Front matter (continued 2)

“Alive?” gasped Whitey, and relapsed in a fit of coughing, which racked his thin frame. Jimmy waited until he recovered.

“Aye—alive, Whitey, me lad. And ye never reached Arizona after all. Hard, hard luck. Have ye been here all this time?”

Whitey Allen stared at the ceiling for a moment and nodded. Jimmy looked down at the Indian, who was snoring contentedly, and stirred him with his foot.

“And this has been takin’ care of ye, eh? Drunken Injun. Some white man, with the soul of a coyote, has sold ye fire-water. ’T’is a shame, so it is. Have ye no doctor, Whitey?”

Whitey Allen shook his head.

“No, I don’t need one.”

Jimmy nodded sadly. Whitey Allen had told him over fifteen months before this that nothing but Arizona would save him from tuberculosis. He and Jimmy had bunked together in the eastern part of the State. Jimmy had drifted on and had not seen Whitey until one day a little later he met him near the Devil’s Pulpit.

Haltingly he had told Jimmy of a train robbery in the county to the east, across the Bitter River. He had robbed a train to get money enough to go to Arizona to win back his health; but the sheriff was close on his trail, and he knew the sheriff would win.

Jimmy’s heart went out to Whitey, and his impulsive Irish blood made him offer himself as a sacrifice. He made Whitey trade horses with him, which gave Jimmy a pinto of peculiar markings. Whitey had cried like a baby over it all, and swore that he was going to leave half of the money under the floor of that certain cabin in the coulée to the left of the Pulpit, where Jimmy could find it. Jimmy led the sheriff a merry chase; but was captured. He had no alibi.

He sat down on a broken chair and looked at Whitey. There was no question in Jimmy’s mind about Whitey’s being in the last stages of the disease. It seemed hard that he must pass out under these conditions. He could imagine Whitey in that leaky little cabin during the terrible Winter. No wonder the man was dying.

The stove was a mass of rust-eaten sheet-iron and looked as if it might fall apart under the weight of a skillet. A small dry-goods box, nailed against the wall, was used as a cupboard, and its visible contents would hardly make a meal for one hungry man.

“Sure, we’ll have to get ye out of here, Whitey,” said Jimmy cheerfully. “A drunken Injun is —— poor company for a sick man.”

Whitey shook his head.

“Lemme alone, Jimmy. I’m fine. Please don’t try to move me—please.”

“Well, may the divil fly away with ye!” grunted Jimmy. “I’d only do it for your own good. Did ye know the judge gave me three years and the State got tired of me in fifteen months? I’m out on parole.”

Whitey choked softly.

“I’m—sorry, Jimmy. Somebody got that money—the money I was leavin’ for you.”

“Aw, to —— with the money! I would never take it, even if I did earn it in that human corral.”

“I planted yours,” said Whitey painfully. “Under the floor, like I said, but——”

“Forget it, Whitey. Tell me about yourself.”

“I’m here yet,” Whitey smiled sadly. “I hid out here for a while, thinkin’ maybe they’d find me. I got worse and had to stay. The big Injun took care of me. Thassall.”

“Where did he get the whisky, Whitey?”

“I dunno. Came in last night with the jug and drank himself pink.”

“And feeds ye on slumgullion, I suppose. Man, ye need milk and eggs and nursin’.”

“Jimmy, will you promise me one thing?”

“I’d be hard-hearted as ——, if I didn’t. What is it?”

“Don’t tell anyone I’m here. I’ll get along.”

Jimmy studied Whitey for a while. It seemed strange that he preferred to die alone. Human nature is a queer combination of desires, and Jimmy knew this. Perhaps Whitey had a good reason for it. Disease plays queer pranks with a man’s mind, and it might be that Whitey had an aversion to seeing any one.

“You’re free, white and twenty-one,” said Jimmy slowly. “If ye desire it that way, Whitey—God bless ye. But can’t I do nothin’ for ye?”

“Nothin’,” said Whitey shortly. “Just lemme alone.”

He coughed deeply and settled down on his pillow. Jimmy watched him for a few minutes and went to the door. The drunken Indian snored harshly and rolled over, still clutching the demijohn.

Jimmy untied the roan and vaulted into the saddle. He studied the cabin for a while, rode around the open side of it and into the coulée, taking a cattle-trail, which led out at the head of the coulée and on to the ridge.

He had ridden perhaps two miles, sitting loosely in the saddle, deep in thought. He wanted to help Whitey, but did not want to break his promise to tell no one. He felt the roan throw up its head and slow its pace. He glanced up and saw Jeff Garvin riding down the slope toward him.

Jimmy stopped and waited for Garvin to come up.

“Kinda warm,” remarked Garvin, shoving back his hat and wiping his brow with his sleeve.

“Sure it is,” agreed Jimmy, turning in his saddle and looking back toward the coulée, “I’ve been kinda lookin’ around and it seems that the Winter did ruin a lot of good beef.”

Garvin nodded and squinted across the hills.

“Did yuh come up that brushy coulée?”

Jimmy nodded.

“Yes. I swung into it below that old cabin and came out at the head of it.”

“Anybody livin’ in the cabin?”

“No. Wouldn’t be fit for anybody to live in.”

Garvin nodded as if just a trifle disappointed. Jimmy did not want Garvin to go down there and find Whitey Allen and the drunken Indian.

“Been over to the Box M today?” asked Jimmy.

Garvin shook his head.

“Naw. I passed the bunch goin’ to town.” He yawned sleepily and relaxed with a grin. “I wonder where in —— that pearl-handled gun is.”

Jimmy said nothing. If Garvin only knew it, that gun was hanging within his reach right now; but the plain wood handles, stained dark by rubbing with powdered pencil lead, bore little resemblance to those beautiful pieces of pearl. Garvin eased himself sidewise in his saddle and squinted at Jimmy.

“Pardner, where did you come from?”

Jimmy stared down at the ground thoughtfully for a few moments and then grinned at Garvin.

“Do I look queer? Is there anything about me that seems different from other folks? Do I wear strange raiment or cut my hair unlike other men?”

“Why ask all them questions?” grunted Garvin.

“Because folks are always askin’ me where I came from. What in the —— has me last stoppin’ place got to do with you or any one else?”

“Strangers ain’t never very numerous around here,” replied Garvin evenly, “and you kinda drifted in at a bad time.”

“Well,” Jimmy’s eyes twinkled, “well, should I go back and get a fresh start? Or is it that you’ve found you arrested the wrong parties?”

Garvin glared at Jimmy for a moment, struggling to keep his temper, and then,

“Which don’t tell me who you are or where you came from, pardner.”

“No,” softly, “and that’s only a part of it, sheriff.”

The smile had left Jimmy’s good-natured face, and his blue eyes seemed to fade to a steel-gray. Garvin started to say something, but changed his mind. He turned, as if to ride away.

“Talkin’ now might save yuh trouble.”

“Sure now, I never depend on me tongue to keep me out of a bit o’ trouble. Good afternoon.”

Jimmy shook up the roan and rode straight up the slope, while Garvin rode along the side of the hill, heading back toward Oxbow.

“Now why did he speak of that little cabin?” reflected Jimmy. “I had to lie to him about the place, but I’m sure the lie hurt no one. Poor Whitey. Nursed by a drunken Injun. He needs good care and he needs good eats. I’ve heard that eggs and milk is the proper grub. Hm-m-m! From the looks of him he’d keep the chickens and the cows workin’ a day and night shift.”

Jimmy rode slowly back toward the Box M, deep in his thoughts; letting the roan take its own way.

VII

Mrs. Moore, Pat and Bud went straight to the office of Dave Cleland, the prosecuting attorney. He had known the Moore family for years, and sympathized with them; but his duty was to prosecute, in spite of friendship. He shook hands with them and patted Mrs. Moore on the shoulder. Cleland was tall and thin, with keen eyes, sharp nose and partly bald head. He smoked flake-cut tobacco in a well-seasoned cob-pipe and spent a great part of his time stuffing in fresh tobacco.

“Are you going to keep my husband and son in jail, Dave Cleland?” demanded Mrs. Moore.

Cleland refilled his pipe slowly and lit a match on his shoe sole.

“Well, Mrs. Moore, I—I wish I could turn ’em both loose; but I can’t. Judge Whaley will be here this week and give them a hearing. As far as I can see, there is no evidence; but the sheriff assures me that he’ll have the evidence. It appears that the bulk of the evidence centers in and around a pearl-handled pistol of large caliber.”

Pat flushed slightly. Bud had been watching her closely, and wondered what she knew about this gun.

“My husband had such a gun,” declared Mrs. Moore.

“Hm-m-m!” Cleland seemed to have trouble with the stem of his pipe. “I believe so. In fact I have seen it myself; but it can only be put into evidence in its material form.”

“Then you—the law can not do a thing until after the hearing takes place?” queried Pat.

“I’m sorry,” said Cleland. “Honest, I am sorry, Patricia. Please don’t hold this against me, will you? I am only a tool of the law.”

“Of course you can not help it, Dave. You are only performing your duty.”

As they left the office Cleland walked to the door with them, his arm around Mrs. Moore’s shoulders. He thought a lot of Mrs. Moore, and it distressed him to think that he was partly instrumental in bringing sorrow to them.

They went to the sheriff’s office, which they found to be locked. They had met Garvin on the road. He had barely nodded to them. There was no way of getting into the jail to talk of Flint Moore and Wild. While they debated the situation, Jud Frawley rode in and dismounted across the street.

He saw the three in front of the sheriff’s office and crossed the street to them. Frawley owned a bony, seamed countenance, which never seemed to change expression, being habitually serious. He was of medium height, slightly bowed of legs and walked with a slight limp, a memento of a gun-fight with a Mexican, in which Frawley got a bullet in the knee and the Mexican got attended by the coroner.

“Kinda lookin’ for yuh, Jud,” greeted Bud Deal, but Frawley ignored the greeting until after he had shaken hands with Mrs. Moore and Pat.

“Lookin’ for me?”

“Yes,” said Pat. “We want to see dad and Wild.”

