Bud Deal was worried. He had intended to keep Pat and Jimmy in sight,
but had missed them; for the reason that they had swung around to the
right of the Pulpit. He had no idea of what he was going to do, but he
wanted to be sure what they did.
Something seemed to be pulling him down to the cabin. A premonition that
all was not well down there annoyed him. He did not want to run into Pat
and Jimmy, because it might be difficult to explain what he was doing
down there, when Frawley had sent him the opposite direction from the
Box M.
Bud’s conscience did not bother him over the shooting of the Indian. He
had loaded him on his horse, taken him back up the coulée and dumped him
in the brush down in a deep, dry water-course. Anyway, thought Bud, old
Jim was worthless, and his demise would save the price of many quarts of
liquor. Old Jim knew too much anyway.
Bud rode slowly down into the coulée, watching closely for any sign of
Pat and Jimmy. It was almost a sure thing that Devlin would not take Pat
with him when he tried to recover the missing money, so Bud felt fairly
safe in going down there. Suddenly he had a curiosity to take a look at
the Indian’s body and see if it was well-enough hidden.
He left his horse on the old cattle-trail and went on foot through the
brush to the edge of the deep wash-out, where he leaned over the edge
and peered down.
The Indian’s body was not there. Bud stepped back from the edge and
glanced quickly around. This was the place. He looked again, leaning
closer and examining the white boulders at the bottom. On one was a dark
stain.
Bud straightened up and leaned back against the trunk of a small tree.
Who had found the Indian? Did some one see the deed and remove the body?
For a moment Bud’s nerve oozed out of his finger-tips; but he snapped
back to normal, dangerous as a tiger.
He walked back to his horse, going softly as an Indian, his eyes
sweeping every inch of the woods. The blow of not finding the body of
his victim had dulled his sensibilities, but had sharpened his caution.
Some one knew.
He rode slowly down through the brush, gun in hand. Just before he came
out into the tiny clearing at the rear of the cabin, he drew up his
horse and watched. A pair of magpies flew from the corral fence and lit
on the peak of the cabin, where they fluffed their feathers and settled
down, as though for a stay.
Bud scowled. Magpies do not ordinarily perch on the top of an occupied
cabin, because the magpie is born with a fear of man—especially men who
carry guns. Bud rode out of the brush and the magpies streaked for the
trees, cackling loudly with fear. Bud dismounted at the door and went
inside through the open door.
The cabin was empty. The old stove had been upset and the box cupboard
had been wrenched from the wall. Blankets were strewn on the floor as if
they had been dragged from the bunk, and left where they fell. On the
floor near the bunk was the barrel and breech of a rifle, with the butt
missing. It had been broken off.
Bud looked foolishly around the room, and backed to the door, as if
afraid some one or something might materialize out of thin air and
confront him in that dim, disordered cabin.
He even backed away from the open door and went to his horse, his mind
in a turmoil. What had become of Whitey? Who had demolished things
inside the cabin? Where was the dead Indian? Bud shut his teeth hard and
tried to think calmly. Who would do this, and why?
His thoughts only ran in circles. He lifted his head and looked up at
the Devil’s Pulpit, where the eagle circled high above the top. Whitey
knew where that money was—and Whitey was gone. Bud spurred his horse
straight through the brush, regardless of thorn or tangle, and climbed
to the edge of the slide-rock, where he dismounted and scrambled on
afoot.
He had lost all sense of caution now, as he panted over the loose, flat
rocks, which slipped and tilted under the soles of his high-heeled
boots. The perspiration beaded his forehead and ran into his eyes, but
he clawed his way up to the apex of the Pulpit like a hunted animal
going to its den.
He flung himself flat against the rock, sank to his knees and clawed
inside the opening, where he had hidden the sack of money. It was not
there.
He shut his eyes and remained for a while, with his hand still within
the empty cavity in the rock. He slowly drew out his hand, turned his
body and slid to a sitting position, facing the coulée. For several
minutes he was as motionless as a figure of stone, his eyes staring
straight ahead, like the eyes of the blind, which are open, but see not.
