Bud Deal rode away from the Box M in a daze. He was unable to explain
things to himself. Jimmy’s blow had come like a flash of bright lights.
He had expected Jimmy to reach for a gun, and his eyes had flashed to
Jimmy’s right hand, leaving Jimmy the chance he needed to send over a
knock-out punch.
Bud realized before he got to his feet that Jimmy had taken that paper
from his pocket; but now he searched his pockets to be sure. It was
gone. He drew up his horse and looked back toward the Box M, already
blotted out in the shadows of night.
Pat and Frawley had both seen what happened, and the humiliation burned
deeply in Bud’s soul. He had the reputation of being the fastest gunman
in the country. Bud had whipped bigger men than Smith with bare hands.
Now this soft-spoken Irishman had ignored his swift gun-play and knocked
him down with his fist, taken away his gun and given it back—empty. All
in the presence of the girl he meant to marry.
Instead of going toward Oxbow he swung off the road and headed toward
the Devil’s Pulpit. It was dark now, but he needed no light, and the
sure-footed sorrel picked its own trail.
Far off in a cañon an owl hooted, like a distant railroad engine
whistling for a clear signal. A wild-cat padded its way across an open
space, a gray shadow which snarled and was gone. A coyote silhouetted
for a moment against the sky-line of a butte and faded out.
The Devil’s Pulpit showed black against the sky-line, its eastern side a
sheer drop of a hundred feet into the brushy coulée. Bud rode in at the
top of the coulée and went down into the brush, following a
cattle-trail, until he came in at the rear of the tiny cabin. A faint
glow of a candle through the chinks between the logs showed him that the
occupants were awake, although there were no voices to be heard.
The door was open, which emitted a faint glow of light. Bud dismounted
near the door.
“This is Bud,” he called softly, and a voice inside said, “Come in.”
Whitey was propped up in bed, his face gray and drawn in the flickering
light from the one candle on the table. The Indian was not there. On the
bed beside Whitey lay a Winchester rifle and a Colt pistol.
“How yuh feelin’?” asked Bud.
“How in —— do yuh expect a feller to feel?” asked Whitey hoarsely.
“Nothin’ to eat, —— little to drink and a Injun for a nurse. I suppose
yo’re sorry I’m alive.”
“Cut out that kinda talk!” snapped Bud. “I’ve done all I could, Whitey.
Yuh got to figure that I couldn’t sneak over here every day. Pretty near
able to get up?”
“I dunno how able I am,” grunted Whitey, “but I know —— well I’m goin’
to get up pretty soon. That bullet busted a rib, and I don’t think
there’s any lead in my lung. Must ’a’ kinda horned in and out, bustin’
the rib. Rib stuck in me, I reckon. Now, tell me what’s new.”
Bud told him of the arrest of Flint and Wild Moore for the robbery of
the train.
“Aw, ——!” grunted Whitey. “Why didn’t Garvin pick on somebody else. It’s
a cinch they can’t convict Flint Moore.”
“It saves further investigation,” grinned Bud. “By the time they’re
cleared, the trail will be cold. Somethin’ else, Whitey. The money you
found under the floor of this shack was the money Devlin was sent up for
stealin’.”
Whitey looked keenly at Bud. The flickering candle light made a
grotesque shadow behind him on the wall. A huge moth fluttered in out of
the dark and almost extinguished the candle.
“You remember hearin’ about Devlin, don’t yuh?” asked Bud.
“Yeah. It was his money, eh? Well, what of it?”
“He’s near here, Whitey. I gave him a job on the Box M. Said his name
was Smith. He’ll be lookin’ for the money, I reckon. Mebbe he forgot
just where he put it, ’cause he was ridin’ this way, lookin’ around, I
reckon.”
“He was sent up for three years, wasn’t he?” asked Whitey.
“Paroled,” grunted Bud, rubbing his sore chin. “He’s my ace-in-the-hole.
If they don’t cinch Flint and Wild Moore, I’ll bet I can lay the
deadwood on Devlin.”
“Why lay it on anybody?” croaked Whitey. “You better keep out of it,
Bud. You git too —— anxious and folks will be wonderin’ why. You keep
your mouth shut.”
Bud grunted. He did not like Whitey’s tone. Anyway, Bud was getting
nervous.
“The engineer recognized that pearl-handled gun,” said Bud, but added
quickly, “I mean he got a good look at it, and that’s the evidence that
Garvin is lookin’ for.”
“Where is it, Bud?”
“—— if I know. The sheriff had taken ’em to jail when I got back that
night; so I hooked Flint’s .41 and slipped the .45 in its place. When
Garvin tried to find it, the danged thing was gone.”
“Looks kinda funny,” observed Whitey. “Who’d take it, do yuh suppose?”
Bud shook his head slowly, deep in thought. Suddenly he rubbed his hand
across his face.
“By ——! I wonder if that could be it? Whitey, that Devlin is packin’
a .45 and he only had six shells. No, that one has plain wood handles.”
“What’s the idea?” croaked Whitey.
