Chapter VIII

Bud Deal rode away from the Box M in a daze. He was unable to explain things to himself. Jimmy’s blow had come like a flash of bright lights. He had expected Jimmy to reach for a gun, and his eyes had flashed to Jimmy’s right hand, leaving Jimmy the chance he needed to send over a knock-out punch.

Bud realized before he got to his feet that Jimmy had taken that paper from his pocket; but now he searched his pockets to be sure. It was gone. He drew up his horse and looked back toward the Box M, already blotted out in the shadows of night.

Pat and Frawley had both seen what happened, and the humiliation burned deeply in Bud’s soul. He had the reputation of being the fastest gunman in the country. Bud had whipped bigger men than Smith with bare hands. Now this soft-spoken Irishman had ignored his swift gun-play and knocked him down with his fist, taken away his gun and given it back—empty. All in the presence of the girl he meant to marry.

Instead of going toward Oxbow he swung off the road and headed toward the Devil’s Pulpit. It was dark now, but he needed no light, and the sure-footed sorrel picked its own trail.

Far off in a cañon an owl hooted, like a distant railroad engine whistling for a clear signal. A wild-cat padded its way across an open space, a gray shadow which snarled and was gone. A coyote silhouetted for a moment against the sky-line of a butte and faded out.

The Devil’s Pulpit showed black against the sky-line, its eastern side a sheer drop of a hundred feet into the brushy coulée. Bud rode in at the top of the coulée and went down into the brush, following a cattle-trail, until he came in at the rear of the tiny cabin. A faint glow of a candle through the chinks between the logs showed him that the occupants were awake, although there were no voices to be heard.

The door was open, which emitted a faint glow of light. Bud dismounted near the door.

“This is Bud,” he called softly, and a voice inside said, “Come in.”

Whitey was propped up in bed, his face gray and drawn in the flickering light from the one candle on the table. The Indian was not there. On the bed beside Whitey lay a Winchester rifle and a Colt pistol.

“How yuh feelin’?” asked Bud.

“How in —— do yuh expect a feller to feel?” asked Whitey hoarsely. “Nothin’ to eat, —— little to drink and a Injun for a nurse. I suppose yo’re sorry I’m alive.”

“Cut out that kinda talk!” snapped Bud. “I’ve done all I could, Whitey. Yuh got to figure that I couldn’t sneak over here every day. Pretty near able to get up?”

“I dunno how able I am,” grunted Whitey, “but I know —— well I’m goin’ to get up pretty soon. That bullet busted a rib, and I don’t think there’s any lead in my lung. Must ’a’ kinda horned in and out, bustin’ the rib. Rib stuck in me, I reckon. Now, tell me what’s new.”

Bud told him of the arrest of Flint and Wild Moore for the robbery of the train.

“Aw, ——!” grunted Whitey. “Why didn’t Garvin pick on somebody else. It’s a cinch they can’t convict Flint Moore.”

“It saves further investigation,” grinned Bud. “By the time they’re cleared, the trail will be cold. Somethin’ else, Whitey. The money you found under the floor of this shack was the money Devlin was sent up for stealin’.”

Whitey looked keenly at Bud. The flickering candle light made a grotesque shadow behind him on the wall. A huge moth fluttered in out of the dark and almost extinguished the candle.

“You remember hearin’ about Devlin, don’t yuh?” asked Bud.

“Yeah. It was his money, eh? Well, what of it?”

“He’s near here, Whitey. I gave him a job on the Box M. Said his name was Smith. He’ll be lookin’ for the money, I reckon. Mebbe he forgot just where he put it, ’cause he was ridin’ this way, lookin’ around, I reckon.”

“He was sent up for three years, wasn’t he?” asked Whitey.

“Paroled,” grunted Bud, rubbing his sore chin. “He’s my ace-in-the-hole. If they don’t cinch Flint and Wild Moore, I’ll bet I can lay the deadwood on Devlin.”

“Why lay it on anybody?” croaked Whitey. “You better keep out of it, Bud. You git too —— anxious and folks will be wonderin’ why. You keep your mouth shut.”

Bud grunted. He did not like Whitey’s tone. Anyway, Bud was getting nervous.

