Chapter IX

Bud Deal was worried. He had intended to keep Pat and Jimmy in sight, but had missed them; for the reason that they had swung around to the right of the Pulpit. He had no idea of what he was going to do, but he wanted to be sure what they did.

Something seemed to be pulling him down to the cabin. A premonition that all was not well down there annoyed him. He did not want to run into Pat and Jimmy, because it might be difficult to explain what he was doing down there, when Frawley had sent him the opposite direction from the Box M.

Bud’s conscience did not bother him over the shooting of the Indian. He had loaded him on his horse, taken him back up the coulée and dumped him in the brush down in a deep, dry water-course. Anyway, thought Bud, old Jim was worthless, and his demise would save the price of many quarts of liquor. Old Jim knew too much anyway.

Bud rode slowly down into the coulée, watching closely for any sign of Pat and Jimmy. It was almost a sure thing that Devlin would not take Pat with him when he tried to recover the missing money, so Bud felt fairly safe in going down there. Suddenly he had a curiosity to take a look at the Indian’s body and see if it was well-enough hidden.

He left his horse on the old cattle-trail and went on foot through the brush to the edge of the deep wash-out, where he leaned over the edge and peered down.

The Indian’s body was not there. Bud stepped back from the edge and glanced quickly around. This was the place. He looked again, leaning closer and examining the white boulders at the bottom. On one was a dark stain.

Bud straightened up and leaned back against the trunk of a small tree. Who had found the Indian? Did some one see the deed and remove the body? For a moment Bud’s nerve oozed out of his finger-tips; but he snapped back to normal, dangerous as a tiger.

He walked back to his horse, going softly as an Indian, his eyes sweeping every inch of the woods. The blow of not finding the body of his victim had dulled his sensibilities, but had sharpened his caution. Some one knew.

He rode slowly down through the brush, gun in hand. Just before he came out into the tiny clearing at the rear of the cabin, he drew up his horse and watched. A pair of magpies flew from the corral fence and lit on the peak of the cabin, where they fluffed their feathers and settled down, as though for a stay.

Bud scowled. Magpies do not ordinarily perch on the top of an occupied cabin, because the magpie is born with a fear of man—especially men who carry guns. Bud rode out of the brush and the magpies streaked for the trees, cackling loudly with fear. Bud dismounted at the door and went inside through the open door.

The cabin was empty. The old stove had been upset and the box cupboard had been wrenched from the wall. Blankets were strewn on the floor as if they had been dragged from the bunk, and left where they fell. On the floor near the bunk was the barrel and breech of a rifle, with the butt missing. It had been broken off.

Bud looked foolishly around the room, and backed to the door, as if afraid some one or something might materialize out of thin air and confront him in that dim, disordered cabin.

He even backed away from the open door and went to his horse, his mind in a turmoil. What had become of Whitey? Who had demolished things inside the cabin? Where was the dead Indian? Bud shut his teeth hard and tried to think calmly. Who would do this, and why?

His thoughts only ran in circles. He lifted his head and looked up at the Devil’s Pulpit, where the eagle circled high above the top. Whitey knew where that money was—and Whitey was gone. Bud spurred his horse straight through the brush, regardless of thorn or tangle, and climbed to the edge of the slide-rock, where he dismounted and scrambled on afoot.

He had lost all sense of caution now, as he panted over the loose, flat rocks, which slipped and tilted under the soles of his high-heeled boots. The perspiration beaded his forehead and ran into his eyes, but he clawed his way up to the apex of the Pulpit like a hunted animal going to its den.

He flung himself flat against the rock, sank to his knees and clawed inside the opening, where he had hidden the sack of money. It was not there.

He shut his eyes and remained for a while, with his hand still within the empty cavity in the rock. He slowly drew out his hand, turned his body and slid to a sitting position, facing the coulée. For several minutes he was as motionless as a figure of stone, his eyes staring straight ahead, like the eyes of the blind, which are open, but see not.

* * * * *

His hand came up and slowly wiped the perspiration from his brow as he reacted from the succession of shocks. Then Bud Deal cursed; cursed with a withering flow of bitter profanity, directed at the unknown who had done all this. His soul seemed to open and vomit curses, as a machine-gun vomits bullets. It was not the slow bitter curses of defeat, but the snappy, biting words, which seemed fairly to sear his lips. Bud’s soul was at white-heat, and it showed in his half-closed eyes, which seemed to flash, like tiny points of light.

