Bud Deal knew nothing about Jimmy’s departure from the Box M, as no one
had taken him into his confidence regarding the matter. Bud wondered why
Jimmy was not sleeping in the bunk-house. He thought perhaps it was
because he had been exposed as a thief and preferred to sleep elsewhere.
The next morning Bud discovered that Whistler was not in the corral and
that Jimmy did not show up for breakfast. Pat did not eat breakfast with
the rest. Mrs. Moore seemed preoccupied and Frawley ate silently, except
to ask Bud to harness the buggy team for them.
Bud’s nerves were getting frayed. He finished his meal and looked up to
find Frawley staring at him rather quizzically.
“Where’s Smith?” asked Bud.
Frawley’s eyes did not shift from Bud’s face as he replied.
“Yuh mean Devlin, don’t yuh?”
Bud glanced up at Mrs. Moore. She was not looking at him. He looked back
at Frawley.
“Well?”
“Devlin,” said Frawley slowly. “Devlin went away last night.”
“Where to?”
“He didn’t say where he was goin’.”
“Rode Whistler, didn’t he?”
Frawley nodded and shoved back from the table.
“You hitch up the team for the women. Me and you will ride horseback.
That hearin’ is today and they’ll likely want us both there. —— shame to
keep folks in jail until some poker-playin’ judge gets time to decide
whether they’re guilty enough to be tried or not.”
“Aw, they’ll likely get loose,” grunted Bud, as he got up from the
table. “If Jeff Garvin had twice as much sense he’d be half-witted.”
Bud went down to the corral and Frawley turned to see Pat standing in
the doorway. She was dressed for the trip.
“Did he say anything?” asked Pat, and then added, “Devlin?”
Frawley shook his head.
“No, he said it was better not to, little Pat. Did yuh notice that
Klooch is gone?”
“I wonder if she followed him?” mused Pat aloud. “He was the only human
being she ever showed affection for, and I—I hope she did go with him,
Jud.”
Frawley nodded.
“I sure hope she did. Bud will be here with the team in a minute.”
The ride to Oxbow was uneventful. Pat drove the buggy team, while
Frawley and Bud rode behind them over the rough road. Frawley noticed
that Bud was wearing a shoulder-holstered gun in addition to the one in
the holster at his hip. It looked to Frawley as if Bud was looking for
or expecting trouble.
Bud was riding a buckskin horse, a short-coupled animal, and a very
plain stock saddle. He missed the feel of his dancing sorrel and the
ornate saddle to which he had been accustomed.
Pat drove the team into the livery-stable, but Bud and Frawley
dismounted at a hitch-rack, where a number of horses were already tied.
There were more than the usual number of saddle-horses and vehicles at
the racks, caused no doubt by the trial. A cowboy rode in behind Bud and
dismounted.
“How are yuh, Bud,” he called, but Bud did not hear him.
“‘Chuck’ Ames yellin’ at yuh,” said Jud Frawley, and Bud turned his
head.
“Howdy, Chuck.”
“Been tradin’ horses with Garvin?” asked Ames.
Bud squinted at the cowboy, who was loosening his saddle-cinch.
“Whatcha mean, Chuck?”
Ames removed his hat and wiped his brow.
“Just wonderin’, thassall. I seen Garvin ridin’ yore sorrel into town
yesterday.”
“My sorrel?” Bud looked at Frawley and back at Ames. “Yuh must ’a’ been
seein’ things, Chuck.”
“Yeah? Reckon I know that sorrel kinda well, don’t I? The danged thing
cost me two months’ wages, when I bet that ‘Blondy’ Woods’ black mare
could beat him. Anyway, I’m bettin’ it was yore sorrel, and yore saddle.
I’d know that dew-dadded saddle anywhere.”
Bud said nothing. Frawley turned and went toward the sidewalk, while
Ames fished out the makings of a cigaret and rolled a smoke.
“I’d sure know that sorrel and saddle,” repeated Ames as he licked the
edge of the cigaret paper.
“——!” snapped Bud and started across the street.
Ames looked after him, an amused smile on his lean face.
“Whatcha know about that?” he grunted aloud. “Reckon I kinda rubbed the
Box M dude the wrong way. And he’s packin’ two guns, too. Hm-m-m!”
Ames shook his head and turned toward the nearest saloon.