“Shucks!” Frawley looked utterly downcast. “I reckon I’m goin’ to be about as much use to you as a tack-hammer in a blacksmith shop. Garvin cut my picket-rope yes’day.”

“Discharge you?” asked Pat, quickly.

“Yes’m—kinda like that. Yuh see, me and him looks out upon the world with different kind of eyes, and Garvin reckons that he sees a lot better than I do. Anyway—” Frawley shook his head—“my eyes ain’t like no spy-glass, the same of which yuh can twist a screw and make the things fit for anybody.”

“Then we won’t be able to see them?”

Mrs. Moore was very near tears. It was hot in front of that building, and the dust from a passing wagon drifted into their faces. Frawley looked sadly at her.

“Mrs. Moore, ma’am—yuh sure got my p’mission. ’F I had a key I’d sure let yuh in—you and li’l Pat.”

In spite of the situation Pat smiled. Jud Frawley had always called her little Pat. Bud looked quickly at Frawley. He had only mentioned Mrs. Moore and Pat.

“I did want to see him,” sighed Mrs. Moore. “It isn’t right, Jud. And we’ve got some clean clothes for them.”

“I’ll see that they git the clothes,” volunteered Jud quickly. “Leave ’em with me and I’ll hang around till Garvin shows up.”

“Mebbe he won’t let you in,” suggested Bud.

“The —— he won’t!” exploded Frawley. “’F he tries to stop me I’ll nail the seat of his pants to the floor and leave him there to starve.”

Bud laughed sneeringly, but Frawley merely looked keenly at him.

“You don’t believe dad and Wild held up that train, do you, Jud?” asked Pat.

“——, no! Ex-cuse my profanity, folks. I ain’t in no way connected with the law now, and I can talk up in church without havin’ some sneakin’ coyote packin’ the talk to the sheriff. I hope the party what told him about me will tell Jeff Garvin that I’m doin’ a little investigatin’ on m’ own hook.

“You folks set easy. I know it ain’t right to keep yuh from seein’ the old man and the kid; but yuh sure can see ’em at the trial. Folks around town are wonderin’ what Garvin is holdin’ ’em for. He showed he didn’t have much brains when he arrested Wild that time; and he knows danged well that he won’t never git elected again if he gits tangled up and falls down in this arrest.”

“He likely thinks he is right,” said Bud slowly.

“Yeah!” snapped Frawley. “Mebbe yuh mean, he’s tryin’ to make folks think he thinks he’s right.”

Bud did not say whether that was his meaning or not. He knew that Frawley suspected or knew that he, Bud, was the one who warned Garvin against him, and that Jud was working on a dangerous angle.

“You folks want to go right back?” asked Bud.

“Mother and I are going to do a little shopping,” said Pat. “It will take us an hour or so. Perhaps by that time Garvin will be back. If he isn’t, Jud, we’ll leave the clothes with you.”

“I’ll sure see that they get ’em,” nodded Frawley, and walked back across the street.

Bud walked up the street with the women, but left them at the door of Colgate’s store, after telling them that he would keep an eye out for Garvin.

Bud was sincere in that statement. He really did want to see Garvin, but it was not in connection with the desires of the Moore family. He circulated around the town, taking a drink here and there, discussing cattle and getting opinions on the coming court hearing of the Moores. Oxbow, or rather the majority of Oxbow, did not believe that Flint Moore was guilty.

Wild had been mixed up in many escapades, and had but recently been tried for a similar offense; which caused some to utter the old quotation—where there is so much smoke there must be some fire. Oxbow knew that Flint and Wild Moore had come to jail, herding their captors ahead of them. Therefore, Oxbow laughed at Garvin. Jud Frawley laughed as hard as they, and gave Flint and Wild all the credit for the capture.

Oxbow knew that Jud Frawley was no coward. He had been tried by fire many times. They resented the fact that Frawley had been discharged. Crime had become too frequent in Thunder County, and Jeff Garvin was in a fair way to become greatly disliked by the law-abiding element of the country.

Bud Deal found some who favored Garvin and hoped for a conviction of the Moores, but they were greatly in the minority. Bud did not commit himself. He wandered around until noon and then found Mrs. Moore and Pat. They were not ready to go home yet. Mrs. Moore wanted to wait longer and see if the sheriff did not come back; so Bud left them at a restaurant.

It was about two o’clock when Garvin came back. Bud saw him across the lower end of the street, heading for his little barn behind the jail. Bud was careful to see that no one else had observed Garvin, and then sauntered down an alley and around the rear of some buildings to the barn. Garvin was unsaddling his horse as Bud came into the doorway.

Garvin turned and looked at Bud, but did not speak.

“How are yuh, Jeff?” greeted Bud.

“I’m all right, I reckon,” grunted Garvin, as he hung up his saddle.

He came closer to the door and peered out, as if thinking that some one was with Bud.

“I’m alone,” assured Bud grinning, and told Garvin that Mrs. Moore and Pat were waiting for a chance to get into the jail.

Garvin scowled blackly.

“But they don’t know you’re in town,” stated Bud. “They talked with Frawley.”

“I fired him!” snapped Garvin. “He talked too much.”

“Yeah? And yuh told him that I said he talked too much,” accused Bud coldly. “Yuh didn’t need to put me in bad with Frawley.”

“Zasso?” Garvin’s teeth snapped. “Lemme tell yuh somethin’, Bud; you was in bad with Frawley before I ever mentioned yuh to him. He said he’s goin’ to find out where you was the mornin’ of that train robbery.”

Bud’s face did not change expression. He prided himself on his poker-face. Garvin watched him closely. There was evidently no complete understanding between Deal and Garvin, and both were fishing for a lead to work on. Bud glanced over at the horse.

“Been in the hills, Jeff?”

“Uh-huh. Took a little pasear over around the Devil’s Pulpit.”

“Yeah?”

Bud’s hand slid from his hip and his fingers softly caressed the silver studs on his holster. It was a perfectly natural move—yet suggestive.

“See anybody?”

Bud’s voice was pitched low, and his eyes squinted keenly at Garvin.

Garvin nodded quickly.

“Yeah. Talked with a feller.”

Bud’s hand twitched closer to the butt of his gun, but his face did not change. Garvin was very close to death. His next words meant life or death to him; but he did not know it.

“That new puncher yuh got, Bud.”

“Oh!” breathed Bud, and relaxed slightly. “Where did yuh find him?”

“Out near the Pulpit. Said he was lookin’ over the stock. I seen him ride out of the upper end of the big coulée, and went down to see who he was.”

“What was he ridin’—what kind of a horse?”

“Roan—hammer-headed, with black tail and mane. Didn’t see any brand.”

“The Whistler!” Bud’s eyes opened wide. “Do yuh mean to say he was ridin’ that outlaw—ridin’ him in the hills?”

“I dunno the bronc—only by reputation. Mebbe it was.”

“The Whistler was in the corral,” stated Bud; “I rounded him up with some loose stock a few days ago. I kinda thought I might sell him to some Wild West show or a circus. Mebbe he’d bring some money at a rodeo; but if this feller, Smith, is ridin’ him——”

“Has anybody ever stayed with him?” asked Garvin.

“‘Bunchgrass’ Billings stayed with him for six jumps,” smiled Bud, “and Bunchgrass is the best rider West of the Dakota line.”

Garvin rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“Bud, who in —— is this here Smith feller?”

“Got me guessin’,” admitted Bud. “He can draw a six-gun so —— fast that yuh can’t see it comin’; and if he can use Whistler for a ridin’-horse——”

“I’m bettin’ that his name ain’t Smith.”

“Names don’t mean nothin’,” grunted Bud. “What did he have to say?”

“Not much. Said he just came up the big coulée.”

“Anythin’ else?”

“Just some personal remarks.”

Bud grinned. He knew that Garvin had questioned Jimmy and that the quick-tongued Irishman had given him some very pointed answers. He felt that Jimmy had not visited the old cabin, but wanted to be sure.

“Wonder if the snow busted in that old cabin in the big coulée?”

“I don’t reckon so. Smith said it wasn’t fit for anybody to live in, but he didn’t say it was busted in.”

Bud’s eyes narrowed as he looked down at the floor of the stable. Smith had been at the cabin. This was something he had not looked for. He looked up suddenly to see Garvin squinting closely at him, as he said—

“Deal, what about that old cabin in the coulée?”

Bud looked away for a moment and back to Garvin.

“What about it?” Bud glanced around outside the door, as if fearful of being overheard.

“Garvin, what about the money that was cached in that cabin?”

Garvin seemed taken aback at the question, but tried to smile as he said—

“What money?”

“You know —— well what money, Garvin. The night that Whitey Allen got drunk and told about finding all that money under the floor of that cabin, you heard him telling me.”

Bud paused and his hand caressed his holster. Garvin only seemed mildly curious, although he was trembling inside.

“You arrested Whitey Allen that night and scared him into givin’ you half of it. I waited until mornin’ to go out there. Wild Moore saw you arrest Whitey, and went down to the jail——”

“He did not!” denied Garvin.

“No, you didn’t see him,” admitted Bud, “but he heard yuh talkin’, I reckon. Anyway the money was gone when I got there. You and Whitey showed up later, and didn’t find it. I reckon that was the money that Wild was payin’ out so free just before yuh arrested him.”

“Well?” grunted Garvin. “Any harm in that? It must ’a’ been the money that feller Devlin stole and planted just before the sheriff caught him. Where is Whitey?”

“I dunno,” lied Bud. “He left the country. Do you think that Flint Moore and Wild Moore were the ones that held up the train?”

Garvin laughed softly.

“They are if I can cinch it on to ’em. If I only had that —— gun. Where is it, Bud?”

“—— if I know; but I have an idea. You let things alone out there, Jeff; and mebbe I can find the thing.”

“Think it’s been hid?”

“That gun,” said Bud slowly, “that gun was in that holster when I left for town that mornin’.”

“How do you know?”

“I seen it,” declared Bud. “I went to the door to speak to Flint and I seen the gun there.”

Garvin picked up a straw and chewed thoughtfully on it for a while. He twisted his head a trifle and looked keenly at Bud as he said:

“Deal, I reckon we understand each other. You find that gun and turn it over to me before the trial. After that we’ll talk business.”

