IN THE NAME OF FRIENDSHIP
Twenty yards from the door he drew rein, sitting still, frowning into
the darkness. Not for the first time was he realizing that the note
might not be from Clayton at all; that some other man could have known
of his debt of gratitude to the little fellow who had befriended him
five years ago; that the name might have been used to draw him here,
alone and very far from any ears to hear, any eyes to see, what might
happen. He could name a half dozen men who were not above this sort of
thing, men who had, some of them, sworn to "get him." There were the
Bedloe boys, the three of them. There were two other men who do not come
into this story. There was Henry Pollard.
"And it would be almighty like Pollard to put up a job like this," he
told himself grimly. "He could afford to pay a man a good little pile to
get me out of the game, and keep the money I've paid him and get back
his range besides. And I reckon the Kid would be one of a dozen who
would take on the job dirt cheap!"
He reined his horse a little deeper into the shadows. Then he slipped
swiftly from the saddle, one end of his thirty-feet rope in his hand,
the other end about the horse's neck, and with a quick flick of the
quirt sent the animal trotting ahead to swing about and stop when the
rope drew taut. He half expected his ruse to draw fire from somewhere in
the darkness. Instead there came a low voice, sharp and querulous,
through the open door.
"That you, Buck?"
"Yes. That you, Clayton?"
"Yes. Are you alone?"
"Yes."
Then Thornton came on swiftly, coiling his rope as he walked. For he had
recognized the voice.
"What's the matter, Jimmie?" He was at the door now, peering in but
making nothing of the blot of shadows.
"Come in," Clayton answered. "An' shut the door, Buck. I'll make a light
when the door's shut."
He stepped in, dropping his rope, and moving slowly again, his back
against the wall. For after all he would not be sure of everything until
there was a light, until he saw that he was alone with Clayton.
A match sputtered, making vague shadows as it was held in a cupped hand.
It travelled downward to the earthen floor, found the stub of a candle,
and then the greater light, poor as it was, drove out the shadows. And
Thornton saw that it was Jimmie Clayton, that the man was alone, and
that evidently his note had put it mildly when he had said that he had
struck "hard luck."
The man, small, slight and nervous looking, lay upon a bed of boughs,
covered with an old saddle blanket, his eyes bright as though with fever
or fear. The skin of his face where it was seen through the black
stubble of beard looked yellow with sickness. The cheek bones stood out
sharply, little pools of shadow emphasizing the hollowness of his sunken
cheeks. Above the waist he was stripped to his undershirt; a rude
bandage under the shirt was stained the reddish brown of dried blood. A
quick pity drove the distrust out of the eyes of the man who saw and who
remembered.
"You poor little devil!" he said softly. He reached out his hand
quickly, downright hungrily, for Jimmie's.
Clayton took the hand eagerly and held it a moment in his tense hot
fingers as his eyes sought and studied Thornton's. Then he sank back
with a little satisfied sigh, lying flat, his hands under his head.
"I'm sure gone to seed, huh, Buck?" he demanded.
"It's tough, Jimmie. Tell me about it."
The broken line of discolored teeth showed suddenly under the lifted
lip.
"It ain't much to tell, Buck," Clayton answered slowly as the snarl left
the pinched features. "But it's somethin' for a man to think about when
he lays in a hole like this like a sick cat. But, Buck," and he spoke
sharply, "didn't you bring no grub with you?"
"Yes, Jimmie. Wait a minute." Thornton stepped outside, not forgetting
to close the door quickly after him, jerked the little package from his
saddle strings where it had posed all day as his own lunch, and brought
it back into the dugout. "I didn't know just what you wanted, but here's
some bread and a hunk of cold meat and here's some coffee. We'll get it
to boiling in a minute, and..."
"An' a drink, Buck?" eagerly. "You brung a flask, didn't you?"
"Yes, Jimmie," Thornton assured him with a quiet smile. He whipped the
flask from his pocket and removing the cork held it out. "I remember
that you used to say a meal without a drink wasn't any use to you."
