“... And some day, for my sake,
They may let me take
The bloom from my wild Irish Rose.”
Jimmy’s voice died away, and there was silence for a while before Bud
got to his feet and said softly—
“Pat, when do we get married?”
Pat turned her head and looked at him.
“I don’t know, Bud. Sometime—perhaps.”
Pat turned and walked slowly into the house. The tip of the rising moon
silvered the Box M, and seemed to throw a direct beam across the ground
in front of the bunk-house, where the wolf-dog sat waiting patiently.
Bud snapped his cigaret away viciously and muttered to himself—
“That —— range-boomer!”
* * * * *
He got to his feet and started down to the bunk-house. He heard Klooch
growl softly and saw a shadowy figure move in between the bunk-house and
the corral. The figure stopped in the shadow. Bud glanced quickly around
and shifted his direction, as if to go to the corral. The figure fell in
behind him, and the two of them stopped out of ear-shot of the
bunk-house.
“I told yuh not to come here!” growled Bud. “Whatcha want, Jim?”
Moonlight showed the face of a big Indian of perhaps fifty years of age,
dressed in calico shirt and overalls.
“Waum sick,” he grunted. “Waum-sick-cole-sick. All the time _cultus
wauwau_. Mebbyso _hyas wauwau_.” Which meant that some one had fever and
chills, talked deliriously and might shout out loud at any time.
“What do yuh want me to do?” asked Bud. “You want medicine?”
“Whisky. Heap sweat. Mebbyso _memaloost_.”
“Might not be such a —— bad thing at that,” grunted Bud as he led the
Indian down behind the corrals and into the willows along the creek.
From the hollow snag of an old tree he drew out a gallon demijohn, half
filled.
“If you get drunk I’ll scalp yuh!” grunted Bud. “No more whisky! You
_sabe_ that? No more! Keep away from here after this. Whisky all gone,
Jim.”
“_Kloshe_,” came a sibilant cluck as the Indian glided away in the
willows, hugging the demijohn.
“Good, eh?” muttered Bud, and retraced his way back to the corral, where
he noisily replaced some bars and carried a coil of rope back to the
bunk-house.
The Indian had said, “mebbe _memaloost_,” which translated means, “might
die,” and Bud seemed to derive a certain amount of satisfaction from
this thought. The rattling of the bars and the carrying of the rope were
merely an alibi, in case any one had seen him go to the corral.
Klooch growled at him as he came up to the door. Klooch hated a rope.
She knew it to be a symbol of captivity and an instrument of torture.
Neither did Klooch like Indians, and Bud carried the Indian scent from
his conversation in the willows. He cursed softly at the dog and went
into the bunk-house.