Mrs. Moore, Pat and Bud went straight to the office of Dave Cleland, the
prosecuting attorney. He had known the Moore family for years, and
sympathized with them; but his duty was to prosecute, in spite of
friendship. He shook hands with them and patted Mrs. Moore on the
shoulder. Cleland was tall and thin, with keen eyes, sharp nose and
partly bald head. He smoked flake-cut tobacco in a well-seasoned
cob-pipe and spent a great part of his time stuffing in fresh tobacco.
“Are you going to keep my husband and son in jail, Dave Cleland?”
demanded Mrs. Moore.
Cleland refilled his pipe slowly and lit a match on his shoe sole.
“Well, Mrs. Moore, I—I wish I could turn ’em both loose; but I can’t.
Judge Whaley will be here this week and give them a hearing. As far as I
can see, there is no evidence; but the sheriff assures me that he’ll
have the evidence. It appears that the bulk of the evidence centers in
and around a pearl-handled pistol of large caliber.”
Pat flushed slightly. Bud had been watching her closely, and wondered
what she knew about this gun.
“My husband had such a gun,” declared Mrs. Moore.
“Hm-m-m!” Cleland seemed to have trouble with the stem of his pipe. “I
believe so. In fact I have seen it myself; but it can only be put into
evidence in its material form.”
“Then you—the law can not do a thing until after the hearing takes
place?” queried Pat.
“I’m sorry,” said Cleland. “Honest, I am sorry, Patricia. Please don’t
hold this against me, will you? I am only a tool of the law.”
“Of course you can not help it, Dave. You are only performing your
duty.”
As they left the office Cleland walked to the door with them, his arm
around Mrs. Moore’s shoulders. He thought a lot of Mrs. Moore, and it
distressed him to think that he was partly instrumental in bringing
sorrow to them.
They went to the sheriff’s office, which they found to be locked. They
had met Garvin on the road. He had barely nodded to them. There was no
way of getting into the jail to talk of Flint Moore and Wild. While they
debated the situation, Jud Frawley rode in and dismounted across the
street.
He saw the three in front of the sheriff’s office and crossed the street
to them. Frawley owned a bony, seamed countenance, which never seemed to
change expression, being habitually serious. He was of medium height,
slightly bowed of legs and walked with a slight limp, a memento of a
gun-fight with a Mexican, in which Frawley got a bullet in the knee and
the Mexican got attended by the coroner.
“Kinda lookin’ for yuh, Jud,” greeted Bud Deal, but Frawley ignored the
greeting until after he had shaken hands with Mrs. Moore and Pat.
“Lookin’ for me?”
“Yes,” said Pat. “We want to see dad and Wild.”
“Shucks!” Frawley looked utterly downcast. “I reckon I’m goin’ to be
about as much use to you as a tack-hammer in a blacksmith shop. Garvin
cut my picket-rope yes’day.”
“Discharge you?” asked Pat, quickly.
“Yes’m—kinda like that. Yuh see, me and him looks out upon the world
with different kind of eyes, and Garvin reckons that he sees a lot
better than I do. Anyway—” Frawley shook his head—“my eyes ain’t like no
spy-glass, the same of which yuh can twist a screw and make the things
fit for anybody.”
“Then we won’t be able to see them?”
Mrs. Moore was very near tears. It was hot in front of that building,
and the dust from a passing wagon drifted into their faces. Frawley
looked sadly at her.
“Mrs. Moore, ma’am—yuh sure got my p’mission. ’F I had a key I’d sure
let yuh in—you and li’l Pat.”
In spite of the situation Pat smiled. Jud Frawley had always called her
little Pat. Bud looked quickly at Frawley. He had only mentioned Mrs.
Moore and Pat.
“I did want to see him,” sighed Mrs. Moore. “It isn’t right, Jud. And
we’ve got some clean clothes for them.”
“I’ll see that they git the clothes,” volunteered Jud quickly. “Leave
’em with me and I’ll hang around till Garvin shows up.”
“Mebbe he won’t let you in,” suggested Bud.
“The —— he won’t!” exploded Frawley. “’F he tries to stop me I’ll nail
the seat of his pants to the floor and leave him there to starve.”
