Chapter V

Bud Deal spent the greater part of the forenoon with Flint and Wild Moore, in their quarters at the jail. Flint Moore had not engaged a lawyer, because he did not think there was sufficient evidence against them to demand legal assistance.

Bud had circulated around Oxbow, getting opinions and from what he had heard it seemed likely that both of the Moores would be held for the next term of the superior court. Oxbow was laughing at Jeff Garvin for the way he brought in his prisoners, but Oxbow knew that Flint Moore and his son were hard men to handle.

“Looks kinda like Garvin was set on makin’ us a heap of trouble,” agreed Flint. “There ain’t a bit of evidence against us, except that we rode in from that direction.”

“Where was you that day, Bud?” asked Wild.

“Well,” grinned Bud, “I reckon I was closer to the hold-up than you was, as far as that’s concerned. I slept at Crazy Horse Springs that night and worked kinda northwest to the foot of the range. I never seen a soul. My idea is that them two bandits went straight across Bitter River and into the Silverbend Hills.”

“Leaves the Box M kinda short-handed,” mused Flint.

Then Bud told them of the range-boomer who drifted in the night before and offered to take a job.

“Take him on,” advised Flint. “Yuh can’t work the place alone, Bud.”

They fixed up the details. Bud said he would hitch up the buckboard team the next morning and bring in the women, and also bring in some clean clothes. Frawley locked up the cell after Bud came out, and walked outside with him.

“What do yuh think of the proposition, Jud?” queried Bud.

Frawley considered the question for a moment.

“Bud, I don’t think they can hang the deadwood on them folks, a-tall; but they sure can hand ’em a bunch of grief. Garvin hates Moore and when yuh hate a man it kinda makes yuh blind to right and wrong.”

“I reckon so,” nodded Bud. “Well, I’ve got to go back to the ranch. See yuh tomorrow, Frawley.”

Jud watched him ride up the street. Bud was the best rider in the country—and he knew it. He rode a spindle-legged sorrel, which was famed for its speed at a quarter-mile—a sleek, nervous animal, whose hoofs seemed barely to spat the earth as it fretted against the curb-bit.

Jud shook his head and reached for his cigaret papers.

“I ain’t no free-nol-o-gist,” muttered Jud, “and I ain’t no good at prognosticatin’; but I’ll be teetotally —— if I trust that _hombre_. ’F a fly lit on him it would skid and bust a leg—and when yuh find a slick cowpuncher—ha’r-oil, per-fume and—aw, shucks!” Jud gave it up in disgust.

Then Bud Deal met Jeff Garvin on the road. They pulled up in the shade of a cottonwood and exchanged views on the weather.

“Didja get it?” asked Bud. Garvin shook his head.

“No. It wasn’t there.”

Bud had started to lick his cigaret paper, but looked up quickly.

“Wasn’t there?”

Garvin shook his head and told Bud what happened at the Box M. He was peeved because Bud hadn’t told him about the new man.

“I never thought about him, Jeff,” assured Bud. “He don’t amount to nothin’. But where is that —— gun, do yuh suppose?”

“You find it,” ordered Garvin. “I need that gun danged bad. Course the engineer can’t exactly identify it, but he said one of ’em had a long, black Colt, with pretty pearl handles, and that he would swear it was a .45.”

Bud nodded.

“I’ll find it, Jeff.” Then as an afterthought: “You better have a talk with Frawley. He talks too much.”

“What about?”

“Says that he don’t think Moore is guilty, and that you just arrested him because yuh hate Moore.”

“Zasso! Well, I’ll talk to him about it. Comin’ in tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I’ve got to bring in the women. Prosecutin’ attorney wouldn’t let ’em out on bail, eh?”

Garvin grinned.

“How could he? Murder charge. See yuh tomorrow—and I want that gun. _Adios_.”

Bud rode on down the dusty road, a rutty, yellow ribbon, full of chuck-holes from the Spring thaws. Thunder County roads were not built for fast traffic, being used more as the shortest distance between two points than as the easiest line of travel.

* * * * *

It was supper-time when Bud rode up to the gate to the Box M. He sat on his horse and seemed lost in contemplation of the rambling, old, homey-looking ranch-house, lying half in the shade of the cottonwoods. Beyond it he could see the long, low shelters and pole corrals, backed by the tall willows and the green masses of cottonwood foliage. To the right of the ranch-house was the long log bunk-house. From far back in the willows of Leloo Creek a rooster crowed shrilly. The odors of cooking were wafted to his nostrils.

