Chapter XII

Bud Deal knew nothing about Jimmy’s departure from the Box M, as no one had taken him into his confidence regarding the matter. Bud wondered why Jimmy was not sleeping in the bunk-house. He thought perhaps it was because he had been exposed as a thief and preferred to sleep elsewhere.

The next morning Bud discovered that Whistler was not in the corral and that Jimmy did not show up for breakfast. Pat did not eat breakfast with the rest. Mrs. Moore seemed preoccupied and Frawley ate silently, except to ask Bud to harness the buggy team for them.

Bud’s nerves were getting frayed. He finished his meal and looked up to find Frawley staring at him rather quizzically.

“Where’s Smith?” asked Bud.

Frawley’s eyes did not shift from Bud’s face as he replied.

“Yuh mean Devlin, don’t yuh?”

Bud glanced up at Mrs. Moore. She was not looking at him. He looked back at Frawley.

“Well?”

“Devlin,” said Frawley slowly. “Devlin went away last night.”

“Where to?”

“He didn’t say where he was goin’.”

“Rode Whistler, didn’t he?”

Frawley nodded and shoved back from the table.

“You hitch up the team for the women. Me and you will ride horseback. That hearin’ is today and they’ll likely want us both there. —— shame to keep folks in jail until some poker-playin’ judge gets time to decide whether they’re guilty enough to be tried or not.”

“Aw, they’ll likely get loose,” grunted Bud, as he got up from the table. “If Jeff Garvin had twice as much sense he’d be half-witted.”

Bud went down to the corral and Frawley turned to see Pat standing in the doorway. She was dressed for the trip.

“Did he say anything?” asked Pat, and then added, “Devlin?”

Frawley shook his head.

“No, he said it was better not to, little Pat. Did yuh notice that Klooch is gone?”

“I wonder if she followed him?” mused Pat aloud. “He was the only human being she ever showed affection for, and I—I hope she did go with him, Jud.”

Frawley nodded.

“I sure hope she did. Bud will be here with the team in a minute.”

The ride to Oxbow was uneventful. Pat drove the buggy team, while Frawley and Bud rode behind them over the rough road. Frawley noticed that Bud was wearing a shoulder-holstered gun in addition to the one in the holster at his hip. It looked to Frawley as if Bud was looking for or expecting trouble.

Bud was riding a buckskin horse, a short-coupled animal, and a very plain stock saddle. He missed the feel of his dancing sorrel and the ornate saddle to which he had been accustomed.

Pat drove the team into the livery-stable, but Bud and Frawley dismounted at a hitch-rack, where a number of horses were already tied. There were more than the usual number of saddle-horses and vehicles at the racks, caused no doubt by the trial. A cowboy rode in behind Bud and dismounted.

“How are yuh, Bud,” he called, but Bud did not hear him.

“‘Chuck’ Ames yellin’ at yuh,” said Jud Frawley, and Bud turned his head.

“Howdy, Chuck.”

“Been tradin’ horses with Garvin?” asked Ames.

Bud squinted at the cowboy, who was loosening his saddle-cinch.

“Whatcha mean, Chuck?”

Ames removed his hat and wiped his brow.

“Just wonderin’, thassall. I seen Garvin ridin’ yore sorrel into town yesterday.”

“My sorrel?” Bud looked at Frawley and back at Ames. “Yuh must ’a’ been seein’ things, Chuck.”

“Yeah? Reckon I know that sorrel kinda well, don’t I? The danged thing cost me two months’ wages, when I bet that ‘Blondy’ Woods’ black mare could beat him. Anyway, I’m bettin’ it was yore sorrel, and yore saddle. I’d know that dew-dadded saddle anywhere.”

Bud said nothing. Frawley turned and went toward the sidewalk, while Ames fished out the makings of a cigaret and rolled a smoke.

“I’d sure know that sorrel and saddle,” repeated Ames as he licked the edge of the cigaret paper.

“——!” snapped Bud and started across the street.

Ames looked after him, an amused smile on his lean face.

“Whatcha know about that?” he grunted aloud. “Reckon I kinda rubbed the Box M dude the wrong way. And he’s packin’ two guns, too. Hm-m-m!”

