"This seems a pretty tame proceeding," Bud observed whimsically, when they had dismounted in the hollow where Gelle was sitting cross-legged in the grass. "By rights there should be some shooting at the wind-up of a robbery the size of this one. I did take a prisoner, though, didn't I? But the old pelican doesn't seem to be very fierce—how'd you make out, Jelly?"
Gelle looked up sourly and pointed with his thumb. "I been keepin' the flies off your treasure trove, Bud, just as long as I'm agoin' to. If this is all they is to bandit-huntin', I'm goin' home and bug potatoes fer excitement. Where you goin' now? Snipe huntin'?"
"I'll watch this fellow," Kline the druggist offered promptly. "Give me a gun, somebody, in case he wakes up. Lord, that sun's hot!"
"Yeah, it's nice an' shady here—if shade's what you're after," Gelle told him dryly. "Bring any lunch baskets? Right nice, shady dell fer a buck picnic, and I could eat without bein' forced. And say, Bud, any time you feel like tellin' what you found or expect to find, I'll be willin' to listen."
"Come along and I'll show you," Bud grinned. "Palmer's whole outfit's in town, Delkin says—excepting the cook. We're going to investigate a rat's nest down here by the river."
"Yeah?" Gelle looked from one to the other, and then grinned in slowly awakening amusement that spread to his eyes and left a twinkle there. "Judgin' from that praise-God look on these plutocrats' faces,—oh, well, come on!"
They filed down through the bushes after Bud, who led the way straight to the hedge and up over rocks that left no trace, to the place where Skookum had seen his grandfather at work like an old badger. A broken fragment of ledge lay piled there, and behind the rocks, hidden from sight until one climbed the pile and looked over, a dry, deep niche, narrow of mouth and roomy inside, lay revealed. Within it they saw a jumbled heap of sticks, dead leaves and twigs—a rat's nest, any chance observer would have sworn. But Bud picked up a larger branch and thrust away the litter. Delkin crowded past him eagerly and began clawing at the nearest of three ribbed, iron kegs with tight-fitting lids, such as are used for storing blasting powder.
"Gosh, is that money?" Gelle, peering over Delkin's shoulder, spoke in a hushed tone. "Gosh! Lemme heft one of them kegs, Mr. Delkin!"
His face red and sweaty with excitement, Delkin tilted the keg on its side, picked up a canvas sack as if it were very heavy and put it into Gelle's eager, outstretched hands. He laughed foolishly at the look of astonishment on the long cowpuncher's face and reached for another sack. He was like a boy clawing gifts out of his Christmas stocking and truly believing in Santa Claus. Bud, who had seen how despair could rack him, swallowed a lump that appeared mysteriously in his throat. It was worth a lot, he told himself, to see a man so overwhelmingly elated and happy.
"Brad, here are those bonds of Morgan's—why do thieves take stuff they never can use? Stauffer, here, you take charge of these—notes and mortgages, I guess they are. I wonder if Palmer was foxy enough to take out that note of his that the bank holds! God, if we could get Charlie's life back with the rest, I'd be the happiest man on earth! Well—that's all, I guess. No—but this isn't the bank's. This must belong to Palmer."
"Glom it!" Gelle advised grimly, but Delkin shook his head.
"No—all we want is our own. Well, no use putting back the rubbish, is there? If they come here at all, they're bound to find out the bank's property has disappeared. And if we have any luck at all, they'll never get back here. Jelly, do you want to carry the gold?"
"I should smile!" Gelle grinned widely to prove it as he held open the grain sack. "Any chances the gold might some of it rub off on m' shirt? How much is they, Mr. Delkin?"
"A little over twelve thousand dollars, according to the books. Brad's carrying three times as much; yes, Brad's got forty thousand dollars right there in his hands."
"Yeah?" Gelle cast a mildly disdainful glance at the package of bank notes which Bradley was stowing away in a bag. "Mebbe so, but it shore don't carry the same thrill as what this gold money packs. That why you left all that money in the keg?" He turned, shoulders slightly bent under his load, and stared at the emptied powder kegs, and at the one which was not empty. "It shore is a crime to leave all that good money there," he complained. "Chances are Palmer stole it, anyway. Me, I don't believe the old hellion ever did get an honest dollar in his life. It'd burn his fingers."
