“Jimmy, when did you discover this old bunkie of yours?”
“Today. I saddled that hammer-headed roan and happened to run across
this feller.”
“You rode the Whistler horse?”
“I dunno. Sure, I believe he did whistle. Good horse, after he got tired
of buckin’.”
“No one has ever ridden the Whistler, Jimmy.”
Jimmy led the way to the corral and pointed out the roan. Pat nodded
slowly.
“First it’s Klooch and then the Whistler. Do you love wild things,
Jimmy?”
“Aye.”
“Will you sing for me tonight?”
Jimmy looked at her and then away across the hills, where the sunset
tinted the western curves of the Thunder Range. His eyes drifted back to
her face and he said:
“Would ye hold it against me if I didn’t, Pat? I’ve no heart for a song
this night.”
“Then some other time, Jimmy?”
“Aye—if there is some other time.”
They walked silently to the house. Bud Deal stood in the kitchen door
and watched them, a sneer on his lips. He knew that Pat was deeply
interested in this wild Irishman; but he knew he could kill that
interest very easily now. He was willing to sit back and look on, like a
player in a poker game who holds a royal flush, feeling sorry for the
puny efforts of his opponents.
Frawley followed them up to the house. Bud scowled at Frawley and
wondered what he was doing there. He had not seen Frawley ride in. Mrs.
Moore was cooking supper as Jimmy and Pat came in, with Frawley close
behind them. Bud sauntered in, nodding curtly to Frawley. Mrs. Moore
looked at Frawley, and he grinned widely.
“Another boarder, Mrs. Moore,” boomed Frawley. “I’m a hired cowpuncher
now—hired out to the Box M.”
“Well, bless my soul!” exclaimed Mrs. Moore. “Now, that’s fine, Jud. You
got into the jail and——”
“I sure did,” nodded Frawley. “Both feelin’ fine, but dog-goned sorry
that yuh didn’t get to see ’em.”
“Who hired you, Frawley?” asked Bud.
“Flint Moore.”
Bud bit the edge of his lips, staring down at the floor. When Wild Moore
had been arrested the first time Bud had been made foreman of the ranch.
Since then nothing had been said to change his standing. Flint Moore had
told him to discharge Whitey Allen, because there was not enough work
for an extra man. Now, Flint Moore had hired Frawley, without consulting
Bud, and Frawley was the last man Bud would ever have hired.
Bud glanced up at Frawley and turned to look at Jimmy.
“Well, I don’t _sabe_ the idea, Frawley. There ain’t work for so many
punchers around here. Flint told me to hire Smith; but I reckon I’ll
have to let him go now.”
Frawley’s eyes were upon Pat, while Bud was talking, and a quizzical
expression flashed across his face. Frawley could read emotion, and he
knew that Pat did not want this Smith person to leave the Box M.
* * * * *
He glanced at Jimmy, who was leaning against the side of the doorway,
slowly rolling a cigaret. There was a bit of sadness about his homely
face. Frawley noted the heavy gun hanging at his thigh; the easy pose of
his muscular body. Frawley knew men, and he knew that this man was a
born fighter. He looked at Bud, whose swarthy face was undeniably
handsome; his body as lithe as the frame of a greyhound. Frawley
half-shook his head as he turned from Bud, as if discarding him in his
mental choice.
“I don’t reckon that anybody will have to go,” said Frawley slowly.
“Flint Moore knowed that Smith was here.”
“The business can’t stand it!” Bud’s voice snapped.
Frawley rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“Well, Bud, you can use yore own judgment. Smith stays, if he wants to.”
“Yeah?” Bud looked quickly at Frawley. “Well, whatcha know about that?
How long you been runnin’ this ranch?”
Frawley slowly drew out a massive silver watch and peered at the dial.
“Lemme see. About four or five hours.”
“What do yuh mean?”
“Flint Moore asked me to take charge of the ranch until he got back.”
Bud did not say a word; but his heart sank within him. What did this
mean? Had there been a leak somewhere that had caused Flint Moore to
hire a man over him? Bud glanced at Pat and saw her half-smiling at
Jimmy.
Bud’s temper flashed hot in his black eyes, but he shut his teeth hard.
In his pocket he had the evidence that would disrate Jimmy in the eyes
of Patricia Moore. For a moment he struggled against his temper,
fighting back the impulse to unmask Jimmy Devlin. No, he would wait and
see what the law did with Flint and Wild Moore. If there were not
sufficient evidence to hold them he would turn the parole over to
Garvin. It would show that Devlin had lied about his name, and Devlin
would have to prove his whereabouts at the time of the robbery. Bud
forced a smile and sat down at the table.
“I talked with Flint about that pearl-handled six-gun,” said Frawley.
No one made any comment and Frawley did not continue.
Pat went out on the front porch. No one could see her from the
dining-room, as she went softly down the porch steps and down to the
bunk-house, where she quickly threw aside the boards of the little
lumber-pile. The gun was not there.