Bud was growing desperate. He had lied about the loss of his horse and
saddle never thinking for a moment that Garvin had taken it. The whole
thing was plain to Bud now. He had killed Garvin’s horse in the coulée,
and Garvin had taken his sorrel. Garvin had taken that money, too.
Bud turned into the nearest saloon and got a drink. He was not a
drinker, but he needed bracing. Pete Havez was in the saloon, idly
fingering a deck of cards. He watched Bud take several drinks alone, and
also got a glimpse of the extra gun inside Bud’s unbuttoned vest. Pete
knew that when a man as well acquainted as Bud Deal was drank straight
whisky silently and alone, it meant that he was priming himself for
trouble.
Therefore Pete slid out of the place and went to find Jeff Garvin. He
found Garvin in the Cheyenne saloon, leaning on a bar, talking with some
cattlemen. Garvin was slightly intoxicated and in very good spirits. He
caught Pete’s signal from the doorway and came out as soon as he could
get away.
“Bud Deal’s in town,” said Pete. “He’s drinkin’ whisky all alone and
he’s got two guns on him. Got a shoulder-holster on under his vest.”
“Yeah?” Garvin shoved his sombrero back on his head and looked
quizzically at his new deputy. “Did he say anythin’, Pete?”
“He ain’t talkin’ to nobody,” declared Pete. “Kinda makes yuh feel that
he’s a rattler, without rattles.”
Garvin grinned widely. He had drunk just enough to make him reckless.
“Suppose he’s huntin’ trouble with me, Pete?”
“I dunno, Jeff; what do you reckon?”
“I reckon,” said Garvin, pulling his hat down over his brow, “I reckon I
better find out.”
“Better do some thinkin’ first,” advised Pete; “Bud Deal’s —— fast with
a gun.”
Garvin seemed to consider this worthwhile advice. He was not sure that
Bud knew of the lifted cache or not; but the chances were good that he
did. He did not doubt that Bud knew he had taken the sorrel. Taking it
all in all, Bud had reasons to hunt trouble with him.
“Deal ain’t gittin’ drunk, but he’s likely gittin’ plum bad,” offered
Pete.
“Cinch,” grunted Garvin. “You watch him, Pete. Kinda move around with
him, if yuh can, and if he gets too danged ornery we’ll snub him up
tight.”
Pete grinned and nodded. He loved a task of this kind. It savored of
real detective work, and also might offer him a chance to prove that he
was some adept with the short gun himself. Pete got a drink at the next
saloon and went hunting for Bud Deal.
He had no desire to face Bud in battle, but—if he could down Bud in a
fight it would be the makings of him as a gunman. The “if” loomed large
in front of Pete, and he decided to take things easy.
Bud Deal came out of the saloon door as Pete came down the sidewalk.
Bud’s hat was pulled low over his eyes and he stood in the middle of the
sidewalk, hands on his hips. Pete’s rapid walk slowed down as he neared
Bud, and he turned to go into the door. But Bud stepped in front of him.
“Yuh found Garvin, did yuh?” rasped Bud.
“Gug-Garvin?” stammered Pete nervously.
“Yuh went out to find him,” declared Bud, “and yuh wouldn’t ’a’ come
back unless yuh found him.”
Pete’s eyes glittered dangerously, but he made no move. They were so
close together that the first shot would not save its shooter unless it
was instant death.
Suddenly Bud’s left hand shot out and caught Pete by the shoulder,
yanking him sidewise, and a fraction of a second later Bud’s right fist
hooked into Pete’s jaw, knocking him backward against the building.
Bud stepped into him, yanked Pete’s gun from its holster and tossed it
into the middle of the street. Before the dazed deputy knew what was
going on he was kicked into the street, where he fell flat on his face
in the dust.
Bud turned on his heel, settled his hat more securely over his eyes and
went down the street, while Pete sat up in the street and sneezed the
dust out of his nose and mouth. He felt of his holster and looked
foolishly around. Just beyond him lay his six-shooter.
He limped out to it, put it in its holster and went toward the sheriff’s
office, holding his jaw in one hand and caressing the slack of his pants
with the other. He knew that his stealthy getaway from the saloon and
his sudden return had told Bud where he had been. He decided that Bud
was not only a dangerous fighter, but had brains as well.