Bud laughed sneeringly, but Frawley merely looked keenly at him.
“You don’t believe dad and Wild held up that train, do you, Jud?” asked
Pat.
“——, no! Ex-cuse my profanity, folks. I ain’t in no way connected with
the law now, and I can talk up in church without havin’ some sneakin’
coyote packin’ the talk to the sheriff. I hope the party what told him
about me will tell Jeff Garvin that I’m doin’ a little investigatin’ on
m’ own hook.
“You folks set easy. I know it ain’t right to keep yuh from seein’ the
old man and the kid; but yuh sure can see ’em at the trial. Folks around
town are wonderin’ what Garvin is holdin’ ’em for. He showed he didn’t
have much brains when he arrested Wild that time; and he knows danged
well that he won’t never git elected again if he gits tangled up and
falls down in this arrest.”
“He likely thinks he is right,” said Bud slowly.
“Yeah!” snapped Frawley. “Mebbe yuh mean, he’s tryin’ to make folks
think he thinks he’s right.”
Bud did not say whether that was his meaning or not. He knew that
Frawley suspected or knew that he, Bud, was the one who warned Garvin
against him, and that Jud was working on a dangerous angle.
“You folks want to go right back?” asked Bud.
“Mother and I are going to do a little shopping,” said Pat. “It will
take us an hour or so. Perhaps by that time Garvin will be back. If he
isn’t, Jud, we’ll leave the clothes with you.”
“I’ll sure see that they get ’em,” nodded Frawley, and walked back
across the street.
Bud walked up the street with the women, but left them at the door of
Colgate’s store, after telling them that he would keep an eye out for
Garvin.
* * * * *
Bud was sincere in that statement. He really did want to see Garvin, but
it was not in connection with the desires of the Moore family. He
circulated around the town, taking a drink here and there, discussing
cattle and getting opinions on the coming court hearing of the Moores.
Oxbow, or rather the majority of Oxbow, did not believe that Flint Moore
was guilty.
Wild had been mixed up in many escapades, and had but recently been
tried for a similar offense; which caused some to utter the old
quotation—where there is so much smoke there must be some fire. Oxbow
knew that Flint and Wild Moore had come to jail, herding their captors
ahead of them. Therefore, Oxbow laughed at Garvin. Jud Frawley laughed
as hard as they, and gave Flint and Wild all the credit for the capture.
Oxbow knew that Jud Frawley was no coward. He had been tried by fire
many times. They resented the fact that Frawley had been discharged.
Crime had become too frequent in Thunder County, and Jeff Garvin was in
a fair way to become greatly disliked by the law-abiding element of the
country.
Bud Deal found some who favored Garvin and hoped for a conviction of the
Moores, but they were greatly in the minority. Bud did not commit
himself. He wandered around until noon and then found Mrs. Moore and
Pat. They were not ready to go home yet. Mrs. Moore wanted to wait
longer and see if the sheriff did not come back; so Bud left them at a
restaurant.
It was about two o’clock when Garvin came back. Bud saw him across the
lower end of the street, heading for his little barn behind the jail.
Bud was careful to see that no one else had observed Garvin, and then
sauntered down an alley and around the rear of some buildings to the
barn. Garvin was unsaddling his horse as Bud came into the doorway.
Garvin turned and looked at Bud, but did not speak.
“How are yuh, Jeff?” greeted Bud.
“I’m all right, I reckon,” grunted Garvin, as he hung up his saddle.
He came closer to the door and peered out, as if thinking that some one
was with Bud.
“I’m alone,” assured Bud grinning, and told Garvin that Mrs. Moore and
Pat were waiting for a chance to get into the jail.
Garvin scowled blackly.
“But they don’t know you’re in town,” stated Bud. “They talked with
Frawley.”
“I fired him!” snapped Garvin. “He talked too much.”
“Yeah? And yuh told him that I said he talked too much,” accused Bud
coldly. “Yuh didn’t need to put me in bad with Frawley.”