* * * * *
His hand came up and slowly wiped the perspiration from his brow as he
reacted from the succession of shocks. Then Bud Deal cursed; cursed with
a withering flow of bitter profanity, directed at the unknown who had
done all this. His soul seemed to open and vomit curses, as a
machine-gun vomits bullets. It was not the slow bitter curses of defeat,
but the snappy, biting words, which seemed fairly to sear his lips.
Bud’s soul was at white-heat, and it showed in his half-closed eyes,
which seemed to flash, like tiny points of light.
He heaved himself to his feet and went stumbling and sliding back down
the hill to his horse, where he mounted. As he turned his horse to ride
toward the head of the coulée he saw a man ride into an opening in the
bottom of the coulée. It was Garvin, but Bud was unable to tell just who
it was. The man stopped and seemed to be watching down the coulée. He
did not see Bud up there in the shadow from the Pulpit.
Bud slowly drew his Winchester from the scabbard under his leg. It was
about four hundred yards to the man and horse, and Bud deliberately
screwed up the sight for that elevation. Bud’s sorrel turned its head to
one side, as it felt its rider lift the gun.
The sorrel was too well gun-broke to let its rider fire past its ears.
Bud drew down slowly until the ivory bead centered on the rider, and
pressed the trigger. The heavy report seemed to echo from the Pulpit,
like the double report of two shots, and rattled off through the cañon
like a clap of thunder.
The horse dropped forward, as if its forelegs had been cut from under
it, and the rider pitched forward over its head. Bud realized that he
had shot low, dropping the horse. The rider scrambled to his feet and
sprang for the cover of brush, while Bud shot again and again, until the
magazine of his rifle was empty. He knew that he was missing—that he was
shooting wildly.
He crammed shells into the loading-gate of his gun, whirled his sorrel
and rode through the brush, cutting down the hill to reach the bottom
below the cabin. He was not going to let that man get away alive if he
could help it.
* * * * *
Pat and Jimmy had not seen Bud until he fired the first shot. The cabin
was well screened from them; so they had not seen him ride down there.
His first shot had caused them to look across at the Pulpit, where they
could see him through an opening in the brush. Pat started to her feet
to try to see who he was shooting at; but Jimmy drew her down again.
“Don’t let any one see you,” he cautioned. “Never mind who he’s shootin’
at. From the shells he’s wastin’, I’ve an idea he ain’t doin’ so well as
might be wished for.”
“But what is it all about, Jimmy?” Pat’s eyes were wide with the wonder
of it all. “Who is Bud Deal shooting at?”
“I’ve no idea at all, Pat, unless it might be Mister Garvin, who
imitates a pack-rat by hidin’ stuff.”
“But why should Bud Deal shoot at him, Jimmy?”
Jimmy looked at Pat and she turned her head nervously, peering down into
the coulée.
“Are ye afraid for Bud Deal?” asked Jimmy softly.
She looked at him curiously.
“Afraid for him?”
“Aye.”
“Why, Jimmy.”
“He—he might get hurt, ye know.”
She bit her lip and looked back into the coulée, while Jimmy watched her
closely. Then she turned and looked straight into his eyes, as if trying
to read his thoughts.
“Jimmy, why is Bud Deal over here when he started for Squaw Creek?”
Jimmy grinned.
“Mebbe he lost his way.”
“Don’t joke with me. Why did you take that gun from under that
lumber-pile, where I hid it, and change the handles? What do you know
about that robbery?”
“I—I needed a gun,” stammered Jimmy, “and—and I hate them darned slick
pearl-handles.”
“All right,” said Pat evenly. “Now, what do you know about that
robbery?”
“Quite a lot.”
“How do you know quite a lot?”
“Because I was there,” grinned Jimmy.
“You?”
Pat leaned forward, wide-eyed.
“You were there?”
“Under the car,” nodded Jimmy. “I saw the men who did the job; but they
was masked. I’ll tell ye why I changed them handles, Pat.”
Jimmy reached in his hip-pocket and brought out the two pearl-handles.
From his watch-pocket he took out a small, triangular piece of pearl and
fitted it into the broken corner of one of the pieces of pearl.
“I seen one of ’em drop his gun,” explained Jimmy. “When they left I got
off the train, and I found this piece of pearl. I think the butt of the
gun hit a rock when it fell. I dunno why I picked it up.”
