Chapter X

Pat and Jimmy reached home several hours before Mrs. Moore and Jud Frawley came back from town, and found dry clothes. Pat supplied Jimmy with some of Wild’s clothes, which fitted a trifle snug. The rest she dried out in a short time beside the bunk-house stove.

Garvin had appointed Pete Havez deputy, and Pete was in charge of the office and jail when Jud and Mrs. Moore arrived. Pete was a saturnine young man, who was ambitious to be known as a gunman.

Pete had been kicked from cow-ranch to cow-ranch until he grew too big to stand for further kicking, and the balance of his education—his post-graduate course, as it were—consisted of learning how to make a hair-brand, mark playing-cards and draw a six-shooter.

Physically, Pete was not a marvel. His face was thin and dark, with close-set black eyes, a nose, which had been classically Roman until a cowpuncher tested its resiliency with a neck-yoke, and a mouth full of very bad teeth. He was of medium height, slightly bowed in the legs and had a peculiar shamble in his walk.

Pete had met them at the office door. Jud Frawley had known Pete for years, and cared less for him every year. In fact, Jud had predicted that Pete would be hanged, as soon as his body got heavy enough to break his neck.

Jud made known their wants. Pete took them under advisement. He was not a rapid thinker and back in his small brain lurked the feeling that Garvin might not care to have Frawley talk to Flint Moore.

“Can’t do it, Jud,” he drawled slowly. “Nobody’s goin’ to talk to m’ prisoners.”

Pete gazed lovingly at his nickel-plated insignia of office, which was placed prominently on his vest. The next instant a strong hand grasped his collar, while another took up the slack of his overall-seat, and he fairly looped the loop, landing upside-down in a corner of the office. His gun flipped out of its holster and skated off across the floor.

“You got the keys to the jail, ain’t yuh?” asked Jud in a conversational tone of voice.

Pete looked up at him and nodded dumbly. He got to his feet, tested himself for possible dislocations and let them into the jail.

Pat and Jimmy laughed at Jud’s serious description of how Pete had acted during the interview. They had told of the missing gun, and both Flint and Wild declared that neither of them wore that .45 on that day. Wild wore a .44 and Flint a .41. Neither of them had any idea where that .41 was now, and they also realized that their oath that neither had the pearl-handled .45 on that day would not help them to any extent, in case the gun was found and identified.

They found out that the hearing was to be held the next day, and unless Garvin already had the gun, there would be no evidence to hold them any longer.

Jimmy had cautioned Pat to make no mention of what they had seen that day. Jimmy felt sure that Whitey was dead, and with him went all hopes of establishing his innocence of the crime for which he had served time in the penitentiary. Jimmy had intended getting a written confession from Whitey, if possible. Now, there was no one in the world to help him prove his innocence.

It was supper-time when Bud Deal arrived. He had circled the ranch to come in from the direction of Squaw Creek. Frawley and Jimmy were sitting on the ranch-house porch, when Bud showed up, limping from blistered heels, a figure of dejection.

“What happened to you?” asked Frawley.

Bud sat down on the porch and eased his aching feet.

“Cloudburst. Caught me in one of them narrow Squaw Creek cañons and drowned my sorrel. Dang near drowned me, too. Had to walk all the way home.”

“Ain’t you been on the range long enough to keep out of cañons when a storm is comin’?” asked Frawley.

“Aw, ——!” snorted Bud, getting to his feet. “How’d I know it was goin’ to bust so quick? Think I went down there to try and drown myself?”

Frawley continued to draw on his pipe, indifferently to Bud’s outburst. Pat came to the door to call the men to supper. Bud stared at her, but she turned and went back into the house. Jimmy was paying no attention to Bud, who noticed that Jimmy was wearing a faded plaid flannel shirt, which had belonged to Wild. It fit tight over Jimmy’s muscular body and threatened to burst across the shoulders as Jimmy folded his arms and looked up at Bud.

“Where did ye say that cloudburst was?”

Bud looked at Jimmy closely. What did this range-boomer know about the cloudburst? Was he trying to catch him in a lie?

“Squaw Creek,” replied Bud and limped down toward the bunk-house.

Jimmy and Frawley watched him go inside and close the door.

“Where did you and Pat go today?” asked Frawley.

Jimmy grinned slowly.

“Would ye mind if I didn’t tell ye—now, Mister Frawley?”

Frawley squinted at Jimmy for a moment and put his hand on Jimmy’s knee.

“Smith, I reckon yore a square-shooter. Yuh ain’t got the face of a mean _hombre_.” Frawley jerked his head toward the door and leaned closer. “I been watchin’ you and little Pat, and I _sabe_ the fact that she cottons to yuh, Smith—which ain’t yore name, no more than mine’s Goldberg.”

Frawley paused and seemed undecided just how to say what was on his mind.

“You ain’t far enough removed from Ireland to get the name of Smith, but that ain’t nothin’ against yuh. I’m Irish, too. Names don’t count. What I want to know is this: Can yuh come clean to little Pat? Does that borrowed name mean that yuh done somethin’ yuh hadn’t ought to ’a’ done—somethin’ that might hurt her?”