He heaved himself to his feet and went stumbling and sliding back down the hill to his horse, where he mounted. As he turned his horse to ride toward the head of the coulée he saw a man ride into an opening in the bottom of the coulée. It was Garvin, but Bud was unable to tell just who it was. The man stopped and seemed to be watching down the coulée. He did not see Bud up there in the shadow from the Pulpit.

Bud slowly drew his Winchester from the scabbard under his leg. It was about four hundred yards to the man and horse, and Bud deliberately screwed up the sight for that elevation. Bud’s sorrel turned its head to one side, as it felt its rider lift the gun.

The sorrel was too well gun-broke to let its rider fire past its ears. Bud drew down slowly until the ivory bead centered on the rider, and pressed the trigger. The heavy report seemed to echo from the Pulpit, like the double report of two shots, and rattled off through the cañon like a clap of thunder.

The horse dropped forward, as if its forelegs had been cut from under it, and the rider pitched forward over its head. Bud realized that he had shot low, dropping the horse. The rider scrambled to his feet and sprang for the cover of brush, while Bud shot again and again, until the magazine of his rifle was empty. He knew that he was missing—that he was shooting wildly.

He crammed shells into the loading-gate of his gun, whirled his sorrel and rode through the brush, cutting down the hill to reach the bottom below the cabin. He was not going to let that man get away alive if he could help it.

* * * * *

Pat and Jimmy had not seen Bud until he fired the first shot. The cabin was well screened from them; so they had not seen him ride down there. His first shot had caused them to look across at the Pulpit, where they could see him through an opening in the brush. Pat started to her feet to try to see who he was shooting at; but Jimmy drew her down again.

“Don’t let any one see you,” he cautioned. “Never mind who he’s shootin’ at. From the shells he’s wastin’, I’ve an idea he ain’t doin’ so well as might be wished for.”

“But what is it all about, Jimmy?” Pat’s eyes were wide with the wonder of it all. “Who is Bud Deal shooting at?”

“I’ve no idea at all, Pat, unless it might be Mister Garvin, who imitates a pack-rat by hidin’ stuff.”

“But why should Bud Deal shoot at him, Jimmy?”

Jimmy looked at Pat and she turned her head nervously, peering down into the coulée.

“Are ye afraid for Bud Deal?” asked Jimmy softly.

She looked at him curiously.

“Afraid for him?”

“Aye.”

“Why, Jimmy.”

“He—he might get hurt, ye know.”

She bit her lip and looked back into the coulée, while Jimmy watched her closely. Then she turned and looked straight into his eyes, as if trying to read his thoughts.

“Jimmy, why is Bud Deal over here when he started for Squaw Creek?”

Jimmy grinned.

“Mebbe he lost his way.”

“Don’t joke with me. Why did you take that gun from under that lumber-pile, where I hid it, and change the handles? What do you know about that robbery?”

“I—I needed a gun,” stammered Jimmy, “and—and I hate them darned slick pearl-handles.”

“All right,” said Pat evenly. “Now, what do you know about that robbery?”

“Quite a lot.”

“How do you know quite a lot?”

“Because I was there,” grinned Jimmy.

“You?”

Pat leaned forward, wide-eyed.

“You were there?”

“Under the car,” nodded Jimmy. “I saw the men who did the job; but they was masked. I’ll tell ye why I changed them handles, Pat.”

Jimmy reached in his hip-pocket and brought out the two pearl-handles. From his watch-pocket he took out a small, triangular piece of pearl and fitted it into the broken corner of one of the pieces of pearl.

“I seen one of ’em drop his gun,” explained Jimmy. “When they left I got off the train, and I found this piece of pearl. I think the butt of the gun hit a rock when it fell. I dunno why I picked it up.”

Pat looked dumbly at the piece of pearl and turned away, gazing across the coulée.

“It was my dad’s gun,” softly. “I—I don’t know what to think.”

“Aye, but he wasn’t carryin’ it, Pat.”

“It was in his holster, hanging on the bedpost, when Garvin came for it that day.”

“Sure it was; but the shells in that belt are all .41’s. Would he be packin’ a .45 gun and .41 shells?”

“Jimmy, you say you saw these men? Was one of them a big man—bigger than Garvin?”

“He was not.”

“Oh, Jimmy, can you swear to this?”

“Aye,” sadly. “But my oath wouldn’t be much good, Pat. The court would not accept my testimony.”

“Why not?”

Jimmy shook his head slowly.

