Chapter XIII

It was twilight again at the Box M, and the Thunder Range had flung its long shadows across valley and hill. Questions had been asked and answered, until every one at the ranch understood the things that had come to pass during the past few days. Flint Moore and his wife sat in the little living-room, facing each other across the table in silent contemplation of the future.

Wild stood in the lighted doorway, leaning against the door-sill, looking at Pat, who was sitting on the porch steps. A string of shadowy cattle figures drifted down past the fence, going to water. From somewhere a calf bawled plaintively. High overhead a number of night hawks skirled as they circled swiftly in search of food.

From down at the bunk-house came the voice of Jimmy Devlin singing “The Holy City.” It was a new song to the range-land—sung in a slurring tenor, which seemed to melt away into the night.

“Jerusalem, Jerusalem, lift up your voice and sing.”

“That is he,” said Mrs. Moore, leaning across the table toward her husband. “Could a man who sings like that be bad, Flint?”

Flint Moore shook his head:

“No, mother. If Pat wants to marry him—he can’t be very bad. Listen, Mary.”

Jimmy’s voice came clearly to them—

“The world grew dark with mystery and all around was still, when
the shadow of a cross arose upon a lonely hill.”

Pat lifted her head. A man was riding in from down by the gate. He drew rein and listened to the song until it was finished and rode up to the porch. It was Frawley. He dismounted and came up to the porch, calling a soft greeting to Pat and Wild.

Flint Moore and his wife heard him and came outside.

“I just stopped for a minute,” said Frawley. “The rest of the posse went straight back to Oxbow.”

“Did you catch the Indian?” asked Flint.

Frawley shook his head.

“No. We trailed them to the foot of the Devil’s Pulpit, where we found the horse; and a little later we found them both, lying at the foot of the Pulpit—dead. I think the Indian tried to climb the rock with Bud and slipped, or they fought up there.”

“Well,” said Flint Moore softly, “maybe it was best that way, Frawley.”

“Yeah, I reckon. Well, I’ll be goin’ on, folks. Good-night.”

Frawley rode away into the night. The rest of the family went into the house, leaving Pat alone on the porch, as a shadowy figure came from the bunk-house and walked slowly toward her, with the wolf-dog beside him. He stopped a short distance away and appeared to hesitate.

“Who goes there?” challenged Pat softly.

Jimmy chuckled, and replied—

“The ex-range-boomer.”

“Where are you from?”

“The Box M,” said Jimmy quickly, “where I hope to stay so long they’ll assess me as personal property.”

“If they do,” said Pat softly, “I’ll be willing to pay the taxes.”

Then Klooch blinked her sore eyes and wondered in her own dumb way whether she wasn’t a bit fooled into thinking that Jimmy was a one-dog man. He seemed to forget her for so long.

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine, July 30, 1922. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]