Clayton put out a swift hand for the flask, shot it to his lips, and the
gurgle of the running liquor spoke of a long draught.
"Now, the grub, Buck." He sat up, a little healthier color in his
cheeks. "Let the coffee go; it'll come in handy tomorrow."
Thornton made a cigarette and leaning back against the door watched this
outcast who bore the brand of the hunted on his brow, whose eyes were
feverish with a hunger that was ravenous.
"Poor little old Jimmie," he muttered under his breath.
Clayton picked over the contents of the little package with hasty
fingers, pushing the bread aside, eating noisily of the meat. When at
last he had finished he rolled up the remainder of the lunch in the
greasy paper, thrust it under the corner of his blanket, and put out his
hands for the tobacco and papers.
"I ain't even had a smoke for three days, Buck. Hones' to Gawd, I
ain't."
"Now, Jimmie," Thornton suggested when both men were smoking, and
Clayton again lay on his back, resting, "better tell me about it. Can't
I move you over to my cabin?"
"No, Buck. You can't. An' I'll tell you." He broke off suddenly, his
eyes burning with an anxious intensity upon Thornton's. Then, with a new
note in his voice, a half whimper, he blurted out, "Hones' to Gawd, I'll
blow my brains out before I let 'em get me again! But you wouldn't give
me away, Buck, would you? You'd remember how I stuck by you down in El
Paso, won't you, Buck? You wouldn't give a damn for ... for a reward if
they was to offer one, would you, Buck? 'Cause you know I'd shoot myself
if they got me, an' you don't forget how I stuck to you, do you, Buck?"
"No, Jimmie," came the assurance very softly. "I don't give a damn for
the reward and I don't forget. Pull yourself together, Jimmie."
"Then here it is, an' I'll give you my word, s'elp me Gawd, that every
little bit of it is like I'm tellin' you. I ain't stringin' you, Buck,
an' I am puttin' myself in your hands, like one friend with another.
That's right, ain't it?"
"That's right, Jimmie. Go ahead."
"They had me in the pen, then; you knowed that, Buck? Run me in, by
Gawd, because I happened to be havin' a drink with a man named Stenton
an' a man named Cosgrove an' a dirty Mex as was all crooked an' was
wanted for somethin' they pulled off back down there ... I don't know
rightly what it was, damn if I do, Buck! But they wanted _somebody_, an'
they got the deadwood on them jaspers, an' me bein' seen with 'em, they
put me across, too. Put me across three years ago, Buck! An' it was
hell, jes' hell, that's all. Hell for a man like me, Buck, as is used to
sleepin outdoors an' the fresh air blowin' over the big ranges, an'
horses an' things. An' ... well, I stood it for three years, Buck. Three
years, man! Think o' that! _You_ don't know what it means. An' then,
when I couldn't stand it no longer," and his voice dropped suddenly and
the look of the hunted ran back into his eyes, "I broke jail. An' I got
this."
He touched his fingers gingerly to the bandaged side, wincing even with
the gesture.
"Two bullets," he muttered. "Colt forty-fives. An' I been like this nine
days. Or ten, I ain't sure. An' nights, Buck. The nights ... Gawd!"
Thornton, his lips tightening a little, watched the man and for a moment
said nothing. And then, suddenly, his voice commanding the truth:
"Don't hold back anything, Jimmie," he said. "It'll be all over the
country in a week, anyway. How'd you make your get-away? Did you have
to kill anybody?"
He had his answer in the silence which for ten seconds Clayton's
twitching lips hesitated to break. When spoken answer came it was broken
down into a whisper.
"I ... I wasn't goin' to hurt anybody, Buck. Hones' to Gawd, I wasn't.
An' then, then I got hold his gun, an' I seen he was goin' to fight for
it, an' I ... I _had_ to shoot! I didn't go to kill him, Buck! An' he
shot me firs' with the other gun ... you oughta see them holes in my
side!... an'...." He stopped abruptly, and then, a little defiance
sweeping up into his eyes, rushing into his voice, he ended sulkily,
"The son of a ---- had it comin' to him!"