Whisky seemed to have no effect on Bud, except to make him more cool. He
had made up his mind that he was never going back to the Box M ranch. He
could not explain the loss of his horse to them, without admitting that
he lied. He gazed into an empty glass, eyes half-shut, and pondered the
situation. He felt that there was a decided break between himself and
Pat. There would not be enough evidence to hold Flint and Wild, and when
they got back some one would be let out—and that some one would be he.
He was sure that Whitey was dead, which removed some worry from his
mind. Garvin had taken the money. Who had removed the dead Indian? Bud
filled his glass again and drank it in a single gulp. Should he kill
Garvin? He took out a silver dollar and glanced at both sides. Why not
let the dollar decide?
He flipped the dollar with his thumb. It clattered on the bar and rolled
off the opposite side. The bartender stepped in close and glanced down.
“See which side’s up!” growled Bud.
The bartender grinned widely.
“Can’t be done, pardner; it fell in the wash-tub.”
Bud whirled on his heel and started for the door.
“Yuh got four-bits comin’,” yelled the bartender, but Bud went on out,
while the bartender rolled up his sleeve and searched for the money.
“Every —— thing goes against me!” snarled Bud aloud as he got outside.
“Mebbe I better go easy.”
The click of poker-chips, the call of the dealer lured him into the
Telluride barroom and gambling-parlor, where he appropriated a seat and
bought chips. He lost twenty dollars in two hands and drew out of the
game.
He had began to grow irritable. Bud was not naturally an optimist, and
he fell an easy prey to extreme pessimism. He had a few more drinks, but
whisky only dulled his nerves more and made his outlook a dreary indigo.
He imagined that the whole world was against him and he laid his plans
accordingly.
He would meet Garvin and force him to tell where that money was. Yes, he
would likely kill Garvin after he had all this information, but that was
a mere incident. He could take that money and fade out of the country.
He wondered why he didn’t do that before.
He went into a restaurant and ordered a meal, but his appetite deserted
him and he left after drinking a cup of strong coffee. He met Pat and
Mrs. Moore, but did not speak to them. Pat turned and looked curiously
at him. A little farther on he met Frawley.
“Time to go up to the courtroom, Bud,” said Frawley.
“Court-room?” queried Bud absently. “Oh, yeah. Funny I forgot about it.
When did yuh come in, Jud?”
Frawley half-smiled. He knew that Bud was drunk and had forgotten that
they had ridden in together.
“Goin’ up now?” asked Frawley.
Bud stared vacantly at him and nodded. They walked to the courthouse and
went upstairs.
* * * * *
Quite a crowd had already gathered in the courtroom. Men spoke to
Frawley and Bud, calling them by their first names. Frawley replied to
the greetings, but Bud ignored them all. They went to the front of the
room and took seats inside the railing, where Bud humped over, elbows on
knees, and stared at the blank wall.
The place filled up in a short time. Dave Cleland, the prosecutor, came
in and sat down beside Frawley. Bud merely glanced at him. Mrs. Moore
and Pat arrived and sat down near. Another man came, a stranger. He was
tall and thin, with gray hair and a heavy mustache, and wore “store”
clothes. He sat down inside the railing. Bud lifted his eyes and looked
at him. It was the engineer of that train.
He merely glanced at Bud, but to Bud it was a glance filled with
meaning. Bud set his jaw and humped lower. He reviled himself for being
a fool. He should have known that the engineer would be there. Suddenly
he almost laughed aloud at the thought of the engineer being able to
identify either of the two robbers. They had been heavily masked. Bud
shook his head. He must be losing his reason—getting nerves.
Suddenly there came a stir in the room as the big, gray-haired judge
came out of his chamber and sat down at his desk. Oxbow had no police
judge before whom men might have a hearing; and it required that they be
held until the arrival of the circuit judge.
Bud watched the door through which the prisoners would come, and his
hand unconsciously loosened the pistol in his belt. The room had grown
very quiet. The big clock on the wall tick-tocked loudly. Heavy boots
creaked as men leaned forward to whisper to each other, and from here
and there came the clink of spurs.
The door opened and Pete Havez stepped in and aside to let Flint and
Wild Moore in, followed by Garvin. They took seats at a table. Whether
by chance or design, Garvin sat down at the table, with Flint Moore
between himself and Bud Deal.
The judge lost no time in opening the investigation. The engineer was
sworn and took the stand. His testimony was already known. No, he did
not recognize the prisoners as the men who had held up the train. He did
not observe whether either of them was as large a man as Flint Moore.