Ames shook his head and turned toward the nearest saloon.

Bud was growing desperate. He had lied about the loss of his horse and saddle never thinking for a moment that Garvin had taken it. The whole thing was plain to Bud now. He had killed Garvin’s horse in the coulée, and Garvin had taken his sorrel. Garvin had taken that money, too.

Bud turned into the nearest saloon and got a drink. He was not a drinker, but he needed bracing. Pete Havez was in the saloon, idly fingering a deck of cards. He watched Bud take several drinks alone, and also got a glimpse of the extra gun inside Bud’s unbuttoned vest. Pete knew that when a man as well acquainted as Bud Deal was drank straight whisky silently and alone, it meant that he was priming himself for trouble.

Therefore Pete slid out of the place and went to find Jeff Garvin. He found Garvin in the Cheyenne saloon, leaning on a bar, talking with some cattlemen. Garvin was slightly intoxicated and in very good spirits. He caught Pete’s signal from the doorway and came out as soon as he could get away.

“Bud Deal’s in town,” said Pete. “He’s drinkin’ whisky all alone and he’s got two guns on him. Got a shoulder-holster on under his vest.”

“Yeah?” Garvin shoved his sombrero back on his head and looked quizzically at his new deputy. “Did he say anythin’, Pete?”

“He ain’t talkin’ to nobody,” declared Pete. “Kinda makes yuh feel that he’s a rattler, without rattles.”

Garvin grinned widely. He had drunk just enough to make him reckless.

“Suppose he’s huntin’ trouble with me, Pete?”

“I dunno, Jeff; what do you reckon?”

“I reckon,” said Garvin, pulling his hat down over his brow, “I reckon I better find out.”

“Better do some thinkin’ first,” advised Pete; “Bud Deal’s —— fast with a gun.”

Garvin seemed to consider this worthwhile advice. He was not sure that Bud knew of the lifted cache or not; but the chances were good that he did. He did not doubt that Bud knew he had taken the sorrel. Taking it all in all, Bud had reasons to hunt trouble with him.

“Deal ain’t gittin’ drunk, but he’s likely gittin’ plum bad,” offered Pete.

“Cinch,” grunted Garvin. “You watch him, Pete. Kinda move around with him, if yuh can, and if he gets too danged ornery we’ll snub him up tight.”

Pete grinned and nodded. He loved a task of this kind. It savored of real detective work, and also might offer him a chance to prove that he was some adept with the short gun himself. Pete got a drink at the next saloon and went hunting for Bud Deal.

He had no desire to face Bud in battle, but—if he could down Bud in a fight it would be the makings of him as a gunman. The “if” loomed large in front of Pete, and he decided to take things easy.

Bud Deal came out of the saloon door as Pete came down the sidewalk. Bud’s hat was pulled low over his eyes and he stood in the middle of the sidewalk, hands on his hips. Pete’s rapid walk slowed down as he neared Bud, and he turned to go into the door. But Bud stepped in front of him.

“Yuh found Garvin, did yuh?” rasped Bud.

“Gug-Garvin?” stammered Pete nervously.

“Yuh went out to find him,” declared Bud, “and yuh wouldn’t ’a’ come back unless yuh found him.”

Pete’s eyes glittered dangerously, but he made no move. They were so close together that the first shot would not save its shooter unless it was instant death.

Suddenly Bud’s left hand shot out and caught Pete by the shoulder, yanking him sidewise, and a fraction of a second later Bud’s right fist hooked into Pete’s jaw, knocking him backward against the building.

Bud stepped into him, yanked Pete’s gun from its holster and tossed it into the middle of the street. Before the dazed deputy knew what was going on he was kicked into the street, where he fell flat on his face in the dust.

Bud turned on his heel, settled his hat more securely over his eyes and went down the street, while Pete sat up in the street and sneezed the dust out of his nose and mouth. He felt of his holster and looked foolishly around. Just beyond him lay his six-shooter.

He limped out to it, put it in its holster and went toward the sheriff’s office, holding his jaw in one hand and caressing the slack of his pants with the other. He knew that his stealthy getaway from the saloon and his sudden return had told Bud where he had been. He decided that Bud was not only a dangerous fighter, but had brains as well.