“The engineer recognized that pearl-handled gun,” said Bud, but added quickly, “I mean he got a good look at it, and that’s the evidence that Garvin is lookin’ for.”

“Where is it, Bud?”

“—— if I know. The sheriff had taken ’em to jail when I got back that night; so I hooked Flint’s .41 and slipped the .45 in its place. When Garvin tried to find it, the danged thing was gone.”

“Looks kinda funny,” observed Whitey. “Who’d take it, do yuh suppose?”

Bud shook his head slowly, deep in thought. Suddenly he rubbed his hand across his face.

“By ——! I wonder if that could be it? Whitey, that Devlin is packin’ a .45 and he only had six shells. No, that one has plain wood handles.”

“What’s the idea?” croaked Whitey.

“He wanted more shells,” mused Bud aloud. “Pat got the old man’s belt—the one he wore that day—and it was full of .41 cartridges. They can prove that the old man was packin’ a .41.”

“The fireman was killed with a .45?” queried Whitey.

Bud nodded.

“That’s why we need that pearl-handled .45.”

“Well, I’m —— glad his blood ain’t on my hands,” said Whitey thankfully.

“Shut up!” snapped Bud nervously. “You’re as much to blame as I am. Anyway, he shot you, didn’t he? I didn’t think he’d be able to do anything, after the clout I gave him with that gun-barrel.”

“I’m glad I didn’t kill him,” repeated Whitey. “I’ve never killed anybody, Bud. I thought I was goin’ to die here alone, and I was afraid I had killed him. He fell back into the gangway of that engine——”

Came a slight sound at the doorway, and the figure of a man bulked grotesquely in the dim light. Bud Deal seemed to sway sidewise and from his hip flashed a stream of orange flame, followed by the crash of a pistol.

The candle swayed in its insecure foundation of melted wax and fell to the floor from the concussion of the heavy pistol and the crash of a falling body.

For a moment or two there was silence, broken only by the labored breathing of the two men.

“Light a—a match!” breathed Whitey jerkily.

Bud broke several matches, trying to scratch one. The yellow flame seemed weak and nearly flickered out again as Bud recovered the candle and applied the match. Both men looked toward the door, where the man sprawled flat on his face, just inside.

Bud went slowly over to him and held the candle closer.

“That —— Injun!” he grunted. “The Injun, Whitey.”

“Killed him?” croaked Whitey.

Bud examined him closely by the candlelight and got to his feet.

“Almost between the eyes, Whitey. He never knowed what hit him.”

“More blood,” muttered Whitey weakly. “More blood. What did yuh shoot him for, Bud?”

“—— him, he came sneakin’ in. Didn’t he? I didn’t know who he was. It was his own fault, Whitey—wasn’t it?”

“You shot too quick,” complained Whitey. “Now, what will yuh do?”

“Quit your croakin’!” ordered Bud. “Let me think, can’t yuh?”

Bud sat down on the edge of the bunk, half-turned from Whitey, who slid down lower on his bunk, with one hand over the butt of his six-shooter. Somehow, Whitey had the feeling that Bud wanted him out of the way, too.

* * * * *

But Whitey and Bud were not the only ones to hear the report of Bud’s pistol. Sheriff Garvin was doing a little night prowling on his own account. His talk with Bud had showed him that Bud had guilty knowledge of who had robbed that train and where the money was hid.

There had been considerable mention of the little cabin in the brushy coulée below the Devil’s Pulpit. While Garvin was very willing to arrest the guilty parties, he was also more than willing to get in on the plunder—if he could do it in a way which would not cause trouble for him.

He had been perfectly willing to take his share of the money, which Whitey was purported to have found under the floor of that cabin. In fact, he had coerced Whitey into a promise of a fifty-fifty split. But Whitey had talked too much, and some one had lifted the cache ahead of them. There was no question that this some one was Wild Moore.

Now, he was on a little tour of investigation. He had ridden to the top of the ridge on the east side of the Pulpit and was gazing down into the coulée, a dark mass in the dim light, when the report of Bud’s pistol came floating up to him.

But for this shot, Garvin would have probably spent the night in the shelter of the Pulpit, where he could watch any early morning action in the coulée. He listened closely for a while and then rode slowly down the side of the coulée, picking his way carefully, until he reached the heavy brush of the bottom.

