“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.