Chapter III

Jeff Garvin opened his mail, which had collected for several days. It was mostly reward notices, which he scanned and tossed aside. Rewards for yeggs, counterfeiters and even the lowly pickpocket. The sheriff passed them all until he came to a letter which bore the imprint of the State penitentiary. He opened it and frowned over its contents.

Jud Frawley looked up from his newspaper when the sheriff grunted aloud.

“They’ve paroled Jim Devlin,” stated the sheriff.

“Who is he?” asked Frawley. “Oh, yeah. He was sent up before we went into office, wasn’t he, Jeff?”

“Uh-huh. Robbed a train in Silverbend County and they trailed him plumb over here before they got him.”

“And never got the money, did they?”

“Nope. He got away with twenty thousand dollars. Now they let him out on parole and he’ll likely dig it up, thumb his nose at the law and live easy.”

“Did you know him?” asked Frawley.

Garvin shook his head.

“Never even seen him. Heard all about the case. Swore he didn’t know a thing about it, but they sent him up. Why, he was ridin’ a pinto, with a white rump. The sheriff of Silverbend had follered that pinto for a week. They gave him three years. ——! I’d serve fifteen months for twenty thousand dollars.”

Frawley nodded in agreement and folded up his paper.

“Seen anything of any of the Box M outfit lately?”

The sheriff snapped around in his chair.

“None of ’em been here in ten days—not since the trial. Mebbe I made a fool of myself, Frawley; but I was sore. That —— Wild Moore would make anybody sore, and his father——”

The sheriff snapped back to his desk and began writing on some legal papers. Frawley nodded, deep in thought. Then—

“Wasn’t it reported that Devlin was killed in a jail-break?”

“Yeah. A month ago. Newspapers never get things right. It was denied later. Anyway, he wasn’t, or they couldn’t parole him, that’s a cinch.”

The sheriff picked up the letter again and scanned it. He grunted something unintelligible and turned to Frawley.

“Where do yuh reckon this letter has been all this time? Posted two weeks ago.”

Frawley got up and examined the postmark. It was quite true that the letter was two weeks old.

“Likely got shoved aside,” said Frawley, slowly. “It don’t matter none, does it, Jeff?”

“No, but it might ’a’ been somethin’ important.”

Frawley pursed his lips and went back to his chair. He had been carrying that letter in an inside vest pocket ever since the morning it arrived, but he wasn’t going to tell the sheriff. The vest had not been worn since that morning until now. Still, it was not important.

A man, bareheaded and in his shirt-sleeves, came in the door and walked to the sheriff, to whom he handed a telegram, watching the sheriff read it. Frawley got up, as if to get a peek at the message, which had suddenly galvanized Garvin into life.

“Listen to this, Jud,” ordered the sheriff, and read the message aloud:

“NUMBER FIFTY-TWO HELD UP BY TWO MASKED MEN IN SNAKE CREEK HILLS
AT DAYLIGHT THIS MORNING. FIREMAN JOHNSON KILLED. BLEW SAFE AND
GOT AWAY WITH BIG SHIPMENT OF GOLD. TRAIN WAS STOPPED AT FIRST
CURVE NORTH OF SNAKE CREEK BRIDGE. ENGINEER SAW ROBBERS GO EAST
FROM RAILROAD.

(signed) SHERIFF FRANKLYN, COTTONWOODS.”

“Snake Creek Bridge,” mused Frawley. “No use goin’ down there, I don’t reckon. They’ll have hours start of us.”

“Cinch,” agreed the sheriff. “Only thing we can do is to go out the Box M road and cut across the hills to Snake Creek. It’s almost a cinch that they won’t try to hide out East of Bitter River. Mebbe we’ll cut their trail some’ers.”

“Take a pack-outfit?” queried Frawley, and the sheriff nodded. “One horse. Throw on enough for about four days, Jud. Better pack the brown mare. She’s got more speed than the rest. I’ll wire to Franklyn and tell him we’ll work the Thunder Range, but for him to watch that they don’t get across into the breaks of Swan River.”

Jud Frawley worked swiftly and in half-an-hour they were ready to hit the trail.

Both men were well mounted and the small pack was diamond-hitched to a rangy brown mare.

Without causing any questions or excitement they rode out of town, heading down the dusty road, which led to the Box M. They covered ground swiftly, with the pack-mare swinging along at a stiff gallop. Both men knew it might be a hard trip, with the odds greatly in favor of the hunted. There were hundreds of places in the east side of the Thunder Range where two men might hide out indefinitely. It was a case of cutting their trail, more by accident than design, because the range was full of loose horses, some shod, some barefooted.