For a long time Buck Thornton, sunk into a deep, thoughtful silence,
said nothing. Jimmie's account of an adventure of this kind was sure to
be garbled; considering it in an attempt to get to the truth at the
bottom of it was an occupation comparable to that of staring down into
muddy water in search of a hidden white pebble. He knew Jimmie Clayton.
He knew him as perhaps Clayton did not know himself. The man had been
sent to state's prison, not because of the company he kept, but because,
in Jimmie's own words, "he had it comin'." He had known long ago that
Jimmie Clayton would end this way, or worse. Now Clayton was giving his
own version of the killing of the guard, and this version would probably
be a lie. But through all of these considerations which Thornton saw so
clearly there was something else; something seen as clearly, looming
high and distinct above them: Jimmie had played the part of friend when
but for a friend Thornton would have died. That counted with Buck
Thornton. And now Clayton had sent for him, had entrusted into his hands
all hope of safety. And he was not this man's judge.
While the cowboy sat silent and thoughtful Jimmie Clayton was watching
him, watching him with anxiety brilliant in his eyes, his tongue
moistening, constantly moistening the lips which went dry and parched
and cracked. Thornton knew, without lifting his eyes from the pool of
shadow quivering at the base of the candle stub.
"You ain't goin' back on me, Buck!" The wounded man had drawn himself up
on his elbow. "I'll leave it to you, Buck, if I didn't stick by you when
you was in trouble. Remember, Buck, when I found you, out on the trail
between Juarez and El Paso. And you don't care a damn about the reward,
Buck; you said so, didn't you?"
"Jimmie," said Thornton slowly, lifting his eyes from the floor to meet
both the pleading and the terror in Clayton's, "I'm going to do what I
can for you. But I don't quite know what is to be done. They're going to
be on your trail mighty soon if they're not on it now. Can you ride?"
"I can't ride much, Buck." And yet Clayton's voice rang with its first
note of hope. For if Thornton knew him, then no less did Clayton know
Thornton. And Buck had said that he was going to help him. "I rode them
two hundred miles getting here, me all shot to hell that away. An' I
rode into your camp las' night to leave the letter. An' I guess if it
had been half a mile fu'ther I wouldn't never have made it back."
"Why didn't you come in at my cabin? I'd have fixed you up there."
"I come awful near it, Buck! I wanted to. But I didn't know. There might
'a' been some of the other boys bunkin' there an' I wasn't takin'
chances."
"I see. Now, let's see what we're goin' to do."
He stood whipping at his boots with his quirt, trying to see a way. This
lonely place might be a safe refuge for a few days. But range business
sometimes carried his men this far, and soon or late some one would
stumble upon Clayton's hiding place. Clayton's voice, eager again and
confident, broke into his thoughts.
"I got to find somebody as'll give me a lift, ain't I? A man can't go on
playin' a lone han' like I'm adoin' an' get away with it long. Now, I
got to be laid up here four or five days, anyway, until I can ride
again. You can keep your punchers away from here that long, can't you?"
"Yes. I can give them plenty to do on the other end."
"That's good. An' you can ride out again, at night, you know, Buck, an'
smuggle me some more grub, can't you?"
"Yes. But...."
"Wait a minute! I know a man in Hill's Corners as'll give me a han'. I
done him favours before now, same as I done for you, Buck. An' he knows
the ropes up here. You can git word to him, can't you? An' then I'll
drift, an' he'll look out for me, an' you'll be square with what I done
for you, Buck. Will you do it?"
"Yes, Jimmie. I'll do it. I'll ride in and see your man at the Corners.
Who is it, Jimmie?"
"An' you won't tell nobody but him, will you, Buck?"
"No. I won't tell any one else. Who is it?"
"It's a man as may be crooked with some," said Clayton slowly. "But he's
awful square with a pal. It's a man name of Bedloe. They call him the
Kid."