“Aye.”
There was something about this glib-tongued, homely young Irishman that
appealed to Pat. She was also of Celtic blood, but several generations
removed. This man had come out of the night with a smile and a song,
just when they needed a smile and a song. He was soft of tongue, ready
of wit, and Pat felt that he would fight just for the love of battle.
Jimmy stole occasional glances at Pat. She was a new type to him.
“Irish, except for the eyes,” he reflected to himself. “I wonder now if
a heart of gold has anythin’ to do with colorin’ her eyes? Jimmy, you
paroled bandit, take your thoughts off the lass.”
He glanced across the table at Bud Deal. Jimmy did not like Bud. The
swarthy face, coal-black eyes, the small, pointed mustache, sleek, black
hair—none of Bud Deal’s features appealed to Jimmy. Bud was handsome,
graceful—a dashing figure of a cowboy; but Jimmy disliked and feared
that type.
“You’re a clever divil,” reflected Jimmy. “Slick as silk, and unless I
misdoubt ye, my lad, ye wouldn’t be of much value in backin’ up a
friend. Ye think too much of your good looks—more than ye would of
friendship.”
Jimmy smiled at Pat.
“I was so hungry that I forgot me manners. My name is Jimmy Smith.”
Pat smiled back at him.
“Out here we wait for folks to tell their names. My name is Patricia
Moore.”
Jimmy got to his feet and bowed.
“Miss Moore, it is the greatest pleasure of me life.”
He turned to Mrs. Moore, before Pat had a chance to introduce them, and
held out his hand.
“Mrs. Moore, I know ye are; and ’tis a pleasure to come out of the night
and meet a lady like ye.”
He turned to Bud Deal, who was looking on, a slight sneer on his lips.
“Mr. Smith, this is Mr. Deal,” said Pat.
“How do ye do, Mr. Deal,” said Jimmy, bowing.
Neither of them offered his hand. Pat noticed this and frowned slightly.
“Mr. Smith can share the bunk-house with you tonight, Bud,” said Pat.
Bud grunted and finished his coffee. Pat and her mother went into the
living-room and Jimmy sauntered out on the porch to smoke a cigaret. A
collie pup came up and nuzzled at him and Jimmy took the woolly little
fellow in his arms. The pup squirmed with delight and Jimmy sat down on
the steps to play with it.
He could hear Pat and her mother talking and some of the fragments of
conversation came plainly to his ears. They were talking about the
holdup and the arrest. Bud Deal came out on to the porch and jerked his
head toward the bunk-house.
“I’ll show yuh where to sleep, Smith.”
“Sure, that’s a welcome sound, pardner. I’m dead on me feet, and a bed
sounds like the tinkling of cymbals to me ears.”
Inside the bunk-house, Bud pointed out a bunk. Jimmy sat down and slowly
drew off his boots.
“Not much of a crew around here, eh?” he queried.
Bud Deal shook his head.
“Nope. Sheriff took the boss and his son to jail this afternoon.”
Jimmy looked down at the boot in his hand and then at Bud.
“For what?”
“Holdin’ up a train.”
“Indeed? Holdin’ up a train, eh?”
“This mornin’,” mumbled Bud, as he licked the edge of a cigaret paper.
“So lately?” Jimmy considered the boot closely. “Well, well! Sure, it
must be the girl’s father and brother.”
“Yeah,” rather indifferently. “Flint Moore’s her dad. Brother’s name is
Wild.”
“Now that’s too bad, so it is,” Jimmy’s voice grew sympathetic. “What
proof did the sheriff have?”
“Proof?” Bud shook his head. “I dunno. Seems that he was just lookin’
for two men on horseback.”
“Which proves nothin’,” grinned Jimmy. “Sure they can bail themselves
out, can’t they?”
Bud shook his head slowly.
“I don’t think so, Smith. You see, the robbers killed the fireman.”
“That’s right, they—um-m-m!”
Bud turned and looked curiously at Jimmy.
“What did you say?”
“I was just goin’ to say that it comes under the head of murder, which
ain’t bailable.”