Pat looked dumbly at the piece of pearl and turned away, gazing across
the coulée.
“It was my dad’s gun,” softly. “I—I don’t know what to think.”
“Aye, but he wasn’t carryin’ it, Pat.”
“It was in his holster, hanging on the bedpost, when Garvin came for it
that day.”
“Sure it was; but the shells in that belt are all .41’s. Would he be
packin’ a .45 gun and .41 shells?”
“Jimmy, you say you saw these men? Was one of them a big man—bigger than
Garvin?”
“He was not.”
“Oh, Jimmy, can you swear to this?”
“Aye,” sadly. “But my oath wouldn’t be much good, Pat. The court would
not accept my testimony.”
“Why not?”
Jimmy shook his head slowly.
“Don’t ask me that. I’ll tell ye soon, I’m thinkin’—but not now.”
* * * * *
They both turned back to watching the coulée. There was no sign of Deal
or Garvin. A gust of wind seemed to set the whole coulée into action, as
it rippled the trees. Jimmy glanced up at the sky. Behind the Thunder
Range great clouds were rolling into view, which would soon blot out the
sun.
“We’re in for a wettin’,” declared Jimmy, pointing at the thunder-heads.
“She’s goin’ to pop things wide open in a short time, I’m thinkin’.”
“We are neither sugar nor salt,” smiled Pat, “and a little water will
not hurt us.”
Another gust of wind whirled down the coulée. The big eagle, which had
been sailing serenely around the Pulpit, suddenly tacked straight into
the wind, dropping lower and lower, until it blended with the rocky
butte.
Jimmy had been watching it. Suddenly he leaned forward and looked
closer. About fifty feet from the summit a figure came into view—the
figure of a man. Jimmy called Pat’s attention.
“That is the crazy Indian!” she exclaimed. “Look at him! He’s going
through the same actions as he was when we first saw him.”
It was true. He seemed to have moved forward a trifle, standing on a
ledge of rock, with arms outstretched, head thrown back, as if invoking
the storm. He was only a tiny figure, far away on the side of that
seemingly sheer cliff; but the clear atmosphere etched every line of him
clearly.
“What in the divil is he standin’ on?” queried Jimmy. “And how did the
poor old war-whoop get up there?”
For a full minute or more the Indian held the pose, while Pat and Jimmy
scanned the place to see how he got up there. Then the Indian seemed to
back into the cliff and disappear.
“Sure, he’s got a cave up there,” grunted Jimmy. “Did ye notice that his
body kinda went down when he backed up? The shelf of rock is tilted,
which masks the entrance to the cave.”
“But how does he get up there?” queried Pat.
“There’s a way, and it’s likely easy,” grinned Jimmy, “only nobody knows
it, except the Injun. Do ye know much of him, Pat?”
She shook her head. “Not much. He has been around here a long time. They
say he was a powerful man before whisky ruined his muscles. They say
that old Jim never broke his word to any one. Dad always said that Jim
was just as honest as a dollar.”
“He was takin’ care of my sick friend,” said Jimmy.
“Old Jim? Taking care—why, he’s insane!”
“Aye. The poor feller is in a little cabin down there in the brush. We
better hunt a shelter, Pat.”
The sun had already been blotted out and a low rumble of thunder seemed
to vibrate the earth. Forked streaks of lightning split the black mass
of storm clouds, which were sweeping swiftly toward them.
“We’ll go down to the little cabin, Pat,” said Jimmy. “It ain’t much,
but mebbe it will stop a bit o’ the downpour.”
They hurried to their horses and untied them. Whistler was terrified at
the storm, which was already flattening the brush around them.
Jimmy managed to mount, after he had helped Pat into her saddle; but
both horses flatly refused to face the storm, which was already into
them. Lightning seemed to play all around them, and the thunder was like
the jarring of mighty guns.
Jimmy pulled his hat low over his eyes and spurred the roan to the edge
of the coulée. Pat’s horse followed closely, almost crowding the roan
off its feet. The side of the coulée was steep and covered with rocks
and brush, with an occasional tree.
Straight down the hill, twisting and turning, went the two horses.
Around them wind howled, though as yet there had been no rain. Up near
the foot of the Pulpit a tall, dead tree snapped off like a match and
fell far down across the slide-rock.