“Zasso?” Garvin’s teeth snapped. “Lemme tell yuh somethin’, Bud; you was
in bad with Frawley before I ever mentioned yuh to him. He said he’s
goin’ to find out where you was the mornin’ of that train robbery.”
Bud’s face did not change expression. He prided himself on his
poker-face. Garvin watched him closely. There was evidently no complete
understanding between Deal and Garvin, and both were fishing for a lead
to work on. Bud glanced over at the horse.
“Been in the hills, Jeff?”
“Uh-huh. Took a little _pasear_ over around the Devil’s Pulpit.”
“Yeah?”
Bud’s hand slid from his hip and his fingers softly caressed the silver
studs on his holster. It was a perfectly natural move—yet suggestive.
“See anybody?”
Bud’s voice was pitched low, and his eyes squinted keenly at Garvin.
Garvin nodded quickly.
“Yeah. Talked with a feller.”
Bud’s hand twitched closer to the butt of his gun, but his face did not
change. Garvin was very close to death. His next words meant life or
death to him; but he did not know it.
“That new puncher yuh got, Bud.”
“Oh!” breathed Bud, and relaxed slightly. “Where did yuh find him?”
“Out near the Pulpit. Said he was lookin’ over the stock. I seen him
ride out of the upper end of the big coulée, and went down to see who he
was.”
“What was he ridin’—what kind of a horse?”
“Roan—hammer-headed, with black tail and mane. Didn’t see any brand.”
“The Whistler!” Bud’s eyes opened wide. “Do yuh mean to say he was
ridin’ that outlaw—ridin’ him in the hills?”
“I dunno the bronc—only by reputation. Mebbe it was.”
“The Whistler was in the corral,” stated Bud; “I rounded him up with
some loose stock a few days ago. I kinda thought I might sell him to
some Wild West show or a circus. Mebbe he’d bring some money at a rodeo;
but if this feller, Smith, is ridin’ him——”
“Has anybody ever stayed with him?” asked Garvin.
“‘Bunchgrass’ Billings stayed with him for six jumps,” smiled Bud, “and
Bunchgrass is the best rider West of the Dakota line.”
Garvin rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“Bud, who in —— is this here Smith feller?”
“Got me guessin’,” admitted Bud. “He can draw a six-gun so —— fast that
yuh can’t see it comin’; and if he can use Whistler for a
ridin’-horse——”
“I’m bettin’ that his name ain’t Smith.”
“Names don’t mean nothin’,” grunted Bud. “What did he have to say?”
“Not much. Said he just came up the big coulée.”
“Anythin’ else?”
“Just some personal remarks.”
Bud grinned. He knew that Garvin had questioned Jimmy and that the
quick-tongued Irishman had given him some very pointed answers. He felt
that Jimmy had not visited the old cabin, but wanted to be sure.
“Wonder if the snow busted in that old cabin in the big coulée?”
“I don’t reckon so. Smith said it wasn’t fit for anybody to live in, but
he didn’t say it was busted in.”
Bud’s eyes narrowed as he looked down at the floor of the stable. Smith
had been at the cabin. This was something he had not looked for. He
looked up suddenly to see Garvin squinting closely at him, as he said—
“Deal, what about that old cabin in the coulée?”
Bud looked away for a moment and back to Garvin.
“What about it?” Bud glanced around outside the door, as if fearful of
being overheard.
“Garvin, what about the money that was cached in that cabin?”
Garvin seemed taken aback at the question, but tried to smile as he
said—
“What money?”
“You know —— well what money, Garvin. The night that Whitey Allen got
drunk and told about finding all that money under the floor of that
cabin, you heard him telling me.”
Bud paused and his hand caressed his holster. Garvin only seemed mildly
curious, although he was trembling inside.
“You arrested Whitey Allen that night and scared him into givin’ you
half of it. I waited until mornin’ to go out there. Wild Moore saw you
arrest Whitey, and went down to the jail——”
“He did not!” denied Garvin.
“No, you didn’t see him,” admitted Bud, “but he heard yuh talkin’, I
reckon. Anyway the money was gone when I got there. You and Whitey
showed up later, and didn’t find it. I reckon that was the money that
Wild was payin’ out so free just before yuh arrested him.”
