Chapter IV

Jimmy Devlin disliked walking and refused to take it in large doses. In fact, he did not have a definite destination in view. He wanted to get a job on a cattle-ranch. He had been unable to prove his innocence at the time of his trial, but the brand of train-robber sat lightly on his shoulders. He whistled softly to himself and kept to the low ground, taking no chances of being seen and picked up as a suspect.

He had felt sure that he would find a ranch, where he could get a meal; but no ranch could he find, and hunger grew great within him. A well-directed stone secured a small brush-rabbit, which he dressed at a small creek and prepared for broiling.

He was about to light a fire, when he saw a rider cutting along the sky-line, traveling north. It was Bud Deal, heading for the Box M, but Jimmy did not know him.

“Ah-ha!” grunted Jimmy aloud. “That’s either an officer of the law or an innocent man; otherwise he wouldn’t be skylarkin’ along on the top of the hills. I should be wise and crafty, so I should; but eat I must, even if I’m spotted by me firelight and hung at daylight.”

Even a fat, young brush-rabbit is not exactly food for the gods, when salt is conspicuous by its absence; but Jimmy ate it all, loosened his belt and curled up on the ground.

The heat of the day gave way to the chill of night, and Jimmy grew uncomfortable. Finally he got to his feet and gazed off across the hills. A moon was coming up behind the Thunder Range. Far away came the mournful yelp of a coyote.

“Ye have nothin’ to yowl about,” commented Jimmy aloud. “From what I can see, ye have plenty to eat. Old Man Winter sure stocked up your grub-box, ye loafer. I am no —— owl, but I’d rather walk than freeze, and I’ve a hunch I’m goin’ to find a ranch pretty soon.”

He stamped out the remains of his little fire and started climbing the hill. He stopped at the top and scanned the country. A mile away glimmered a tiny light in a window at the Box M.

“There it is,” whispered Jimmy. “Me guidin’ star.”

His voice lifted in a lilting Irish tenor—

“Like a candle that stays in a window at night,
Your fond love has cheered me and guided me right.”

For Jimmy Devlin could sing, and many a crowded bunk-house had remained hushed long after his voice had died away. Jimmy had only sung once in prison. It was not allowed; but one night, long after the corridors were quiet, his voice was lifted in melody and he sang “My Wild Irish Rose.”

A burly guard, with a deep brogue, came to his door and haltingly commanded him to “desist that yowlin’!” But it was only after the last note had died away. Jimmy said nothing, but a prisoner across the corridor swore feelingly at the guard, who made no reply. Even prison guards are human.

Jimmy struck a well-worn cattle-trail, which led him straight to the ranch-house. He could smell the odors of cooking, as Mrs. Moore cooked supper for Bud Deal. He could see two people standing on the front steps, back-lighted by the lamplight from the open door.

Jimmy did not know just what conditions might be found at this particular ranch-house; so, instead of walking boldly to the people on the porch, he stopped and announced his coming with an old cowboy song:

“I’m so goshawful hungry, I’m plumb out of breath;
If some one won’t shoot me, I’ll sure starve to death.”

Jimmy waited a moment, and then a girl’s voice replied—

“Grub-pile!”

“’Tis heaven,” muttered Jimmy and came up to the porch. Pat Moore and Bud Deal looked curiously at him, as the lamplight showed his homely features. Jimmy smiled and removed his hat.

“Friends, it is not me mind that makes me a night intruder; because I have a control over me own brain, but the stummick of me contains nothin’ but a tiny brush-rabbit, half-cooked and unseasoned. Could ye give me a bit to eat and a place to sleep?”

“Yore kinda off the beaten trails, ain’t yuh?” asked Bud Deal.

Jimmy knew that Bud Deal thought he was a common tramp.

“Aye; but the best of us get off wrong, pardner.”

“Come in,” said Pat kindly. “Can you eat ham and eggs?”

“Lord love ye!” gasped Jimmy. “I could that.”

The three of them walked into the dining-room, and Jimmy bowed low to Mrs. Moore, who was just coming in with a platter of food.

“Mother, this man just walked in, and he said he was very hungry,” stated Pat.

Mrs. Moore smiled at Jimmy—

“You are welcome to what we have, I am sure.”