He dismounted and stood beside his horse for a while. It was very dark down there, and Garvin was not entirely sure just where the cabin was located. It was very still in the thick brush. Garvin was not always a coward; but he recognized his limitations. He could not move silently in this brush, and he could not afford to make a noise.

He heard the nicker of a horse and grasped the muzzle of his own mount just in time to stop it from making a reply. This nicker came from further up the coulée and to the left.

Garvin spent an anxious half-hour, listening for more sounds; but none came. Then he left his horse and began moving slowly up the coulée, taking a few steps and waiting silently for a full minute. Garvin was cautious.

Suddenly he touched a fence. His hand moved along the horizontal pole until he reached a post. He knew that he was at the little corral, and by following this fence a short distance he could reach the cabin. Going to the left would bring him to the front of the cabin, so he decided to travel to the right and make his approach from the rear.

He went carefully until he reached the corner of the cabin. He could see no lights nor hear any sounds, but his nostrils could detect the faint odors of recent cooking. He moved about half-way of the rear of the cabin, when he heard the sounds of some one coming from up the coulée. Whoever it was, they were not moving cautiously. He could hear the swish and breaking of brush and the heavy footfalls of a horse, and suddenly the bulk of a horse and rider seemed almost to move into him.

Garvin flattened himself against the cabin, gun in hand, as the horse and rider passed him and went to the front of the cabin.

He could hear the man dismount and go into the cabin.

The cabin had been chinked with the usual pieces of split wood and mud, which had fallen away in places, but Garvin seemed unable to find an opening large enough to give him a view of the interior, even after the occupant had lit the candle. He could hear their conversation, which was worth as much to Garvin as a view of the men.

“Well, that’s fixed.” Garvin recognized Bud Deal’s voice. “Nobody can hang that on to us, Whitey.”

Garvin grinned to himself when Bud called Whitey by name, and listened closely for a reply.

“Mebbe not,” croaked Whitey. “Who’s goin’ to take care of me now?”

“I dunno,” grunted Bud, “but it’s a cinch you’ve got to get out of here. Yuh can’t let Devlin find yuh here.”

Garvin’s left ear suffered from compression, as he leaned closer to the rough log. His mind flashed to the notice of parole and he wondered where Devlin figured in on this deal—and where he was now.

“Where’ll I go?” asked Whitey weakly. “Yuh can’t get a hole shot in yore lung and keep changin’ yore residence every little while, Bud.”

For a while there was silence, broken by Whitey’s question.

“Bud, you ain’t touched that sack, have yuh?”

“Naw! You know —— well I ain’t. What chance have I had to touch it?”

“I dunno, Bud. All I ask is that yuh shoot square with me. We’re fifty-fifty on this, yuh remember. I git to wonderin’ about it and—— Bud, yuh don’t suppose anybody is liable to find it, do yuh?”

Bud snorted his disgust at Whitey’s fears.

“Find it? Who in —— would ever climb to the point of the Devil’s Pulpit? Do yuh think anybody would cross all that slide-rock and pick that one little spot?”

“You done the hidin’,” said Whitey slowly. “I didn’t see yuh put it away, Bud.”

“Well, it’s where I said it was. Right where the point comes down in the coulée, where the solid rock goes into the ground at the edge of the slide. There’s a hollow kinda underneath that point. ——! That money could stay there a million years and nobody would ever find it.”

Garvin smiled to himself, and listened for more disclosures, which did not come. Finally Bud got to his feet.

“I dunno just what we’re goin’ to do, Whitey. You get along as well as yuh can and I’ll see yuh tomorrow night. Flint Moore hired Jud Frawley, —— him! Made him foreman. He suspects somethin’, I think; so I’ve got to be careful. I’m supposed to be in town now, so I reckon I better go there to be able to prove where I was. Can’t take a chance on a —— thing now. Just as soon as yo’re able—we’ll drift.”

Garvin was unable to get Whitey’s reply. He heard Bud mount his horse and a moment later he rode past the rear of the cabin, passing close to Garvin, and disappeared in the night. Garvin moved away from the cabin, circled the corral and went back to his horse.

