“Klooch, would any self-respectin’ robber pack a gun which any one might
identify?”
The dog peered up at him with her inscrutable eyes. The pup chased a
buzz-winged grasshopper toward the barn, but was outwitted. Jimmy smiled
at the pup’s antics. Suddenly it looked back toward the porch, hesitated
for a moment and then trotted to a small pile of loose lumber beside the
bunk-house and began to paw at it.
Jimmy watched it for a while; but the pup finally tired and came back to
the porch, where it curled up in the shade. Jimmy could hear the subdued
tones of the two women; but was not able to hear what they were talking
about.
He got up and walked slowly down to the bunk-house. There was no
question in his mind that Pat had hidden the six-shooter. He walked past
the bunk-house, stopped at a corral, where several horses were standing
in the meager shade, switching their tails at the annoying flies.
Then he came in at the rear of the bunk-house and around to the side
where the lumber was piled. He lifted several of the boards aside, knelt
down and picked up a heavy Colt gun, which he shoved inside his shirt,
replaced the boards and sauntered inside the bunk-house, without being
seen from the ranch-house.
The puppy had seen Pat hide the gun, and with the curiosity of a puppy,
wanting to investigate, had made the hiding-place plain to Jimmy Devlin,
_alias_ Smith.
He examined the gun. It was a .45 Colt, with a six-inch barrel and
beautiful pearl handle. A small triangular piece had been broken from
the lower inside corner of one of the pieces of pearl.
Jimmy squinted at this closely and then reached in his pocket for the
piece of pearl he had picked up at the scene of the hold-up. It fitted
exactly.
He dropped the piece of pearl into his pocket and sat down on the edge
of a bunk. There was not the slightest doubt that it was Flint Moore’s
gun—and it was the gun, or one of the guns, used at the hold-up. It was
an easy gun to identify. Few cattlemen carry a pearl-handled gun,
especially of that weight and length.
Jimmy examined it closely. The barrel was clean and every chamber
loaded.
“The lass will be worried when she finds it’s gone,” reflected Jimmy,
“but a lumber-pile is a poor place to hide anythin’. ’Tis a good feel of
a gun and I hate to lay it away.”
Jimmy rubbed his chin thoughtfully and looked at the gun. A grin rippled
across his lips and he shoved the gun inside his shirt and walked
outside. He picked up a piece of a cedar board and examined it, after
which he walked down back of the corrals, sat down in the shade of a
willow clump and began to whittle.
V
Bud Deal spent the greater part of the forenoon with Flint and Wild
Moore, in their quarters at the jail. Flint Moore had not engaged a
lawyer, because he did not think there was sufficient evidence against
them to demand legal assistance.
Bud had circulated around Oxbow, getting opinions and from what he had
heard it seemed likely that both of the Moores would be held for the
next term of the superior court. Oxbow was laughing at Jeff Garvin for
the way he brought in his prisoners, but Oxbow knew that Flint Moore and
his son were hard men to handle.
“Looks kinda like Garvin was set on makin’ us a heap of trouble,” agreed
Flint. “There ain’t a bit of evidence against us, except that we rode in
from that direction.”
“Where was you that day, Bud?” asked Wild.
“Well,” grinned Bud, “I reckon I was closer to the hold-up than you was,
as far as that’s concerned. I slept at Crazy Horse Springs that night
and worked kinda northwest to the foot of the range. I never seen a
soul. My idea is that them two bandits went straight across Bitter River
and into the Silverbend Hills.”
“Leaves the Box M kinda short-handed,” mused Flint.
Then Bud told them of the range-boomer who drifted in the night before
and offered to take a job.
“Take him on,” advised Flint. “Yuh can’t work the place alone, Bud.”
They fixed up the details. Bud said he would hitch up the buckboard team
the next morning and bring in the women, and also bring in some clean
clothes. Frawley locked up the cell after Bud came out, and walked
outside with him.
“What do yuh think of the proposition, Jud?” queried Bud.
Frawley considered the question for a moment.
“Bud, I don’t think they can hang the deadwood on them folks, a-tall;
but they sure can hand ’em a bunch of grief. Garvin hates Moore and when
yuh hate a man it kinda makes yuh blind to right and wrong.”
“I reckon so,” nodded Bud. “Well, I’ve got to go back to the ranch. See
yuh tomorrow, Frawley.”
Jud watched him ride up the street. Bud was the best rider in the
country—and he knew it. He rode a spindle-legged sorrel, which was famed
for its speed at a quarter-mile—a sleek, nervous animal, whose hoofs
seemed barely to spat the earth as it fretted against the curb-bit.