“And who could ask for more, ma’am? The fruit of the beautiful hen and the runnin’ gear of the noble hog is a fit repast for the gods. I thank ye from me heart.”

Bud Deal had studied Jimmy a bit closer in the light. His clothes were of the range—not the kind a tramp would wear. Jimmy had picked them up at a second-hand store.

“Cow-hand?” asked Bud.

Jimmy looked up and reached for the sugar—

“Aye.”

There was something about this glib-tongued, homely young Irishman that appealed to Pat. She was also of Celtic blood, but several generations removed. This man had come out of the night with a smile and a song, just when they needed a smile and a song. He was soft of tongue, ready of wit, and Pat felt that he would fight just for the love of battle.

Jimmy stole occasional glances at Pat. She was a new type to him.

“Irish, except for the eyes,” he reflected to himself. “I wonder now if a heart of gold has anythin’ to do with colorin’ her eyes? Jimmy, you paroled bandit, take your thoughts off the lass.”

He glanced across the table at Bud Deal. Jimmy did not like Bud. The swarthy face, coal-black eyes, the small, pointed mustache, sleek, black hair—none of Bud Deal’s features appealed to Jimmy. Bud was handsome, graceful—a dashing figure of a cowboy; but Jimmy disliked and feared that type.

“You’re a clever divil,” reflected Jimmy. “Slick as silk, and unless I misdoubt ye, my lad, ye wouldn’t be of much value in backin’ up a friend. Ye think too much of your good looks—more than ye would of friendship.”

Jimmy smiled at Pat.

“I was so hungry that I forgot me manners. My name is Jimmy Smith.”

Pat smiled back at him.

“Out here we wait for folks to tell their names. My name is Patricia Moore.”

Jimmy got to his feet and bowed.

“Miss Moore, it is the greatest pleasure of me life.”

He turned to Mrs. Moore, before Pat had a chance to introduce them, and held out his hand.

“Mrs. Moore, I know ye are; and ’tis a pleasure to come out of the night and meet a lady like ye.”

He turned to Bud Deal, who was looking on, a slight sneer on his lips.

“Mr. Smith, this is Mr. Deal,” said Pat.

“How do ye do, Mr. Deal,” said Jimmy, bowing.

Neither of them offered his hand. Pat noticed this and frowned slightly.

“Mr. Smith can share the bunk-house with you tonight, Bud,” said Pat.

Bud grunted and finished his coffee. Pat and her mother went into the living-room and Jimmy sauntered out on the porch to smoke a cigaret. A collie pup came up and nuzzled at him and Jimmy took the woolly little fellow in his arms. The pup squirmed with delight and Jimmy sat down on the steps to play with it.

He could hear Pat and her mother talking and some of the fragments of conversation came plainly to his ears. They were talking about the holdup and the arrest. Bud Deal came out on to the porch and jerked his head toward the bunk-house.

“I’ll show yuh where to sleep, Smith.”

“Sure, that’s a welcome sound, pardner. I’m dead on me feet, and a bed sounds like the tinkling of cymbals to me ears.”

Inside the bunk-house, Bud pointed out a bunk. Jimmy sat down and slowly drew off his boots.

“Not much of a crew around here, eh?” he queried.

Bud Deal shook his head.

“Nope. Sheriff took the boss and his son to jail this afternoon.”

Jimmy looked down at the boot in his hand and then at Bud.

“For what?”

“Holdin’ up a train.”

“Indeed? Holdin’ up a train, eh?”

“This mornin’,” mumbled Bud, as he licked the edge of a cigaret paper.

“So lately?” Jimmy considered the boot closely. “Well, well! Sure, it must be the girl’s father and brother.”

“Yeah,” rather indifferently. “Flint Moore’s her dad. Brother’s name is Wild.”

“Now that’s too bad, so it is,” Jimmy’s voice grew sympathetic. “What proof did the sheriff have?”

“Proof?” Bud shook his head. “I dunno. Seems that he was just lookin’ for two men on horseback.”

“Which proves nothin’,” grinned Jimmy. “Sure they can bail themselves out, can’t they?”

Bud shook his head slowly.

“I don’t think so, Smith. You see, the robbers killed the fireman.”