Whisky seemed to have no effect on Bud, except to make him more cool. He had made up his mind that he was never going back to the Box M ranch. He could not explain the loss of his horse to them, without admitting that he lied. He gazed into an empty glass, eyes half-shut, and pondered the situation. He felt that there was a decided break between himself and Pat. There would not be enough evidence to hold Flint and Wild, and when they got back some one would be let out—and that some one would be he.

He was sure that Whitey was dead, which removed some worry from his mind. Garvin had taken the money. Who had removed the dead Indian? Bud filled his glass again and drank it in a single gulp. Should he kill Garvin? He took out a silver dollar and glanced at both sides. Why not let the dollar decide?

He flipped the dollar with his thumb. It clattered on the bar and rolled off the opposite side. The bartender stepped in close and glanced down.

“See which side’s up!” growled Bud.

The bartender grinned widely.

“Can’t be done, pardner; it fell in the wash-tub.”

Bud whirled on his heel and started for the door.

“Yuh got four-bits comin’,” yelled the bartender, but Bud went on out, while the bartender rolled up his sleeve and searched for the money.

“Every —— thing goes against me!” snarled Bud aloud as he got outside. “Mebbe I better go easy.”

The click of poker-chips, the call of the dealer lured him into the Telluride barroom and gambling-parlor, where he appropriated a seat and bought chips. He lost twenty dollars in two hands and drew out of the game.

He had began to grow irritable. Bud was not naturally an optimist, and he fell an easy prey to extreme pessimism. He had a few more drinks, but whisky only dulled his nerves more and made his outlook a dreary indigo. He imagined that the whole world was against him and he laid his plans accordingly.

He would meet Garvin and force him to tell where that money was. Yes, he would likely kill Garvin after he had all this information, but that was a mere incident. He could take that money and fade out of the country. He wondered why he didn’t do that before.

He went into a restaurant and ordered a meal, but his appetite deserted him and he left after drinking a cup of strong coffee. He met Pat and Mrs. Moore, but did not speak to them. Pat turned and looked curiously at him. A little farther on he met Frawley.

“Time to go up to the courtroom, Bud,” said Frawley.

“Court-room?” queried Bud absently. “Oh, yeah. Funny I forgot about it. When did yuh come in, Jud?”

Frawley half-smiled. He knew that Bud was drunk and had forgotten that they had ridden in together.

“Goin’ up now?” asked Frawley.

Bud stared vacantly at him and nodded. They walked to the courthouse and went upstairs.

* * * * *

Quite a crowd had already gathered in the courtroom. Men spoke to Frawley and Bud, calling them by their first names. Frawley replied to the greetings, but Bud ignored them all. They went to the front of the room and took seats inside the railing, where Bud humped over, elbows on knees, and stared at the blank wall.

The place filled up in a short time. Dave Cleland, the prosecutor, came in and sat down beside Frawley. Bud merely glanced at him. Mrs. Moore and Pat arrived and sat down near. Another man came, a stranger. He was tall and thin, with gray hair and a heavy mustache, and wore “store” clothes. He sat down inside the railing. Bud lifted his eyes and looked at him. It was the engineer of that train.

He merely glanced at Bud, but to Bud it was a glance filled with meaning. Bud set his jaw and humped lower. He reviled himself for being a fool. He should have known that the engineer would be there. Suddenly he almost laughed aloud at the thought of the engineer being able to identify either of the two robbers. They had been heavily masked. Bud shook his head. He must be losing his reason—getting nerves.

Suddenly there came a stir in the room as the big, gray-haired judge came out of his chamber and sat down at his desk. Oxbow had no police judge before whom men might have a hearing; and it required that they be held until the arrival of the circuit judge.

Bud watched the door through which the prisoners would come, and his hand unconsciously loosened the pistol in his belt. The room had grown very quiet. The big clock on the wall tick-tocked loudly. Heavy boots creaked as men leaned forward to whisper to each other, and from here and there came the clink of spurs.

The door opened and Pete Havez stepped in and aside to let Flint and Wild Moore in, followed by Garvin. They took seats at a table. Whether by chance or design, Garvin sat down at the table, with Flint Moore between himself and Bud Deal.