"But that doesn't give us any right to it," Delkin told him firmly. "Some one is liable to come on a long lope to see how about it. You fellows go ahead; I'll bring up the rear. And remember, that open stretch down there is in plain sight of the stables, so you'd better take it on the trot."
Gelle did better than that; he sprinted for the bushes ahead of the other three, got hung up in the wire fence because he tried to crawl through without slipping the sack of coin to the ground, and so caught a barb fast in the canvas and had to be helped by Bud, who overtook him while he was still wriggling like an impaled bug.
Delkin, Bradley and Stauffer went on and were jubilating in hushed voices with Kline when the Meadowlark contingent arrived. They stood apart from the old man, who still snored comfortably with his lips puffed out through his thin whiskers. Bud's capture was likely to prove embarrassing.
"What'll we do?" Bradley asked impatiently. "Can't turn him loose here—and Kline says he's been asleep all this while, so he doesn't know yet we've come on to the scene. Jelly, can't you stay right here and watch him for a while—till Bud comes back?"
Gelle stood with the sack of gold between his feet, as if he meant to protect it from all claimants, and stared glumly from one to the other.
"I can, yes. But I shore hate to like hell," he admitted sourly. "You'll go awn in an' have a scrap, chances are, an' I'll be settin' here like a knot on a log, watchin' this ole pelican's whiskers wave in and out. Excitin', ain't it? Damn fine way to spend an afternoon! When it comes to thinkin' up things fer me to do, you shore have got bright idees!"
"Seems to be about the only thing we can do about it, Jelly," Bud said soothingly. "We could tie him up, but even then it wouldn't be absolutely safe. You can't blame these bankers for not wanting to take a chance of losing all this money, now that they have it back. He might get loose and warn Palmer in some way. We'll go back by a roundabout way through the hills, just because they don't want a soul to know they've got the money. Once that's safe, we'll go after Palmer and his bunch, yes. But you must see, Jelly, that—"
"Oh, hell, go awn and leave me to m' thoughts!" Gelle pulled down the corners of his mouth, stepped over the gold, turned back and gave it a kick as if he would show his familiarity with it, and grinned at Bud. "I never did have no luck, nohow." He lounged over and sat down beside the sleeper, and spat disgustedly into the lush grass near by. He waved them toward town, made a derisive gesture and started to roll a smoke, giving them no further attention.
"Jelly's a fine boy, all right, and it's a damned shame he has to stand guard—but I'm darned if I'm sorry enough for him to stay in his place," Bud observed with futile sympathy, when they were riding townward by devious trails which kept to the hills and concealed them from any passer-by on the road. "Still—are you dead sure Palmer's bunch will stay in town?"
Bradley laughed.
"The way Tony and the boys had it framed, Palmer's gang will give no heed to the passing hours. You know, of course, what the boys meant to do?"
"I didn't know they meant to do anything," Bud confessed. "Darn 'em, they must have held out on me."
"Well, now, if they don't get hung before we hit town, they may stir up something interesting. The idea was to play off drunk, and when the crowd was pretty thoroughly worked up, seeing them spend money—gold money which they acted sneaking about—each one of the boys planned to get a Palmer man off in a corner, do the 'weeping-drunk' and confess that he went down river from Meadowlark Basin in a boat, killed Charlie and robbed the bank, and that he had the stuff cached and wanted a man he could trust to help him get the stuff safely out of the country. They had it planned out to the last detail: how long it ought to take them to get so drunk they'd confide in a man they never had chummed with, and just how they'd manage to lead up to the subject. Tony said he'd take Bat Johnson into his confidence, and Rosen was to tackle Palmer himself, I believe. Bob and Mark were going to buttonhole Ed White and the Mexican. It sure sounded like it might work—if they don't get lynched, as I said.
"They figure that one or all of Palmer's gang will get so uneasy there will be a general stampede to where the money's hidden to see if the Meadowlark boys have any of them found out where it's cached. Either that, or they'll give themselves away by wanting to fight or something. Of course," he added, glancing down with a grin at the bundle tied at the fork of his saddle, "they didn't know we'd have the stuff safely put away long before they could trail any one to the spot where it was hid."
