“What do yuh mean?”
Jimmy leaned forward a little and his right hand came up a trifle higher
than his waist, fingers spread. Bud Deal had seen Jimmy do that before.
“Ye know what I mean!” Jimmy’s voice snapped in the silent room.
Whitey Allen seemed to regain consciousness for a moment at the sound of
Jimmy’s voice and his eyes opened.
“I—I’m glad,” he croaked, “I’m glad it was Bud Deal instead of me that
killed the fireman. He shot——”
Bud Deal’s move was too swift to follow and Whitey’s confession was
never finished. The windows of the little courtroom shook with the
concussion of Bud’s heavy pistol and Whitey pitched forward out of his
chair.
Garvin’s hand swung up, clutching a pistol, but he was too late.
Jimmy’s hand flashed up holding the big gun, but Frawley had flung
himself into Bud and Jimmy could not shoot without danger of hitting
Frawley, who seemed to have missed his tackle and was clawing
desperately to clutch Bud’s gun.
Bud whirled toward Garvin, whose hand had swung up from beside the
table, and the fact that Garvin shot wide-armed and cramped by the table
caused him to miss Jimmy by scant inches.
A fraction of a second later Jimmy shot—so close to the report of
Garvin’s gun that few people knew that both men had fired. Garvin
crumpled back in his chair and his pistol thudded to the floor.
Pete Havez, ignorant of Garvin’s reasons, but thinking it was his duty,
was shooting at Jimmy—shooting wildly. Jimmy whirled and shot once
more—shot almost over Flint Moore’s head, and Pete Havez spun on his
heel, fired a wild shot at the ceiling and draped himself across the
railing.
Bud Deal had torn away from Frawley, tripping him as he got away, and
had fired twice at Jimmy—twice at a distance of ten feet, and
missed—missed because the old Indian was diving at him, arms
outstretched.
He swung his pistol and struck the Indian over the head, kicked at him
as he fell, and then whirled, vaulted the railing and tore for the rear
door, with his two guns driving back the crowd.
But the crowd was willing to get back. Many of them had slid down
between the seats, flat on the floor to be safe from flying lead. Bud
raced for the door, where he whirled and shot the length of the room at
Jimmy, who was vaulting the railing, and the bullet splintered a window
back of the jury-box.
Klooch darted past Jimmy as he went out of the door and down the stairs.
Bud raced for the hitch-rack, which was across the street from the
courtroom, and was half-way to the horses, when Jimmy came out the lower
door.
Bud whirled, as the wolf-dog ran into him, and shot almost into her
face. The bullet ripped along her head and the flash of powder blinded
her; but she had stopped him in his flight.
The crowd had rushed to the windows of the courtroom. Some one threw a
chair through one of them, to view the street better, and the chair
crashed into the dust near Jimmy.
Bud was standing about half-way across the street, with his feet braced
far apart, gun held hip-high. His hat was gone. He had dropped one gun
in his flight, and now he had only one cartridge left in that gun, with
which he had done all his shooting—five shots.
Klooch was groveling in the street, trying to paw the pain from her
burned head. Jimmy was moving slowly toward Bud, his gun swinging easily
in his hand, when out of the lower door appeared the Indian, coming in
behind Jimmy.
His face was a welter of fresh blood from the blow, which Bud had dealt
him with a gun-barrel; but he did not waver, as he came into the street,
head held low, his back bent, arms held wide, as if to grasp something.
A voice from one of the windows called a hoarse warning to Jimmy; but
the Indian walked past him, giving Jimmy no heed, going straight toward
Bud.
Bud lifted his gun and took deliberate aim at the advancing Indian, but
the Indian came on unfaltering. Bud’s arm shook with the strain of
holding the gun. He could not pull the trigger.
He had only one shot left. The Indian was unarmed. It flashed through
Bud’s mind that Jimmy was the one to shoot. He could use the empty gun
on the unarmed Indian.
Now the Indian was between Bud and Jimmy, coming slower. Bud sprang
aside to fire his last shot, but he had forgotten the wolf-dog. His feet
tangled in a squirming snapping bulk and he fell heavily, his gun
slipping from his hand as he fell.