Jeff Garvin did not intend to stop at the Box M ranch. He knew that his presence was not at all desired at that certain place. The enmity between him and Flint Moore was of many years’ standing, and was caused by a horse race and the native truth of an Indian.

* * * * *

It was only a cayuse race, yet much money had been wagered. Flint Moore had a horse in the race as did Jeff Garvin. Both owners were too heavy to ride their own horses, and expect to win; so Garvin suggested that they each hire an Indian boy to ride.

Moore agreed and selected his boy the day before. That night Garvin drank much whisky and made many bets on his horse. Moore took part of the bets, in which Garvin gave foolish odds. Moore’s horse won.

An hour or so after the race Moore found his jockey, almost beaten to death, and doctored him back to life. The Indian boy told Moore that Garvin had tried to kill him. After much questioning Moore found that Garvin had bribed the Indian boy to throw the race. He had given the boy ten dollars to do this, but the boy had not understood the white man’s crooked scheme and had ridden to win.

Moore hunted out Garvin and found him in a gambling hall. Before the crowd, Moore told what the Indian boy had told him and then proceeded to whip Garvin. It was a complete job. Later that night, some one hit Moore over the head with a gun and robbed him of his own money and the winnings of the race. The next day Garvin had plenty of money, but Moore could not prove who hit him. From that time on there was an enmity which grew with the years.

* * * * *

The sheriff and his deputy rode past the sagging gate to the ranch-house, and started into the hills, past the corrals, when they met Patricia, leading her saddle-horse. She watched them ride up to her and made no effort to avoid them.

Garvin eased himself in his saddle and glanced back at the ranch-house before he said—

“Yore dad at home?”

Pat shook her head.

“No.”

“Yore brother?”

“Why do you ask?” Pat looked straight at him, and Garvin smiled.

“Then he ain’t, eh? Where’s Bud Deal and Whitey Allen?”

“Whitey isn’t working here. Hasn’t been here for about ten days.”

“Which don’t tell me where Bud Deal is,” reminded Garvin.

“No?” Pat was not a bit afraid of Jeff Garvin. “Perhaps you had better find Bud Deal and ask him.”

“Yeah,” nodded the sheriff. “Mebbe it would pay me to do just what yuh say. They’re all out in the hills, ain’t they?”

“Are they?” queried Pat interestedly. “Know any more news about our affairs, Mr. Garvin?”

Garvin swore under his breath and spurred ahead. Jud Frawley grinned at Pat and lifted his hat as he followed the sheriff. Down in his heart Frawley applauded Pat Moore, and he was not going to let Garvin’s prejudices against the Moore family change his opinion that Pat was about the finest girl he ever met.

The sheriff led straight into the south, until the broken hills concealed them from the ranch-house; then he turned his horse at right angles and swung up the bottom of a dry ravine. They climbed to where the ravine forked and the sheriff stopped and dismounted.

“What’s the big idea?” queried Frawley, as he watched the sheriff swing his field-glasses over his shoulder.

“We’ll climb up here to the top and watch that —— ranch, Jud. I ain’t takin’ no chances this time. Flint Moore needs money pretty danged bad, I’m tellin’ yuh. Him and that go-devil son of his ain’t home, and I’m goin’ to see when and from which way they do come.”

“How about Bud Deal?” asked Frawley, as they settled down in the rocks, looking down at the distant ranch-house.

“All depends,” grunted Garvin. “I’m lookin’ for two men ridin’ together. Bud Deal is goin’ to marry that yaller-eyed girl, and the Box M needs money pretty danged bad.”

Frawley grunted and stretched out in the shade. As far as he was concerned it was all right. He would rather lie in the shade than to ride in the sun, and if the sheriff wanted to loaf on the job, he was willing to help him.

It was about four o’clock when the sheriff picked up the two riders heading toward the ranch-house. It was Flint Moore and his son, beyond a doubt. Frawley took the glasses and nodded in agreement.

“Still that don’t spell nothin’,” stated Frawley, as he handed the glasses back to Garvin. “Two men ridin’ together don’t mean they robbed a train.”

“Ke-rect!” snapped the sheriff. “But it resembles such to the extent that I’m goin’ to find out where they’ve been. It’s about twenty-five miles from here to where that hold-up was pulled off, Jud. Come on.”