"And they expect to stay sober long enough to put that over?" Bud's lips tilted upwards with amusement.
"You bet they did! Just before you showed up, they'd poured whisky all over themselves, by the smell. On the outside," he added meaningly. "I don't see how they'd dare light a cigarette—they were sure saturated."
Bud touched his borrowed horse with the spurs.
"We'd better be riding," he called over his shoulder. "If I know anything about that bunch, something's about due to pop!"
Nothing is more disconcerting than to make elaborate plans which provide for every mishap save the one which afterwards looks absolutely inevitable. Tony had been deeply concerned over the integrity of his actors, and concentrated all his energies upon keeping himself and his fellow-actors sober, quite overlooking the obvious result of a meeting between Palmer's men and the Meadowlark boys. Tony should have remembered that a feud had existed since early spring; better still, he should have taken it for granted that the Palmer gang had circulated enough falsehoods just lately to render them self-conscious and a bit too ready to defend themselves if a Meadowlark man but looked their way.
Tony, absorbed in playing his part, was forced to take a drink or two at the bar—along with the three other members of his amateur comedy company—before he could plausibly detach himself from his fellows and wabble over to the pool table where he stood grinning a silly grin and applauding Bat Johnson's mediocre game. Tony did not know it, but his eyes held an unfriendly, calculating gleam and they clung rather tenaciously to Bat; which was not exactly reassuring to a man with as much on his conscience as made Bat's slumbers uneasy and troubled with bad dreams. A man with that silly grin stretching his lips, while above the grin his eyes stare with a malevolent intentness, need wear no other sign to warn a sober man. Bat Johnson was not drunk.
"Y're a good man, Bat," Tony burbled, when Bat had reached up his cue and slid the last set of buttons toward the center. "W' played out y'r string, Bat—played out y'r string, ain't yuh?"
"What's that?" Bat whirled upon him. "What do you mean by that, you drunken four-flush?"
"Y'r a good—what'd you say? Four-flush? Me a four-flush—me?" Tony remembered to shake his head in drunken grief. "Bat, I—I never thought you'd shpeak t' me like that, I—"
"It ain't me that's played out my string," Bat told him viciously. "You wait till a few Meadowlark necks git twisted! A string er two's been played out there, my fine buckaroo. Folks is gittin' damn' tired of them birds. You're one of 'em and you've about warbled yore last song. Git outa my way b'fore I kill yuh!"
Even the best actors may forget their parts when the proper cue is not given. Had Bat been friendly, or even neutral, Tony would have swallowed his feelings and gone ahead with his original lines. But you simply can't confide your guilt to a man like that, no matter what vital issue is at stake.
Still, Tony was vastly surprised at himself for knocking Bat head first over the pool table, because not even two unaccustomed drinks of whisky could convince him that this was a diplomatic opening to the confidential talk he had planned to have with Bat. He wondered dully whether he had spoiled the whole thing, or whether Bat would forgive the blow on account of Tony's irresponsible condition, and still consent to listen to the story which Tony had so carefully prepared to pour out at the urge of a drunken impulse.
But then Bat picked himself up and came at him with a billiard cue, and Tony decided quite suddenly that what he really wanted—and the only thing he wanted—was to show Bat exactly where to head in at (quoting Tony). He snatched up a ball and laughed when he saw how it bounced off Bat's head, leaving Bat dazed and waving the cue vaguely until his head stopped spinning.
"Yeah—you better go git into yore boat and drift on down the river!" Tony chortled recklessly. "I don't reckon yuh had a billiard cue handy at the bank, did yuh? Had t' kill Charlie with yore gun. Think nobody's wise to you an' yore bunch, ay? Well, you and—"
A big, firm hand slipped over Tony's mouth and stopped him at that point, and the arm belonging to the hand seemed in a fair way of throttling him.
"You damn drunken fool," Bob hissed in his ear. "Think us boys all stayed sober jest fer the fun of seein' you drunk an' shootin' off yore mouth thataway?"