The judge lost no time in opening the investigation. The engineer was sworn and took the stand. His testimony was already known. No, he did not recognize the prisoners as the men who had held up the train. He did not observe whether either of them was as large a man as Flint Moore.

The subject of pistols was brought up, and the engineer stated that one of them had a big pearl-handled Colt pistol, and he was willing to swear that it was a .45 caliber. He was shown the muzzles of three pistols, and was able to pick the .45 from a .38, .44 and .45.

Outside of that about the gun, the engineer’s testimony was vague and useless to the prosecution. Garvin was called to the stand. He seemed reluctant to leave his place behind Flint Moore but went to the witness chair slowly, keeping his eyes on Bud, who did not look directly at him.

Garvin’s testimony drew a laugh from the crowd, as the prosecutor drew out the details of the arrest and what followed. Oxbow knew that Flint and Wild had come to Oxbow, herding the sheriff and deputy unarmed.

Garvin admitted that he had no evidence against them, other than they had ridden in from that direction on the day of the hold-up. He said that he suspected them, from that reason and also from the reason that he knew that the Box M was in bad shape financially. Later on his suspicions were strengthened by learning that one of the robbers used a pearl-handled Colt .45. Flint Moore owned such a gun.

The court asked for the gun as evidence and Garvin stated that the gun had never been found, and intimated that some one had secured it ahead of him and concealed it.

Flint Moore took the stand, after Garvin had gone back to his seat, and told his story. He had no alibi. They had been within a few miles of the railroad. There was nothing further to tell. Wild was not called. Frawley was put on the stand and drew a laugh, with his description of the arrest. He knew nothing about the gun.

“I will put Bud Deal on the stand,” said Cleland.

Bud looked up foolishly. He had not expected to be put on the stand. He got slowly to his feet and walked to the chair, where he took the oath. Cleland’s voice seemed miles away, as Bud looked into the sea of faces. Cleland was saying something about the gun, and Bud heard himself saying that the gun had been hanging at the head of Flint Moore’s bed after the hold-up. He could see Garvin leering at him; but his tongue ran on.

“Somebody stole the gun. Mebbe it was Devlin. He had a .45.”

“What Devlin?” asked Cleland.

“The Devlin, who was sent to the pen. He’s out again. Been working on the Box M, under the name of Smith.”

The courtroom buzzed.

“Who hired him?” asked Cleland.

Bud pointed at Flint Moore.

“He did. I told him——”

Flint Moore surged to his feet.

“I’ve never seen this Devlin. Deal told me that——”

“Order in the court!” roared the judge. “There is only one witness chair!”

“When did this Devlin come to the Box M?” asked Cleland.

“The night of the robbery,” replied Bud.

“Where is he now?”

Bud looked down at Mrs. Moore and Pat, and shook his head.

“I dunno. Frawley gave him an outfit last night and started him out of the country, I reckon.”

Cleland turned and looked at Garvin.

“Did you know that Devlin was in the country?”

Garvin smiled and shook his head.

“I think he’s a —— liar!” snapped Bud, leaning forward in his chair.

Some cowboy in the back of the room cheered and the crowd laughed heartily, while the judge pounded on his desk and roared for order.

“Another outburst like that and I shall clear the court!” roared the judge, and turned to Bud. “You are not up there to give opinions, young man!”

Garvin’s lips were white with wrath and his right hand was clenched around the butt of his gun under the table.

“Where were you on the day of the robbery?” asked Cleland.

Bud jerked up his head at the question and stared at the prosecutor.

“Me? Why, I—I was out on the range.”

“Down near Snake Creek?”

“Say, you can’t put no deadwood on me!” snarled Bud. “I don’t know anythin’ about the robbery.”

Cleland grinned. He was making Bud angry, and an angry witness is easy to tangle.

“What kind of a gun did you carry that day?”

Bud’s face paled and he half-closed his eyes, as he stared at Cleland. This was getting too personal for Bud and he set his nerves to carry it off right.

Suddenly there came a commotion at the door and everyone turned. A voice swore openly, wonderingly, and the crowd at the back of the room parted to let a strange party through.