Bud’s eyes shifted from the sheriff and he turned toward the door.

“You keep out of sight, Garvin. Them —— women won’t help matters none by talkin’ to Flint and Wild.”

Bud started to go out of the door, but turned.

“Suppose Flint Moore swears that he never had that gun on him that day?” he asked.

Garvin grinned.

“Can he prove it?”

“Might—by Wild.”

“Fine proof,” laughed Garvin. “Don’tcha worry.”

“So-long,” grunted Bud.

He found Mrs. Moore and Pat ready to go home. He reported that Garvin had not returned, and Pat gave the clothes to Frawley to give to them.

“I’ll tell ’em all about yuh bein’ in to see ’em,” said Frawley, “and if they want to send yuh any word, I’ll ride in with it.”

“Jud Frawley, you are a darling,” declared Pat.

“Aw-w-w!” choked Frawley. “I—I—So-long.”

Frawley stood on the sidewalk, hat in hand and watched them drive out of town. For a long time after they had disappeared he still stared down the road. As he turned around he saw Garvin walking between the jail and the office.

Frawley’s first impulse was to follow the buckboard and bring them back; but he changed his mind, picked up the bundle of clothes and walked down to the office. Garvin was standing near his desk as Frawley came in. He glared at Frawley, who walked close to him and said:

“I want to see Flint Moore, Jeff. Got some clothes for him.”

Garvin shook his head.

“No, I reckon yuh can’t.”

“Can’t I?” Frawley let the bundle drop to the floor, which left his right hand free. “Can’t I? You open up that jail and let me in, or I’ll make you so —— sick that all the doctors in the country would give yuh up.”

“Whatcha want in there?” Garvin’s voice was not very strong. He knew that Frawley was no bluffer. “Lemme search that bundle before yuh go in. How do I know yuh ain’t got a gun or a file or——”

“Yuh heard what I said, didn’t yuh?” asked Frawley.

“You’ll get in bad with the law,” whined Garvin.

“With you, yuh mean, Garvin. I don’t mind.”

Garvin opened the rear door and they went across the alley-way to the jail door.

Jimmy spent a bad afternoon at the Box M. He turned the roan back into the corral and sat down in the shade. Jimmy could understand suffering and he knew that Whitey Allen must have went through the tortures of hell during the last fifteen months.

Klooch and her puppy had met him when he arrived, and now the wolf-dog sat on her haunches beside him, with her muzzle on his knee. The puppy chased its tail for a while and curled up at Jimmy’s feet. Heat waves danced and shimmered across the hills. Flying grasshoppers buzzed and snapped like tiny fire-crackers. A magpie balanced on a tall, leaning pole, flipping its long tail jerkily and scolding harshly.

A small herd of cattle drifted down a dusty cattle-trail, passing the ranch on their way to water. Opposite the ranch-house they stopped as with one accord, looked curiously toward the house for a moment and went on. They were from far back in the hills, but were drifting down for the earlier grass in the bottoms.

Jimmy noted all these things subconsciously. He wanted to help Whitey Allen. There were many things he wanted to do. The fact that Flint Moore’s cartridge belt held only .41 caliber cartridges gave him food for thought. Where was the .41 caliber gun? Perhaps Pat knew. She had hidden the .45.

He shook his head and rubbed Klooch’s muzzle.

“I dunno, do you, Klooch? She’s a fine tangle, dog. I know that eggs and milk is the proper thing for old Whitey, but I’ve got to pack ’em to him while no one is lookin’ on.”

Jimmy got to his feet and squinted at the sun. It would be sundown in an hour or so.

“I can’t find eggs in the dark,” he reflected. “If I make the trip at night I better collect the hen-fruit in the light of day.”

He walked down to the old barnlike sheds, where chickens scratched in the loose hay.

“I never was familiar with cackle-berries,” he stated to the hens, “but I’m hot on the trail of your productions.”

He slid the barn-door back and went inside, leaving Klooch and the puppy out in the yard. He searched the mangers and the loose hay, but eggs were scarce. He did not hear the arrival of the buckboard, which brought Bud Deal and the Moore family back to the ranch.

Bud was anxious to find Jimmy and if possible to learn if he had really passed the little cabin in the coulée. He unhitched the team and turned them into the corral. The Whistler was in the corral and Bud noticed the imprint of a saddle still on its back. Jimmy was back, that was sure. He went to the bunk-house.

Pat wondered where Jimmy was. Somehow she wanted to get back to the ranch and see him. She stood on the porch of the ranch-house, looking around. Suddenly she saw Klooch and the puppy, standing near the door to the largest shed, and it flashed into her mind that they were waiting for Jimmy to come out. She went straight down to the door, spoke to Klooch and slid back the door.

Jimmy had found one egg. He put this into his hat, while he continued the search. As he emerged from around a stall partition he almost ran into Pat. He stared at her wonderingly—stared at her as if she had suddenly materialized out of the dusty sunlight shining through the cracks of the log barn.

For a moment Jimmy stared and then remembered the egg. He did not want to explain about the egg, because in explaining about the egg he would have to tell her about Whitey. He shifted the hat partly behind him.

“Sure, I didn’t know ye was home so soon,” he said nervously. “Did ye just come?”

“A few minutes ago,” smiled Pat. “I wondered where you were; but when I saw Klooch and the puppy waiting at the door——”

“Ah, yes, I see. I was just lookin’ around the place, Miss. I—I——” Jimmy faltered as he noticed that Pat had glanced at the hat, as if trying to see what was inside.

In desperation he shifted the hat, grasped the top of the tall crown to try and protect the egg, and put it on his head. The stiff crown, crushed around the egg, seemed to hold it firmly for a moment, but Jimmy’s heart sank with a sickening thud, as he heard the egg thwack against the top of his head.

“Hot in there,” muttered Jimmy weakly. “Mebbe we better go outside.”

But Pat was staring at him closely. From under the sweat-band of his hat came a trickle of thick moisture. It slid stickily down his forehead, shifted its course at the bulge of his eyebrow and shot down the bridge of his long nose.

“Have you been hurt?” asked Pat seriously, although her eyes danced.

“Aye,” muttered Jimmy, looking cross-eyed at the trickle down his nose.

Then he sniffed quickly.

“From the odors of it, I’m thinkin’ the hurt is of long standing, miss.”

Pat tried to suppress her mirth, but the effort did not prevent tears from gathering in her tawny eyes and trickling down her cheeks. Jimmy looked at her with unutterable sadness and chagrin, as he said—

“Sure, now, I ask you to please not weep over the misfortunes of an undeserving divil like meself, miss.”

Jimmy took off his hat, turned it inside out and slapped it against the partition of the stall, while the bulk of the egg, released from the confines of the sweat-band, cascaded down over his forehead in a shower of yellow yolk.

Pat fairly shrieked at the sight, but Jimmy calmly mopped his head with a handkerchief until it was as free of egg as possible, and then he, too, leaned against the partition and shook with laughter.

“Jimmy, you’re a sight for the gods,” laughed Jimmy.

“Jimmy, you’re a sight for any one,” corrected Pat. “Tell me why you put that egg in your hat, will you?”

Jimmy sobered. He had forgotten that it might require an explanation. He walked slowly to the half-open door and went outside. Pat came out behind him and the two of them leaned against the door and looked at each other.

“I don’t want to lie to you,” said Jimmy sadly. “I don’t mind lyin’ to some folks, but——”

“I don’t want you to lie,” replied Pat. “If you can’t tell me the truth——”

She broke off as Bud Deal came from in front of the bunk-house and crossed over toward the corral. He saw them, but did not stop.

When he was almost to the corral gate he stooped down and picked up a paper, which had been half-ground into the dirt under a horse’s hoof. Bud was not over a hundred feet from them. He opened the trampled paper.

Jimmy’s hand flashed to his vest pocket and his heart skipped a beat. His mind went back to the bucking roan and he realized that the parole paper had fallen from his pocket during the ride.

Bud did not turn and look toward Jimmy, but put the paper in his pocket and walked to the corral fence, where he looked at the horses, turned and went to the ranch-house.

Pat turned and looked at Jimmy. The lines of his face were deeper than ever and his eyes were squinted as if from deep suffering.

“Jimmy, what is the matter?” asked Pat.

It was the first time she had called him Jimmy, except in jest. He looked at her and shook his head:

“I can’t tell ye, Pat. It ain’t no hurt that any one can help. I—I kinda forgot meself, I reckon.”

“Is it something about Bud Deal?” anxiously.

Jimmy shook his head.

“No—not yet. Aw-w-w, it’s nothin’ to worry about.” Jimmy forced a smile. “Sure, I’ve got egg smell all over me.”

Pat shook her head.

“Jimmy, can’t you tell me your troubles? Sometimes it helps to share misery.”

“Bless your heart!” exclaimed Jimmy, taking a deep breath. “I’ve a soul full of misery, but I can’t burden your shoulders with it.”

“Jimmy, what did you want that egg for?”

Jimmy looked closely at her. He wanted to tell some one. He felt that he could trust Pat to help him and to keep his secret.

Somehow he felt as if he had known her for years.

“Pat,” he said softly, “I’m tellin’ you a secret. Within ten miles of here is an old bunkie of mine, who is dyin’ from tuberculosis. He’s like an animal, which gets hurted bad and crawls away to die. He don’t want me to tell anybody about him, Pat. There’s nobody but a drunken Injun to take care of him. I stole that egg to take to him. It—it was the only egg I could find.”

“Oh, Jimmy, I’m sorry.” Pat’s eyes filled with ready tears. “Can’t I help you? We’ll take him eggs and milk and——”

Pat stopped. Jud Frawley had ridden in past the bunk-house and swung toward them. He took off his hat before he dismounted.

“Jud Frawley, what are you doing out here?” asked Pat.

Frawley half-smiled and glanced from one to the other.

“Jud,” said Pat, “this is Mr. Smith. Jimmy, meet Jud Frawley.”

They shook hands and Frawley turned to Pat.

“I saw your dad and Wild. They’re fine. Shall I put my horse in the corral?”

“Going to stay all night?” asked Pat eagerly.

