh for the murder of George Findlay
and for robbin’ the Modoc bank.”
Bud’s right hand came up slowly and the back of it brushed across his
eyes. He scowled thoughtfully, but a grin crossed his lips.
“You jokin’ me, Dug?” he asked hoarsely.
“Wish I was, Bud. You’ll come peaceful-like, won’t yuh?”
“I’m under arrest?”
“Yeah, yuh sure are, Bud. I hate----”
“What do you know about hate?” Bud’s voice was flat, toneless.
He looked at his wife. Her eyes were wide with fright and her face
looked pale and drawn.
“Bud,” she whispered, “you--you didn’t do this. Why, you couldn’t have
done a thing like that, Bud.”
Bud looked at her thoughtfully. Then he shook his head, and a wistful
smile passed his lips as he said:
“May, yuh never can tell what a human bein’ will do. I’ve kinda lost
faith in folks.”
“But you can prove that you didn’t do it, can’t you, Bud?”
“No-o-o,” Bud shook his head. “I don’t reckon I can, and I don’t know
anybody that can prove it for me.”
Breed turned to Mrs. Daley.
“Wasn’t Bud home last night?”
“You don’t need to answer that, May,” said Bud quickly.
“No, she don’t have to,” admitted Breed.
“But why do yuh blame me for it, Dug?” asked Bud. “You ain’t told me a
thing, except that I’m guilty.”
Breed stepped in closer to Bud, examining the sides of his leather
chaps, while Bud watched him curiously. Then Breed pointed to a spot
about midway of Bud’s right leg.
“Where’s the rosette gone, Bud?”
“The rosette?”
Bud frowned and looked closely. On the left leg there were five silver
rosettes; on the right there were only four. They were of a peculiar
design, hand-hammered from silver. Bud had made them from Mexican silver
and had stamped the designs with a leather stamping tool.
“I must ’a’ lost it,” muttered Bud.
“I found it on the vault floor,” said Breed slowly, watching Bud’s
face. “There was some scattered money, too. Findlay was over by the
front window--dead.”
“On the vault floor?” muttered Bud vacantly. “That’s funny.”
He examined the leg of his chaps closely. The piece of whang-leather,
which looped through the rosette, had worn through.
“Yeah--on the vault floor,” said Breed.
“Oh, Bud!” breathed his wife. “You didn’t do this. Say that you didn’t
do it, Bud.”
Bud sighed and shook his head.
“What’s the use, May? I reckon it don’t make much difference, anyway.”
He held his hands out to Breed, a wistful smile on his lips.
“Better put ’em on, Dug, yuh never can tell about me--or any other human
bein’.”
Breed snapped the handcuffs on Bud’s wrists, took Bud’s gun and shoved
it inside his own waist-band.
“You’ll have to saddle my horse for me, Dug,” he grinned.
“All right,” Breed sighed with relief.
He was glad to have taken Bud Daley without trouble. Bud followed him
down to the horse, but Mrs. Daley turned and went back to the house, a
dejected little figure, and leaned against the kitchen door wearily,
while Bud and the sheriff rode away.
Bud did not look back.
“Mebbe it’s better this way,” he told himself. “I don’t care a dang what
happens from now on.”
There was no demonstration in Modoc when the sheriff came in with his
prisoner. Bud was well liked by the cattlemen. Jordan had made an
investigation of the robbery and found that the Modoc bank was about
twenty thousand dollars loser.
Jordan lost no time in interviewing Bud in the jail. Even if Bud was
convicted, the fact still remained that the Modoc bank was still twenty
thousand dollars short--which was a lot of money.
Jordan intimated that the return of the money would react in Bud’s
favor; but Bud only grinned at him and reminded him that murder was
murder and had nothing whatever to do with money.
“And besides,” reminded Bud, “if I was able to hand yuh back that money,
it would only cinch the murder on to me. Whoever got that money killed
Findlay.”
Then came Uncle Jimmy Miller, like a raging bob-cat. He swore and raved
about what he was going to do, while Bud grinned and smoked his
cigarets. Then he cooled down and told Bud that one of Bud’s shots had
killed Sody Slavin’s horse. The fact that Uncle Jimmy was sure that Bud
had done the job made no difference.
“I’ll back yuh for the last ---- cent I’ve got,” he declared. “Never
did have no use for banks, by ----! Wanted to borry some money about
a year ago from Jordan. Wanted ten p’cent.! Wanted me to give him a
mortgage on the JM. Dang him, he wanted the world with a fence around
it. Jist the same as told me that m’ word wasn’t no good. I’ll betcha
he’ll be dunnin’ yuh for ten p’cent., if they convicts yuh, Bud.”