“That’s right, they—um-m-m!”

Bud turned and looked curiously at Jimmy.

“What did you say?”

“I was just goin’ to say that it comes under the head of murder, which ain’t bailable.”

Bud nodded, although seemingly not satisfied. Finally he said—

“Where did you come from, Smith?”

“Me?” Jimmy grinned slowly. “It would take a lot of tellin’, Deal. All me life I’ve been comin’ from some place. Ask the wind where it comes from. I’m a drifter—a boomer, a man without a home. I was born with an itchin’ foot, and I have neither kith nor kin to say that I may not scratch it where I will.”

“Where are you goin’?” asked Bud.

“The same thing applies,” smiled Jimmy. “If I had a job I might tarry a while right here.”

Bud smoked for a while in silence. Then:

“I dunno what I can do for yuh, Smith. I’m goin’ to Oxbow in the mornin’ and see the old man. Yuh might stay here until I get back, and maybe they’ll want a man to help me, now that the two of them are away. You might as well take the job, if there is a job.”

“Sure. Well, I’ll pound me ear a few, pardner. I ain’t had a real sleep for so long that I’ve began to think that I traded me bed for a lantern. Good-night.”

“Good-night,” grunted Bud.

* * * * *

Jimmy was awakened by the sound of galloping hoofs. He glanced around the bunk-house, trying to remember where he was. Bud Deal was not there, so after a moment’s reflection, Jimmy decided that the galloping horse meant that Bud was on his way to Oxbow.

He got up and dressed quickly. Somehow he was glad that Bud Deal was going to be away for a while. The collie pup was sitting on the low step of the bunk-house, as if waiting for Jimmy to come out, and met him with a yelp of joy. Jimmy’s heels were blistered from his walk of yesterday; but he forgot them and romped with the pup.

Suddenly the pup shot between Jimmy’s legs, tripping him, and Jimmy sprawled ungracefully on his face, while the overjoyed collie yipped with delight.

“Have you no consideration for the cook?”

Jimmy sat up and blinked at Pat, who was standing on the porch of the ranch-house, looking seriously at him. He got to his feet and recovered his hat, which the collie tried to take from him.

“My apologies to the cook, Miss Moore. The blessed pup made me forget that I had overslept. Look at the face of him, Miss. Sure, he’s laughin’ at us both. Has he anythin’ against the cook?”

Pat laughed. Jimmy’s serious expression was irresistible.

“Come in and eat your breakfast, Mr. Smith.”

Jimmy laughed and romped around to the kitchen door, where he knew he would find a wash-basin and cold water. Pat went through the house and came out of the kitchen door, where great masses of hop-vines twined over the porch and half-masked the rear of the building.

Another dog sauntered up from the stables and Jimmy stood, basin in hand, and watched it.

“That is Klooch,” said Pat. “She’s the mother of the pup.”

“Half-wolf, so she is,” smiled Jimmy. “The father of the pup must ’a’ been pure collie, because the pup don’t show any wolf strain, Miss.”

Klooch stopped a few feet from Jimmy, watching him closely with her half-closed, almond-shaped eyes. The wolf blood showed in her every action.

“No one has ever made friends with Klooch,” stated Pat. “She merely tolerates us.”

Jimmy held out his hand to Klooch and started toward her.

“Look out for her,” cautioned Pat. “She’ll snap.”

“She will not,” contradicted Jimmy and placed his hand on the wolf-dog’s head.

Klooch made no move to show fight. Her eyes shut to mere slits and not a muscle of her body moved, while Jimmy rubbed her muzzle and scratched her ruffed neck.

Jimmy turned back to his wash-basin. Pat looked wonderingly at Klooch, who moved in closer and watched Jimmy. Finally the wolf-dog nuzzled at Jimmy’s hand.

“Why, she never did that before in her life!” exclaimed Pat.

Jimmy tossed the basin of water aside and smiled at Pat.

“Ye’ve all been afraid of her, miss. ’Tis the wolf in her, which mistrusts fear.”

Jimmy followed Pat into the kitchen, closing the screen door behind them. Klooch and her pup followed up on the vine-covered porch and sat down in front of the door, looking inside. Pat told her mother of Klooch’s actions and pointed her out, sitting before the door, evidently waiting for Jimmy to come out.