Garvin had learned a lot of things. He knew that Bud and Whitey had held up the train and killed the fireman and that Whitey had been wounded. He knew where the money was concealed, unless, of course, Bud had lied to Whitey.

He knew that Smith was Devlin. Garvin grinned to himself as he felt his way back to his horse. There was only one thing that he did not know, and that was the cause of the shot he had heard. From the conversation, he would deduct that Bud had been there a short time previous, and for some reason had come back.

Garvin reached his horse and swung into the saddle. He could look almost straight up at the rim of the Devil’s Pulpit, an inky blot against the sparkle of the stars. At the foot of this, where the angle of the cliff broke at right angles, like the corner of a sky-scraper, was twenty thousand dollars.

“Twenty thousand!” grunted Garvin aloud, trying to visualize that great amount. “Why worry about re-election?”

He spurred his horse down the coulée, where he could strike the gentle slope, leading back to the top. He wanted to get his hands on that treasure sack; but he had no desire to grope his way over treacherous slide-rock and brush-tangle in the dark. Tomorrow would be another day.

* * * * *

The following morning at breakfast, Jud Frawley lost no time in assuming command of the Box M.

“Mrs. Moore wants to go to town today and see if she can see the folks, and I’ll take her in. Bud, you make a circle in the Squaw Creek country and kinda estimate what’s in there. Lot of cattle wintered in there last year, and Flint’s kinda anxious to find out how many of the Box M are scattered in there.”

Frawley turned to Jimmy.

“Smith, there’s a lot of work here to do. Yuh might look over the corrals, for one thing. Lot of posts need resettin’. Bunk-house needs cleanin’. Dump the straw out of them ticks and fill ’em up again. Danged if I like to sleep on a hard straw-tick.”

“Pat goin’ in with yuh?” asked Bud.

“No.”

Frawley gave no reasons for Pat staying at the ranch. Bud got up from the table, and without a word to any one, went straight to the corral. Mrs. Moore and Pat were in another part of the house, when Bud rode back and dismounted at the porch.

“Want the field-glasses,” he grunted, as he lifted them from the wall, where they hung in their leather case.

Frawley and Jimmy came out on the porch as Bud rode away. The butt of a rifle protruded from the scabbard under his right knee.

“Mebbe he thinks he might run across a bear up there,” observed Frawley. “Wild country up there, Smith.”

Jimmy nodded over his cigaret. Frawley looked curiously at him and said—

“I don’t reckon that Bud Deal’s got a great lot of use for either one of us, Smith.”

“I’m thinkin’ there’s a world of truth in that,” said Jimmy seriously.

“Yuh don’t think much of him yourself, do yuh?”

Jimmy lit his cigaret and inhaled deeply.

“Mister Frawley, it takes all kinds of people to make a world, and Bud is just one of the kinds. I don’t hate him, because—” Jimmy scratched his chin, as if searching for words to describe his point. “Sure, there’s only the thickness of a cigaret paper between love and hate; but ye don’t love any one who means nothin’ to ye. Neither can ye hate a man, who—who ye never could love. To love or hate, ye must feel that the person has a soul, which I can’t feel of our _compadre_ Bud.”

“Pat is goin’ to marry him, I hear.”

Jimmy did not look at Frawley, who watched him closely; but there was only a sudden tightening of the muscles of Jimmy’s mouth, which might have been caused by holding the cigaret, the smoke of which drifted unminded into his eyes.

Jimmy slowly removed the cigaret, crushed it carefully between his thumb and finger and let the contents sift to the floor of the porch.

“I’ll be goin’ to work now,” said Jimmy slowly, and went down the steps.

He found a crowbar and a shovel and selected the far side of the corral to start operations. He saw Frawley hitch up the team to the buckboard and drive up to the house; and later he saw them leaving for Oxbow. It was getting hot; but Jimmy dug savagely at the rocky soil. A number of the posts were tottering—rotted away at the ground.

“You boomer!” he told himself savagely. “You paroled thief! What right have ye to care for anybody? Go on away from here and forget such fool ideas. Bud Deal must be all right, or she wouldn’t think of marryin’ him.”