“I am, if somebody don’t run me away,” grinned Frawley. “I’m workin’ for the Box M now. Flint Moore hired me today. Now I’ll put up my horse.”

Frawley nodded to Jimmy and led his horse towards the corral gate.

“You’ll like him,” said Pat. “He was Garvin’s deputy, but Garvin fired him. I don’t think that Bud is going to like it much though. Jud is just like one of the family. He calls me little Pat, because he used to hold me on his knee.”

“Lucky divil,” muttered Jimmy.

Pat laughed.

“That was when I was a tiny girl.”

“It would be a sweet memory just the same—and after all—” Jimmy shook his head—“I have no memories worth lookin’ back at, Pat. I will have—now.”

“When you busted an egg on your head, Jimmy?”

“Aye—and talkin’ with you about it.”

There was silence between them for a few moments and then Pat said—

“Jimmy, when did you discover this old bunkie of yours?”

“Today. I saddled that hammer-headed roan and happened to run across this feller.”

“You rode the Whistler horse?”

“I dunno. Sure, I believe he did whistle. Good horse, after he got tired of buckin’.”

“No one has ever ridden the Whistler, Jimmy.”

Jimmy led the way to the corral and pointed out the roan. Pat nodded slowly.

“First it’s Klooch and then the Whistler. Do you love wild things, Jimmy?”

“Aye.”

“Will you sing for me tonight?”

Jimmy looked at her and then away across the hills, where the sunset tinted the western curves of the Thunder Range. His eyes drifted back to her face and he said:

“Would ye hold it against me if I didn’t, Pat? I’ve no heart for a song this night.”

“Then some other time, Jimmy?”

“Aye—if there is some other time.”

They walked silently to the house. Bud Deal stood in the kitchen door and watched them, a sneer on his lips. He knew that Pat was deeply interested in this wild Irishman; but he knew he could kill that interest very easily now. He was willing to sit back and look on, like a player in a poker game who holds a royal flush, feeling sorry for the puny efforts of his opponents.

Frawley followed them up to the house. Bud scowled at Frawley and wondered what he was doing there. He had not seen Frawley ride in. Mrs. Moore was cooking supper as Jimmy and Pat came in, with Frawley close behind them. Bud sauntered in, nodding curtly to Frawley. Mrs. Moore looked at Frawley, and he grinned widely.

“Another boarder, Mrs. Moore,” boomed Frawley. “I’m a hired cowpuncher now—hired out to the Box M.”

“Well, bless my soul!” exclaimed Mrs. Moore. “Now, that’s fine, Jud. You got into the jail and——”

“I sure did,” nodded Frawley. “Both feelin’ fine, but dog-goned sorry that yuh didn’t get to see ’em.”

“Who hired you, Frawley?” asked Bud.

“Flint Moore.”

Bud bit the edge of his lips, staring down at the floor. When Wild Moore had been arrested the first time Bud had been made foreman of the ranch. Since then nothing had been said to change his standing. Flint Moore had told him to discharge Whitey Allen, because there was not enough work for an extra man. Now, Flint Moore had hired Frawley, without consulting Bud, and Frawley was the last man Bud would ever have hired.

Bud glanced up at Frawley and turned to look at Jimmy.

“Well, I don’t sabe the idea, Frawley. There ain’t work for so many punchers around here. Flint told me to hire Smith; but I reckon I’ll have to let him go now.”

Frawley’s eyes were upon Pat, while Bud was talking, and a quizzical expression flashed across his face. Frawley could read emotion, and he knew that Pat did not want this Smith person to leave the Box M.

He glanced at Jimmy, who was leaning against the side of the doorway, slowly rolling a cigaret. There was a bit of sadness about his homely face. Frawley noted the heavy gun hanging at his thigh; the easy pose of his muscular body. Frawley knew men, and he knew that this man was a born fighter. He looked at Bud, whose swarthy face was undeniably handsome; his body as lithe as the frame of a greyhound. Frawley half-shook his head as he turned from Bud, as if discarding him in his mental choice.

“I don’t reckon that anybody will have to go,” said Frawley slowly. “Flint Moore knowed that Smith was here.”

“The business can’t stand it!” Bud’s voice snapped.

Frawley rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“Well, Bud, you can use yore own judgment. Smith stays, if he wants to.”

“Yeah?” Bud looked quickly at Frawley. “Well, whatcha know about that? How long you been runnin’ this ranch?”

Frawley slowly drew out a massive silver watch and peered at the dial.

“Lemme see. About four or five hours.”

“What do yuh mean?”

“Flint Moore asked me to take charge of the ranch until he got back.”

Bud did not say a word; but his heart sank within him. What did this mean? Had there been a leak somewhere that had caused Flint Moore to hire a man over him? Bud glanced at Pat and saw her half-smiling at Jimmy.

Bud’s temper flashed hot in his black eyes, but he shut his teeth hard. In his pocket he had the evidence that would disrate Jimmy in the eyes of Patricia Moore. For a moment he struggled against his temper, fighting back the impulse to unmask Jimmy Devlin. No, he would wait and see what the law did with Flint and Wild Moore. If there were not sufficient evidence to hold them he would turn the parole over to Garvin. It would show that Devlin had lied about his name, and Devlin would have to prove his whereabouts at the time of the robbery. Bud forced a smile and sat down at the table.

“I talked with Flint about that pearl-handled six-gun,” said Frawley.

No one made any comment and Frawley did not continue.

Pat went out on the front porch. No one could see her from the dining-room, as she went softly down the porch steps and down to the bunk-house, where she quickly threw aside the boards of the little lumber-pile. The gun was not there.

She went back to the porch, where she sat down and tried to think. Who had seen her put the gun under that lumber? Bud had not been there. Jimmy and Garvin were the only two who could have taken it. But perhaps someone had found it later. She wondered dully whether Garvin had the gun and would exhibit it as evidence at the hearing.

She wondered why Jimmy had suddenly seemed hurt. One moment he had been light-hearted, with a laugh on his lips, and the next moment he had seemed to grow old with suffering.

She could hear the rattling of dishes in the dining-room as the men ate their dinner, but there was little or no conversation. In a little while Bud Deal came out carrying his hat. Pat glanced up at him, but he was busy with his own thoughts. Frawley drifted to the doorway, filling his pipe, and Bud glanced back at him.

“Reckon I’ll ride to town tonight,” observed Bud and walked down the steps, going straight to the corral.

He seemed to walk very straight, holding his head high.

“Kinda knocked the starch out of Bud, I reckon,” observed Frawley slowly. “But it’ll all come out in the wash.”

Jimmy came out and stood at the edge of the porch, looking down toward the corral, where Bud was saddling his sorrel. Pat glanced up at Jimmy. There was nothing of the devil-may-care expression left to his features. His eyes were narrowed to mere slits and the lines of his homely face were like carved flint.

Suddenly he jerked away from the railing, walked down the steps and went straight toward Bud Deal.

Pat got to her feet as if to follow him, but Frawley spoke softly and she stopped.

“Easy, little Pat. I dunno what it’s about, but——”

Bud Deal turned as Jimmy came up to him and they looked into each other’s eyes at close range. Pat and Frawley could see that Bud was speaking, but no words came to them.

Suddenly Bud seemed to jerk away and reach for his gun. Bud was the fastest man in the Thunder Range with a gun. But Jimmy’s move was as quick as Bud’s—quicker, because his left fist caught Bud under the chin, while Bud’s gun was only half-way out of its holster.

Bud dropped in a heap. The sorrel whirled sidewise against the side of the corral, snorting and trying to break away. Jimmy seemed to drop almost as quickly as Bud, and to the two people on the porch he seemed to be holding Bud against further action. But he got to his feet and backed away from Bud, as he removed the cartridges from Bud’s gun and replaced it in its holster.

Bud rolled over, got slowly to his feet and looked at Jimmy, who handed him the cartridges. Pat and Frawley were unable to hear what either of them were saying. Bud got to his feet, rubbed his chin, as if it pained him greatly, and untied his horse. Without a backward glance he rode out of the ranch-house gate and headed for town.

Jimmy had asked Bud for the parole paper, which he had found; but Bud refused even to admit that he had found such a paper. Bud had said that it was kind of Jimmy to admit that he was a paroled thief, and that Pat would love to know it.

Anyway, Jimmy had the paper in his possession again. He walked slowly back to the porch, where Pat and Frawley waited for him.

“Sure, I’m sorry there had to be an audience,” said Jimmy sadly, and then to Frawley: “I’m thinkin’ I’d better be goin’ along, Mr. Frawley. The Box M don’t owe me any salary.”

“Go away?” asked Pat quickly.

Frawley sucked on his pipe and his eyes twinkled as he looked at them.

“Aye. There’s good reasons, ma’am.”

“My name is Pat—Jimmy.”

Jimmy smiled at her.

“And there’s no better on earth.”

“I don’t reckon there’s any need of yuh leavin’ us,” observed Frawley. “Stay a while, anyway.”

Frawley yawned and went back into the house, where he started a conversation with Mrs. Moore. Jimmy seemed to be smiling at his own thoughts and looked to see Pat looking at him.

“Feel better now, Jimmy?”

“Aye. But I have no right to be here—to talk with ye, Pat. It ain’t right, except within me heart, which only knows about me. Ye wonder why I clouted Bud Deal, and I don’t want to tell ye. For the life of me I can’t, Pat. It won’t be long until ye know. Sure, it’s been like Heaven to me—this knowin’ all of ye; givin’ me somethin’ to look back at in the years to come.”

“But you are not going away, Jimmy.”

“Not tonight, at any rate,” smiled Jimmy.

Pat nodded as she looked down at the big gun in Jimmy’s holster. Jimmy looked down at the gun and up at her.

“Did you have that gun when you came here?” asked Pat.

Jimmy smiled softly.

“I never lie to my friends, Pat. Never hide anythin’ and let a pup see you hide it. It arouses their curiosity.”

“But—” faltered Pat.

“Aye,” nodded Jimmy. “I am at this moment sittin’ on two pieces of pearl, which repose serenely in me hip-pockets.”

Mrs. Moore came to the door and called:

“You folks had better come in the house. It’s getting chilly out there. Maybe Mr. Smith will sing for us.”