“Well?” grunted Garvin. “Any harm in that? It must ’a’ been the money
that feller Devlin stole and planted just before the sheriff caught him.
Where is Whitey?”
“I dunno,” lied Bud. “He left the country. Do you think that Flint Moore
and Wild Moore were the ones that held up the train?”
Garvin laughed softly.
“They are if I can cinch it on to ’em. If I only had that —— gun. Where
is it, Bud?”
“—— if I know; but I have an idea. You let things alone out there, Jeff;
and mebbe I can find the thing.”
“Think it’s been hid?”
“That gun,” said Bud slowly, “that gun was in that holster when I left
for town that mornin’.”
“How do you know?”
“I seen it,” declared Bud. “I went to the door to speak to Flint and I
seen the gun there.”
Garvin picked up a straw and chewed thoughtfully on it for a while. He
twisted his head a trifle and looked keenly at Bud as he said:
“Deal, I reckon we understand each other. You find that gun and turn it
over to me before the trial. After that we’ll talk business.”
Bud’s eyes shifted from the sheriff and he turned toward the door.
“You keep out of sight, Garvin. Them —— women won’t help matters none by
talkin’ to Flint and Wild.”
Bud started to go out of the door, but turned.
“Suppose Flint Moore swears that he never had that gun on him that day?”
he asked.
Garvin grinned.
“Can he prove it?”
“Might—by Wild.”
“Fine proof,” laughed Garvin. “Don’tcha worry.”
“So-long,” grunted Bud.
He found Mrs. Moore and Pat ready to go home. He reported that Garvin
had not returned, and Pat gave the clothes to Frawley to give to them.
“I’ll tell ’em all about yuh bein’ in to see ’em,” said Frawley, “and if
they want to send yuh any word, I’ll ride in with it.”
“Jud Frawley, you are a darling,” declared Pat.
“Aw-w-w!” choked Frawley. “I—I—So-long.”
Frawley stood on the sidewalk, hat in hand and watched them drive out of
town. For a long time after they had disappeared he still stared down
the road. As he turned around he saw Garvin walking between the jail and
the office.
Frawley’s first impulse was to follow the buckboard and bring them back;
but he changed his mind, picked up the bundle of clothes and walked down
to the office. Garvin was standing near his desk as Frawley came in. He
glared at Frawley, who walked close to him and said:
“I want to see Flint Moore, Jeff. Got some clothes for him.”
Garvin shook his head.
“No, I reckon yuh can’t.”
“Can’t I?” Frawley let the bundle drop to the floor, which left his
right hand free. “Can’t I? You open up that jail and let me in, or I’ll
make you so —— sick that all the doctors in the country would give yuh
up.”
“Whatcha want in there?” Garvin’s voice was not very strong. He knew
that Frawley was no bluffer. “Lemme search that bundle before yuh go in.
How do I know yuh ain’t got a gun or a file or——”
“Yuh heard what I said, didn’t yuh?” asked Frawley.
“You’ll get in bad with the law,” whined Garvin.
“With you, yuh mean, Garvin. I don’t mind.”
Garvin opened the rear door and they went across the alley-way to the
jail door.
* * * * *
Jimmy spent a bad afternoon at the Box M. He turned the roan back into
the corral and sat down in the shade. Jimmy could understand suffering
and he knew that Whitey Allen must have went through the tortures of
hell during the last fifteen months.
Klooch and her puppy had met him when he arrived, and now the wolf-dog
sat on her haunches beside him, with her muzzle on his knee. The puppy
chased its tail for a while and curled up at Jimmy’s feet. Heat waves
danced and shimmered across the hills. Flying grasshoppers buzzed and
snapped like tiny fire-crackers. A magpie balanced on a tall, leaning
pole, flipping its long tail jerkily and scolding harshly.
A small herd of cattle drifted down a dusty cattle-trail, passing the
ranch on their way to water. Opposite the ranch-house they stopped as
with one accord, looked curiously toward the house for a moment and went
on. They were from far back in the hills, but were drifting down for the
earlier grass in the bottoms.