Jimmy sent the sharp end of the heavy crowbar deep into the gravel, twisting and turning it as if it weighed only a few ounces.

“Are you going to enlarge the corral, Jimmy?”

He turned his sweat-streaked face and looked at Pat, who had come unnoticed and was leaning against the fence, watching him curiously. He glanced down at the post-hole and suddenly realized that he had dug at least two feet away from the original hole.

“Aye,” he muttered foolishly, and broke into a grin. “Sure, me mind is not broad enough to handle the north end of a crowbar and play civil engineer at the same time. Why did ye not go to town?”

“I wanted to help you gather eggs, Jimmy. You haven’t forgotten your sick friend, have you?”

Jimmy shook his head.

“No, I’ve not; but Mister Frawley mapped out me day’s work and I must be doin’ it.”

“Suppose,” smiled Pat confidentially, “suppose I was the one who mapped out the work, Jimmy. Jud won’t expect to find much done when he gets back, but he won’t mention it.”

“Ye—ye framed it to stay with me?” Jimmy wiped his face with his sleeve. “Why did ye do that, Pat?”

“I wanted to help you.”

He shook his head slowly.

“Ye shouldn’t ’a’ done it, Pat. Sure, I appreciate it, y’ betcha; but bein’ here all alone with me, and ridin’ into the hills——”

“What do you mean?” demanded Pat.

“Frawley told me!” Jimmy was closely examining the crowbar—“Frawley told me about you—and Bud Deal.”

“Oh!” softly. “And you—you respected his rights?”

Jimmy looked up quickly.

“I’d thank him to respect mine.”

Pat stepped over and put her hand on his arm.

“Jimmy, I—I think you are the squarest shooter I ever met. Jud Frawley is only the foreman of this ranch. If you don’t think I am the boss—ask Jud or dad. Now, let’s go and find those eggs.”

Jimmy stared at her for a moment and his hand went to the brim of his sombrero in a half-salute.

“I never dispute me commandin’ officer. We’ll rustle the eggs.”

Pat had already “rustled” the eggs and had made up a compact bundle of eggs, jam, pickles and fresh bread to take to the sick man. Jimmy saddled her horse, a brown mare, and put a saddle on the Whistler, while Pat stood aside, expecting the notorious outlaw to show its true colors again. But Whistler submitted quietly to the saddle and only acted a trifle stubborn after Jimmy had settled into the saddle.

They rode out of the main gate, swung a trifle southeast and crossed Leloo Creek, from where they climbed a sloping hogback ridge.

About a mile from the ranch-house, in almost the same place where Garvin and Frawley had watched the place on the day of the robbery, sat Bud Deal, with his field-glasses, watching the ranch. Bud had felt sure that Devlin had been to that cabin; but Whitey had not intimated a thing that would corroborate his suspicions. If Devlin had cached that money under the cabin floor he would most surely search for it, and would find Whitey.

Bud scowled through the glasses as he watched Jimmy and Pat ride up the ridge, and as soon as they were out of sight he mounted and rode swiftly down past the ranch-house and into the hills, following them.

Jimmy and Pat traveled slowly along the ridge and swung around the head of a draw, which led back to Leloo Creek. This brought them in on the right-hand side of the big coulée and across the coulée from Devil’s Pulpit.

A light wind swept the hills, rippling the grass and flowers as it might ripple a great lake of gaudy colors. Jimmy and Pat had done little talking, as it was almost impossible to ride side by side; but when they struck the flat country, Jimmy spurred up beside her and both horses fell into a slow walk.

“Sure, this is God’s country,” said Jimmy. “Did ye ever see so much color? ’Tis skies of blue, a breeze like the perfumed breath of the gods and a flower garden from Paradise.”

“Yes,” nodded Pat, “and in the Winter?”

“Aye. But for every love there’s a hate, Pat.”

“I suppose so, Jimmy. Poor old dad. Hundreds of cows lost in the big blizzard, which means thousands of dollars. Still he doesn’t complain. Now, he’s in jail, and the law says he must stay there until—— Jimmy, what in the world is that?”

Pat pointed at the brushy side of a small coulée, where a weird figure had appeared. It was the figure of a man, standing with arms outstretched, as if invoking the gods. His clothes were almost all torn from his body and his face was an indistinguishable mass, which looked like blood and dirt.