Jack Rosen jumped a card table and kicked over two chairs, but he landed on Bat Johnson in time to spoil his aim, so the shot went wild. Big Mark Hanley grabbed Tex and Ed White, a hand on each collar, and butted their heads together while he whooped his glee at the way things were going. Other men scattered when they saw these two clawing for their guns.
"Hey! I ain't got nobody t' lick!" wailed Tony, seeing how the other boys were occupied, the whisky beginning to boil angrily in his blood. "Where's Palmer?"
No one seemed to know, or if they did they gave no sign. They made way for Tony's headlong rush for the door, where he saw that Palmer was already riding out of sight up the street. For a moment he was tempted to follow him; but time would be lost while he saddled his horse, and Palmer would have a start that would make it difficult to overtake him if he wanted to hurry. Moreover, sounds in the saloon behind him indicated that at least two fights were progressing with much vigor. Tony turned back to the fray and let Palmer go.
Had he ridden a bit faster Palmer would probably have seen Delkin and his party cross the road and turn into the hills on their way back to town with the bank's money. As it was, he rode at his usual racking trot and so arrived home not long after Gelle had taken his prisoner to the house and locked him in a room off the kitchen, where he promptly went to sleep again.
"Dass way Blinkah, he always do, Mist' Meddalahk, when Boss he go awn to town. Gittin' old, he is. Yass, suh, Blinkah he do need a pow'ful lot a slumbah. Wha' foh yo'all want wif dat ole cuss, skusin' de question?"
"Hell, I don't want him," Gelle denied pensively. "All I want is another drink of that buttermilk, and mebby a bite of somethin' to eat, Snowball. It's Bud that wants the old man. He come leadin' him along to where it was shady and cool, and then he told me I had to go and set with him fer company. I don't want him atall. I'm jest keepin' cases till I find out what Bud's idee was of havin' me day-herd the old coot. He ain't done a thing but sleep ever since I went on guard."
Sam grinned, showing an amazing lot of teeth.
"Yessuh, Mist' Meddalahk, he sho' kin sleep when chance comes along. Boss, he make a great ole niggah-drivah down Souf—yessuh, he sho' would do so! Ain' much sleepin' when Boss is home; nothin' but wuhk fo' ole Blinkah 'n' me.
"Ah sho' admire to git yo'all somethin' to eat, if Boss, he doan' come ketch me. Lawsy, Mist' Meddalahk, ef Boss, he come ridin' along home, Ah'd sho' 'preciate it ef yo'all lock up ole Sam jes' lak Blinkah. An' ef Boss, he s'picions Ah never made no desistunce, Ah'd lak lil small cut, mebby, on mah haid to show. Boss, he's pow'ful s'picious man, Mist' Meddalahk, yessuh."
"Say, the boys call me Jelly. Don't be so darn formal, Snowball, or I'll likely give you a lump about the size of a goose egg to show. You set out the grub, and I'll mebby lock you up jest fer a josh. I dunno but what I like the idee."
Thus it happened that Gelle was sitting with his mouth full and his jaws working comfortably when Palmer rode up to the gate, leaned and unlatched it, sidled his horse through and closed the gate afterwards. Perhaps he noticed fresh horse tracks that were strange, though Gelle's horse stood tied in the bushes at the edge of the gully. Perhaps Palmer saw the imprint of Gelle's boots. Whatever the cause, he eyed the house as if he knew some danger lurked within—or perhaps he was merely estimating the amount of damage done to his shingles.
Gelle had not expected him back. He took up his glass of buttermilk and washed down the mouthful of bread and butter with one huge swallow, drew his hand hastily across his mouth and did a rapid mental calculation.
"Yo're my prisoner, Snowball," he said over his shoulder. "I might give you another dollar if you do a good job of playin' dead till I holler when. Go awn and take a nap with the old man while I talk to yore Boss."
From the yard a harsh voice called Sam, and after a minute's hesitation Gelle motioned him forward.
"Act natural, Snowball, or I'll spill you all over the room," he muttered.
"Boss, he's pow'ful mean man. He kill dis ole niggah—" Sam held up his two shaking hands, the palms pinkish as if he had worn off the color.