The subject of pistols was brought up, and the engineer stated that one
of them had a big pearl-handled Colt pistol, and he was willing to swear
that it was a .45 caliber. He was shown the muzzles of three pistols,
and was able to pick the .45 from a .38, .44 and .45.
Outside of that about the gun, the engineer’s testimony was vague and
useless to the prosecution. Garvin was called to the stand. He seemed
reluctant to leave his place behind Flint Moore but went to the witness
chair slowly, keeping his eyes on Bud, who did not look directly at him.
Garvin’s testimony drew a laugh from the crowd, as the prosecutor drew
out the details of the arrest and what followed. Oxbow knew that Flint
and Wild had come to Oxbow, herding the sheriff and deputy unarmed.
Garvin admitted that he had no evidence against them, other than they
had ridden in from that direction on the day of the hold-up. He said
that he suspected them, from that reason and also from the reason that
he knew that the Box M was in bad shape financially. Later on his
suspicions were strengthened by learning that one of the robbers used a
pearl-handled Colt .45. Flint Moore owned such a gun.
The court asked for the gun as evidence and Garvin stated that the gun
had never been found, and intimated that some one had secured it ahead
of him and concealed it.
Flint Moore took the stand, after Garvin had gone back to his seat, and
told his story. He had no alibi. They had been within a few miles of the
railroad. There was nothing further to tell. Wild was not called.
Frawley was put on the stand and drew a laugh, with his description of
the arrest. He knew nothing about the gun.
“I will put Bud Deal on the stand,” said Cleland.
Bud looked up foolishly. He had not expected to be put on the stand. He
got slowly to his feet and walked to the chair, where he took the oath.
Cleland’s voice seemed miles away, as Bud looked into the sea of faces.
Cleland was saying something about the gun, and Bud heard himself saying
that the gun had been hanging at the head of Flint Moore’s bed after the
hold-up. He could see Garvin leering at him; but his tongue ran on.
“Somebody stole the gun. Mebbe it was Devlin. He had a .45.”
“What Devlin?” asked Cleland.
“The Devlin, who was sent to the pen. He’s out again. Been working on
the Box M, under the name of Smith.”
The courtroom buzzed.
“Who hired him?” asked Cleland.
Bud pointed at Flint Moore.
“He did. I told him——”
Flint Moore surged to his feet.
“I’ve never seen this Devlin. Deal told me that——”
“Order in the court!” roared the judge. “There is only one witness
chair!”
“When did this Devlin come to the Box M?” asked Cleland.
“The night of the robbery,” replied Bud.
“Where is he now?”
Bud looked down at Mrs. Moore and Pat, and shook his head.
“I dunno. Frawley gave him an outfit last night and started him out of
the country, I reckon.”
Cleland turned and looked at Garvin.
“Did you know that Devlin was in the country?”
Garvin smiled and shook his head.
“I think he’s a —— liar!” snapped Bud, leaning forward in his chair.
Some cowboy in the back of the room cheered and the crowd laughed
heartily, while the judge pounded on his desk and roared for order.
“Another outburst like that and I shall clear the court!” roared the
judge, and turned to Bud. “You are not up there to give opinions, young
man!”
Garvin’s lips were white with wrath and his right hand was clenched
around the butt of his gun under the table.
“Where were you on the day of the robbery?” asked Cleland.
Bud jerked up his head at the question and stared at the prosecutor.
“Me? Why, I—I was out on the range.”
“Down near Snake Creek?”
“Say, you can’t put no deadwood on me!” snarled Bud. “I don’t know
anythin’ about the robbery.”
Cleland grinned. He was making Bud angry, and an angry witness is easy
to tangle.
“What kind of a gun did you carry that day?”
Bud’s face paled and he half-closed his eyes, as he stared at Cleland.
This was getting too personal for Bud and he set his nerves to carry it
off right.
Suddenly there came a commotion at the door and everyone turned. A voice
swore openly, wonderingly, and the crowd at the back of the room parted
to let a strange party through.
It was the old Indian, a ghastly caricature of blood, dirt and matted
hair, carrying the half-conscious form of Whitey Allen on his back. At
the Indian’s heels came the wolf-dog, and limping behind them came Jimmy
Devlin.