They rode in closer, but the figure gave them no heed.

“Why, it’s old Indian Jim!” exclaimed Pat. “What in the world is the matter with him?”

Jimmy spurred in closer and peered at the Indian. His hair and the upper part of his half-naked body was crusted with blood and dirt, and his chest and arms had been scratched deeply from mesquite snags.

“What in the divil happened to ye?” asked Jimmy.

The old Indian turned slowly and seemed to see them for the first time. He moved slowly backward, with arms still outstretched, whirled suddenly and bounded across the coulée, screeching like a panther. Over the far side he went, running swiftly, and disappeared into another ravine, which led into the big coulée at the foot of Devil’s Pulpit.

“Crazy as a March hare!” grunted Jimmy. “He’s been hurt in the head, I’m thinkin’. What do ye make of it?”

Pat shook her head. “I do not know, Jimmy. Old Jim always seemed sane; but he would do anything for a drink of liquor. Perhaps he got drunk and hurt himself.”

“By golly, that’s the Injun who was takin’ care of my sick friend!” exclaimed Jimmy to himself. “I wonder if somethin’ has happened to him. Ye never can trust a drunken Injun—nor a drunken white man, for that matter.”

* * * * *

They rode on toward the rim of the big coulée, watching for another glimpse of the Indian. A dense patch of brush masked their approach to the edge. Jimmy tied the horses in the brush and he and Pat walked out to where they could get almost a bird’s-eye view of the coulée. Across from them was Devil’s Pulpit, and below, hidden in the brush, was the little cabin. From their elevation they could see the sweep of open country at the head of the coulée, and to the right the hills swept off to the blue haze of Bitter River.

A drifting herd of cattle went slowly along the sky-line to the left and far behind the Pulpit. An eagle circled high in the air; without visible movement, like a bird-figure suspended on invisible wires. Far down the coulée a blue-jay chattered violently at intervals.

“A picture of peace,” muttered Jimmy softly, “but down in that brush is a half-naked war-whoop, without brains enough to know sic ’em. Mostly always peace is like that, Pat. Ye never can tell by the label.”

Pat nodded absently, squinting across the coulée.

“Jimmy, look over at the bottom of the Pulpit. Look at the spot near where the rock comes to the brush. See the place, which looks like the corner of a building?”

“Aye,” grunted Jimmy. “Now what do ye suppose any man would want there?”

The tiny figure of a man was plainly visible, as he came down along the side of the Pulpit. For a few moments he disappeared, as he entered a heavy growth of brush, but reappeared again closer to the corner. At that distance it was impossible to see just what he was doing, as he blended with the rocks and foliage. But very soon he was retracing his steps, going back toward the top of the ridge.

“That wasn’t the Injun,” declared Jimmy. “He could not get there so soon.”

“Shall we go on down to the cabin?” asked Pat.

“I’ve a hunch to stop here a while,” smiled Jimmy, and added, “and anyway, I’m goin’ down there alone, Pat.”

“I am going with you,” declared Pat.

“I’ve had little experience with women,” said Jimmy seriously, “but they do tell me they’re not open to conviction, so I’ll not argue with any of them.”

Jimmy looked back across the coulée. The figure of a mounted man was riding down the right-hand side of the ridge, which led from the pulpit—far enough back to conceal him from any one in the coulée, but visible to Pat and Jimmy. They watched him finally ride down into the coulée, far below the little cabin.

At times they could see him through the trees and brush, and it appeared that he was crossing the coulée and heading toward them. He passed out of sight into one of the draws on their side.

Jimmy turned and looked toward the head of the coulée. A wild range steer, like a tiny silhouette, was trotting along the sky-line, and in a few moments they were able to distinguish a horse and rider coming over the sky-line behind the steer, but the rider came down the hill instead of keeping to the sky-line.

“Some one else is comin’,” grunted Jimmy, pointing out the rider to Pat. “We’ll be havin’ a quorum soon, I’m thinkin’.”

“Is it just a chance, or is there a reason, Jimmy?”