Mrs. Moore smiled and said:

“It is hard to deceive a baby or a dog. I think it would be still harder to deceive Klooch. Animals and babies have an instinct which tells them good from evil in human beings.”

Jimmy blushed at the compliment and bent over his breakfast.

“Sure, ye overrate me, ma’am. I’m just a lazy, wasteful drifter and if there’s any good in me it’s buried deep under a pile of sins.”

“You have never failed to help a friend,” stated Mrs. Moore, with conviction.

“Well, now,” Jimmy frowned thoughtfully, “it seems that I haven’t always been careful to find out who I was helpin’. There’s a wide difference between what is known as friendship, ma’am. Just knowin’ folks and bein’ able to call ’em by their first name don’t mean that they are your friends. Ye may find a friend in a flash, or ye may go all your life without one. Clear skies and fair weather is a poor barometer. ’Tis only when the storms hit ye, that ye need friendship.”

Mrs. Moore sighed and tucked away a stray wisp of gray hair. Pat leaned against the doorway, deep in thought. Jimmy lifted his head and looked at Mrs. Moore’s patient face.

“Mrs. Moore, it comes to me that foul weather has hit the Box M, and that ye are in need of a friend.”

Pat looked up quickly—

“Did Bud tell you?”

“Aye,” softly.

“They are both innocent.”

Jimmy nodded slowly.

“No doubt they are; but bein’ innocent is only personal satisfaction, unless ye can prove it to the judge and jury. Ye’ll find few mind-readers siftin’ evidence in a court of law.”

As Jimmy turned back to his food the collie pup set up a vociferous barking and raced around toward the front of the house. Mrs. Moore walked into the living-room and on to the front porch. Jeff Garvin was just about to dismount from his horse.

When he spoke it was plainly audible to Pat and Jimmy.

“Mrs. Moore, I want your husband’s gun—his pearl-handled six-shooter.”

“Why—I—I don’t know—” faltered Mrs. Moore.

Pat whirled from the doorway and glided softly into the living-room, out of sight of Jimmy.

“He didn’t have a gun on him,” explained Garvin. “I rode out to get his gun.”

Jimmy heard Mrs. Moore turn and come back into the living-room, followed by Garvin, jingling his spurs and walking heavily. Jimmy got to his feet, and as he did he glanced out of the kitchen door and saw Pat dart past the vines and go toward the barns.

Jimmy walked slowly to the living-room door, where he stood and looked at Garvin’s back. Mrs. Moore was evidently searching in a bed-room for the gun, while he looked on. After a few moments Mrs. Moore said:

“I am sure I do not know where it is. When he was not wearing it he kept it hanging in his belt at the head of the bed.”

“Yeah?” Garvin’s query was sarcastic. “Well, now that seems kinda funny, don’t it? Ha, ha, ha!”

“I’m sure that no one has—did Mr. Moore tell you where it was?”

“Didja think he would? I’ll find that gun if I have to take this ranch apart! _Sabe?_”

Garvin whirled on his heel and started toward the front door, when he happened to see Jimmy. He stopped short and stared at him.

“You spoke of takin’ the ranch apart,” reminded Jimmy seriously.

Garvin stared at him and Jimmy returned the stare with interest. Garvin’s face showed the effects of the fight of the night before and Jimmy smiled at these unmistakable marks of conflict.

“Who in —— are you?” growled Garvin.

“No reply from the defendant,” grinned Jimmy. “The son-of-a-gun refuses to answer.”

Garvin snorted disgustedly. Jimmy’s easy manner and wide grin rasped on his nerves. But Garvin did not want trouble—not physical trouble.

Pat came up to the front door and simulated great surprize at seeing the sheriff.

“I hardly expected to see you today.”

“Mm-yah!” snarled Garvin. “Know where yore dad’s gun is?”

“My dad’s gun? Didn’t he have it on last night?”

“He did not! I’m out here to get it. _Sabe?_”

“Easy,” cautioned Jimmy. “File the point off your voice, pardner. The lady has nothin’ to do with her father’s gun.”

“Where do you come in on this?” demanded Garvin.