Jimmy was looking at Frawley, but now he turned and stared off across the hills. Frawley noticed that his face was tense, his muscles set—like a man watching a terrific struggle. For a full minute Jimmy did not move. Then his body relaxed and he turned to Frawley with a smile.

“Mister Frawley, I’ll be goin’ away tonight. Between me and you, I can say that I’ve done no wrong; but twelve men have said that I sinned against society. It’s twelve to one, and I—I lose.”

“Can’t yuh prove nothin’?” softly.

“Not now. I’m glad ye spoke as ye did, Mister Frawley. I’ve said no word to Pat that a brother wouldn’t have spoken to her. Me name is not Smith—it’s Devlin.”

Frawley slowly took his pipe from between his lips.

“Devlin? The train-robber?”

“Devlin,” said Jimmy slowly, “the man they say robbed a train.”

For a while neither man spoke. Frawley got to his feet, as Pat came to the door again.

“How many times do I have to call you to supper?” she demanded. “Have you lost your appetites?”

Jimmy got to his feet as Pat turned back inside. Frawley held out his hand to him.

“Devlin, I don’t believe them twelve men had the right dope. I’m pleased to meetcha.”

They shook hands solemnly and went into the house.

* * * * *

Bud did not come to supper until the rest were almost finished. He tried to make light of the loss of his horse and saddle. He would go back there in a day or two and try to recover his saddle. He described in detail the cloudburst and his fight for life, while Pat watched his face closely. She knew that Bud lied about where the flood had happened, but she did not know he had not been in the water. Jimmy was silent through the meal and excused himself before the rest were finished. Frawley and Mrs. Moore left the room and Bud and Pat were together.

“Were you ridin’ with that range-boomer today?” asked Bud.

Pat looked up quickly.

“What makes you think so?”

“Your horse and the Whistler look it,” grunted Bud just a trifle sarcastically.

“Well, suppose we were?” challenged Pat.

Bud leaned across the table and lowered his voice.

“Yuh ought to find out a few things about a feller before yuh go ridin’ in the hills with him.”

“Yes?” Pat’s tawny eyes were half-closed as she looked straight at Bud. “Suppose you tell me about him.”

“Yuh think I can’t?” Bud fingered his mustache nervously. “Mebbe you’d like to know his name ain’t Smith? How would yuh like to know that you’ve been ridin’ the hills with a paroled thief?”

Pat sprang to her feet and leaned across the table.

“I think you lie, Bud Deal!”

Bud laughed mockingly and shook his head.

“No, I don’t lie. That’s what we fought over. I found him out; _sabe_?”

Pat knew that Bud was telling the truth; but she did not want to believe it.

“His right name is Jim Devlin,” said Bud gloatingly, as he got up from the table. “Ask him if it ain’t.”

Pat had heard of Devlin. She turned slowly and went to her room, passing Frawley, who had come to the door. Bud looked up at him. Frawley had heard Bud expose Jimmy, and his blood boiled. He knew that Bud had deliberately tried to hurt Pat, and that he had succeeded very well.

For a few moments the two men looked at each other. Neither spoke as Bud walked past Frawley and went outside. Frawley crossed the living-room to Pat’s door, which was open. Pat was standing beside her dresser, staring at the wall, but she turned as Frawley came up.

“You heard what Bud said?” asked Pat.

“Uh-huh,” nodded Frawley. “Devlin told me who he was. Bein’ innocent and bein’ able to prove it is two different things. He’s goin’ away tonight.”

“Going away?” whispered Pat. “Tonight?”

“Uh-huh. I been thinkin’—kinda. He broke that Whistler horse to ride. When yuh come right down to it, that horse don’t belong to anybody. My saddle’s gettin’ kinda old, and I need a new one—kinda.”

Frawley scratched his chin.

“Hate to see a feller walkin’—kinda.”

“Jud Frawley,” said Pat softly, her eyes filling, “when God made you he broke the mold. Do just as you please. I need a new saddle-blanket and a bridle—kinda.”

Frawley half-smiled at her imitation of him and patted her on the shoulder.

“Keep grinnin’, little Pat. Mebbe she’ll all come out in the wash.”

Jimmy was leaning on the corral fence, with Klooch and the puppy beside him, as Frawley came out of the house. The Whistler, which had moved in close and was nuzzling at Jimmy, snorted at the approach of Frawley and walked away.

“Pat knows,” said Frawley. “Bud told her who you are.”

“That’s kind of him,” said Jimmy shortly.

“She said to give yuh that Whistler horse. There’s a saddle, a blanket and a bridle yuh can have, Devlin.”

Jimmy looked quickly at Frawley.

“What’s the idea?”

Frawley lit his pipe and puffed violently for a moment.

“I think she expects yuh to come back—kinda. And she don’t want to have yuh walk and get yore feet sore.”

“I hope she’s right,” Jimmy smiled sadly and patted Klooch. “It don’t look very good right now, but ye never can tell. Anyway I’ve a memory of two fine women and one square-shootin’ man. I’ll be goin’ now, I think.”

“Better wait until mornin’.”

“Why prolong it? Deal knows who I am, and if I stay I may not forgive him for the tellin’ of it to—her.”

“Won’t yuh go and tell Pat good-by?”

“I’m thinkin’ it’s better this way, Mister Frawley. I’ll wait and say hello, instead.”