Pat smiled at him and repeated her mother’s question, with her eyes. Jimmy got slowly to his feet.

“I have it in me heart to sing—now.”

VIII

Bud Deal rode away from the Box M in a daze. He was unable to explain things to himself. Jimmy’s blow had come like a flash of bright lights. He had expected Jimmy to reach for a gun, and his eyes had flashed to Jimmy’s right hand, leaving Jimmy the chance he needed to send over a knock-out punch.

Bud realized before he got to his feet that Jimmy had taken that paper from his pocket; but now he searched his pockets to be sure. It was gone. He drew up his horse and looked back toward the Box M, already blotted out in the shadows of night.

Pat and Frawley had both seen what happened, and the humiliation burned deeply in Bud’s soul. He had the reputation of being the fastest gunman in the country. Bud had whipped bigger men than Smith with bare hands. Now this soft-spoken Irishman had ignored his swift gun-play and knocked him down with his fist, taken away his gun and given it back—empty. All in the presence of the girl he meant to marry.

Instead of going toward Oxbow he swung off the road and headed toward the Devil’s Pulpit. It was dark now, but he needed no light, and the sure-footed sorrel picked its own trail.

Far off in a cañon an owl hooted, like a distant railroad engine whistling for a clear signal. A wild-cat padded its way across an open space, a gray shadow which snarled and was gone. A coyote silhouetted for a moment against the sky-line of a butte and faded out.

The Devil’s Pulpit showed black against the sky-line, its eastern side a sheer drop of a hundred feet into the brushy coulée. Bud rode in at the top of the coulée and went down into the brush, following a cattle-trail, until he came in at the rear of the tiny cabin. A faint glow of a candle through the chinks between the logs showed him that the occupants were awake, although there were no voices to be heard.

The door was open, which emitted a faint glow of light. Bud dismounted near the door.

“This is Bud,” he called softly, and a voice inside said, “Come in.”

Whitey was propped up in bed, his face gray and drawn in the flickering light from the one candle on the table. The Indian was not there. On the bed beside Whitey lay a Winchester rifle and a Colt pistol.

“How yuh feelin’?” asked Bud.

“How in —— do yuh expect a feller to feel?” asked Whitey hoarsely. “Nothin’ to eat, —— little to drink and a Injun for a nurse. I suppose yo’re sorry I’m alive.”

“Cut out that kinda talk!” snapped Bud. “I’ve done all I could, Whitey. Yuh got to figure that I couldn’t sneak over here every day. Pretty near able to get up?”

“I dunno how able I am,” grunted Whitey, “but I know —— well I’m goin’ to get up pretty soon. That bullet busted a rib, and I don’t think there’s any lead in my lung. Must ’a’ kinda horned in and out, bustin’ the rib. Rib stuck in me, I reckon. Now, tell me what’s new.”

Bud told him of the arrest of Flint and Wild Moore for the robbery of the train.

“Aw, ——!” grunted Whitey. “Why didn’t Garvin pick on somebody else. It’s a cinch they can’t convict Flint Moore.”

“It saves further investigation,” grinned Bud. “By the time they’re cleared, the trail will be cold. Somethin’ else, Whitey. The money you found under the floor of this shack was the money Devlin was sent up for stealin’.”

Whitey looked keenly at Bud. The flickering candle light made a grotesque shadow behind him on the wall. A huge moth fluttered in out of the dark and almost extinguished the candle.

“You remember hearin’ about Devlin, don’t yuh?” asked Bud.

“Yeah. It was his money, eh? Well, what of it?”

“He’s near here, Whitey. I gave him a job on the Box M. Said his name was Smith. He’ll be lookin’ for the money, I reckon. Mebbe he forgot just where he put it, ’cause he was ridin’ this way, lookin’ around, I reckon.”

“He was sent up for three years, wasn’t he?” asked Whitey.

“Paroled,” grunted Bud, rubbing his sore chin. “He’s my ace-in-the-hole. If they don’t cinch Flint and Wild Moore, I’ll bet I can lay the deadwood on Devlin.”

“Why lay it on anybody?” croaked Whitey. “You better keep out of it, Bud. You git too —— anxious and folks will be wonderin’ why. You keep your mouth shut.”

Bud grunted. He did not like Whitey’s tone. Anyway, Bud was getting nervous.

“The engineer recognized that pearl-handled gun,” said Bud, but added quickly, “I mean he got a good look at it, and that’s the evidence that Garvin is lookin’ for.”

“Where is it, Bud?”

“—— if I know. The sheriff had taken ’em to jail when I got back that night; so I hooked Flint’s .41 and slipped the .45 in its place. When Garvin tried to find it, the danged thing was gone.”

“Looks kinda funny,” observed Whitey. “Who’d take it, do yuh suppose?”

Bud shook his head slowly, deep in thought. Suddenly he rubbed his hand across his face.

“By ——! I wonder if that could be it? Whitey, that Devlin is packin’ a .45 and he only had six shells. No, that one has plain wood handles.”

“What’s the idea?” croaked Whitey.

“He wanted more shells,” mused Bud aloud. “Pat got the old man’s belt—the one he wore that day—and it was full of .41 cartridges. They can prove that the old man was packin’ a .41.”

“The fireman was killed with a .45?” queried Whitey.

Bud nodded.

“That’s why we need that pearl-handled .45.”

“Well, I’m —— glad his blood ain’t on my hands,” said Whitey thankfully.

“Shut up!” snapped Bud nervously. “You’re as much to blame as I am. Anyway, he shot you, didn’t he? I didn’t think he’d be able to do anything, after the clout I gave him with that gun-barrel.”

“I’m glad I didn’t kill him,” repeated Whitey. “I’ve never killed anybody, Bud. I thought I was goin’ to die here alone, and I was afraid I had killed him. He fell back into the gangway of that engine——”

Came a slight sound at the doorway, and the figure of a man bulked grotesquely in the dim light. Bud Deal seemed to sway sidewise and from his hip flashed a stream of orange flame, followed by the crash of a pistol.

The candle swayed in its insecure foundation of melted wax and fell to the floor from the concussion of the heavy pistol and the crash of a falling body.

For a moment or two there was silence, broken only by the labored breathing of the two men.

“Light a—a match!” breathed Whitey jerkily.

Bud broke several matches, trying to scratch one. The yellow flame seemed weak and nearly flickered out again as Bud recovered the candle and applied the match. Both men looked toward the door, where the man sprawled flat on his face, just inside.

Bud went slowly over to him and held the candle closer.

“That —— Injun!” he grunted. “The Injun, Whitey.”

“Killed him?” croaked Whitey.

Bud examined him closely by the candlelight and got to his feet.

“Almost between the eyes, Whitey. He never knowed what hit him.”

“More blood,” muttered Whitey weakly. “More blood. What did yuh shoot him for, Bud?”

“—— him, he came sneakin’ in. Didn’t he? I didn’t know who he was. It was his own fault, Whitey—wasn’t it?”

“You shot too quick,” complained Whitey. “Now, what will yuh do?”

“Quit your croakin’!” ordered Bud. “Let me think, can’t yuh?”

Bud sat down on the edge of the bunk, half-turned from Whitey, who slid down lower on his bunk, with one hand over the butt of his six-shooter. Somehow, Whitey had the feeling that Bud wanted him out of the way, too.

But Whitey and Bud were not the only ones to hear the report of Bud’s pistol. Sheriff Garvin was doing a little night prowling on his own account. His talk with Bud had showed him that Bud had guilty knowledge of who had robbed that train and where the money was hid.

There had been considerable mention of the little cabin in the brushy coulée below the Devil’s Pulpit. While Garvin was very willing to arrest the guilty parties, he was also more than willing to get in on the plunder—if he could do it in a way which would not cause trouble for him.

He had been perfectly willing to take his share of the money, which Whitey was purported to have found under the floor of that cabin. In fact, he had coerced Whitey into a promise of a fifty-fifty split. But Whitey had talked too much, and some one had lifted the cache ahead of them. There was no question that this some one was Wild Moore.

Now, he was on a little tour of investigation. He had ridden to the top of the ridge on the east side of the Pulpit and was gazing down into the coulée, a dark mass in the dim light, when the report of Bud’s pistol came floating up to him.

But for this shot, Garvin would have probably spent the night in the shelter of the Pulpit, where he could watch any early morning action in the coulée. He listened closely for a while and then rode slowly down the side of the coulée, picking his way carefully, until he reached the heavy brush of the bottom.

He dismounted and stood beside his horse for a while. It was very dark down there, and Garvin was not entirely sure just where the cabin was located. It was very still in the thick brush. Garvin was not always a coward; but he recognized his limitations. He could not move silently in this brush, and he could not afford to make a noise.

He heard the nicker of a horse and grasped the muzzle of his own mount just in time to stop it from making a reply. This nicker came from further up the coulée and to the left.

Garvin spent an anxious half-hour, listening for more sounds; but none came. Then he left his horse and began moving slowly up the coulée, taking a few steps and waiting silently for a full minute. Garvin was cautious.

Suddenly he touched a fence. His hand moved along the horizontal pole until he reached a post. He knew that he was at the little corral, and by following this fence a short distance he could reach the cabin. Going to the left would bring him to the front of the cabin, so he decided to travel to the right and make his approach from the rear.

He went carefully until he reached the corner of the cabin. He could see no lights nor hear any sounds, but his nostrils could detect the faint odors of recent cooking. He moved about half-way of the rear of the cabin, when he heard the sounds of some one coming from up the coulée. Whoever it was, they were not moving cautiously. He could hear the swish and breaking of brush and the heavy footfalls of a horse, and suddenly the bulk of a horse and rider seemed almost to move into him.

Garvin flattened himself against the cabin, gun in hand, as the horse and rider passed him and went to the front of the cabin.

He could hear the man dismount and go into the cabin.

The cabin had been chinked with the usual pieces of split wood and mud, which had fallen away in places, but Garvin seemed unable to find an opening large enough to give him a view of the interior, even after the occupant had lit the candle. He could hear their conversation, which was worth as much to Garvin as a view of the men.

