Chapter 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.”