Jimmy and Pat fought their way down the hill and reached the bottom some
distance below the cabin, just as the first gust of rain struck them. It
stung like hail and the horses swung around, with their heads away from
it. Another gust of stinging rain and then the downpour.
The world seemed blotted out in the whirl of the elements. Jimmy crowded
the roan in beside Pat and quickly knotted a rope around her horse’s
neck. He tried to tell her that he was doing that to keep them from
being separated, but the wind snatched the words from his mouth and he
could not even hear his own shouting.
Came a blinding flash of white light, which lighted the world as bright
as sunlight, and then a terrific crash, which fairly staggered the
horses. For a few moments the world seemed stilled. It was as if a giant
cannon had been fired and the gunners were watching for the effects of
the projectile. Then there came a dull roar, like the starting of a
giant engine.
Jimmy turned his head and tried to see what it meant. It sounded like
water now—the roar of a waterfall. He could hear the splash of it. Then
it broke out of the storm pall—a rushing river, white-crested in the dim
light.
“A cloudburst!” yelled Jimmy, spurring into Pat’s horse and swinging the
animal toward the side of the hill. “Ride like the divil, Pat.”
But the water was into them before they could get into action—at least
eight feet of it, compressed within the walls of that coulée and running
like a mill-race. Brush and trees seemed to rise out of it and fall
splashing, like some water animal playing. The horses and riders were
swept along with it. Jimmy swung in close to Pat to steady her in the
saddle. The only thing to do was to try and ride it out or to fight it
until the peak of the flood was past.
There was little left of the storm, which had done its damage and
hurried on. The lightning was almost as bright as before, but the
thunder showed that the main part of the storm was moving away fast. The
water and sky were almost black, and the floating débris made it
difficult for a horse to swim safely.
A bunch of connected logs almost drove into them, and Jimmy knew it was
part of the little cabin. Whitey must be drowned.
“Anyway,” he reflected, “he had to go soon—and time meant little to
him.”
“Jimmy!” cried Pat, leaning closer to him. “We’ve got to get out of
this! This cañon breaks off into a deep gorge down here, and if we go
over that——”
The wind swept away the rest, but Jimmy knew what she meant. It was a
bit lighter now and he could see that they were a little to the right of
the center of the flood, but there was quite a distance between them and
the higher ground of the side.
He managed to turn both horses almost around and start a fight to get
within reach of the bank. They could already hear the heavy roar of
water falling a long way and Jimmy knew they were but a short distance
above where the coulée dropped off into the deep gorge, which was
probably a tributary to Bitter River.
The horses were almost exhausted from their swim and were making little
headway toward the bank. Jimmy managed to take the lariat rope off Pat’s
saddle. He had snubbed the lead-rope of Pat’s horse to his saddle-horn;
and now he quickly knotted the end of the lariat around his own horse’s
neck, leaving the loop and the rest of the rope free.
Inch by inch they fought almost against the swiftly running flood,
working a trifle closer to the bank all the time. The world seemed
filled with roar of falling water. Pat’s wet face showed ashen, but her
jaw was set and she never looked back. Jimmy looked at the bank and back
at Pat.
“When I swing around, hammer the hide off your horse!” he yelled.
He whirled the Whistler toward the bank, but the current sent them
drifting again.
“Swim, ye outlaw divil!” yelped Jimmy, drawing himself up on the saddle,
where he knelt, rope in hand.
Fifty feet—forty feet—thirty! They were beginning to swing out again.
“Hold fast!” yelled Jimmy.
He threw out the coils of rope, slipped the loop around his arm and
sprang as far as possible toward the shore.
He went out of sight, but came up, fighting his way. His feet touched
bottom and he surged forward, half-choked. Out to waist-deep he went
before the horses took up the slack on the rope.
The shock threw him into the water, but he came up in shallower water,
braced taut against the rope. He could see that both horses had whirled
and were trying to face the water again. Foot by foot he fought his way
to the shore, straining every muscle. The looped rope cut his muscles
until his left arm seemed lifeless.
With a last despairing burst of power he ran knee-deep in water,
slackening the pull on the rope, but gaining the shore, where he flung
himself around a small tree, snubbing the rope tight.