“He wanted more shells,” mused Bud aloud. “Pat got the old man’s
belt—the one he wore that day—and it was full of .41 cartridges. They
can prove that the old man was packin’ a .41.”
“The fireman was killed with a .45?” queried Whitey.
Bud nodded.
“That’s why we need that pearl-handled .45.”
“Well, I’m —— glad his blood ain’t on my hands,” said Whitey thankfully.
“Shut up!” snapped Bud nervously. “You’re as much to blame as I am.
Anyway, he shot you, didn’t he? I didn’t think he’d be able to do
anything, after the clout I gave him with that gun-barrel.”
“I’m glad I didn’t kill him,” repeated Whitey. “I’ve never killed
anybody, Bud. I thought I was goin’ to die here alone, and I was afraid
I had killed him. He fell back into the gangway of that engine——”
Came a slight sound at the doorway, and the figure of a man bulked
grotesquely in the dim light. Bud Deal seemed to sway sidewise and from
his hip flashed a stream of orange flame, followed by the crash of a
pistol.
The candle swayed in its insecure foundation of melted wax and fell to
the floor from the concussion of the heavy pistol and the crash of a
falling body.
For a moment or two there was silence, broken only by the labored
breathing of the two men.
“Light a—a match!” breathed Whitey jerkily.
Bud broke several matches, trying to scratch one. The yellow flame
seemed weak and nearly flickered out again as Bud recovered the candle
and applied the match. Both men looked toward the door, where the man
sprawled flat on his face, just inside.
Bud went slowly over to him and held the candle closer.
“That —— Injun!” he grunted. “The Injun, Whitey.”
“Killed him?” croaked Whitey.
Bud examined him closely by the candlelight and got to his feet.
“Almost between the eyes, Whitey. He never knowed what hit him.”
“More blood,” muttered Whitey weakly. “More blood. What did yuh shoot
him for, Bud?”
“—— him, he came sneakin’ in. Didn’t he? I didn’t know who he was. It
was his own fault, Whitey—wasn’t it?”
“You shot too quick,” complained Whitey. “Now, what will yuh do?”
“Quit your croakin’!” ordered Bud. “Let me think, can’t yuh?”
Bud sat down on the edge of the bunk, half-turned from Whitey, who slid
down lower on his bunk, with one hand over the butt of his six-shooter.
Somehow, Whitey had the feeling that Bud wanted him out of the way, too.
* * * * *
But Whitey and Bud were not the only ones to hear the report of Bud’s
pistol. Sheriff Garvin was doing a little night prowling on his own
account. His talk with Bud had showed him that Bud had guilty knowledge
of who had robbed that train and where the money was hid.
There had been considerable mention of the little cabin in the brushy
coulée below the Devil’s Pulpit. While Garvin was very willing to arrest
the guilty parties, he was also more than willing to get in on the
plunder—if he could do it in a way which would not cause trouble for
him.
He had been perfectly willing to take his share of the money, which
Whitey was purported to have found under the floor of that cabin. In
fact, he had coerced Whitey into a promise of a fifty-fifty split. But
Whitey had talked too much, and some one had lifted the cache ahead of
them. There was no question that this some one was Wild Moore.
Now, he was on a little tour of investigation. He had ridden to the top
of the ridge on the east side of the Pulpit and was gazing down into the
coulée, a dark mass in the dim light, when the report of Bud’s pistol
came floating up to him.
But for this shot, Garvin would have probably spent the night in the
shelter of the Pulpit, where he could watch any early morning action in
the coulée. He listened closely for a while and then rode slowly down
the side of the coulée, picking his way carefully, until he reached the
heavy brush of the bottom.
He dismounted and stood beside his horse for a while. It was very dark
down there, and Garvin was not entirely sure just where the cabin was
located. It was very still in the thick brush. Garvin was not always a
coward; but he recognized his limitations. He could not move silently in
this brush, and he could not afford to make a noise.
He heard the nicker of a horse and grasped the muzzle of his own mount
just in time to stop it from making a reply. This nicker came from
further up the coulée and to the left.
Garvin spent an anxious half-hour, listening for more sounds; but none
came. Then he left his horse and began moving slowly up the coulée,
taking a few steps and waiting silently for a full minute. Garvin was
cautious.
Suddenly he touched a fence. His hand moved along the horizontal pole
until he reached a post. He knew that he was at the little corral, and
by following this fence a short distance he could reach the cabin. Going
to the left would bring him to the front of the cabin, so he decided to
travel to the right and make his approach from the rear.
He went carefully until he reached the corner of the cabin. He could see
no lights nor hear any sounds, but his nostrils could detect the faint
odors of recent cooking. He moved about half-way of the rear of the
cabin, when he heard the sounds of some one coming from up the coulée.
Whoever it was, they were not moving cautiously. He could hear the swish
and breaking of brush and the heavy footfalls of a horse, and suddenly
the bulk of a horse and rider seemed almost to move into him.
Garvin flattened himself against the cabin, gun in hand, as the horse
and rider passed him and went to the front of the cabin.
He could hear the man dismount and go into the cabin.