“Don’t ask me that. I’ll tell ye soon, I’m thinkin’—but not now.”

* * * * *

They both turned back to watching the coulée. There was no sign of Deal or Garvin. A gust of wind seemed to set the whole coulée into action, as it rippled the trees. Jimmy glanced up at the sky. Behind the Thunder Range great clouds were rolling into view, which would soon blot out the sun.

“We’re in for a wettin’,” declared Jimmy, pointing at the thunder-heads. “She’s goin’ to pop things wide open in a short time, I’m thinkin’.”

“We are neither sugar nor salt,” smiled Pat, “and a little water will not hurt us.”

Another gust of wind whirled down the coulée. The big eagle, which had been sailing serenely around the Pulpit, suddenly tacked straight into the wind, dropping lower and lower, until it blended with the rocky butte.

Jimmy had been watching it. Suddenly he leaned forward and looked closer. About fifty feet from the summit a figure came into view—the figure of a man. Jimmy called Pat’s attention.

“That is the crazy Indian!” she exclaimed. “Look at him! He’s going through the same actions as he was when we first saw him.”

It was true. He seemed to have moved forward a trifle, standing on a ledge of rock, with arms outstretched, head thrown back, as if invoking the storm. He was only a tiny figure, far away on the side of that seemingly sheer cliff; but the clear atmosphere etched every line of him clearly.

“What in the divil is he standin’ on?” queried Jimmy. “And how did the poor old war-whoop get up there?”

For a full minute or more the Indian held the pose, while Pat and Jimmy scanned the place to see how he got up there. Then the Indian seemed to back into the cliff and disappear.

“Sure, he’s got a cave up there,” grunted Jimmy. “Did ye notice that his body kinda went down when he backed up? The shelf of rock is tilted, which masks the entrance to the cave.”

“But how does he get up there?” queried Pat.

“There’s a way, and it’s likely easy,” grinned Jimmy, “only nobody knows it, except the Injun. Do ye know much of him, Pat?”

She shook her head. “Not much. He has been around here a long time. They say he was a powerful man before whisky ruined his muscles. They say that old Jim never broke his word to any one. Dad always said that Jim was just as honest as a dollar.”

“He was takin’ care of my sick friend,” said Jimmy.

“Old Jim? Taking care—why, he’s insane!”

“Aye. The poor feller is in a little cabin down there in the brush. We better hunt a shelter, Pat.”

The sun had already been blotted out and a low rumble of thunder seemed to vibrate the earth. Forked streaks of lightning split the black mass of storm clouds, which were sweeping swiftly toward them.

“We’ll go down to the little cabin, Pat,” said Jimmy. “It ain’t much, but mebbe it will stop a bit o’ the downpour.”

They hurried to their horses and untied them. Whistler was terrified at the storm, which was already flattening the brush around them.

Jimmy managed to mount, after he had helped Pat into her saddle; but both horses flatly refused to face the storm, which was already into them. Lightning seemed to play all around them, and the thunder was like the jarring of mighty guns.

Jimmy pulled his hat low over his eyes and spurred the roan to the edge of the coulée. Pat’s horse followed closely, almost crowding the roan off its feet. The side of the coulée was steep and covered with rocks and brush, with an occasional tree.

Straight down the hill, twisting and turning, went the two horses. Around them wind howled, though as yet there had been no rain. Up near the foot of the Pulpit a tall, dead tree snapped off like a match and fell far down across the slide-rock.

Jimmy and Pat fought their way down the hill and reached the bottom some distance below the cabin, just as the first gust of rain struck them. It stung like hail and the horses swung around, with their heads away from it. Another gust of stinging rain and then the downpour.

The world seemed blotted out in the whirl of the elements. Jimmy crowded the roan in beside Pat and quickly knotted a rope around her horse’s neck. He tried to tell her that he was doing that to keep them from being separated, but the wind snatched the words from his mouth and he could not even hear his own shouting.

Came a blinding flash of white light, which lighted the world as bright as sunlight, and then a terrific crash, which fairly staggered the horses. For a few moments the world seemed stilled. It was as if a giant cannon had been fired and the gunners were watching for the effects of the projectile. Then there came a dull roar, like the starting of a giant engine.

Jimmy turned his head and tried to see what it meant. It sounded like water now—the roar of a waterfall. He could hear the splash of it. Then it broke out of the storm pall—a rushing river, white-crested in the dim light.