Slowly the two horses drifted into the shore, swinging on the rope until
their feet touched bottom. For a few moments they shook and panted from
their efforts.
Jimmy managed to release his numbed arm and tried to stand up; but the
effort was too much, and he sat down beside the tree. Pat spurred the
horses up to him, leading the Whistler.
He looked up at her wearily and smiled foolishly.
“Little Pat, are ye all right?”
“All except one thing, Jimmy.”
“What’s that?”
“The eggs are all smashed.”
“Oh!” Jimmy looked back across the water and wiped his face with the
back of his hand. “Well, it’s just as well they are, Pat. Sure, the poor
divil won’t have any use for eggs now, I’m thinkin’.”
The roar of the falls seemed louder now and they looked at each other,
knowing what it would have meant.
“You saved my life, Jimmy,” said Pat simply.
“Mine, too,” grinned Jimmy. “I think we better go home and get some dry
clothes.”
He unfastened the ropes, climbed stiffly into his saddle and they rode
up the side of the coulée. The sun broke out suddenly and the world
sparkled again. Up above the Devil’s Pulpit the big eagle was soaring
again, and a mist seemed to float out of the depths. They reached the
top of the hill and stopped to rest their horses. Jimmy looked at Pat
and a smile spread over his homely face.
“Ye look like a drowned kitten, and I suppose I look beautiful meself.
There was one unfortunate thing about it, Pat.”
“What was that, Jimmy?”
“It isn’t Saturday night—bad luck to it.”
* * * * *
Garvin hadn’t the slightest idea who had fired the shot that killed his
horse, but he knew where the shots had been fired from. After he had
ducked into the brush he got a glimpse of a mounted man riding into the
brush near the foot of the Pulpit.
He could see that the rider was cutting down the hill, evidently with
the intention of intercepting him, in case he went on down toward the
cabin. Garvin was no such fool. He knew that the other man had a rifle,
and had the odds in his favor.
Garvin crossed back across the coulée, keeping in the deep cover, and
climbed up through the brush toward where the man had done the shooting.
It was slow, difficult going, as he wanted to keep concealed. He could
see the big storm coming and he thought he might stop in the shelter of
the Pulpit until it was over.
But when he had reached a point just beyond where Bud had turned from
firing the shots, he saw the horse and rider about two hundred yards
below him. Bud had dismounted and was working his way farther toward the
cabin, but staying up on the side of the hill. He was getting into a
position where he could command the clearing around the cabin. He had
not tied his horse, but had dropped the reins, which constituted a
tether to a range-broken horse.
Garvin chuckled to himself. By working carefully he could sneak down on
this man. The noise of the storm would cover his approach. A flash of
lightning and a sudden snap of thunder caused Bud’s sorrel to whirl
away, ignoring its training. Another crash, and the frightened horse
came running up the hill, straight for Garvin. A whirl of rain blotted
out the horse for a moment, but Garvin could see it was coming straight
to him. Brush and rocks impeded its progress, but Garvin would never
have been able to stop it, except for the fact that one of its fore-legs
tangled in the reins, almost throwing the animal.
Garvin clutched it by the headstall and succeeded in whirling it around.
Rain and wind tore into them and the horse reared and snorted, but
Garvin managed to get into the saddle and ride into the shelter of the
Pulpit.
A few moments later came the cloudburst. The Pulpit seemed to shake to
its very foundations, and small rocks rained off the ledges like hail.
Garvin spurred out into the open, braving the storm rather than falling
rock, and headed for Oxbow.
He knew this horse belonged to Bud Deal, and that Bud would, in all
probability, have to walk back to the Box M; but he needed the horse as
badly as Bud did. He felt sure that Bud suspected that he, Garvin, had
lifted the cache. He also felt sure that Bud would never dare accuse him
openly.
Flint and Wild Moore would get a hearing tomorrow and Garvin did not
care which way it went. He hated them both, but his suddenly acquired
wealth softened this a trifle. He would serve out his term and quietly
disappear. He could dispose of his holdings easily, which would alibi
him for having money. Taking it all the way around, Jeff Garvin was very
well satisfied with his day’s work.