“Well, that’s fixed.” Garvin recognized Bud Deal’s voice. “Nobody can hang that on to us, Whitey.”

Garvin grinned to himself when Bud called Whitey by name, and listened closely for a reply.

“Mebbe not,” croaked Whitey. “Who’s goin’ to take care of me now?”

“I dunno,” grunted Bud, “but it’s a cinch you’ve got to get out of here. Yuh can’t let Devlin find yuh here.”

Garvin’s left ear suffered from compression, as he leaned closer to the rough log. His mind flashed to the notice of parole and he wondered where Devlin figured in on this deal—and where he was now.

“Where’ll I go?” asked Whitey weakly. “Yuh can’t get a hole shot in yore lung and keep changin’ yore residence every little while, Bud.”

For a while there was silence, broken by Whitey’s question.

“Bud, you ain’t touched that sack, have yuh?”

“Naw! You know —— well I ain’t. What chance have I had to touch it?”

“I dunno, Bud. All I ask is that yuh shoot square with me. We’re fifty-fifty on this, yuh remember. I git to wonderin’ about it and—— Bud, yuh don’t suppose anybody is liable to find it, do yuh?”

Bud snorted his disgust at Whitey’s fears.

“Find it? Who in —— would ever climb to the point of the Devil’s Pulpit? Do yuh think anybody would cross all that slide-rock and pick that one little spot?”

“You done the hidin’,” said Whitey slowly. “I didn’t see yuh put it away, Bud.”

“Well, it’s where I said it was. Right where the point comes down in the coulée, where the solid rock goes into the ground at the edge of the slide. There’s a hollow kinda underneath that point. ——! That money could stay there a million years and nobody would ever find it.”

Garvin smiled to himself, and listened for more disclosures, which did not come. Finally Bud got to his feet.

“I dunno just what we’re goin’ to do, Whitey. You get along as well as yuh can and I’ll see yuh tomorrow night. Flint Moore hired Jud Frawley, —— him! Made him foreman. He suspects somethin’, I think; so I’ve got to be careful. I’m supposed to be in town now, so I reckon I better go there to be able to prove where I was. Can’t take a chance on a —— thing now. Just as soon as yo’re able—we’ll drift.”

Garvin was unable to get Whitey’s reply. He heard Bud mount his horse and a moment later he rode past the rear of the cabin, passing close to Garvin, and disappeared in the night. Garvin moved away from the cabin, circled the corral and went back to his horse.

Garvin had learned a lot of things. He knew that Bud and Whitey had held up the train and killed the fireman and that Whitey had been wounded. He knew where the money was concealed, unless, of course, Bud had lied to Whitey.

He knew that Smith was Devlin. Garvin grinned to himself as he felt his way back to his horse. There was only one thing that he did not know, and that was the cause of the shot he had heard. From the conversation, he would deduct that Bud had been there a short time previous, and for some reason had come back.

Garvin reached his horse and swung into the saddle. He could look almost straight up at the rim of the Devil’s Pulpit, an inky blot against the sparkle of the stars. At the foot of this, where the angle of the cliff broke at right angles, like the corner of a sky-scraper, was twenty thousand dollars.

“Twenty thousand!” grunted Garvin aloud, trying to visualize that great amount. “Why worry about re-election?”

He spurred his horse down the coulée, where he could strike the gentle slope, leading back to the top. He wanted to get his hands on that treasure sack; but he had no desire to grope his way over treacherous slide-rock and brush-tangle in the dark. Tomorrow would be another day.

The following morning at breakfast, Jud Frawley lost no time in assuming command of the Box M.

“Mrs. Moore wants to go to town today and see if she can see the folks, and I’ll take her in. Bud, you make a circle in the Squaw Creek country and kinda estimate what’s in there. Lot of cattle wintered in there last year, and Flint’s kinda anxious to find out how many of the Box M are scattered in there.”

Frawley turned to Jimmy.

“Smith, there’s a lot of work here to do. Yuh might look over the corrals, for one thing. Lot of posts need resettin’. Bunk-house needs cleanin’. Dump the straw out of them ticks and fill ’em up again. Danged if I like to sleep on a hard straw-tick.”

“Pat goin’ in with yuh?” asked Bud.

“No.”

Frawley gave no reasons for Pat staying at the ranch. Bud got up from the table, and without a word to any one, went straight to the corral. Mrs. Moore and Pat were in another part of the house, when Bud rode back and dismounted at the porch.

“Want the field-glasses,” he grunted, as he lifted them from the wall, where they hung in their leather case.

Frawley and Jimmy came out on the porch as Bud rode away. The butt of a rifle protruded from the scabbard under his right knee.

“Mebbe he thinks he might run across a bear up there,” observed Frawley. “Wild country up there, Smith.”

Jimmy nodded over his cigaret. Frawley looked curiously at him and said—

“I don’t reckon that Bud Deal’s got a great lot of use for either one of us, Smith.”

“I’m thinkin’ there’s a world of truth in that,” said Jimmy seriously.

“Yuh don’t think much of him yourself, do yuh?”

Jimmy lit his cigaret and inhaled deeply.

“Mister Frawley, it takes all kinds of people to make a world, and Bud is just one of the kinds. I don’t hate him, because—” Jimmy scratched his chin, as if searching for words to describe his point. “Sure, there’s only the thickness of a cigaret paper between love and hate; but ye don’t love any one who means nothin’ to ye. Neither can ye hate a man, who—who ye never could love. To love or hate, ye must feel that the person has a soul, which I can’t feel of our compadre Bud.”

“Pat is goin’ to marry him, I hear.”

Jimmy did not look at Frawley, who watched him closely; but there was only a sudden tightening of the muscles of Jimmy’s mouth, which might have been caused by holding the cigaret, the smoke of which drifted unminded into his eyes.

Jimmy slowly removed the cigaret, crushed it carefully between his thumb and finger and let the contents sift to the floor of the porch.

“I’ll be goin’ to work now,” said Jimmy slowly, and went down the steps.

He found a crowbar and a shovel and selected the far side of the corral to start operations. He saw Frawley hitch up the team to the buckboard and drive up to the house; and later he saw them leaving for Oxbow. It was getting hot; but Jimmy dug savagely at the rocky soil. A number of the posts were tottering—rotted away at the ground.

“You boomer!” he told himself savagely. “You paroled thief! What right have ye to care for anybody? Go on away from here and forget such fool ideas. Bud Deal must be all right, or she wouldn’t think of marryin’ him.”

Jimmy sent the sharp end of the heavy crowbar deep into the gravel, twisting and turning it as if it weighed only a few ounces.

“Are you going to enlarge the corral, Jimmy?”

He turned his sweat-streaked face and looked at Pat, who had come unnoticed and was leaning against the fence, watching him curiously. He glanced down at the post-hole and suddenly realized that he had dug at least two feet away from the original hole.

“Aye,” he muttered foolishly, and broke into a grin. “Sure, me mind is not broad enough to handle the north end of a crowbar and play civil engineer at the same time. Why did ye not go to town?”

“I wanted to help you gather eggs, Jimmy. You haven’t forgotten your sick friend, have you?”

Jimmy shook his head.

“No, I’ve not; but Mister Frawley mapped out me day’s work and I must be doin’ it.”

“Suppose,” smiled Pat confidentially, “suppose I was the one who mapped out the work, Jimmy. Jud won’t expect to find much done when he gets back, but he won’t mention it.”

“Ye—ye framed it to stay with me?” Jimmy wiped his face with his sleeve. “Why did ye do that, Pat?”

“I wanted to help you.”

He shook his head slowly.

“Ye shouldn’t ’a’ done it, Pat. Sure, I appreciate it, y’ betcha; but bein’ here all alone with me, and ridin’ into the hills——”

“What do you mean?” demanded Pat.

“Frawley told me!” Jimmy was closely examining the crowbar—“Frawley told me about you—and Bud Deal.”

“Oh!” softly. “And you—you respected his rights?”

Jimmy looked up quickly.

“I’d thank him to respect mine.”

Pat stepped over and put her hand on his arm.

“Jimmy, I—I think you are the squarest shooter I ever met. Jud Frawley is only the foreman of this ranch. If you don’t think I am the boss—ask Jud or dad. Now, let’s go and find those eggs.”

Jimmy stared at her for a moment and his hand went to the brim of his sombrero in a half-salute.

“I never dispute me commandin’ officer. We’ll rustle the eggs.”

Pat had already “rustled” the eggs and had made up a compact bundle of eggs, jam, pickles and fresh bread to take to the sick man. Jimmy saddled her horse, a brown mare, and put a saddle on the Whistler, while Pat stood aside, expecting the notorious outlaw to show its true colors again. But Whistler submitted quietly to the saddle and only acted a trifle stubborn after Jimmy had settled into the saddle.

They rode out of the main gate, swung a trifle southeast and crossed Leloo Creek, from where they climbed a sloping hogback ridge.

About a mile from the ranch-house, in almost the same place where Garvin and Frawley had watched the place on the day of the robbery, sat Bud Deal, with his field-glasses, watching the ranch. Bud had felt sure that Devlin had been to that cabin; but Whitey had not intimated a thing that would corroborate his suspicions. If Devlin had cached that money under the cabin floor he would most surely search for it, and would find Whitey.

Bud scowled through the glasses as he watched Jimmy and Pat ride up the ridge, and as soon as they were out of sight he mounted and rode swiftly down past the ranch-house and into the hills, following them.

Jimmy and Pat traveled slowly along the ridge and swung around the head of a draw, which led back to Leloo Creek. This brought them in on the right-hand side of the big coulée and across the coulée from Devil’s Pulpit.

A light wind swept the hills, rippling the grass and flowers as it might ripple a great lake of gaudy colors. Jimmy and Pat had done little talking, as it was almost impossible to ride side by side; but when they struck the flat country, Jimmy spurred up beside her and both horses fell into a slow walk.

“Sure, this is God’s country,” said Jimmy. “Did ye ever see so much color? ’Tis skies of blue, a breeze like the perfumed breath of the gods and a flower garden from Paradise.”

“Yes,” nodded Pat, “and in the Winter?”

