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.”