Bud Deal had not missed his horse until he realized that the storm was
out of the ordinary, and went back to get the animal. Rain was blotting
out the landscape and he could see only a short distance. Luckily for
him he climbed higher, thinking perhaps the horse had gone up the hill,
and when the cloudburst came he was just above the rushing torrent.
He climbed still higher, fighting against the storm, until he reached
the crest of the hill to the right of the Pulpit. He knew that nothing
could live in that mad rush of water, and he laughed aloud to think that
the man who had lifted the cache was probably down there. He had shot
this man’s horse and had every reason to believe that this man was still
down in the bottom of the coulée. He hadn’t the least idea where Whitey
had gone. If Whitey was still in the coulée he would be drowned.
Whitey was physically unable to take the money and make a getaway. Bud
felt sure that the old Indian was dead, which removed him from any part
in the deal. Devlin had not had time to take the money and get away with
it. Frawley didn’t, because he was in Oxbow. There remained one
possibility—Garvin.
Garvin had done this! Bud clenched his teeth. He had divulged too much
to Garvin. Had Garvin found the body of the old Indian and was holding
it as a club over him? Bud waited for the storm to break, but could see
nothing of his horse.
It made things bad for him, because he would have to walk back to the
ranch and lie about the losing of the horse. He looked back toward the
coulée and scanned the dripping hills.
“That —— sorrel must ’a’ got caught in the flood!” he exclaimed aloud.
“I’ll have to invent a cloudburst in the Squaw Creek country, where I
lost my horse and saddle. Then I’ll sneak in here later on, find the
wreck of my saddle and plant the —— thing. If I only knew where Pat and
that danged boomer were I’d feel a heap easier in my mind.”
It might not be so hard to hoodwink the folks at the Box M, after all.
If that was Garvin down there in the coulée, there was a good chance
that he was dead now; but if he wasn’t—— Bud shook his head slowly and
stared into space from under his dripping hat-brim. He was going to kill
Garvin just as soon as possible.
X
Pat and Jimmy reached home several hours before Mrs. Moore and Jud
Frawley came back from town, and found dry clothes. Pat supplied Jimmy
with some of Wild’s clothes, which fitted a trifle snug. The rest she
dried out in a short time beside the bunk-house stove.
Garvin had appointed Pete Havez deputy, and Pete was in charge of the
office and jail when Jud and Mrs. Moore arrived. Pete was a saturnine
young man, who was ambitious to be known as a gunman.
Pete had been kicked from cow-ranch to cow-ranch until he grew too big
to stand for further kicking, and the balance of his education—his
post-graduate course, as it were—consisted of learning how to make a
hair-brand, mark playing-cards and draw a six-shooter.
Physically, Pete was not a marvel. His face was thin and dark, with
close-set black eyes, a nose, which had been classically Roman until a
cowpuncher tested its resiliency with a neck-yoke, and a mouth full of
very bad teeth. He was of medium height, slightly bowed in the legs and
had a peculiar shamble in his walk.
Pete had met them at the office door. Jud Frawley had known Pete for
years, and cared less for him every year. In fact, Jud had predicted
that Pete would be hanged, as soon as his body got heavy enough to break
his neck.
Jud made known their wants. Pete took them under advisement. He was not
a rapid thinker and back in his small brain lurked the feeling that
Garvin might not care to have Frawley talk to Flint Moore.
“Can’t do it, Jud,” he drawled slowly. “Nobody’s goin’ to talk to m’
prisoners.”
Pete gazed lovingly at his nickel-plated insignia of office, which was
placed prominently on his vest. The next instant a strong hand grasped
his collar, while another took up the slack of his overall-seat, and he
fairly looped the loop, landing upside-down in a corner of the office.
His gun flipped out of its holster and skated off across the floor.
“You got the keys to the jail, ain’t yuh?” asked Jud in a conversational
tone of voice.
Pete looked up at him and nodded dumbly. He got to his feet, tested
himself for possible dislocations and let them into the jail.
Pat and Jimmy laughed at Jud’s serious description of how Pete had acted
during the interview. They had told of the missing gun, and both Flint
and Wild declared that neither of them wore that .45 on that day. Wild
wore a .44 and Flint a .41. Neither of them had any idea where that .41
was now, and they also realized that their oath that neither had the
pearl-handled .45 on that day would not help them to any extent, in case
the gun was found and identified.