Garvin got to his feet and started down the hill toward their horses.

“Think a little about this, Jeff,” cautioned Jud, angling down the hill, digging his high-heels into the turf. “Flint Moore ain’t no shrinkin’ vi’let, and he hates you a lot. Wild ain’t exactly got any cause to love yuh—and they’re both pretty —— fast with a six-gun.”

Garvin turned at the horses.

“Stay out of it if yo’re scared, pardner; but I’m goin’ down there. _Sabe?_”

Frawley swung to his saddle and circled the pack-mare.

“I ain’t afraid, Jeff; and you know it. We’ll just be rammin’ ourselves against hot lead, thasall. Lemme go in alone and talk to ’em.”

“Fine chance!” sneered Garvin. “Have folks find out that I was scared of Moore. No, we go in together, or I go in alone.”

“All right, all right,” grunted Frawley. “Statistics shows that most men die before they reach thirty years of age, and I’m ten years over the average right now.”

Flint Moore and his son reached the ranch-house ahead of the sheriff and his deputy. Flint had gone into the house, while Wild had taken the horses to the corral. Garvin and Frawley rode boldly through the gate and up to the porch.

* * * * *

Flint Moore stepped out on the porch, minus his belt and gun and carrying a newspaper. He stared at Garvin steadily, wonderingly. Then he said—

“What do you want here, Garvin?”

“Just a little information, Moore,” replied the sheriff easily, noting with satisfaction that Moore was unarmed.

He eased himself in the saddle and dropped the reins over the saddle-horn.

“Where yuh been, Moore?”

“Where have I been?” Flint Moore repeated the question.

“Uh-huh.”

Moore took several moments to collect his thoughts, and then—

“What business of yours is where I have been?”

“None—mebbe. Saw you and yore son ridin’ in and I’d kinda like to know where you’ve been, thassall.”

Moore frowned. It was inconceivable that the sheriff should ride in and ask where he had been—especially as he and Garvin were sworn enemies.

“I don’t _sabe_ your reasons, Garvin; and it’s none of your —— business where we’ve been.”

Garvin fidgeted with his bridle reins.

“Have you met anybody who could swear where yuh was at a certain time?”

Moore frowned and shook his head.

“Didja leave home today?”

“No, we left yesterday. Now, what in —— is all this about?”

“The train was held up at Snake Creek bridge this mornin’ about daylight,” replied Garvin slowly.

The newspaper slipped from Moore’s hand. For a moment he stared at Garvin and then came straight down the steps and up to the horses. Garvin’s hand slid to his gun. He had felt the weight of Flint Moore’s fist and was not going to take any chances.

“You accuse me of doing that?” Moore’s voice was very low, but distinct.

“Don’t get het up,” advised Garvin. “If yuh didn’t, yuh can prove yuh didn’t, can’t yuh?”

“Can you prove I did, Garvin?”

“I reckon,” said Garvin slowly. “I reckon we’ll let the jury decide that.”

Garvin’s hand came up quickly and his pistol pointed at Flint Moore.

“Yo’re under arrest, Moore. Don’t move,” and then to Frawley, “Go and get the kid, Jud.”

As Frawley turned his horse toward the sheds Pat came out on the front porch. For a moment she stared at her father and the sheriff and then she came down the steps and up to them. She looked at the pistol in the sheriff’s hand and at her father’s tense face.

Wild Moore came out of the stable and saw Frawley riding toward him. He could see his father standing beside the sheriff’s horse, with Pat a few feet away.

He knew that something was wrong and waited for Frawley to come up. Frawley was doing something he did not want to do; but he was only the sheriff’s hired man.

“I reckon yo’re under arrest, Wild.”

Wild Moore looked up at him. He did not dislike Jud.

“What for?”

“Sheriff thinks that you and yore dad held up the train at Snake Creek this mornin’.”

“The —— he does!” exploded Wild, and walked rapidly up to the sheriff, paying no attention to the gun.

“What’s all this fool talk about?” he demanded.

Frawley rode up beside him and waited for the sheriff to speak.

The gun turned slowly to cover Wild, and the sheriff spoke to Frawley—

“Take his gun, Jud.”

The tall deputy dismounted and removed the gun from Wild’s holster.

“Wild, can’t you prove where you were yesterday and today?” asked Pat. “Didn’t you see anybody?”

Wild shook his head.