As he sprawled in the dust, the Indian dived into him. For a moment they
seemed to tangle in a whirl of arms and legs, and then the Indian
staggered to his feet, with his arms locked around Bud’s body. They
swayed for a moment. Like a flash the Indian shifted his hold, lifted
Bud off his feet and threw him upside-down; and before any one could
anticipate his next move he picked Bud up in his arms, slung him across
his shoulder and ran up the street toward another hitch-rack. Bud was as
limp as Whitey had been.
Jimmy watched them go, but made no effort to stop the Indian. He caught
Klooch by the scruff of the neck and drew her to him, while he knelt in
the street and tried to examine her burns and bruises. The crowd poured
out of the courtroom and filled the street. Frawley and Pat were the
first ones to reach Jimmy. Men were yelling at each other, running for
their horses.
“My ——!” exclaimed Frawley. “Look at the Indian! He’s on Whistler and
he’s got Bud in his arms!”
Jimmy glanced up the street. The Indian had mounted the roan outlaw and
had Bud draped across the saddle in front of him. Men ran out from
across the street and tried to stop them, but the Whistler whirled and
came straight down the street, running hog-wild, with reins flying. More
men tried to stop them, but Whistler never wavered, while the Indian
leaned forward, both arms holding Bud’s limp body, riding out of town
like a tornado.
“The Injun wants to pay Bud for that shot in the dark,” panted Jimmy.
“The old boy got a nasty bump on the head out at the Pulpit and it kinda
cleared his mind. Whitey told him that Bud shot him.”
Men were mounting to give chase, yelling orders, asking questions. Pat
turned to Jimmy, her face gray with the horror of it all, and took hold
of his arm. Flint Moore came up to them, staring at Jimmy and Pat, who
were looking into each other’s faces. Mrs. Moore and Wild came to them.
Horses were passing them, showering the dust and gravel of the street as
they started out to follow the Indian and his burden. Klooch sniffed at
Jimmy and stood up, putting her paws on his chest, while her burned eyes
blinked open and she gave a short bark.
“Glory be!” exclaimed Jimmy. “Look, Pat! The wolf-dog’s eyes are open
again. Oh, ye blessed wild divil! Ye came to me in the night, so ye
did.”
“A lot of eyes have been opened today, Jimmy,” answered Pat slowly, as
she turned to her father and said, “Dad, meet Jimmy Devlin.”
Flint Moore squinted into Jimmy’s eyes, as they gripped hands.
“Son,” said Flint Moore softly, “why didn’t you kill Bud Deal?”
Jimmy shook his head slowly.
“Sure, I’m not clear in me own mind yet. Mister Frawley got before me in
the courtroom and I could not shoot. Out here—” Jimmy glanced across the
street—“out here I had no fear of his gun. Bedad, I believe I thought it
was empty, and—and—” Jimmy smiled wistfully—“and who am I to be shootin’
up train-robbers?”
Wild Moore stepped in and held out his hand just as Dave Cleland bustled
into them breathlessly.
“Garvin got it through the shoulder!” he exclaimed. “Pete Havez wasn’t
so lucky, but he’ll get well. Whitey Allen must have been almost dead
before Bud shot him. Now, I want to shake hands with Devlin. I’ll see
that you get complete exoneration, Devlin.”
Cleland bustled away, spilling half a package of flake-cut tobacco over
the edge of his pipe-bowl and trying to light the empty pipe.
Frawley turned to Flint Moore.
“I reckon I’ll get my horse and follow the chase, Flint. I’ll drop in to
see yuh in a few days.”
“Why—why—” faltered Flint.
“No, I’ve resigned,” grinned Frawley. “The Box M can’t afford to pay
wages to more than one man, and I reckon Devlin’s goin’ to quit bein’ a
boomer.”
Frawley walked swiftly toward the hitch-rack. Jimmy looked at Pat slyly
and a sober expression crossed his homely face as she asked, “Are you,
Jimmy?”
“I’m thinkin’,” said Jimmy slowly, “that I’d kinda like to be able to
answer folks, when they ask me where I came from—and the Box M is easy
to say.”