They found out that the hearing was to be held the next day, and unless
Garvin already had the gun, there would be no evidence to hold them any
longer.
Jimmy had cautioned Pat to make no mention of what they had seen that
day. Jimmy felt sure that Whitey was dead, and with him went all hopes
of establishing his innocence of the crime for which he had served time
in the penitentiary. Jimmy had intended getting a written confession
from Whitey, if possible. Now, there was no one in the world to help him
prove his innocence.
It was supper-time when Bud Deal arrived. He had circled the ranch to
come in from the direction of Squaw Creek. Frawley and Jimmy were
sitting on the ranch-house porch, when Bud showed up, limping from
blistered heels, a figure of dejection.
“What happened to you?” asked Frawley.
Bud sat down on the porch and eased his aching feet.
“Cloudburst. Caught me in one of them narrow Squaw Creek cañons and
drowned my sorrel. Dang near drowned me, too. Had to walk all the way
home.”
“Ain’t you been on the range long enough to keep out of cañons when a
storm is comin’?” asked Frawley.
“Aw, ——!” snorted Bud, getting to his feet. “How’d I know it was goin’
to bust so quick? Think I went down there to try and drown myself?”
Frawley continued to draw on his pipe, indifferently to Bud’s outburst.
Pat came to the door to call the men to supper. Bud stared at her, but
she turned and went back into the house. Jimmy was paying no attention
to Bud, who noticed that Jimmy was wearing a faded plaid flannel shirt,
which had belonged to Wild. It fit tight over Jimmy’s muscular body and
threatened to burst across the shoulders as Jimmy folded his arms and
looked up at Bud.
“Where did ye say that cloudburst was?”
Bud looked at Jimmy closely. What did this range-boomer know about the
cloudburst? Was he trying to catch him in a lie?
“Squaw Creek,” replied Bud and limped down toward the bunk-house.
Jimmy and Frawley watched him go inside and close the door.
“Where did you and Pat go today?” asked Frawley.
Jimmy grinned slowly.
“Would ye mind if I didn’t tell ye—now, Mister Frawley?”
Frawley squinted at Jimmy for a moment and put his hand on Jimmy’s knee.
“Smith, I reckon yore a square-shooter. Yuh ain’t got the face of a mean
_hombre_.” Frawley jerked his head toward the door and leaned closer. “I
been watchin’ you and little Pat, and I _sabe_ the fact that she cottons
to yuh, Smith—which ain’t yore name, no more than mine’s Goldberg.”
Frawley paused and seemed undecided just how to say what was on his
mind.
“You ain’t far enough removed from Ireland to get the name of Smith, but
that ain’t nothin’ against yuh. I’m Irish, too. Names don’t count. What
I want to know is this: Can yuh come clean to little Pat? Does that
borrowed name mean that yuh done somethin’ yuh hadn’t ought to ’a’
done—somethin’ that might hurt her?”
Jimmy was looking at Frawley, but now he turned and stared off across
the hills. Frawley noticed that his face was tense, his muscles set—like
a man watching a terrific struggle. For a full minute Jimmy did not
move. Then his body relaxed and he turned to Frawley with a smile.
“Mister Frawley, I’ll be goin’ away tonight. Between me and you, I can
say that I’ve done no wrong; but twelve men have said that I sinned
against society. It’s twelve to one, and I—I lose.”
“Can’t yuh prove nothin’?” softly.
“Not now. I’m glad ye spoke as ye did, Mister Frawley. I’ve said no word
to Pat that a brother wouldn’t have spoken to her. Me name is not
Smith—it’s Devlin.”
Frawley slowly took his pipe from between his lips.
“Devlin? The train-robber?”
“Devlin,” said Jimmy slowly, “the man they say robbed a train.”
For a while neither man spoke. Frawley got to his feet, as Pat came to
the door again.
“How many times do I have to call you to supper?” she demanded. “Have
you lost your appetites?”
Jimmy got to his feet as Pat turned back inside. Frawley held out his
hand to him.
“Devlin, I don’t believe them twelve men had the right dope. I’m pleased
to meetcha.”
They shook hands solemnly and went into the house.