Jimmy noted all these things subconsciously. He wanted to help Whitey
Allen. There were many things he wanted to do. The fact that Flint
Moore’s cartridge belt held only .41 caliber cartridges gave him food
for thought. Where was the .41 caliber gun? Perhaps Pat knew. She had
hidden the .45.
He shook his head and rubbed Klooch’s muzzle.
“I dunno, do you, Klooch? She’s a fine tangle, dog. I know that eggs and
milk is the proper thing for old Whitey, but I’ve got to pack ’em to him
while no one is lookin’ on.”
Jimmy got to his feet and squinted at the sun. It would be sundown in an
hour or so.
“I can’t find eggs in the dark,” he reflected. “If I make the trip at
night I better collect the hen-fruit in the light of day.”
He walked down to the old barnlike sheds, where chickens scratched in
the loose hay.
“I never was familiar with cackle-berries,” he stated to the hens, “but
I’m hot on the trail of your productions.”
He slid the barn-door back and went inside, leaving Klooch and the puppy
out in the yard. He searched the mangers and the loose hay, but eggs
were scarce. He did not hear the arrival of the buckboard, which brought
Bud Deal and the Moore family back to the ranch.
Bud was anxious to find Jimmy and if possible to learn if he had really
passed the little cabin in the coulée. He unhitched the team and turned
them into the corral. The Whistler was in the corral and Bud noticed the
imprint of a saddle still on its back. Jimmy was back, that was sure. He
went to the bunk-house.
Pat wondered where Jimmy was. Somehow she wanted to get back to the
ranch and see him. She stood on the porch of the ranch-house, looking
around. Suddenly she saw Klooch and the puppy, standing near the door to
the largest shed, and it flashed into her mind that they were waiting
for Jimmy to come out. She went straight down to the door, spoke to
Klooch and slid back the door.
Jimmy had found one egg. He put this into his hat, while he continued
the search. As he emerged from around a stall partition he almost ran
into Pat. He stared at her wonderingly—stared at her as if she had
suddenly materialized out of the dusty sunlight shining through the
cracks of the log barn.
For a moment Jimmy stared and then remembered the egg. He did not want
to explain about the egg, because in explaining about the egg he would
have to tell her about Whitey. He shifted the hat partly behind him.
“Sure, I didn’t know ye was home so soon,” he said nervously. “Did ye
just come?”
“A few minutes ago,” smiled Pat. “I wondered where you were; but when I
saw Klooch and the puppy waiting at the door——”
“Ah, yes, I see. I was just lookin’ around the place, Miss. I—I——” Jimmy
faltered as he noticed that Pat had glanced at the hat, as if trying to
see what was inside.
In desperation he shifted the hat, grasped the top of the tall crown to
try and protect the egg, and put it on his head. The stiff crown,
crushed around the egg, seemed to hold it firmly for a moment, but
Jimmy’s heart sank with a sickening thud, as he heard the egg thwack
against the top of his head.
“Hot in there,” muttered Jimmy weakly. “Mebbe we better go outside.”
But Pat was staring at him closely. From under the sweat-band of his hat
came a trickle of thick moisture. It slid stickily down his forehead,
shifted its course at the bulge of his eyebrow and shot down the bridge
of his long nose.
“Have you been hurt?” asked Pat seriously, although her eyes danced.
“Aye,” muttered Jimmy, looking cross-eyed at the trickle down his nose.
Then he sniffed quickly.
“From the odors of it, I’m thinkin’ the hurt is of long standing, miss.”
Pat tried to suppress her mirth, but the effort did not prevent tears
from gathering in her tawny eyes and trickling down her cheeks. Jimmy
looked at her with unutterable sadness and chagrin, as he said—
“Sure, now, I ask you to please not weep over the misfortunes of an
undeserving divil like meself, miss.”
Jimmy took off his hat, turned it inside out and slapped it against the
partition of the stall, while the bulk of the egg, released from the
confines of the sweat-band, cascaded down over his forehead in a shower
of yellow yolk.
Pat fairly shrieked at the sight, but Jimmy calmly mopped his head with
a handkerchief until it was as free of egg as possible, and then he,
too, leaned against the partition and shook with laughter.
