On the second day after Ches' arrival, Bud had come through with the
mail, and before leaving, drew Jim aside, out of the boy's hearing.
"The little feller's yours agin all comers now, Jim," he said.
"What's that?" asked Jim, surprised by the meaning in the tone.
"He's _yours_," repeated Bud. "That sweet-scented blossom that called
himself the boy's dad, filled his skin with red-eye farther up the line
and settled the fuss he had with his dame."
"Hurt her?"
"Man!" said Bud slowly, "he used a knife a foot long--gave it to her a
dozen times as hard as he could drive--what's your opinion?"
"Lord Almighty! Did he get away? But no, of course he couldn't, being on
the train--"
"He didn't get away. The Con. wired the news to Kimballs. What was he to
do when a small army of punchers boarded the train and took the prisoner?
He couldn't do nothing, and he never loved that black-muzzled whelp from
the time he sassed him in the depot. The punchers took our friend out and
tried him."
"Tried him?"
"With a rope. In three minutes by; the watch he was found wanting--your
boy now, Jim, as I was telling you. Going to say anything to him about
it?"
"Why," said Jim, bewildered, "why, I don't know, Bud--guess not, just
yet, on general principles. What do you think?"
"Think you're right," said Bud. "The poor little rooster couldn't help
but feel glad to hear the news, but it would sound kind of awful to hear
a kid like that say he was glad two people were killed. Better wait till
he's been with you a while, Jim, and learned something different."