She went back to the porch, where she sat down and tried to think. Who
had seen her put the gun under that lumber? Bud had not been there.
Jimmy and Garvin were the only two who could have taken it. But perhaps
someone had found it later. She wondered dully whether Garvin had the
gun and would exhibit it as evidence at the hearing.
She wondered why Jimmy had suddenly seemed hurt. One moment he had been
light-hearted, with a laugh on his lips, and the next moment he had
seemed to grow old with suffering.
She could hear the rattling of dishes in the dining-room as the men ate
their dinner, but there was little or no conversation. In a little while
Bud Deal came out carrying his hat. Pat glanced up at him, but he was
busy with his own thoughts. Frawley drifted to the doorway, filling his
pipe, and Bud glanced back at him.
“Reckon I’ll ride to town tonight,” observed Bud and walked down the
steps, going straight to the corral.
He seemed to walk very straight, holding his head high.
“Kinda knocked the starch out of Bud, I reckon,” observed Frawley
slowly. “But it’ll all come out in the wash.”
Jimmy came out and stood at the edge of the porch, looking down toward
the corral, where Bud was saddling his sorrel. Pat glanced up at Jimmy.
There was nothing of the devil-may-care expression left to his features.
His eyes were narrowed to mere slits and the lines of his homely face
were like carved flint.
Suddenly he jerked away from the railing, walked down the steps and went
straight toward Bud Deal.
Pat got to her feet as if to follow him, but Frawley spoke softly and
she stopped.
“Easy, little Pat. I dunno what it’s about, but——”
Bud Deal turned as Jimmy came up to him and they looked into each
other’s eyes at close range. Pat and Frawley could see that Bud was
speaking, but no words came to them.
Suddenly Bud seemed to jerk away and reach for his gun. Bud was the
fastest man in the Thunder Range with a gun. But Jimmy’s move was as
quick as Bud’s—quicker, because his left fist caught Bud under the chin,
while Bud’s gun was only half-way out of its holster.
Bud dropped in a heap. The sorrel whirled sidewise against the side of
the corral, snorting and trying to break away. Jimmy seemed to drop
almost as quickly as Bud, and to the two people on the porch he seemed
to be holding Bud against further action. But he got to his feet and
backed away from Bud, as he removed the cartridges from Bud’s gun and
replaced it in its holster.
Bud rolled over, got slowly to his feet and looked at Jimmy, who handed
him the cartridges. Pat and Frawley were unable to hear what either of
them were saying. Bud got to his feet, rubbed his chin, as if it pained
him greatly, and untied his horse. Without a backward glance he rode out
of the ranch-house gate and headed for town.
Jimmy had asked Bud for the parole paper, which he had found; but Bud
refused even to admit that he had found such a paper. Bud had said that
it was kind of Jimmy to admit that he was a paroled thief, and that Pat
would love to know it.
Anyway, Jimmy had the paper in his possession again. He walked slowly
back to the porch, where Pat and Frawley waited for him.
“Sure, I’m sorry there had to be an audience,” said Jimmy sadly, and
then to Frawley: “I’m thinkin’ I’d better be goin’ along, Mr. Frawley.
The Box M don’t owe me any salary.”
“Go away?” asked Pat quickly.
Frawley sucked on his pipe and his eyes twinkled as he looked at them.
“Aye. There’s good reasons, ma’am.”
“My name is Pat—Jimmy.”
Jimmy smiled at her.
“And there’s no better on earth.”
“I don’t reckon there’s any need of yuh leavin’ us,” observed Frawley.
“Stay a while, anyway.”
Frawley yawned and went back into the house, where he started a
conversation with Mrs. Moore. Jimmy seemed to be smiling at his own
thoughts and looked to see Pat looking at him.
“Feel better now, Jimmy?”
“Aye. But I have no right to be here—to talk with ye, Pat. It ain’t
right, except within me heart, which only knows about me. Ye wonder why
I clouted Bud Deal, and I don’t want to tell ye. For the life of me I
can’t, Pat. It won’t be long until ye know. Sure, it’s been like Heaven
to me—this knowin’ all of ye; givin’ me somethin’ to look back at in the
years to come.”
“But you are not going away, Jimmy.”
“Not tonight, at any rate,” smiled Jimmy.
Pat nodded as she looked down at the big gun in Jimmy’s holster. Jimmy
looked down at the gun and up at her.
“Did you have that gun when you came here?” asked Pat.
Jimmy smiled softly.
“I never lie to my friends, Pat. Never hide anythin’ and let a pup see
you hide it. It arouses their curiosity.”
“But—” faltered Pat.
“Aye,” nodded Jimmy. “I am at this moment sittin’ on two pieces of
pearl, which repose serenely in me hip-pockets.”
Mrs. Moore came to the door and called:
“You folks had better come in the house. It’s getting chilly out there.
Maybe Mr. Smith will sing for us.”
Pat smiled at him and repeated her mother’s question, with her eyes.
Jimmy got slowly to his feet.
“I have it in me heart to sing—now.”