It was the old Indian, a ghastly caricature of blood, dirt and matted hair, carrying the half-conscious form of Whitey Allen on his back. At the Indian’s heels came the wolf-dog, and limping behind them came Jimmy Devlin.

Every one in the courtroom stared at them as they came up the aisle, straight toward the judge. Bud Deal, white-faced, his eyes wide and staring, got out of his chair like a sleep-walker and moved aside as the Indian came slowly up and placed Whitey in the witness chair. Then the Indian slumped down on the edge of the platform, while Devlin stepped in, facing the court.

Pat started to her feet, but Frawley grasped her arm, drawing her back. Garvin half-sprawled across the table, gawping at them.

“Sure, I think I’ve come to the right place,” said Jimmy slowly. “We had a divil’s own trip, and all for the lack of a pencil.”

Whitey had opened his eyes and looked around. He was so weak that it was only with the greatest effort that he could remain erect in the chair.

“We made it, Whitey,” said Jimmy triumphantly. “This is the place to talk.”

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded the judge.

Bud’s eyes blinked rapidly as he stared at the Indian he thought he had killed and at Whitey, who must have perished in the cloudburst. His arms twitched and he tried to make himself believe that it was only a nightmare.

“Can ye talk, Whitey?” asked Jimmy. “Try it, pardner.”

Whitey moistened his lips and swallowed with difficulty. After a few attempts he said weakly, hoarsely:

“Jimmy Devlin wasn’t guilty. I—robbed—that—train—last—year. He—he—gave—me—a—chance.”

“Eh? What’s that?” questioned Cleland, while every one leaned forward to hear what Whitey was saying.

Pat had gotten out of her chair and was standing with her hands clenched in front of her as she stared at Jimmy.

“Devlin—wasn’t—guilty,” said Whitey weakly. “Don’t—you—believe—me?”

“What does this all mean?” questioned the judge.

Men were getting out of their seats and crowding forward. Bud’s eyes shifted as he tried to see a way out of the room, but all exits were blocked by the curious crowd.

Cleland turned to the judge.

“He means that Devlin wasn’t guilty of the crime he was convicted of, judge.”

Whitey nodded and tried to smile, but the smile faded as his eyes turned and he saw Bud Deal. Whitey did not have an ounce of strength left, but every bit of hate in his dying body flashed to his face and his weak voice shrilled:

“Bud Deal, you’re a dirty thief! You lifted that cache! You——” Whitey slumped, exhausted—arms falling on either side of the chair.

Bud leaned back against the railing, as if bracing himself, one hand clutching the lapel of his unbuttoned vest and the thumb of the other hand hooked over his belt above the holster. Men moved silently and swiftly from behind him. Garvin got half-way to his feet, one hand on the table. Jimmy stood easily beside Whitey’s chair, but his good-natured smile was not in evidence. The big Colt rested in its holster, just in front of his thigh. He was looking at Bud Deal as he spoke directly to him.

“Deal, ye made a bad mistake, when ye didn’t be sure ye killed the Injun.”

Bud’s body tensed, but he made no reply.

“Whitey told me all about it, Bud Deal. The old buck had a hard head and the bullet played ring-around-the-rosie.”

Jimmy looked at Garvin.

“Sheriff, ye may as well turn them folks loose and quit tryin’ to fool the law.”

“Whatcha mean?” snarled Garvin, but his heart sank within him.

Pete Havez had moved out of his chair and was backed against the railing, ready to draw.

“Judge, the Moores are innocent,” stated Jimmy, keeping his eyes on Garvin and Bud. “There’s a showdown comin’ real soon and I want ye to know things. Deal, don’t ye move a finger. Garvin, you’re too nervous to shoot straight. Deputy, ye better keep out of this, ’cause it don’t concern ye.”

Jimmy’s voice seemed to sing-song, without any particular inflexion.

“Will somebody get a doctor for Whitey Allen? He’s got a lot of things to tell yet, and they’re worth hearin’. He was one of the men who held up that train and he got shot. His pardner double-crossed him by liftin’ the cache, and now Whitey wants to clear the Moores and put the deadwood where it belongs.”

“What cache did Bud lift?” asked Frawley.

“That’s a lie!” Bud fairly screamed. “I didn’t lift any cache!”