“I dunno, Pat. These two won’t meet. Anyway, it’s interestin’ to sit here and make bugaboos and bloodthirsty men out of ordinary, hard-workin’ range riders. Sure, I love to build me own heroes and villains. It’s the Irish in me which loves to see a bomb behind every bunch of chin-whiskers or to picture a colored waiter as a head-huntin’ Dyak, sneaking softly down through the steamin’ jungle, instead of a perfectly harmless hired man, comin’ between tables with a bowl of steamin’ mulligan.”

“You are a dreamer, Jimmy,” smiled Pat. “And still you whipped Bud Deal.”

“Is he hard to whip?”

“They say he has never met his match with fists or a gun.”

“Well, now,” smiled Jimmy, “I shall try me best to be afraid of him. Sure, I didn’t know about him.”

Pat looked at Jimmy and shook her head slowly.

“You will have to try real hard, I think. You had no trouble with Klooch and you rode Whistler—and knocked Bud Deal down, when he started to draw his gun.”

“He wasn’t lookin’ for it, Pat. Mebbe we’d make a real pretty fight—I dunno. I’m sure I don’t—sh-h-h!”

The sound of a walking horse drifted to their ears. It was passing between them and their horses, from the sound. Then, through an opening in the brush, they saw Jeff Garvin, riding slowly. He had something in front of him in the saddle. He passed out of sight, and a moment later there was no sound from his horse.

Jimmy raised up slowly and motioned to Pat to remain where she was. He wormed his way around through the brush for about fifty feet, where he could see Garvin, sitting motionless on his horse and looking toward the head of the coulée.

Jimmy turned his head. The other rider was coming slowly to the edge of the coulée, and Jimmy recognized Bud Deal’s sorrel. He glanced back at Garvin, who turned his horse back into the brush and dismounted. For the space of a full minute he remained motionless. Just in front of him was a small ravine, full of rocks and brush, and Garvin seemed to be considering this spot. Finally he took what looked like a dirty canvas sack and went over to this little ravine.

It took him some time to select a certain spot, after which he appeared to conceal the sack. Then he got to his feet, gazed for a few moments toward the horse and rider far beyond, and then went back to his horse, where he waited until Bud Deal had disappeared in the brush.

Garvin seemed undecided about which way to go, but finally rode into the brush, heading toward the spot where Bud had disappeared.

Jimmy slipped back to Pat and motioned for her to follow him. He told her nothing; but led her to the little ravine, where, from under a pile of rocks, which looked as if they had been in place for centuries, he drew out the canvas sack.

“Our friend Garvin hid it,” grinned Jimmy, as he unwound the string and peered inside. “Holy smoke! Would ye look at this, Pat?”

He opened the sack for her inspection, and she gazed wide-eyed at a jumble of yellow-backed currency and minted gold. The sack would weigh about twenty pounds, but the bulk of the money seemed to be in currency.

“What is it?” gasped Pat, staring at Jimmy.

“Unless me thoughts are wanderin’, that’s the money which was stole from the train. The sheriff has your father and brother in jail for the deed, while he goes around hidin’ it. Can ye beat that for inconsistency?”

Pat looked blankly at the money and Jimmy grinned up at her.

“I wonder if Garvin was one—sure, that was him at the foot of the Pulpit. Now, I’m beginnin’ to see a bit clearer.”

“What will we do with it, Jimmy?” nervously.

Jimmy stood up with the sack in his hands, and looked around.

“We’ll shock Mister Garvin, I’m thinkin’. Come on.”

He led the way back to where they had sat, and picked a spot near the edge, where he placed the sack under the side of a large granite outcropping and covered it with other rocks. When he had finished the job, no one would ever suspect that the rocks had been placed there by human hands.

“Remember this place, Pat,” said Jimmy seriously. “Ye may have to find it alone. We want that money to go back to its rightful owners.”

“Why will I have to find it alone, Jimmy?”

“I only say that ye may, Pat. Life is uncertain, ye know.”

“But this robbery does not concern you. There is no danger for you, Jimmy—is there?”

“The good Lord only knows, and He ain’t exposin’ nothin’ to mortal man, little Pat. Let’s quit arguin’ and do a bit o’ lookin’.”

They moved back to the rim of the coulée, where they could remain concealed, yet be in a position to watch the whole sweep of country.