“A cloudburst!” yelled Jimmy, spurring into Pat’s horse and swinging the animal toward the side of the hill. “Ride like the divil, Pat.”

But the water was into them before they could get into action—at least eight feet of it, compressed within the walls of that coulée and running like a mill-race. Brush and trees seemed to rise out of it and fall splashing, like some water animal playing. The horses and riders were swept along with it. Jimmy swung in close to Pat to steady her in the saddle. The only thing to do was to try and ride it out or to fight it until the peak of the flood was past.

There was little left of the storm, which had done its damage and hurried on. The lightning was almost as bright as before, but the thunder showed that the main part of the storm was moving away fast. The water and sky were almost black, and the floating débris made it difficult for a horse to swim safely.

A bunch of connected logs almost drove into them, and Jimmy knew it was part of the little cabin. Whitey must be drowned.

“Anyway,” he reflected, “he had to go soon—and time meant little to him.”

“Jimmy!” cried Pat, leaning closer to him. “We’ve got to get out of this! This cañon breaks off into a deep gorge down here, and if we go over that——”

The wind swept away the rest, but Jimmy knew what she meant. It was a bit lighter now and he could see that they were a little to the right of the center of the flood, but there was quite a distance between them and the higher ground of the side.

He managed to turn both horses almost around and start a fight to get within reach of the bank. They could already hear the heavy roar of water falling a long way and Jimmy knew they were but a short distance above where the coulée dropped off into the deep gorge, which was probably a tributary to Bitter River.

The horses were almost exhausted from their swim and were making little headway toward the bank. Jimmy managed to take the lariat rope off Pat’s saddle. He had snubbed the lead-rope of Pat’s horse to his saddle-horn; and now he quickly knotted the end of the lariat around his own horse’s neck, leaving the loop and the rest of the rope free.

Inch by inch they fought almost against the swiftly running flood, working a trifle closer to the bank all the time. The world seemed filled with roar of falling water. Pat’s wet face showed ashen, but her jaw was set and she never looked back. Jimmy looked at the bank and back at Pat.

“When I swing around, hammer the hide off your horse!” he yelled.

He whirled the Whistler toward the bank, but the current sent them drifting again.

“Swim, ye outlaw divil!” yelped Jimmy, drawing himself up on the saddle, where he knelt, rope in hand.

Fifty feet—forty feet—thirty! They were beginning to swing out again.

“Hold fast!” yelled Jimmy.

He threw out the coils of rope, slipped the loop around his arm and sprang as far as possible toward the shore.

He went out of sight, but came up, fighting his way. His feet touched bottom and he surged forward, half-choked. Out to waist-deep he went before the horses took up the slack on the rope.

The shock threw him into the water, but he came up in shallower water, braced taut against the rope. He could see that both horses had whirled and were trying to face the water again. Foot by foot he fought his way to the shore, straining every muscle. The looped rope cut his muscles until his left arm seemed lifeless.

With a last despairing burst of power he ran knee-deep in water, slackening the pull on the rope, but gaining the shore, where he flung himself around a small tree, snubbing the rope tight.

Slowly the two horses drifted into the shore, swinging on the rope until their feet touched bottom. For a few moments they shook and panted from their efforts.

Jimmy managed to release his numbed arm and tried to stand up; but the effort was too much, and he sat down beside the tree. Pat spurred the horses up to him, leading the Whistler.

He looked up at her wearily and smiled foolishly.

“Little Pat, are ye all right?”

“All except one thing, Jimmy.”

“What’s that?”

“The eggs are all smashed.”

“Oh!” Jimmy looked back across the water and wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Well, it’s just as well they are, Pat. Sure, the poor divil won’t have any use for eggs now, I’m thinkin’.”

The roar of the falls seemed louder now and they looked at each other, knowing what it would have meant.

“You saved my life, Jimmy,” said Pat simply.

“Mine, too,” grinned Jimmy. “I think we better go home and get some dry clothes.”

He unfastened the ropes, climbed stiffly into his saddle and they rode up the side of the coulée. The sun broke out suddenly and the world sparkled again. Up above the Devil’s Pulpit the big eagle was soaring again, and a mist seemed to float out of the depths. They reached the top of the hill and stopped to rest their horses. Jimmy looked at Pat and a smile spread over his homely face.

“Ye look like a drowned kitten, and I suppose I look beautiful meself. There was one unfortunate thing about it, Pat.”

“What was that, Jimmy?”

“It isn’t Saturday night—bad luck to it.”

