“IS THIS BIRD A PRISONER, OR AIN’T HE?”
While Dr. Rayburn, with Betty and Forbes to wait upon him, made
preparations to dress the wound, Sheriff Daniels listened to the story
of the ranchman. The officer was a hard-headed Westerner who applied
common sense to the business of maintaining law and order.
“Looks like that tramp Cig did it, unless this young fellow is passing
the buck for an alibi,” he said in a low voice.
Reed shook his head. “No, Frank. This boy’s all right. I thought at
first he might be in it, but I know now he wasn’t. He helped my girl
out of a hole yesterday--licked this Cig because he got fresh with
Bess. Even before that he had parted company with the other two. You’ll
go to barkin’ up the wrong tree if you suspect him.”
The sheriff looked at Tug. The vagrant was standing beside the piano
glancing at the music piled on top of it. Ragged, dusty, and unshaven,
he was not a prepossessing youth. Livid and purple bruises ridged his
pallid cheeks. Daniels found in the face something not quite normal,
and, since he was a clean outdoor man himself, an unhealthy variation
from the usual stirred in him a slight feeling of distrust.
“By yore way of it, Clint, you beat up this hobo here for trespassing
on yore land. I’d say from the looks of him you gave him a plenty. Does
it look reasonable to you that he’d trail the other hobo for miles to
protect you from him?”
“Not to protect me, Frank. He gave it to me straight it wasn’t for me.
’Seems he got to worryin’ about what this Cig might do to the children.
The fellow had been talkin’ about kidnapping and how easy it could be
pulled off. So this one--Tug he calls himself--followed Cig here. Looks
reasonable to me. He’s game. You’d ought to have seen him come at me
with his legs wobbling under him. Well, a game man doesn’t make war on
women and kids, does he?”
“Our kind of man doesn’t. But he’s not our kind. Looks to me like a
dope fiend. Expect he’s got a lot of these anarchist ideas tramps are
carryin’ around the country nowadays. I don’t say he’s guilty. What I
do say is that I’m not convinced he’s innocent. Far as being game goes,
this other man Cig is game enough, too, by what you say. Stood the
gaff, and then bawled you out, didn’t he?”
“He’s game like a cornered wolf. I tell you this one’s different. He’s
an educated man gone wrong. At first I didn’t get him right myself.”
“Sure you’ve got him right now?” the sheriff asked, smiling.
“Far as this business goes, I have. I’ll admit he’s got no cause to
like me, but I’ve got a hunch he’s white.”
“I’d rather have facts than hunches.”
The owner of the Diamond Bar K was a new convert to the opinion he
was giving voice to, and he was therefore a more eager advocate of
it. “Look at this from my point of view, Frank. I thrash him till he
can’t stand, and he pays me back by lookin’ out for Bess when she’s in
trouble. One of my men hauls him back here at the end of a rope. He
settles that score by tramping five or six miles to help us again. I’d
be a poor sort if I didn’t come through for him now.”
“Well, I’ll not push on my reins, Clint,” the officer promised. “Very
likely you’re right, and I’m sure not aimin’ to make trouble for any
innocent man. This tramp of yours will have every chance in the world
to show he’s straight. I’ll not arrest him unless I’ve got the goods on
him.”
Dr. Rayburn, ready for business, came forward fussily. “You quit
exciting my patient, Sheriff. Quit it. And move on out of this
sick-room. I don’t want any one here but Miss Bessie and Bridget and
Lon Forbes.”
The sheriff laughed. “All right, Doc. It’s yore say-so.”
He walked out of the room, the vagrant by his side.
“Am I under arrest?” the latter asked.
“You’re not under arrest, but I’d like yore word that you’ll stick
around till I’ve had a chance to size this thing up.”
“If I’d fire wheat and shoot a man down from cover, what good would my
word be?”
“That’s so.” The sheriff’s eyes swept up and down him. “Still, I’ll ask
for yore word. Reed believes in you. I don’t reckon you did this job.
Will you stay where I can reach you for a few days? I might need you as
a witness.”
“Yes.”
The sheriff was surprised, not at the promise, but at the sense of
reliance he put in it. It came to him that, if this young fellow
gave his word, he would keep it at any cost. Since this was scarcely
reasonable, he tried to reject the conviction. He recalled his court
experience in listening to witnesses. Some of the most convincing
were liars out of whole cloth, while honest ones with nothing to
conceal were at times dragged sweating through a tangle of incompatible
statements.
“Better go to the bunkhouse and wait there. I’ll fix it with Forbes so
you can sleep there to-night,” Daniels said.
Tug walked to the bunkhouse and sat down on the porch. After a time
the car returned with the men. They had not been able to find any one
hiding in the brush or hurrying to escape.
Daniels took charge of the man-hunt. “We’ll tackle this job on
horseback, boys,” he said. “This fellow will make for the railroad.
He’ll jump a train at a station or a water-tank if he can. We’ll patrol
the points where the cars stop.”
The foreman came down to the bunkhouse. Evidently he had his orders.
“Boys, the sheriff’s in charge of this job now. You’ll do as he says.”
Dusty spoke up. He and others had been looking with open and menacing
suspicion at the paroled prisoner. That young man sat on the porch,
chair tipped back on two legs, smoking a cigarette with obvious
indifference to their hostility. The coolness of his detachment from
the business of the hour was irritating.
“What about this bird here?” Dusty wanted to know. “Is he a prisoner,
or ain’t he?”
Forbes passed on further orders. He did it in a dry voice that refused
responsibility. “He ain’t. The boss says he’s under obligations to him
an’ you boys will treat him right. An’ he means every word of it. I
wouldn’t advise none of you to get gay with--with our guest.”
“How is the boss?” asked Burt.
“Doc says he’ll do fine if no complications occur.”
“He’s got the right idea, Doc has,” Burwell grinned. “Always leave
yoreself an alibi. Operation successful, but patient shy of vitality.
No flowers, please.”
“Tha’s no way to talk,” reproved Forbes. “The old man’s all right. He’s
lying there on the chaste lounge chipper as a woodchuck in the garbage
barrel at a dude ranch. You got a consid’rable nerve to get funny about
him, Burwell.”
“I didn’t aim for to get funny about him, but about the doc,”
apologized the harvest hand. “Looks like when I open my mouth I always
put my foot in it.”
“You put more ham an’ aigs an’ flannel cakes in it than any guy I
ever did see,” commented the foreman. “I been watchin’ to see if all
that fuel wouldn’t mebbe steam you up for work, but I ain’t noticed
any results yet. Prob’ly you wear out all yore strength talkin’
foolishness.”
“That had ought to hold you hitched for a while, Burwell,” Dusty
chuckled.
“All right, boys. Let’s go. Get busy,” the sheriff ordered crisply.
They poured out of the bunkhouse to get their horses.