The cabin had been chinked with the usual pieces of split wood and mud,
which had fallen away in places, but Garvin seemed unable to find an
opening large enough to give him a view of the interior, even after the
occupant had lit the candle. He could hear their conversation, which was
worth as much to Garvin as a view of the men.
“Well, that’s fixed.” Garvin recognized Bud Deal’s voice. “Nobody can
hang that on to us, Whitey.”
Garvin grinned to himself when Bud called Whitey by name, and listened
closely for a reply.
“Mebbe not,” croaked Whitey. “Who’s goin’ to take care of me now?”
“I dunno,” grunted Bud, “but it’s a cinch you’ve got to get out of here.
Yuh can’t let Devlin find yuh here.”
Garvin’s left ear suffered from compression, as he leaned closer to the
rough log. His mind flashed to the notice of parole and he wondered
where Devlin figured in on this deal—and where he was now.
“Where’ll I go?” asked Whitey weakly. “Yuh can’t get a hole shot in yore
lung and keep changin’ yore residence every little while, Bud.”
For a while there was silence, broken by Whitey’s question.
“Bud, you ain’t touched that sack, have yuh?”
“Naw! You know —— well I ain’t. What chance have I had to touch it?”
“I dunno, Bud. All I ask is that yuh shoot square with me. We’re
fifty-fifty on this, yuh remember. I git to wonderin’ about it
and—— Bud, yuh don’t suppose anybody is liable to find it, do yuh?”
Bud snorted his disgust at Whitey’s fears.
“Find it? Who in —— would ever climb to the point of the Devil’s Pulpit?
Do yuh think anybody would cross all that slide-rock and pick that one
little spot?”
“You done the hidin’,” said Whitey slowly. “I didn’t see yuh put it
away, Bud.”
“Well, it’s where I said it was. Right where the point comes down in the
coulée, where the solid rock goes into the ground at the edge of the
slide. There’s a hollow kinda underneath that point. ——! That money
could stay there a million years and nobody would ever find it.”
Garvin smiled to himself, and listened for more disclosures, which did
not come. Finally Bud got to his feet.
“I dunno just what we’re goin’ to do, Whitey. You get along as well as
yuh can and I’ll see yuh tomorrow night. Flint Moore hired Jud
Frawley, —— him! Made him foreman. He suspects somethin’, I think; so
I’ve got to be careful. I’m supposed to be in town now, so I reckon I
better go there to be able to prove where I was. Can’t take a chance on
a —— thing now. Just as soon as yo’re able—we’ll drift.”
Garvin was unable to get Whitey’s reply. He heard Bud mount his horse
and a moment later he rode past the rear of the cabin, passing close to
Garvin, and disappeared in the night. Garvin moved away from the cabin,
circled the corral and went back to his horse.
Garvin had learned a lot of things. He knew that Bud and Whitey had held
up the train and killed the fireman and that Whitey had been wounded. He
knew where the money was concealed, unless, of course, Bud had lied to
Whitey.
He knew that Smith was Devlin. Garvin grinned to himself as he felt his
way back to his horse. There was only one thing that he did not know,
and that was the cause of the shot he had heard. From the conversation,
he would deduct that Bud had been there a short time previous, and for
some reason had come back.
Garvin reached his horse and swung into the saddle. He could look almost
straight up at the rim of the Devil’s Pulpit, an inky blot against the
sparkle of the stars. At the foot of this, where the angle of the cliff
broke at right angles, like the corner of a sky-scraper, was twenty
thousand dollars.
“Twenty thousand!” grunted Garvin aloud, trying to visualize that great
amount. “Why worry about re-election?”
He spurred his horse down the coulée, where he could strike the gentle
slope, leading back to the top. He wanted to get his hands on that
treasure sack; but he had no desire to grope his way over treacherous
slide-rock and brush-tangle in the dark. Tomorrow would be another day.
* * * * *
The following morning at breakfast, Jud Frawley lost no time in assuming
command of the Box M.
“Mrs. Moore wants to go to town today and see if she can see the folks,
and I’ll take her in. Bud, you make a circle in the Squaw Creek country
and kinda estimate what’s in there. Lot of cattle wintered in there last
year, and Flint’s kinda anxious to find out how many of the Box M are
scattered in there.”
Frawley turned to Jimmy.
“Smith, there’s a lot of work here to do. Yuh might look over the
corrals, for one thing. Lot of posts need resettin’. Bunk-house needs
cleanin’. Dump the straw out of them ticks and fill ’em up again. Danged
if I like to sleep on a hard straw-tick.”
“Pat goin’ in with yuh?” asked Bud.
“No.”
Frawley gave no reasons for Pat staying at the ranch. Bud got up from
the table, and without a word to any one, went straight to the corral.
Mrs. Moore and Pat were in another part of the house, when Bud rode back
and dismounted at the porch.
“Want the field-glasses,” he grunted, as he lifted them from the wall,
where they hung in their leather case.
Frawley and Jimmy came out on the porch as Bud rode away. The butt of a
rifle protruded from the scabbard under his right knee.
“Mebbe he thinks he might run across a bear up there,” observed Frawley.
“Wild country up there, Smith.”