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.