He found the wagon and dumped Joe into the box. The broncho team was
chilled from the rain and needed no urging. Bud braced himself on the
swaying seat, but made little attempt to guide the horses.
The rain had ceased now and a rift in the clouds gave him some idea of
the road. Through sort of a haze he could see the glow of the burning
building, and it seemed to be straight ahead.
Suddenly he jerked upright in the seat. The road must run straight
through Kingsburg, he reasoned. He would have to drive through that
street.
“Only one road to Eagle’s Nest,” he told himself aloud. “Gotta take that
road. Hurrah for Ireland!”
He dropped off the seat, hurled it off the wagon-box, and knelt in the
bottom. Then he lashed the horses with the ends of the lines and they
broke into a wild run.
“Erin go bragh, and everythin’ else!” he yelled, as they went careening
wildly down the rutty, muddy road, straight into Kingsburg.
The hotel building was a mass of flames. Burning embers were exploding
in the air like sky-rockets, and the panic stricken horses were running
as though a thousand devils were after them.
The crowd saw them coming and tried to stop them, but as well try to
stop the wind. The team whirled aside, swept the porch-post from under
the wooden awning, yawed wildly, but swept back into the road, while
from behind them came to yelling voices of men.
“Yee-ow!” yelped Bud. “Pow-w-wder River!”
For a mile or more they raced wildly, while Bud clutched the wagon-box
to keep from being thrown out. The clouds had broken now and the road
was visible. He tried to control the team, which was almost exhausted,
but they were not through running yet.
A little further on they ran into a stretch of deep mud, which pulled
them down to a walk. It was growing daylight now. Bud nodded with
drowsiness. He was weak from exertion and loss of blood and had no mind
to fight it off; he wrapped the lines around his arm and braced himself
against the side of the wagon-box.
* * * * *
Then it seemed that the team had stopped and he heard voices. Someone
was shaking him. He opened his eyes and looked up at Grandon.
“Good ol’ Grandon,” muttered Bud. “Yuh ain’t changed a bit. How are
yuh?”
Grandon had a smile on his face and Bud shook his head. This could not
be Grandon. He must be dreaming. Then he saw old Louie Beaudet, looking
down at him; then Dr. Clarey.
“I’ve sure got lots of folks in m’ dreams,” he grinned sleepily, but no
sound came from his lips.
They were talking now and he frowned over the line of conversation. It
was not just like a dream, somehow. He turned his head and glanced
around. The familiar interior of Louie Beaudet’s store was too real to
be a dream, and if that was not enough, there was Norah Clarey sitting
in a chair, looking at him.
It was a very disheveled Norah Clarey, to be sure, and her face was
white and tired-looking. Little Marie Beaudet was crouched on the floor
beside her, holding her hand.
Bud frowned. It was beyond him. The doctor and Grandon were talking
about Joe Burgoyne. Then it began to come back to him; the fight,
the runaway team. He turned back on his pillow and stared up into
Henderson’s face.
“Where’s Joe Burgoyne?” asked Bud weakly.
At the sound of his voice, Grandon and the doctor came to his side and
looked down at him.
“Burgoyne is in jail, Bud,” said Henderson, “and he’ll stay there for a
good long time.”
Bud wrinkled his brow, as he tried to figure out how they knew about
Joe’s crimes. The doctor had put his hand on Bud’s shoulder and was
speaking down to him.
“Bud Conley, I don’t know how I can ever thank ye.”
“Yo’re plumb welcome,” said Bud in a puzzled voice, and then to himself.
“Sure, there’s some mistake here, cowboy.”
“Ba gar, I’m tak’ back w’at I say about you, Con-lee,” said Louie
Beaudet hoarsely. “I’m hope you forgive.”
“Sure,” nodded Bud, more at sea than ever. He twisted his head and
looked at Norah. She was smiling at him and he grinned foolishly. He
knew that he was going to wake up pretty soon and find himself out in
the rain. This was too good to last. He moistened his lips with his
tongue and grinned up at Grandon.