“Aye. But for every love there’s a hate, Pat.”

“I suppose so, Jimmy. Poor old dad. Hundreds of cows lost in the big blizzard, which means thousands of dollars. Still he doesn’t complain. Now, he’s in jail, and the law says he must stay there until—— Jimmy, what in the world is that?”

Pat pointed at the brushy side of a small coulée, where a weird figure had appeared. It was the figure of a man, standing with arms outstretched, as if invoking the gods. His clothes were almost all torn from his body and his face was an indistinguishable mass, which looked like blood and dirt.

They rode in closer, but the figure gave them no heed.

“Why, it’s old Indian Jim!” exclaimed Pat. “What in the world is the matter with him?”

Jimmy spurred in closer and peered at the Indian. His hair and the upper part of his half-naked body was crusted with blood and dirt, and his chest and arms had been scratched deeply from mesquite snags.

“What in the divil happened to ye?” asked Jimmy.

The old Indian turned slowly and seemed to see them for the first time. He moved slowly backward, with arms still outstretched, whirled suddenly and bounded across the coulée, screeching like a panther. Over the far side he went, running swiftly, and disappeared into another ravine, which led into the big coulée at the foot of Devil’s Pulpit.

“Crazy as a March hare!” grunted Jimmy. “He’s been hurt in the head, I’m thinkin’. What do ye make of it?”

Pat shook her head. “I do not know, Jimmy. Old Jim always seemed sane; but he would do anything for a drink of liquor. Perhaps he got drunk and hurt himself.”

“By golly, that’s the Injun who was takin’ care of my sick friend!” exclaimed Jimmy to himself. “I wonder if somethin’ has happened to him. Ye never can trust a drunken Injun—nor a drunken white man, for that matter.”

They rode on toward the rim of the big coulée, watching for another glimpse of the Indian. A dense patch of brush masked their approach to the edge. Jimmy tied the horses in the brush and he and Pat walked out to where they could get almost a bird’s-eye view of the coulée. Across from them was Devil’s Pulpit, and below, hidden in the brush, was the little cabin. From their elevation they could see the sweep of open country at the head of the coulée, and to the right the hills swept off to the blue haze of Bitter River.

A drifting herd of cattle went slowly along the sky-line to the left and far behind the Pulpit. An eagle circled high in the air; without visible movement, like a bird-figure suspended on invisible wires. Far down the coulée a blue-jay chattered violently at intervals.

“A picture of peace,” muttered Jimmy softly, “but down in that brush is a half-naked war-whoop, without brains enough to know sic ’em. Mostly always peace is like that, Pat. Ye never can tell by the label.”

Pat nodded absently, squinting across the coulée.

“Jimmy, look over at the bottom of the Pulpit. Look at the spot near where the rock comes to the brush. See the place, which looks like the corner of a building?”

“Aye,” grunted Jimmy. “Now what do ye suppose any man would want there?”

The tiny figure of a man was plainly visible, as he came down along the side of the Pulpit. For a few moments he disappeared, as he entered a heavy growth of brush, but reappeared again closer to the corner. At that distance it was impossible to see just what he was doing, as he blended with the rocks and foliage. But very soon he was retracing his steps, going back toward the top of the ridge.

“That wasn’t the Injun,” declared Jimmy. “He could not get there so soon.”

“Shall we go on down to the cabin?” asked Pat.

“I’ve a hunch to stop here a while,” smiled Jimmy, and added, “and anyway, I’m goin’ down there alone, Pat.”

“I am going with you,” declared Pat.

“I’ve had little experience with women,” said Jimmy seriously, “but they do tell me they’re not open to conviction, so I’ll not argue with any of them.”

Jimmy looked back across the coulée. The figure of a mounted man was riding down the right-hand side of the ridge, which led from the pulpit—far enough back to conceal him from any one in the coulée, but visible to Pat and Jimmy. They watched him finally ride down into the coulée, far below the little cabin.

At times they could see him through the trees and brush, and it appeared that he was crossing the coulée and heading toward them. He passed out of sight into one of the draws on their side.

Jimmy turned and looked toward the head of the coulée. A wild range steer, like a tiny silhouette, was trotting along the sky-line, and in a few moments they were able to distinguish a horse and rider coming over the sky-line behind the steer, but the rider came down the hill instead of keeping to the sky-line.

“Some one else is comin’,” grunted Jimmy, pointing out the rider to Pat. “We’ll be havin’ a quorum soon, I’m thinkin’.”

“Is it just a chance, or is there a reason, Jimmy?”

“I dunno, Pat. These two won’t meet. Anyway, it’s interestin’ to sit here and make bugaboos and bloodthirsty men out of ordinary, hard-workin’ range riders. Sure, I love to build me own heroes and villains. It’s the Irish in me which loves to see a bomb behind every bunch of chin-whiskers or to picture a colored waiter as a head-huntin’ Dyak, sneaking softly down through the steamin’ jungle, instead of a perfectly harmless hired man, comin’ between tables with a bowl of steamin’ mulligan.”

“You are a dreamer, Jimmy,” smiled Pat. “And still you whipped Bud Deal.”

“Is he hard to whip?”

“They say he has never met his match with fists or a gun.”

“Well, now,” smiled Jimmy, “I shall try me best to be afraid of him. Sure, I didn’t know about him.”

Pat looked at Jimmy and shook her head slowly.

“You will have to try real hard, I think. You had no trouble with Klooch and you rode Whistler—and knocked Bud Deal down, when he started to draw his gun.”

“He wasn’t lookin’ for it, Pat. Mebbe we’d make a real pretty fight—I dunno. I’m sure I don’t—sh-h-h!”

The sound of a walking horse drifted to their ears. It was passing between them and their horses, from the sound. Then, through an opening in the brush, they saw Jeff Garvin, riding slowly. He had something in front of him in the saddle. He passed out of sight, and a moment later there was no sound from his horse.

Jimmy raised up slowly and motioned to Pat to remain where she was. He wormed his way around through the brush for about fifty feet, where he could see Garvin, sitting motionless on his horse and looking toward the head of the coulée.

Jimmy turned his head. The other rider was coming slowly to the edge of the coulée, and Jimmy recognized Bud Deal’s sorrel. He glanced back at Garvin, who turned his horse back into the brush and dismounted. For the space of a full minute he remained motionless. Just in front of him was a small ravine, full of rocks and brush, and Garvin seemed to be considering this spot. Finally he took what looked like a dirty canvas sack and went over to this little ravine.

It took him some time to select a certain spot, after which he appeared to conceal the sack. Then he got to his feet, gazed for a few moments toward the horse and rider far beyond, and then went back to his horse, where he waited until Bud Deal had disappeared in the brush.

Garvin seemed undecided about which way to go, but finally rode into the brush, heading toward the spot where Bud had disappeared.

Jimmy slipped back to Pat and motioned for her to follow him. He told her nothing; but led her to the little ravine, where, from under a pile of rocks, which looked as if they had been in place for centuries, he drew out the canvas sack.

“Our friend Garvin hid it,” grinned Jimmy, as he unwound the string and peered inside. “Holy smoke! Would ye look at this, Pat?”

He opened the sack for her inspection, and she gazed wide-eyed at a jumble of yellow-backed currency and minted gold. The sack would weigh about twenty pounds, but the bulk of the money seemed to be in currency.

“What is it?” gasped Pat, staring at Jimmy.

“Unless me thoughts are wanderin’, that’s the money which was stole from the train. The sheriff has your father and brother in jail for the deed, while he goes around hidin’ it. Can ye beat that for inconsistency?”

Pat looked blankly at the money and Jimmy grinned up at her.

“I wonder if Garvin was one—sure, that was him at the foot of the Pulpit. Now, I’m beginnin’ to see a bit clearer.”

“What will we do with it, Jimmy?” nervously.

Jimmy stood up with the sack in his hands, and looked around.

“We’ll shock Mister Garvin, I’m thinkin’. Come on.”

He led the way back to where they had sat, and picked a spot near the edge, where he placed the sack under the side of a large granite outcropping and covered it with other rocks. When he had finished the job, no one would ever suspect that the rocks had been placed there by human hands.

“Remember this place, Pat,” said Jimmy seriously. “Ye may have to find it alone. We want that money to go back to its rightful owners.”

“Why will I have to find it alone, Jimmy?”

“I only say that ye may, Pat. Life is uncertain, ye know.”

“But this robbery does not concern you. There is no danger for you, Jimmy—is there?”

“The good Lord only knows, and He ain’t exposin’ nothin’ to mortal man, little Pat. Let’s quit arguin’ and do a bit o’ lookin’.”

They moved back to the rim of the coulée, where they could remain concealed, yet be in a position to watch the whole sweep of country.

IX

Bud Deal was worried. He had intended to keep Pat and Jimmy in sight, but had missed them; for the reason that they had swung around to the right of the Pulpit. He had no idea of what he was going to do, but he wanted to be sure what they did.

Something seemed to be pulling him down to the cabin. A premonition that all was not well down there annoyed him. He did not want to run into Pat and Jimmy, because it might be difficult to explain what he was doing down there, when Frawley had sent him the opposite direction from the Box M.

Bud’s conscience did not bother him over the shooting of the Indian. He had loaded him on his horse, taken him back up the coulée and dumped him in the brush down in a deep, dry water-course. Anyway, thought Bud, old Jim was worthless, and his demise would save the price of many quarts of liquor. Old Jim knew too much anyway.

Bud rode slowly down into the coulée, watching closely for any sign of Pat and Jimmy. It was almost a sure thing that Devlin would not take Pat with him when he tried to recover the missing money, so Bud felt fairly safe in going down there. Suddenly he had a curiosity to take a look at the Indian’s body and see if it was well-enough hidden.

He left his horse on the old cattle-trail and went on foot through the brush to the edge of the deep wash-out, where he leaned over the edge and peered down.

The Indian’s body was not there. Bud stepped back from the edge and glanced quickly around. This was the place. He looked again, leaning closer and examining the white boulders at the bottom. On one was a dark stain.

Bud straightened up and leaned back against the trunk of a small tree. Who had found the Indian? Did some one see the deed and remove the body? For a moment Bud’s nerve oozed out of his finger-tips; but he snapped back to normal, dangerous as a tiger.