Every one in the courtroom stared at them as they came up the aisle,
straight toward the judge. Bud Deal, white-faced, his eyes wide and
staring, got out of his chair like a sleep-walker and moved aside as the
Indian came slowly up and placed Whitey in the witness chair. Then the
Indian slumped down on the edge of the platform, while Devlin stepped
in, facing the court.
Pat started to her feet, but Frawley grasped her arm, drawing her back.
Garvin half-sprawled across the table, gawping at them.
“Sure, I think I’ve come to the right place,” said Jimmy slowly. “We had
a divil’s own trip, and all for the lack of a pencil.”
Whitey had opened his eyes and looked around. He was so weak that it was
only with the greatest effort that he could remain erect in the chair.
“We made it, Whitey,” said Jimmy triumphantly. “This is the place to
talk.”
“What is the meaning of this?” demanded the judge.
Bud’s eyes blinked rapidly as he stared at the Indian he thought he had
killed and at Whitey, who must have perished in the cloudburst. His arms
twitched and he tried to make himself believe that it was only a
nightmare.
“Can ye talk, Whitey?” asked Jimmy. “Try it, pardner.”
Whitey moistened his lips and swallowed with difficulty. After a few
attempts he said weakly, hoarsely:
“Jimmy Devlin wasn’t guilty. I—robbed—that—train—last—year.
He—he—gave—me—a—chance.”
“Eh? What’s that?” questioned Cleland, while every one leaned forward to
hear what Whitey was saying.
Pat had gotten out of her chair and was standing with her hands clenched
in front of her as she stared at Jimmy.
“Devlin—wasn’t—guilty,” said Whitey weakly. “Don’t—you—believe—me?”
“What does this all mean?” questioned the judge.
Men were getting out of their seats and crowding forward. Bud’s eyes
shifted as he tried to see a way out of the room, but all exits were
blocked by the curious crowd.
Cleland turned to the judge.
“He means that Devlin wasn’t guilty of the crime he was convicted of,
judge.”
Whitey nodded and tried to smile, but the smile faded as his eyes turned
and he saw Bud Deal. Whitey did not have an ounce of strength left, but
every bit of hate in his dying body flashed to his face and his weak
voice shrilled:
“Bud Deal, you’re a dirty thief! You lifted that cache! You——” Whitey
slumped, exhausted—arms falling on either side of the chair.
Bud leaned back against the railing, as if bracing himself, one hand
clutching the lapel of his unbuttoned vest and the thumb of the other
hand hooked over his belt above the holster. Men moved silently and
swiftly from behind him. Garvin got half-way to his feet, one hand on
the table. Jimmy stood easily beside Whitey’s chair, but his
good-natured smile was not in evidence. The big Colt rested in its
holster, just in front of his thigh. He was looking at Bud Deal as he
spoke directly to him.
“Deal, ye made a bad mistake, when ye didn’t be sure ye killed the
Injun.”
Bud’s body tensed, but he made no reply.
“Whitey told me all about it, Bud Deal. The old buck had a hard head and
the bullet played ring-around-the-rosie.”
Jimmy looked at Garvin.
“Sheriff, ye may as well turn them folks loose and quit tryin’ to fool
the law.”
“Whatcha mean?” snarled Garvin, but his heart sank within him.
Pete Havez had moved out of his chair and was backed against the
railing, ready to draw.
“Judge, the Moores are innocent,” stated Jimmy, keeping his eyes on
Garvin and Bud. “There’s a showdown comin’ real soon and I want ye to
know things. Deal, don’t ye move a finger. Garvin, you’re too nervous to
shoot straight. Deputy, ye better keep out of this, ’cause it don’t
concern ye.”
Jimmy’s voice seemed to sing-song, without any particular inflexion.
“Will somebody get a doctor for Whitey Allen? He’s got a lot of things
to tell yet, and they’re worth hearin’. He was one of the men who held
up that train and he got shot. His pardner double-crossed him by liftin’
the cache, and now Whitey wants to clear the Moores and put the deadwood
where it belongs.”
“What cache did Bud lift?” asked Frawley.
“That’s a lie!” Bud fairly screamed. “I didn’t lift any cache!”
Jimmy held up his hand for silence as he shook his head in confirmation
of Bud’s denial.
“Whitey Allen was wrong there. He thought that Bud had double-crossed
him and taken the money, but Bud did not take it.”
Jimmy turned his head slightly and looked at Garvin.
“Do ye want me to tell who did take that money?”