Jud shook his head and reached for his cigaret papers.
“I ain’t no free-nol-o-gist,” muttered Jud, “and I ain’t no good at
prognosticatin’; but I’ll be teetotally —— if I trust that _hombre_. ’F
a fly lit on him it would skid and bust a leg—and when yuh find a slick
cowpuncher—ha’r-oil, per-fume and—aw, shucks!” Jud gave it up in
disgust.
Then Bud Deal met Jeff Garvin on the road. They pulled up in the shade
of a cottonwood and exchanged views on the weather.
“Didja get it?” asked Bud. Garvin shook his head.
“No. It wasn’t there.”
Bud had started to lick his cigaret paper, but looked up quickly.
“Wasn’t there?”
Garvin shook his head and told Bud what happened at the Box M. He was
peeved because Bud hadn’t told him about the new man.
“I never thought about him, Jeff,” assured Bud. “He don’t amount to
nothin’. But where is that —— gun, do yuh suppose?”
“You find it,” ordered Garvin. “I need that gun danged bad. Course the
engineer can’t exactly identify it, but he said one of ’em had a long,
black Colt, with pretty pearl handles, and that he would swear it was
a .45.”
Bud nodded.
“I’ll find it, Jeff.” Then as an afterthought: “You better have a talk
with Frawley. He talks too much.”
“What about?”
“Says that he don’t think Moore is guilty, and that you just arrested
him because yuh hate Moore.”
“Zasso! Well, I’ll talk to him about it. Comin’ in tomorrow?”
“Yeah. I’ve got to bring in the women. Prosecutin’ attorney wouldn’t let
’em out on bail, eh?”
Garvin grinned.
“How could he? Murder charge. See yuh tomorrow—and I want that gun.
_Adios_.”
Bud rode on down the dusty road, a rutty, yellow ribbon, full of
chuck-holes from the Spring thaws. Thunder County roads were not built
for fast traffic, being used more as the shortest distance between two
points than as the easiest line of travel.
* * * * *
It was supper-time when Bud rode up to the gate to the Box M. He sat on
his horse and seemed lost in contemplation of the rambling, old,
homey-looking ranch-house, lying half in the shade of the cottonwoods.
Beyond it he could see the long, low shelters and pole corrals, backed
by the tall willows and the green masses of cottonwood foliage. To the
right of the ranch-house was the long log bunk-house. From far back in
the willows of Leloo Creek a rooster crowed shrilly. The odors of
cooking were wafted to his nostrils.
Bud seemed to rouse from his reverie and smiled softly to himself. He
could see Bud Deal in sole charge of the Box M, doing as he pleased. It
was true that the Box M was in bad shape financially, but....
Pat came to meet him as he rode up toward the house, and asked for the
news. Bud had little to tell, except that the prosecuting attorney had
refused bail, and that her father and brother were to be held until the
next term of court.
“I’ll take you and your ma in to see ’em tomorrow,” said Bud. “Better
rustle up some clean clothes to take in with yuh, Pat.”
He started to ride on, but turned back.
“Met Garvin, as I was comin’ out. Said he wanted yore dad’s pistol. Know
where it is?”
Pat smiled.
“Garvin threatened to take the ranch apart, but when he saw Mr. Smith he
stopped bluffing.”
“Did Smith stop him from searching?”
“Yes. Told him to get a warrant.”
“Oh, he never even looked for the pistol, eh?”
“Started to,” smiled Pat. “Why does he want the thing?”
“I dunno. Suppose he’ll have to have it, Pat. Anyway, a six-gun is only
a six-gun, and little good it will do him.”
Bud turned back and rode down to the corral, where he unsaddled, turned
the horse into the corral and hung his saddle and bridle under the eaves
of a shed.
As he started for the ranch-house, Jimmy cut across from the bunk-house
and intercepted him. Jimmy was carrying an old cartridge belt and
holster, which he showed to Bud.
“Anybody goin’ to care if I wear this thing?” asked Jimmy.
Bud looked curiously at the belt and shook his head. “No, I don’t reckon
so. Don’t even remember who owns it.”
Jimmy buckled the belt around his waist, adjusted it to a fit over his
hips. From inside his shirt he took out a big, blued Colt .45, with
plain, dark wood handles, and fitted it into the old holster.
“Ye get tired of havin’ a large gun rubbin’ your ribs,” smiled Jimmy,
patting the holster.
He twisted the gun to loosen up the harsh leather and dropped it in
again.
Suddenly he lifted his hand above his waist, fingers splayed far apart.
His hand snapped down and up, almost too fast to follow with the eye,
and the big gun was tensed at his hip, with the hammer at full cock.