“Say, I found where all them men went, Grandon. There was a big cellar
under Magee’s place, with a tunnel from the outside. I found their
liquor cache, too. Joe was the leader of the whole gang. He was the one
that shot McKay and the Indian, I think.”
“I know that is true,” nodded Grandon. “Burgoyne was the boss of
Kingsburg, but he spent his time here watching our movements. No wonder
we could never find out anything.”
“It burned down,” said Bud slowly, “and we had a reg’lar he-man fight.”
“From the looks of Burgoyne, I’d agree with that,” said Henderson.
“But how in hell----?”
Bud stopped and apologized for his profanity, but before he could
continue, Grandon said, “Joe boasted of how he ruined you with the
force, Conley. Magee poisoned your drink, and they stole little Marie
and forced her to drink the same liquor. Joe wanted the doctor to
find you and Marie together. You see, Joe wanted you away from Miss
Clarey.”
“Oh!” exploded Bud, “but how----?”
“The red coat she saw was the one they stole from McKay,” interrupted
Grandon. “They thought she might see it. Joe wanted an excuse to break
off his engagement with Marie; so he tried to kill two birds with one
stone. Joe robbed Louie and left your gun beside the safe.”
“Thasso?” blinked Bud. This was all news to him. “Did Burgoyne tell yuh
all this?”
“No, he told nothing,” declared the doctor. “But, like all of his kind,
he was a boaster, and he told it all to Norah.”
“Oh--yeah,” breathed Bud. “Uh--well, I don’t--” He turned his head and
squinted at Norah, as though trying to find what it was all about.
“It was a wild night for us, too,” laughed the doctor, but without
mirth. “Norah disappeared right after dark and we spent most of the
night, hunting for her in the rain, and were on our way to Kingsburg,
when you nearly ran us all down.
“Norah doesn’t know much of what happened, because they had her under
all that canvas in the rear end of the wagon-box, but she recognized
your voice. Burgoyne was going to take her away with him. The man must
be mad.”
Bud gulped several times and shut his eyes. Norah had been in that
wagon all the time! No wonder Joe Burgoyne had screamed over his loss
and knocked the man down.
And he, Bud Conley, had run the gauntlet of that town; yelled like a
wild fool and let that team run away, regardless, while Norah was under
the canvas in the rear of that wagon-box. He shuddered and opened his
eyes.
“You will not leave Eagle’s Nest now, will ye?” queried the doctor.
Bud turned his head and looked at Norah. She was smiling at him. He
looked up at Grandon.
“Sure, I dunno.” He lapsed into his brogue for a moment, “I don’t know
why I should stay. There’s nothin’ for me to do here. I’m no longer a
policeman.”
“Still want to leave the force, Conley?”
“Still--say, what the devil’s the matter, Grandon? Am I looney, or did I
dream that I resigned?”
Grandon chuckled softly. “You did resign, Conley.” It was not like
Grandon to chuckle.
“Perhaps we were both a little hasty, Conley. Did you ever resign
before?”
“I’ve always been fired,” said Bud ruefully.
“And I’ve never received a resignation, which may account for it,” said
Grandon. “At any rate we overlooked one of the most essential things,
Conley.”
“And what was that?”
“Your signature.”
“Well--I’ll--be--danged!” Bud wrinkled his nose. “I betcha I overlooked
it.”
Norah got up from her chair and came over to him.
“Are you going to sign it, Bud?” she asked anxiously.
“Who me? Sign--say, what do you--” He looked up at Norah and the
smile was wiped off his lips now. “I’ve lost a lot of blood, but I
still retain my full quota of sense. I’ll not sign, and I’ll try to
make good.”
“Conley,” said Grandon softly, “You have made good.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Bud, but he was not looking at Grandon.
“I wasn’t meanin’ the force, sir.”
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the Early October, 1923
issue of Short Stories magazine.]