“Jimmy, you’re a sight for the gods,” laughed Jimmy.
“Jimmy, you’re a sight for any one,” corrected Pat. “Tell me why you put
that egg in your hat, will you?”
Jimmy sobered. He had forgotten that it might require an explanation. He
walked slowly to the half-open door and went outside. Pat came out
behind him and the two of them leaned against the door and looked at
each other.
“I don’t want to lie to you,” said Jimmy sadly. “I don’t mind lyin’ to
some folks, but——”
“I don’t want you to lie,” replied Pat. “If you can’t tell me the
truth——”
She broke off as Bud Deal came from in front of the bunk-house and
crossed over toward the corral. He saw them, but did not stop.
When he was almost to the corral gate he stooped down and picked up a
paper, which had been half-ground into the dirt under a horse’s hoof.
Bud was not over a hundred feet from them. He opened the trampled paper.
Jimmy’s hand flashed to his vest pocket and his heart skipped a beat.
His mind went back to the bucking roan and he realized that the parole
paper had fallen from his pocket during the ride.
Bud did not turn and look toward Jimmy, but put the paper in his pocket
and walked to the corral fence, where he looked at the horses, turned
and went to the ranch-house.
Pat turned and looked at Jimmy. The lines of his face were deeper than
ever and his eyes were squinted as if from deep suffering.
“Jimmy, what is the matter?” asked Pat.
It was the first time she had called him Jimmy, except in jest. He
looked at her and shook his head:
“I can’t tell ye, Pat. It ain’t no hurt that any one can help. I—I kinda
forgot meself, I reckon.”
“Is it something about Bud Deal?” anxiously.
Jimmy shook his head.
“No—not yet. Aw-w-w, it’s nothin’ to worry about.” Jimmy forced a smile.
“Sure, I’ve got egg smell all over me.”
Pat shook her head.
“Jimmy, can’t you tell me your troubles? Sometimes it helps to share
misery.”
“Bless your heart!” exclaimed Jimmy, taking a deep breath. “I’ve a soul
full of misery, but I can’t burden your shoulders with it.”
“Jimmy, what did you want that egg for?”
Jimmy looked closely at her. He wanted to tell some one. He felt that he
could trust Pat to help him and to keep his secret.
Somehow he felt as if he had known her for years.
“Pat,” he said softly, “I’m tellin’ you a secret. Within ten miles of
here is an old bunkie of mine, who is dyin’ from tuberculosis. He’s like
an animal, which gets hurted bad and crawls away to die. He don’t want
me to tell anybody about him, Pat. There’s nobody but a drunken Injun to
take care of him. I stole that egg to take to him. It—it was the only
egg I could find.”
“Oh, Jimmy, I’m sorry.” Pat’s eyes filled with ready tears. “Can’t I
help you? We’ll take him eggs and milk and——”
Pat stopped. Jud Frawley had ridden in past the bunk-house and swung
toward them. He took off his hat before he dismounted.
“Jud Frawley, what are you doing out here?” asked Pat.
Frawley half-smiled and glanced from one to the other.
“Jud,” said Pat, “this is Mr. Smith. Jimmy, meet Jud Frawley.”
They shook hands and Frawley turned to Pat.
“I saw your dad and Wild. They’re fine. Shall I put my horse in the
corral?”
“Going to stay all night?” asked Pat eagerly.
“I am, if somebody don’t run me away,” grinned Frawley. “I’m workin’ for
the Box M now. Flint Moore hired me today. Now I’ll put up my horse.”
Frawley nodded to Jimmy and led his horse towards the corral gate.
“You’ll like him,” said Pat. “He was Garvin’s deputy, but Garvin fired
him. I don’t think that Bud is going to like it much though. Jud is just
like one of the family. He calls me little Pat, because he used to hold
me on his knee.”
“Lucky divil,” muttered Jimmy.
Pat laughed.
“That was when I was a tiny girl.”
“It would be a sweet memory just the same—and after all—” Jimmy shook
his head—“I have no memories worth lookin’ back at, Pat. I will
have—now.”
“When you busted an egg on your head, Jimmy?”
“Aye—and talkin’ with you about it.”