Bud seemed to rouse from his reverie and smiled softly to himself. He could see Bud Deal in sole charge of the Box M, doing as he pleased. It was true that the Box M was in bad shape financially, but....

Pat came to meet him as he rode up toward the house, and asked for the news. Bud had little to tell, except that the prosecuting attorney had refused bail, and that her father and brother were to be held until the next term of court.

“I’ll take you and your ma in to see ’em tomorrow,” said Bud. “Better rustle up some clean clothes to take in with yuh, Pat.”

He started to ride on, but turned back.

“Met Garvin, as I was comin’ out. Said he wanted yore dad’s pistol. Know where it is?”

Pat smiled.

“Garvin threatened to take the ranch apart, but when he saw Mr. Smith he stopped bluffing.”

“Did Smith stop him from searching?”

“Yes. Told him to get a warrant.”

“Oh, he never even looked for the pistol, eh?”

“Started to,” smiled Pat. “Why does he want the thing?”

“I dunno. Suppose he’ll have to have it, Pat. Anyway, a six-gun is only a six-gun, and little good it will do him.”

Bud turned back and rode down to the corral, where he unsaddled, turned the horse into the corral and hung his saddle and bridle under the eaves of a shed.

As he started for the ranch-house, Jimmy cut across from the bunk-house and intercepted him. Jimmy was carrying an old cartridge belt and holster, which he showed to Bud.

“Anybody goin’ to care if I wear this thing?” asked Jimmy.

Bud looked curiously at the belt and shook his head. “No, I don’t reckon so. Don’t even remember who owns it.”

Jimmy buckled the belt around his waist, adjusted it to a fit over his hips. From inside his shirt he took out a big, blued Colt .45, with plain, dark wood handles, and fitted it into the old holster.

“Ye get tired of havin’ a large gun rubbin’ your ribs,” smiled Jimmy, patting the holster.

He twisted the gun to loosen up the harsh leather and dropped it in again.

Suddenly he lifted his hand above his waist, fingers splayed far apart. His hand snapped down and up, almost too fast to follow with the eye, and the big gun was tensed at his hip, with the hammer at full cock.

Bud had smiled at the makeshift belt and old, warped holster; but now the smile left his lips. Bud knew he was fast with a gun—faster than any man in the Thunder Range; but here was a man, working under the handicap of an ill-fitting holster and an extra heavy gun, able to shade the swiftest draw Bud had ever made.

“Sure, I need practise,” smiled Jimmy apologetically.

“Hm-m-m!” grunted Bud seriously. “I reckon we better go and eat supper.”

“If you’re goin’ to town soon, would ye mind gettin’ me some shells for this gun?” asked Jimmy. “Sure, I’ve only got six to me name. It’s a .45.”

“Mebbe there’s some around here,” replied Bud. “Flint Moore uses a .45, and he may have some extra shells.”

Pat looked curiously at the gun hanging to Jimmy’s belt, and Jimmy smiled softly.

“Sure, ma’am, I have to dress accordin’ to the prevailin’ styles. With the sheriff gallivantin’ around arrestin’ men because they ride horses, which are goin’ north, and the innocent trains bein’ held up on the iron highway, I suppose I must burden meself with armament.”

“God forbid that we have any more trouble,” sighed Mrs. Moore.

“Aye,” nodded Jimmy. “’Tis a good wish, ma’am.” Then to Pat, “Mr. Deal tells me that your father has a gun of this same size. Do ye know if he has any shells?”

“I’ll get his belt,” said Pat, and left the room.

Bud frowned at Jimmy.

“Couldn’t you wait? I said I’d get them for you, Smith.”

Jimmy made no reply. He wondered what Bud meant. Pat came into the dining-room and placed a heavy belt and holster on the table beside Jimmy. About one-third of the belt-loops were filled with .41 caliber cartridges.

Jimmy slipped several loose and looked at them closely. He lifted his eyes and glanced across at Bud Deal, who was busily engaged with his meal.

Jimmy put the cartridges back into the loops and handed the belt across the table to Bud, who looked up wonderingly.

“What’s the idea?”

“Would ye look at the size of them shells?”

“Where does the joke come in, Smith?”

“Observe closely that they are .41’s, will ye? The ladies will also examine the caliber numbers.”

Mrs. Moore and Pat looked at the cartridges, and Jimmy handed the belt to Pat.

“Will ye please put this in a safe place, ma’am?”

Pat nodded, with no understanding of the reasons for this, and started for the door.

“Where is the gun?” asked Bud.

Pat turned and looked at him.

“Dad’s gun? Which one, Bud?”

“The pearl-handled one.”