He walked back to his horse, going softly as an Indian, his eyes sweeping every inch of the woods. The blow of not finding the body of his victim had dulled his sensibilities, but had sharpened his caution. Some one knew.

He rode slowly down through the brush, gun in hand. Just before he came out into the tiny clearing at the rear of the cabin, he drew up his horse and watched. A pair of magpies flew from the corral fence and lit on the peak of the cabin, where they fluffed their feathers and settled down, as though for a stay.

Bud scowled. Magpies do not ordinarily perch on the top of an occupied cabin, because the magpie is born with a fear of man—especially men who carry guns. Bud rode out of the brush and the magpies streaked for the trees, cackling loudly with fear. Bud dismounted at the door and went inside through the open door.

The cabin was empty. The old stove had been upset and the box cupboard had been wrenched from the wall. Blankets were strewn on the floor as if they had been dragged from the bunk, and left where they fell. On the floor near the bunk was the barrel and breech of a rifle, with the butt missing. It had been broken off.

Bud looked foolishly around the room, and backed to the door, as if afraid some one or something might materialize out of thin air and confront him in that dim, disordered cabin.

He even backed away from the open door and went to his horse, his mind in a turmoil. What had become of Whitey? Who had demolished things inside the cabin? Where was the dead Indian? Bud shut his teeth hard and tried to think calmly. Who would do this, and why?

His thoughts only ran in circles. He lifted his head and looked up at the Devil’s Pulpit, where the eagle circled high above the top. Whitey knew where that money was—and Whitey was gone. Bud spurred his horse straight through the brush, regardless of thorn or tangle, and climbed to the edge of the slide-rock, where he dismounted and scrambled on afoot.

He had lost all sense of caution now, as he panted over the loose, flat rocks, which slipped and tilted under the soles of his high-heeled boots. The perspiration beaded his forehead and ran into his eyes, but he clawed his way up to the apex of the Pulpit like a hunted animal going to its den.

He flung himself flat against the rock, sank to his knees and clawed inside the opening, where he had hidden the sack of money. It was not there.

He shut his eyes and remained for a while, with his hand still within the empty cavity in the rock. He slowly drew out his hand, turned his body and slid to a sitting position, facing the coulée. For several minutes he was as motionless as a figure of stone, his eyes staring straight ahead, like the eyes of the blind, which are open, but see not.

His hand came up and slowly wiped the perspiration from his brow as he reacted from the succession of shocks. Then Bud Deal cursed; cursed with a withering flow of bitter profanity, directed at the unknown who had done all this. His soul seemed to open and vomit curses, as a machine-gun vomits bullets. It was not the slow bitter curses of defeat, but the snappy, biting words, which seemed fairly to sear his lips. Bud’s soul was at white-heat, and it showed in his half-closed eyes, which seemed to flash, like tiny points of light.

He heaved himself to his feet and went stumbling and sliding back down the hill to his horse, where he mounted. As he turned his horse to ride toward the head of the coulée he saw a man ride into an opening in the bottom of the coulée. It was Garvin, but Bud was unable to tell just who it was. The man stopped and seemed to be watching down the coulée. He did not see Bud up there in the shadow from the Pulpit.

Bud slowly drew his Winchester from the scabbard under his leg. It was about four hundred yards to the man and horse, and Bud deliberately screwed up the sight for that elevation. Bud’s sorrel turned its head to one side, as it felt its rider lift the gun.

The sorrel was too well gun-broke to let its rider fire past its ears. Bud drew down slowly until the ivory bead centered on the rider, and pressed the trigger. The heavy report seemed to echo from the Pulpit, like the double report of two shots, and rattled off through the cañon like a clap of thunder.

The horse dropped forward, as if its forelegs had been cut from under it, and the rider pitched forward over its head. Bud realized that he had shot low, dropping the horse. The rider scrambled to his feet and sprang for the cover of brush, while Bud shot again and again, until the magazine of his rifle was empty. He knew that he was missing—that he was shooting wildly.

He crammed shells into the loading-gate of his gun, whirled his sorrel and rode through the brush, cutting down the hill to reach the bottom below the cabin. He was not going to let that man get away alive if he could help it.

Pat and Jimmy had not seen Bud until he fired the first shot. The cabin was well screened from them; so they had not seen him ride down there. His first shot had caused them to look across at the Pulpit, where they could see him through an opening in the brush. Pat started to her feet to try to see who he was shooting at; but Jimmy drew her down again.

“Don’t let any one see you,” he cautioned. “Never mind who he’s shootin’ at. From the shells he’s wastin’, I’ve an idea he ain’t doin’ so well as might be wished for.”

“But what is it all about, Jimmy?” Pat’s eyes were wide with the wonder of it all. “Who is Bud Deal shooting at?”

“I’ve no idea at all, Pat, unless it might be Mister Garvin, who imitates a pack-rat by hidin’ stuff.”

“But why should Bud Deal shoot at him, Jimmy?”

Jimmy looked at Pat and she turned her head nervously, peering down into the coulée.

“Are ye afraid for Bud Deal?” asked Jimmy softly.

She looked at him curiously.

“Afraid for him?”

“Aye.”

“Why, Jimmy.”

“He—he might get hurt, ye know.”

She bit her lip and looked back into the coulée, while Jimmy watched her closely. Then she turned and looked straight into his eyes, as if trying to read his thoughts.

“Jimmy, why is Bud Deal over here when he started for Squaw Creek?”

Jimmy grinned.

“Mebbe he lost his way.”

“Don’t joke with me. Why did you take that gun from under that lumber-pile, where I hid it, and change the handles? What do you know about that robbery?”

“I—I needed a gun,” stammered Jimmy, “and—and I hate them darned slick pearl-handles.”

“All right,” said Pat evenly. “Now, what do you know about that robbery?”

“Quite a lot.”

“How do you know quite a lot?”

“Because I was there,” grinned Jimmy.

“You?”

Pat leaned forward, wide-eyed.

“You were there?”

“Under the car,” nodded Jimmy. “I saw the men who did the job; but they was masked. I’ll tell ye why I changed them handles, Pat.”

Jimmy reached in his hip-pocket and brought out the two pearl-handles. From his watch-pocket he took out a small, triangular piece of pearl and fitted it into the broken corner of one of the pieces of pearl.

“I seen one of ’em drop his gun,” explained Jimmy. “When they left I got off the train, and I found this piece of pearl. I think the butt of the gun hit a rock when it fell. I dunno why I picked it up.”

Pat looked dumbly at the piece of pearl and turned away, gazing across the coulée.

“It was my dad’s gun,” softly. “I—I don’t know what to think.”

“Aye, but he wasn’t carryin’ it, Pat.”

“It was in his holster, hanging on the bedpost, when Garvin came for it that day.”

“Sure it was; but the shells in that belt are all .41’s. Would he be packin’ a .45 gun and .41 shells?”

“Jimmy, you say you saw these men? Was one of them a big man—bigger than Garvin?”

“He was not.”

“Oh, Jimmy, can you swear to this?”

“Aye,” sadly. “But my oath wouldn’t be much good, Pat. The court would not accept my testimony.”

“Why not?”

Jimmy shook his head slowly.

“Don’t ask me that. I’ll tell ye soon, I’m thinkin’—but not now.”

They both turned back to watching the coulée. There was no sign of Deal or Garvin. A gust of wind seemed to set the whole coulée into action, as it rippled the trees. Jimmy glanced up at the sky. Behind the Thunder Range great clouds were rolling into view, which would soon blot out the sun.

“We’re in for a wettin’,” declared Jimmy, pointing at the thunder-heads. “She’s goin’ to pop things wide open in a short time, I’m thinkin’.”

“We are neither sugar nor salt,” smiled Pat, “and a little water will not hurt us.”

Another gust of wind whirled down the coulée. The big eagle, which had been sailing serenely around the Pulpit, suddenly tacked straight into the wind, dropping lower and lower, until it blended with the rocky butte.

Jimmy had been watching it. Suddenly he leaned forward and looked closer. About fifty feet from the summit a figure came into view—the figure of a man. Jimmy called Pat’s attention.

“That is the crazy Indian!” she exclaimed. “Look at him! He’s going through the same actions as he was when we first saw him.”

It was true. He seemed to have moved forward a trifle, standing on a ledge of rock, with arms outstretched, head thrown back, as if invoking the storm. He was only a tiny figure, far away on the side of that seemingly sheer cliff; but the clear atmosphere etched every line of him clearly.

“What in the divil is he standin’ on?” queried Jimmy. “And how did the poor old war-whoop get up there?”

For a full minute or more the Indian held the pose, while Pat and Jimmy scanned the place to see how he got up there. Then the Indian seemed to back into the cliff and disappear.

“Sure, he’s got a cave up there,” grunted Jimmy. “Did ye notice that his body kinda went down when he backed up? The shelf of rock is tilted, which masks the entrance to the cave.”

“But how does he get up there?” queried Pat.

“There’s a way, and it’s likely easy,” grinned Jimmy, “only nobody knows it, except the Injun. Do ye know much of him, Pat?”

She shook her head. “Not much. He has been around here a long time. They say he was a powerful man before whisky ruined his muscles. They say that old Jim never broke his word to any one. Dad always said that Jim was just as honest as a dollar.”

“He was takin’ care of my sick friend,” said Jimmy.

“Old Jim? Taking care—why, he’s insane!”

“Aye. The poor feller is in a little cabin down there in the brush. We better hunt a shelter, Pat.”

The sun had already been blotted out and a low rumble of thunder seemed to vibrate the earth. Forked streaks of lightning split the black mass of storm clouds, which were sweeping swiftly toward them.

“We’ll go down to the little cabin, Pat,” said Jimmy. “It ain’t much, but mebbe it will stop a bit o’ the downpour.”

They hurried to their horses and untied them. Whistler was terrified at the storm, which was already flattening the brush around them.

Jimmy managed to mount, after he had helped Pat into her saddle; but both horses flatly refused to face the storm, which was already into them. Lightning seemed to play all around them, and the thunder was like the jarring of mighty guns.