Jimmy held up his hand for silence as he shook his head in confirmation of Bud’s denial.

“Whitey Allen was wrong there. He thought that Bud had double-crossed him and taken the money, but Bud did not take it.”

Jimmy turned his head slightly and looked at Garvin.

“Do ye want me to tell who did take that money?”

Garvin’s lips barely moved as he said—

“What do yuh mean?”

Jimmy leaned forward a little and his right hand came up a trifle higher than his waist, fingers spread. Bud Deal had seen Jimmy do that before.

“Ye know what I mean!” Jimmy’s voice snapped in the silent room.

Whitey Allen seemed to regain consciousness for a moment at the sound of Jimmy’s voice and his eyes opened.

“I—I’m glad,” he croaked, “I’m glad it was Bud Deal instead of me that killed the fireman. He shot——”

Bud Deal’s move was too swift to follow and Whitey’s confession was never finished. The windows of the little courtroom shook with the concussion of Bud’s heavy pistol and Whitey pitched forward out of his chair.

Garvin’s hand swung up, clutching a pistol, but he was too late.

Jimmy’s hand flashed up holding the big gun, but Frawley had flung himself into Bud and Jimmy could not shoot without danger of hitting Frawley, who seemed to have missed his tackle and was clawing desperately to clutch Bud’s gun.

Bud whirled toward Garvin, whose hand had swung up from beside the table, and the fact that Garvin shot wide-armed and cramped by the table caused him to miss Jimmy by scant inches.

A fraction of a second later Jimmy shot—so close to the report of Garvin’s gun that few people knew that both men had fired. Garvin crumpled back in his chair and his pistol thudded to the floor.

Pete Havez, ignorant of Garvin’s reasons, but thinking it was his duty, was shooting at Jimmy—shooting wildly. Jimmy whirled and shot once more—shot almost over Flint Moore’s head, and Pete Havez spun on his heel, fired a wild shot at the ceiling and draped himself across the railing.

Bud Deal had torn away from Frawley, tripping him as he got away, and had fired twice at Jimmy—twice at a distance of ten feet, and missed—missed because the old Indian was diving at him, arms outstretched.

He swung his pistol and struck the Indian over the head, kicked at him as he fell, and then whirled, vaulted the railing and tore for the rear door, with his two guns driving back the crowd.

But the crowd was willing to get back. Many of them had slid down between the seats, flat on the floor to be safe from flying lead. Bud raced for the door, where he whirled and shot the length of the room at Jimmy, who was vaulting the railing, and the bullet splintered a window back of the jury-box.

Klooch darted past Jimmy as he went out of the door and down the stairs. Bud raced for the hitch-rack, which was across the street from the courtroom, and was half-way to the horses, when Jimmy came out the lower door.

Bud whirled, as the wolf-dog ran into him, and shot almost into her face. The bullet ripped along her head and the flash of powder blinded her; but she had stopped him in his flight.

The crowd had rushed to the windows of the courtroom. Some one threw a chair through one of them, to view the street better, and the chair crashed into the dust near Jimmy.

Bud was standing about half-way across the street, with his feet braced far apart, gun held hip-high. His hat was gone. He had dropped one gun in his flight, and now he had only one cartridge left in that gun, with which he had done all his shooting—five shots.

Klooch was groveling in the street, trying to paw the pain from her burned head. Jimmy was moving slowly toward Bud, his gun swinging easily in his hand, when out of the lower door appeared the Indian, coming in behind Jimmy.

His face was a welter of fresh blood from the blow, which Bud had dealt him with a gun-barrel; but he did not waver, as he came into the street, head held low, his back bent, arms held wide, as if to grasp something.

A voice from one of the windows called a hoarse warning to Jimmy; but the Indian walked past him, giving Jimmy no heed, going straight toward Bud.

Bud lifted his gun and took deliberate aim at the advancing Indian, but the Indian came on unfaltering. Bud’s arm shook with the strain of holding the gun. He could not pull the trigger.

He had only one shot left. The Indian was unarmed. It flashed through Bud’s mind that Jimmy was the one to shoot. He could use the empty gun on the unarmed Indian.