* * * * *

Garvin hadn’t the slightest idea who had fired the shot that killed his horse, but he knew where the shots had been fired from. After he had ducked into the brush he got a glimpse of a mounted man riding into the brush near the foot of the Pulpit.

He could see that the rider was cutting down the hill, evidently with the intention of intercepting him, in case he went on down toward the cabin. Garvin was no such fool. He knew that the other man had a rifle, and had the odds in his favor.

Garvin crossed back across the coulée, keeping in the deep cover, and climbed up through the brush toward where the man had done the shooting. It was slow, difficult going, as he wanted to keep concealed. He could see the big storm coming and he thought he might stop in the shelter of the Pulpit until it was over.

But when he had reached a point just beyond where Bud had turned from firing the shots, he saw the horse and rider about two hundred yards below him. Bud had dismounted and was working his way farther toward the cabin, but staying up on the side of the hill. He was getting into a position where he could command the clearing around the cabin. He had not tied his horse, but had dropped the reins, which constituted a tether to a range-broken horse.

Garvin chuckled to himself. By working carefully he could sneak down on this man. The noise of the storm would cover his approach. A flash of lightning and a sudden snap of thunder caused Bud’s sorrel to whirl away, ignoring its training. Another crash, and the frightened horse came running up the hill, straight for Garvin. A whirl of rain blotted out the horse for a moment, but Garvin could see it was coming straight to him. Brush and rocks impeded its progress, but Garvin would never have been able to stop it, except for the fact that one of its fore-legs tangled in the reins, almost throwing the animal.

Garvin clutched it by the headstall and succeeded in whirling it around. Rain and wind tore into them and the horse reared and snorted, but Garvin managed to get into the saddle and ride into the shelter of the Pulpit.

A few moments later came the cloudburst. The Pulpit seemed to shake to its very foundations, and small rocks rained off the ledges like hail. Garvin spurred out into the open, braving the storm rather than falling rock, and headed for Oxbow.

He knew this horse belonged to Bud Deal, and that Bud would, in all probability, have to walk back to the Box M; but he needed the horse as badly as Bud did. He felt sure that Bud suspected that he, Garvin, had lifted the cache. He also felt sure that Bud would never dare accuse him openly.

Flint and Wild Moore would get a hearing tomorrow and Garvin did not care which way it went. He hated them both, but his suddenly acquired wealth softened this a trifle. He would serve out his term and quietly disappear. He could dispose of his holdings easily, which would alibi him for having money. Taking it all the way around, Jeff Garvin was very well satisfied with his day’s work.

Bud Deal had not missed his horse until he realized that the storm was out of the ordinary, and went back to get the animal. Rain was blotting out the landscape and he could see only a short distance. Luckily for him he climbed higher, thinking perhaps the horse had gone up the hill, and when the cloudburst came he was just above the rushing torrent.

He climbed still higher, fighting against the storm, until he reached the crest of the hill to the right of the Pulpit. He knew that nothing could live in that mad rush of water, and he laughed aloud to think that the man who had lifted the cache was probably down there. He had shot this man’s horse and had every reason to believe that this man was still down in the bottom of the coulée. He hadn’t the least idea where Whitey had gone. If Whitey was still in the coulée he would be drowned.

Whitey was physically unable to take the money and make a getaway. Bud felt sure that the old Indian was dead, which removed him from any part in the deal. Devlin had not had time to take the money and get away with it. Frawley didn’t, because he was in Oxbow. There remained one possibility—Garvin.

Garvin had done this! Bud clenched his teeth. He had divulged too much to Garvin. Had Garvin found the body of the old Indian and was holding it as a club over him? Bud waited for the storm to break, but could see nothing of his horse.

It made things bad for him, because he would have to walk back to the ranch and lie about the losing of the horse. He looked back toward the coulée and scanned the dripping hills.

“That —— sorrel must ’a’ got caught in the flood!” he exclaimed aloud. “I’ll have to invent a cloudburst in the Squaw Creek country, where I lost my horse and saddle. Then I’ll sneak in here later on, find the wreck of my saddle and plant the —— thing. If I only knew where Pat and that danged boomer were I’d feel a heap easier in my mind.”

It might not be so hard to hoodwink the folks at the Box M, after all. If that was Garvin down there in the coulée, there was a good chance that he was dead now; but if he wasn’t—— Bud shook his head slowly and stared into space from under his dripping hat-brim. He was going to kill Garvin just as soon as possible.