“They’ll likely hang me, if they find me guilty,” grinned Bud.
“Like ---- they will! Let ’em try it. By ----, I’ll organize a gang of
m’ own and take this town apart. Oh, I ain’t too old to act right smart
at times, Bud. I used t’ be a hellion in m’ time, and Dug Breed won’t be
the first sheriff that I’ve called upon to hunt a new stompin’-ground.
And some of ’em has sure hummed like a spike gettin’ away, too.”
Bud laughed and shook his head.
“Better let things go as they lay, Uncle Jimmy.”
“Uh-huh.” Thoughtfully. “What about May? How’d she take it?”
“Oh, all right, I reckon.”
Uncle Jimmy considered Bud closely.
“You and May ain’t antagonistic toward each other, are yuh?”
“No-o-o.”
“Yes, yuh are. Now, you jist set easy, Bud; I’ll take care of May.”
Bud shook his head and stared at the ashes of his cigaret.
“Better let her alone, Uncle Jimmy.”
“Thasso? You go to ----, will yuh?” Uncle Jimmy got to his feet and
backed to the barred door. “You see if I let her alone, young feller.
Ain’t either one of yuh got any sense. Now you set down on the seat of
yore pants, ’cause you ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
Dug Breed unlocked the door and Uncle Jimmy went swearing back to the
street.
Sody and Dinah came cautiously back to town, but every one seemed to
have forgotten the incidents of the night before. Uncle Jimmy told
them about the arrest, and Sody swore wonderingly at the fact that it
was one of Bud’s misdirected shots that killed his horse.
“Gug-gosh!” blurted Dinah in amazement.
“Now that’s about all from you,” warned Sody. “This ain’t a case that
requires a lot of conversation, Dinah. How much money did Bud get, Uncle
Jimmy?”
“Twenty thousand dollars.”
“The ol’ son of a gun!” applauded Sody. “Bud ain’t no piker, is he?
Whooee-e-e! Twenty thousand!”
“But he’s in jail for murder,” reminded Uncle Jimmy.
“I know, but--gosh, that’s a lot of money. He likely planted it in a
safe place, too.”
“You kinda amaze me, Sody,” said Uncle Jimmy sadly. “Don’tcha know yo’re
applaudin’ a murderer? My ----, ain’tcha got no respect for the law?”
“Since when did you git so danged sanitary?” demanded Sody.
“I’ve allus respected the law, Sody.” Softly and sadly.
“You have, like----!”
“I have respect for the law, Sody.”
“Yeah, sure yuh have. You respect a kickin’ bronc, too. You don’t monkey
with the business end of the ---- thing; you get ahead of it.”
“He-he-he-he,” chuckled Dinah.
“Sure he does,” interrupted Sody. “We know him. He gits ahead of the
law--where the thing can’t kick him. Ha-ha-ha-ha!”
“A prophet is without honor in his own home town,” said Uncle Jimmy
sadly, shaking his head.
“Profit!” snorted Sody. “Yo’re a dead loss, Jim Miller. Let’s go and git
a drink.”
“If I was in m’ right mind, I’d fire you, Sody,” declared Uncle Jimmy.
“If you wait for that, I’ve got a life job,” grinned Sody.
They went into the Rest Ye All and stopped at the bar. Several men
were there, and among them was Cleve Lavelle. He nodded absently and
continued to converse with the others. Naturally the robbery and
murder was the topic of conversation.
“I dunno how Bud Daley is goin’ to even hire a lawyer,” said one of the
men. “He’s flat broke, I hear.”
“I’ll be ---- if he is!” snorted Uncle Jimmy, “the JM ranch is behind
him, with every horn and hide I’ve got.”
“You don’t think he’s guilty, Miller?” asked Lavelle.
“What the ---- difference does that make?”
“All right,” nodded Lavelle. “I’ll go fifty-fifty with you on the deal.”
“You mean that you’ll help him, too, Lavelle?”
“Just that,” said Lavelle firmly. “As far as Daley is personally
concerned, I’m not interested; but we’ve got to remember that he’s got a
wife. Things like this hurt a woman, boys. Whether he’s guilty or not,
we’ve got to try and save him. He owes me a lot of money, which I never
expect to collect. He got sore because I would not lend him another ten
thousand.”
“Then he needed money, eh?” queried one of the men.
“I suppose I shouldn’t have mentioned that,” said Lavelle. “He must
have needed it, or he wouldn’t have tried to borrow. Yes, he claimed
that some one had stolen all his cattle.”
“They did,” said Uncle Jimmy. “Bud won’t lie.”
“All right,” laughed Lavelle. “Let’s have a drink.”