“That’s the one the sheriff was after,” interrupted Jimmy, getting up from the table. “Sure, he was mad as a wet hen. I misdoubt his statement to take the ranch apart to find that gun.”

Jimmy laughed and went out the rear door, going back to the bunk-house. Klooch and her puppy met him at the door and went with him; the puppy vociferous in its admiration for Jimmy, the wolf-dog slow and easy of movement, pacing beside Jimmy and looking up at him through slit eyes, as if wondering deeply why she admired this human being above all.

Pat leaned against the kitchen door and watched Jimmy disappear with the dogs, while Bud finished his meal, frowning at her. He couldn’t afford to let her get away from the fact that he was going to marry her. He must tell this wild Irishman to keep his distance. He got up from the table and went out on the front porch to smoke, while Pat and her mother washed the dishes.

Klooch came up from the bunk-house and walked past him. He spoke to her and snapped his fingers, but she merely turned her head and walked on. Bud had never placed a hand on this dog, and it irritated him to think that this stranger could make friends with her right away.

Klooch sauntered past him, but turned and trotted back to the bunk-house with the long, swinging trot of a wolf and squatted on her haunches in front of the door.

The sun went down behind the big curve of the Thunder Range, tinting the peaks with a glow of gold, and the vast reach of foot-hills and tiny valleys seemed to blot out in a sweep of misty blue. Night-hawks boomed and skirled in the air over the cottonwoods, a pair of magpies flapped their way down the stream, chattering harshly. From afar came the plaintive bawling of a calf.

Pat came softly out on the porch and stood near Bud, leaning against a porch-post, looking off across the hills. Bud moved uneasily and looked up at her.

“Pat, when do we get married?”

Pat did not reply. It seemed as if she had not heard Bud’s question. From down at the bunk-house came Jimmy Devlin’s voice, singing, and a hush seemed to settle over the Box M.

“You may search everywhere,
But none can compare
With my wild Irish Rose.”

Jimmy was putting the love of his Irish soul into his voice—

“... And some day, for my sake,
They may let me take
The bloom from my wild Irish Rose.”

Jimmy’s voice died away, and there was silence for a while before Bud got to his feet and said softly—

“Pat, when do we get married?”

Pat turned her head and looked at him.

“I don’t know, Bud. Sometime—perhaps.”

Pat turned and walked slowly into the house. The tip of the rising moon silvered the Box M, and seemed to throw a direct beam across the ground in front of the bunk-house, where the wolf-dog sat waiting patiently. Bud snapped his cigaret away viciously and muttered to himself—

“That —— range-boomer!”

* * * * *

He got to his feet and started down to the bunk-house. He heard Klooch growl softly and saw a shadowy figure move in between the bunk-house and the corral. The figure stopped in the shadow. Bud glanced quickly around and shifted his direction, as if to go to the corral. The figure fell in behind him, and the two of them stopped out of ear-shot of the bunk-house.

“I told yuh not to come here!” growled Bud. “Whatcha want, Jim?”

Moonlight showed the face of a big Indian of perhaps fifty years of age, dressed in calico shirt and overalls.

“Waum sick,” he grunted. “Waum-sick-cole-sick. All the time _cultus wauwau_. Mebbyso _hyas wauwau_.” Which meant that some one had fever and chills, talked deliriously and might shout out loud at any time.

“What do yuh want me to do?” asked Bud. “You want medicine?”

“Whisky. Heap sweat. Mebbyso _memaloost_.”

“Might not be such a —— bad thing at that,” grunted Bud as he led the Indian down behind the corrals and into the willows along the creek.

From the hollow snag of an old tree he drew out a gallon demijohn, half filled.

“If you get drunk I’ll scalp yuh!” grunted Bud. “No more whisky! You _sabe_ that? No more! Keep away from here after this. Whisky all gone, Jim.”

“_Kloshe_,” came a sibilant cluck as the Indian glided away in the willows, hugging the demijohn.

“Good, eh?” muttered Bud, and retraced his way back to the corral, where he noisily replaced some bars and carried a coil of rope back to the bunk-house.

The Indian had said, “mebbe _memaloost_,” which translated means, “might die,” and Bud seemed to derive a certain amount of satisfaction from this thought. The rattling of the bars and the carrying of the rope were merely an alibi, in case any one had seen him go to the corral.

Klooch growled at him as he came up to the door. Klooch hated a rope. She knew it to be a symbol of captivity and an instrument of torture. Neither did Klooch like Indians, and Bud carried the Indian scent from his conversation in the willows. He cursed softly at the dog and went into the bunk-house.