Now the Indian was between Bud and Jimmy, coming slower. Bud sprang aside to fire his last shot, but he had forgotten the wolf-dog. His feet tangled in a squirming snapping bulk and he fell heavily, his gun slipping from his hand as he fell.

As he sprawled in the dust, the Indian dived into him. For a moment they seemed to tangle in a whirl of arms and legs, and then the Indian staggered to his feet, with his arms locked around Bud’s body. They swayed for a moment. Like a flash the Indian shifted his hold, lifted Bud off his feet and threw him upside-down; and before any one could anticipate his next move he picked Bud up in his arms, slung him across his shoulder and ran up the street toward another hitch-rack. Bud was as limp as Whitey had been.

Jimmy watched them go, but made no effort to stop the Indian. He caught Klooch by the scruff of the neck and drew her to him, while he knelt in the street and tried to examine her burns and bruises. The crowd poured out of the courtroom and filled the street. Frawley and Pat were the first ones to reach Jimmy. Men were yelling at each other, running for their horses.

“My ——!” exclaimed Frawley. “Look at the Indian! He’s on Whistler and he’s got Bud in his arms!”

Jimmy glanced up the street. The Indian had mounted the roan outlaw and had Bud draped across the saddle in front of him. Men ran out from across the street and tried to stop them, but the Whistler whirled and came straight down the street, running hog-wild, with reins flying. More men tried to stop them, but Whistler never wavered, while the Indian leaned forward, both arms holding Bud’s limp body, riding out of town like a tornado.

“The Injun wants to pay Bud for that shot in the dark,” panted Jimmy. “The old boy got a nasty bump on the head out at the Pulpit and it kinda cleared his mind. Whitey told him that Bud shot him.”

Men were mounting to give chase, yelling orders, asking questions. Pat turned to Jimmy, her face gray with the horror of it all, and took hold of his arm. Flint Moore came up to them, staring at Jimmy and Pat, who were looking into each other’s faces. Mrs. Moore and Wild came to them.

Horses were passing them, showering the dust and gravel of the street as they started out to follow the Indian and his burden. Klooch sniffed at Jimmy and stood up, putting her paws on his chest, while her burned eyes blinked open and she gave a short bark.

“Glory be!” exclaimed Jimmy. “Look, Pat! The wolf-dog’s eyes are open again. Oh, ye blessed wild divil! Ye came to me in the night, so ye did.”

“A lot of eyes have been opened today, Jimmy,” answered Pat slowly, as she turned to her father and said, “Dad, meet Jimmy Devlin.”

Flint Moore squinted into Jimmy’s eyes, as they gripped hands.

“Son,” said Flint Moore softly, “why didn’t you kill Bud Deal?”

Jimmy shook his head slowly.

“Sure, I’m not clear in me own mind yet. Mister Frawley got before me in the courtroom and I could not shoot. Out here—” Jimmy glanced across the street—“out here I had no fear of his gun. Bedad, I believe I thought it was empty, and—and—” Jimmy smiled wistfully—“and who am I to be shootin’ up train-robbers?”

Wild Moore stepped in and held out his hand just as Dave Cleland bustled into them breathlessly.

“Garvin got it through the shoulder!” he exclaimed. “Pete Havez wasn’t so lucky, but he’ll get well. Whitey Allen must have been almost dead before Bud shot him. Now, I want to shake hands with Devlin. I’ll see that you get complete exoneration, Devlin.”

Cleland bustled away, spilling half a package of flake-cut tobacco over the edge of his pipe-bowl and trying to light the empty pipe.

Frawley turned to Flint Moore.

“I reckon I’ll get my horse and follow the chase, Flint. I’ll drop in to see yuh in a few days.”

“Why—why—” faltered Flint.

“No, I’ve resigned,” grinned Frawley. “The Box M can’t afford to pay wages to more than one man, and I reckon Devlin’s goin’ to quit bein’ a boomer.”

Frawley walked swiftly toward the hitch-rack. Jimmy looked at Pat slyly and a sober expression crossed his homely face as she asked, “Are you, Jimmy?”

“I’m thinkin’,” said Jimmy slowly, “that I’d kinda like to be able to answer folks, when they ask me where I came from—and the Box M is easy to say.”