Bud had smiled at the makeshift belt and old, warped holster; but now
the smile left his lips. Bud knew he was fast with a gun—faster than any
man in the Thunder Range; but here was a man, working under the handicap
of an ill-fitting holster and an extra heavy gun, able to shade the
swiftest draw Bud had ever made.
“Sure, I need practise,” smiled Jimmy apologetically.
“Hm-m-m!” grunted Bud seriously. “I reckon we better go and eat supper.”
“If you’re goin’ to town soon, would ye mind gettin’ me some shells for
this gun?” asked Jimmy. “Sure, I’ve only got six to me name. It’s
a .45.”
“Mebbe there’s some around here,” replied Bud. “Flint Moore uses a .45,
and he may have some extra shells.”
Pat looked curiously at the gun hanging to Jimmy’s belt, and Jimmy
smiled softly.
“Sure, ma’am, I have to dress accordin’ to the prevailin’ styles. With
the sheriff gallivantin’ around arrestin’ men because they ride horses,
which are goin’ north, and the innocent trains bein’ held up on the iron
highway, I suppose I must burden meself with armament.”
“God forbid that we have any more trouble,” sighed Mrs. Moore.
“Aye,” nodded Jimmy. “’Tis a good wish, ma’am.” Then to Pat, “Mr. Deal
tells me that your father has a gun of this same size. Do ye know if he
has any shells?”
“I’ll get his belt,” said Pat, and left the room.
Bud frowned at Jimmy.
“Couldn’t you wait? I said I’d get them for you, Smith.”
Jimmy made no reply. He wondered what Bud meant. Pat came into the
dining-room and placed a heavy belt and holster on the table beside
Jimmy. About one-third of the belt-loops were filled with .41 caliber
cartridges.
Jimmy slipped several loose and looked at them closely. He lifted his
eyes and glanced across at Bud Deal, who was busily engaged with his
meal.
Jimmy put the cartridges back into the loops and handed the belt across
the table to Bud, who looked up wonderingly.
“What’s the idea?”
“Would ye look at the size of them shells?”
“Where does the joke come in, Smith?”
“Observe closely that they are .41’s, will ye? The ladies will also
examine the caliber numbers.”
Mrs. Moore and Pat looked at the cartridges, and Jimmy handed the belt
to Pat.
“Will ye please put this in a safe place, ma’am?”
Pat nodded, with no understanding of the reasons for this, and started
for the door.
“Where is the gun?” asked Bud.
Pat turned and looked at him.
“Dad’s gun? Which one, Bud?”
“The pearl-handled one.”
“That’s the one the sheriff was after,” interrupted Jimmy, getting up
from the table. “Sure, he was mad as a wet hen. I misdoubt his statement
to take the ranch apart to find that gun.”
Jimmy laughed and went out the rear door, going back to the bunk-house.
Klooch and her puppy met him at the door and went with him; the puppy
vociferous in its admiration for Jimmy, the wolf-dog slow and easy of
movement, pacing beside Jimmy and looking up at him through slit eyes,
as if wondering deeply why she admired this human being above all.
Pat leaned against the kitchen door and watched Jimmy disappear with the
dogs, while Bud finished his meal, frowning at her. He couldn’t afford
to let her get away from the fact that he was going to marry her. He
must tell this wild Irishman to keep his distance. He got up from the
table and went out on the front porch to smoke, while Pat and her mother
washed the dishes.
Klooch came up from the bunk-house and walked past him. He spoke to her
and snapped his fingers, but she merely turned her head and walked on.
Bud had never placed a hand on this dog, and it irritated him to think
that this stranger could make friends with her right away.
Klooch sauntered past him, but turned and trotted back to the bunk-house
with the long, swinging trot of a wolf and squatted on her haunches in
front of the door.
The sun went down behind the big curve of the Thunder Range, tinting the
peaks with a glow of gold, and the vast reach of foot-hills and tiny
valleys seemed to blot out in a sweep of misty blue. Night-hawks boomed
and skirled in the air over the cottonwoods, a pair of magpies flapped
their way down the stream, chattering harshly. From afar came the
plaintive bawling of a calf.
Pat came softly out on the porch and stood near Bud, leaning against a
porch-post, looking off across the hills. Bud moved uneasily and looked
up at her.
“Pat, when do we get married?”
Pat did not reply. It seemed as if she had not heard Bud’s question.
From down at the bunk-house came Jimmy Devlin’s voice, singing, and a
hush seemed to settle over the Box M.
“You may search everywhere,
But none can compare
With my wild Irish Rose.”