“Right at this point,” replied Jimmy, all trace of his smile vanishing. “You came here to run a bluff on two ladies, didn’t you? You was goin’ to take the ranch apart, wasn’t you? Well, start in.”

“Mebbe you don’t know who I am,” Garvin glowered at Jimmy. “I represent the law in this county, young feller.”

“Oh, ye do, do ye? Represent the law accordin’ to the statutes?”

“I sure do!” snapped Garvin.

“Then go back and git a search warrant. Ye have no right to come into this ranch-house and ransack the place, without a warrant. Now, git out!”

Garvin’s face flushed scarlet and he scratched an itching palm against his holster. He hated to let this outsider tell him his duty. Finally he walked to the door and turned for a parting shot.

“There’s a penalty for withholding evidence in a case like this. I’ll come back with a warrant and enough men to comb every inch of this place. I have a description of Flint Moore’s gun—now, I want the gun.”

Garvin clumped down the steps and got on his horse. Pat and Jimmy watched him ride away and Jimmy noticed that Pat sighed with relief when the sheriff had disappeared.

“I do not understand it at all,” said Mrs. Moore, almost on the verge of tears. “I really thought that they would be back before this. Surely they can furnish bonds.”

Pat shook her head.

“Mother, this is not a case of getting bonds. The robbers killed the fireman.”

“Will they have to stay in jail, Pat?”

“I—I’m afraid they will, mother.”

Jimmy walked out on the porch and sat down. There was nothing he could do to lessen Mrs. Moore’s grief, and he wanted to think a little. Klooch and the puppy came around the house and up to him. The wolf-dog put her chin on his knee and looked up at him with her squinted wolf-like eyes.

Jimmy rubbed her muzzle, absently, thinking about the details of the hold-up—the details he had seen. Why did the sheriff want that gun so badly? Was it of a distinctive type, which might have been noted by the engineer or the express messenger?

He rubbed his nose and squinted down at the wolf-dog—

“Klooch, would any self-respectin’ robber pack a gun which any one might identify?”

The dog peered up at him with her inscrutable eyes. The pup chased a buzz-winged grasshopper toward the barn, but was outwitted. Jimmy smiled at the pup’s antics. Suddenly it looked back toward the porch, hesitated for a moment and then trotted to a small pile of loose lumber beside the bunk-house and began to paw at it.

Jimmy watched it for a while; but the pup finally tired and came back to the porch, where it curled up in the shade. Jimmy could hear the subdued tones of the two women; but was not able to hear what they were talking about.

He got up and walked slowly down to the bunk-house. There was no question in his mind that Pat had hidden the six-shooter. He walked past the bunk-house, stopped at a corral, where several horses were standing in the meager shade, switching their tails at the annoying flies.

Then he came in at the rear of the bunk-house and around to the side where the lumber was piled. He lifted several of the boards aside, knelt down and picked up a heavy Colt gun, which he shoved inside his shirt, replaced the boards and sauntered inside the bunk-house, without being seen from the ranch-house.

The puppy had seen Pat hide the gun, and with the curiosity of a puppy, wanting to investigate, had made the hiding-place plain to Jimmy Devlin, _alias_ Smith.

He examined the gun. It was a .45 Colt, with a six-inch barrel and beautiful pearl handle. A small triangular piece had been broken from the lower inside corner of one of the pieces of pearl.

Jimmy squinted at this closely and then reached in his pocket for the piece of pearl he had picked up at the scene of the hold-up. It fitted exactly.

He dropped the piece of pearl into his pocket and sat down on the edge of a bunk. There was not the slightest doubt that it was Flint Moore’s gun—and it was the gun, or one of the guns, used at the hold-up. It was an easy gun to identify. Few cattlemen carry a pearl-handled gun, especially of that weight and length.

Jimmy examined it closely. The barrel was clean and every chamber loaded.

“The lass will be worried when she finds it’s gone,” reflected Jimmy, “but a lumber-pile is a poor place to hide anythin’. ’Tis a good feel of a gun and I hate to lay it away.”

Jimmy rubbed his chin thoughtfully and looked at the gun. A grin rippled across his lips and he shoved the gun inside his shirt and walked outside. He picked up a piece of a cedar board and examined it, after which he walked down back of the corrals, sat down in the shade of a willow clump and began to whittle.