* * * * *
Bud did not come to supper until the rest were almost finished. He tried
to make light of the loss of his horse and saddle. He would go back
there in a day or two and try to recover his saddle. He described in
detail the cloudburst and his fight for life, while Pat watched his face
closely. She knew that Bud lied about where the flood had happened, but
she did not know he had not been in the water. Jimmy was silent through
the meal and excused himself before the rest were finished. Frawley and
Mrs. Moore left the room and Bud and Pat were together.
“Were you ridin’ with that range-boomer today?” asked Bud.
Pat looked up quickly.
“What makes you think so?”
“Your horse and the Whistler look it,” grunted Bud just a trifle
sarcastically.
“Well, suppose we were?” challenged Pat.
Bud leaned across the table and lowered his voice.
“Yuh ought to find out a few things about a feller before yuh go ridin’
in the hills with him.”
“Yes?” Pat’s tawny eyes were half-closed as she looked straight at Bud.
“Suppose you tell me about him.”
“Yuh think I can’t?” Bud fingered his mustache nervously. “Mebbe you’d
like to know his name ain’t Smith? How would yuh like to know that
you’ve been ridin’ the hills with a paroled thief?”
Pat sprang to her feet and leaned across the table.
“I think you lie, Bud Deal!”
Bud laughed mockingly and shook his head.
“No, I don’t lie. That’s what we fought over. I found him out; _sabe_?”
Pat knew that Bud was telling the truth; but she did not want to believe
it.
“His right name is Jim Devlin,” said Bud gloatingly, as he got up from
the table. “Ask him if it ain’t.”
Pat had heard of Devlin. She turned slowly and went to her room, passing
Frawley, who had come to the door. Bud looked up at him. Frawley had
heard Bud expose Jimmy, and his blood boiled. He knew that Bud had
deliberately tried to hurt Pat, and that he had succeeded very well.
For a few moments the two men looked at each other. Neither spoke as Bud
walked past Frawley and went outside. Frawley crossed the living-room to
Pat’s door, which was open. Pat was standing beside her dresser, staring
at the wall, but she turned as Frawley came up.
“You heard what Bud said?” asked Pat.
“Uh-huh,” nodded Frawley. “Devlin told me who he was. Bein’ innocent and
bein’ able to prove it is two different things. He’s goin’ away
tonight.”
“Going away?” whispered Pat. “Tonight?”
“Uh-huh. I been thinkin’—kinda. He broke that Whistler horse to ride.
When yuh come right down to it, that horse don’t belong to anybody. My
saddle’s gettin’ kinda old, and I need a new one—kinda.”
Frawley scratched his chin.
“Hate to see a feller walkin’—kinda.”
“Jud Frawley,” said Pat softly, her eyes filling, “when God made you he
broke the mold. Do just as you please. I need a new saddle-blanket and a
bridle—kinda.”
Frawley half-smiled at her imitation of him and patted her on the
shoulder.
“Keep grinnin’, little Pat. Mebbe she’ll all come out in the wash.”
Jimmy was leaning on the corral fence, with Klooch and the puppy beside
him, as Frawley came out of the house. The Whistler, which had moved in
close and was nuzzling at Jimmy, snorted at the approach of Frawley and
walked away.
“Pat knows,” said Frawley. “Bud told her who you are.”
“That’s kind of him,” said Jimmy shortly.
“She said to give yuh that Whistler horse. There’s a saddle, a blanket
and a bridle yuh can have, Devlin.”
Jimmy looked quickly at Frawley.
“What’s the idea?”
Frawley lit his pipe and puffed violently for a moment.
“I think she expects yuh to come back—kinda. And she don’t want to have
yuh walk and get yore feet sore.”
“I hope she’s right,” Jimmy smiled sadly and patted Klooch. “It don’t
look very good right now, but ye never can tell. Anyway I’ve a memory of
two fine women and one square-shootin’ man. I’ll be goin’ now, I think.”
“Better wait until mornin’.”
“Why prolong it? Deal knows who I am, and if I stay I may not forgive
him for the tellin’ of it to—her.”
“Won’t yuh go and tell Pat good-by?”
“I’m thinkin’ it’s better this way, Mister Frawley. I’ll wait and say
hello, instead.”