“Never seen a soul, Pat. We made camp at Dancin’ Flats last night. Why, we wasn’t within eight miles of the railroad.”

“Well,” said the sheriff, “I reckon you can saddle up again and come with me to Oxbow.”

“You mean—” began Flint Moore.

“Jail—sure,” nodded the sheriff. “If yuh can prove yuh didn’t do it—fine. I’m listenin’ for a proof.”

“And while you are listening for innocent men to prove their innocence, the real robbers are making their way to safety,” said Pat.

Garvin laughed aloud and started to drop his pistol back into its holster. His prisoners were unarmed. He looked down at Pat.

“Sister, that sounds real smart; but I’m one _hombre_ that yaller eyes and a smooth tongue never did faze.”

Flint Moore was only a few feet away from the sheriff, and his spring caught the sheriff unawares. His arms circled the sheriff’s body, and a backward heave, with his knees braced against the horse’s side, threw Garvin out of the saddle and sprawling to the ground. Like a flash, Flint Moore tossed aside the sheriff’s gun and waited for him to get up.

Jud Frawley started forward as if to help Garvin, but Wild tripped him with an out-flung foot and he almost fell over the sheriff. Before he could regain his balance Wild dived into him, knocking him sidewise and almost under his frightened horse, where Wild yanked his gun from its holster and secured his own from where it had dropped in the mixup.

Jeff Garvin struggled to his feet, cursing madly, and rushed at Flint Moore. They were nearly equal in size, but Flint Moore had whipped him before and both men knew he could do it again. This knowledge won for Flint, just as it lost for Garvin.

Moore smashed through Garvin’s clumsy guard and drove him across the yard with terrific smashes, which Garvin could not block. Garvin fought back like a tiger for a moment, but a blow to the jaw took all the strength from his muscles, and a second later a haymaker swing crashed against his chin and he went down like a stricken steer.

Flint Moore turned toward the porch, where Wild and Pat were sitting side by side. On the steps sat Frawley, his hands on his knees, a half-smile on his face. Moore noticed that Wild was dangling a pistol in his hand.

“That,” declared Frawley in appreciation, “that was complete and plumb sudden. Fallin’ around thataway caused me to miss a little of it. Kinda like a prizefight I was to in Pendleton once. They rung the bell and I turned m’ head to spit. Missed the fight, by jing! Hope he seen me start to help him.”

Flint Moore leaned against the porch and watched Garvin struggle back to his feet. He was a badly whipped man and did not seem to know just where he was going.

“Busted his rudder!” exclaimed Frawley, and then to Wild, “Mind lettin’ me steer him?”

Wild grinned and shook his head. Frawley got Garvin by the arm and led him back to his horse, where Garvin clung to a stirrup and tried to clear his brain. Frawley turned to Flint Moore.

“I reckon he won’t take yuh with him this evenin’.”

“I reckon he will!” retorted Flint. “If he don’t take us in with him, we’ll take him in with us. He’s made his arrest, now he’s got to make good on it. Go get the horses, Wild.”

Garvin got slowly on his horse. He was sore from his beating and his head ached badly. Flint Moore walked in close to him, and Garvin flinched at the feel of the muscular hand on his knee.

“Garvin, if you ever speak to my daughter or about her, I’ll beat you to death.”

Garvin nodded with evident understanding and caressed his aching jaw. He dreaded having to speak to any one.

Mrs. Moore was busy in the kitchen at the rear of the house and knew nothing of the turn of events until Pat went into the house and told her. They both went outside as Wild rode up leading his father’s horse.

The leavetaking was short. Mrs. Moore, a patient little woman, bowed her head sadly over the inevitable. She knew that they were not guilty, but that the sheriff would try to make them as much trouble as possible.

Pat and her mother stood on the porch and watched them ride away, with Garvin, unarmed, riding in the lead, closely followed by Frawley, also unarmed. Flint Moore and Wild rode side by side. Frawley turned and waved his hat at the two women, as he yelled a good-bye to them. Garvin rode straight ahead, never taking his eyes off the road. He knew that Oxbow would laugh when they heard how he had brought in his prisoners; and Jeff Garvin hated to be laughed at.

Frawley did not mind. In fact he was secretly pleased over the turn of affairs. It had looked to Wild as if Frawley had started ahead to assist the sheriff, when Flint Moore yanked him from his saddle; but the fact of the matter was that Frawley intended to jump Garvin for his words to Patricia.