"Gwan—answer him! He ain't goin' to have a chance at yuh. I want t' git him inside, Snowball. Gwan."
Palmer shouted again, and Sam caught up a chipped yellow bowl and stood forth bravely enough, though Gelle, standing just out of sight behind the door, could see how his legs were shaking.
"Yessuh, Boss, yessuh." Sam ducked his head propitiatingly.
"Sam, who's been here to the house? No lies, you damn' worthless black whelp!"
"Heah? To dis house? Ah dunno zackly, Boss, Ah-h—" He took another breath and plunged. "Sho'ht time aftah yo'all rode off, Boss, man he comes lopin' along. Wants to speak wid yo'all, 'cawdin' to what he says. Ah says yo'all ain't heah an' 'tain't pawssible he kin speak wid yo'all. He hang eroun' awn his hawse, but he doan' shoot no gun, an' bimeby he ride awn off."
"Did, ay? Anybody you know?"
"No-suh, Boss, Ah doan' reckon Ah knows dat cowboy, nohow. But Ah notice, Boss, he's got Meddalahk brand on he's hawse—"
Palmer swore such fluent, heartfelt oaths that Gelle grinned and whispered to Sam that there was one thing old Palmer wasn't stingy with, and that was cuss words.
"Which way—here, come back here, you damn' lazy idiot, and tell me which way he went!"
"'Clah to goodness, Boss, Ah so plum tickled he's goin', Ah doan' rightly know! Awn up river som'ers, Boss." Sam rolled his eyes in terror, for Palmer was climbing down from his horse in the manner that promised blows delivered upon the first luckless object within reach.
"Scoot!" whispered Gelle, pointing toward the door of the small room beyond. Then remembering that the door was locked, he strode across on his toes, unlocked it and thrust Sam headfirst inside. He had just turned the key and faced the outside doorway when Palmer stepped in.
Surprise halted Palmer just an instant too long, for Gelle gave a long leap and landed a blow with his fist that rocked Palmer and brought both hands up and away from his gun, vaguely attempting to ward off another blow that landed full on the nose. Tears of pain started to Palmer's eyes, but he fought back viciously and shouted for Sam.
"The coon's locked up," Gelle told him between clenched teeth. "'Twouldn't help yuh none to have him here. Leggo that gun! Damn yuh, I could have shot yuh down like a dog if I'd wanted to!"
Before he had finished, Gelle was tempted to regret his fair dealing. They swayed the full length of the kitchen, locked in each other's arms. Palmer managed to get him by the throat and beat his head against the wall until points of light whirled before Gelle's eyes. He tore loose, filled his lungs with one great gasp and tripped Palmer, who pulled the table over on top of them as he went down, clawing like fighting cats. Gelle got the edge of a board in the ribs and felt a sickening crack and after that the flaming agony of a splintered rib prodding tender flesh, but he hung tenaciously with knees and fingers and managed to stay on top.
The fight ended when Gelle snatched up the heavy earthen pitcher that had held buttermilk and had come through the upheaval without a crack. He swung the pitcher aloft by the handle and brought it down on Palmer's head—breaking both. At least there was no doubt about the pitcher, and as for Palmer, he gave a convulsive shudder and went limp, and a cut on his head began to swell as the blood oozed out.
Gelle pulled himself up, grunting with the pain in his side, and looked down at the havoc he had wrought. He would have set the table back on its legs, but the effort was too painful, so he went staggering over to the bedroom door and unlocked Sam, bringing him out with an imperative, beckoning gesture, Palmer's gun in his hand. Sam came as if he were being kicked out, with his back bowed in and his fingers spread ready to ward off a blow.
"Get a rope or something to tie him up," Gelle ordered sharply. "I ain't goin' to hurt you, Snowball—not if you behave. That'll do. Pull his hands around behind him—no, he ain't dead. He'll come to after a while. Get a wiggle on."
"Yessuh, yessuh, Mist' Meddalahk."
"All right—fine. Now, jest drag him in there, will you, Snowball? And lock the door; or, no, jest drag him in there. The darn cuss might take a notion to die on my hands, and I want him alive; so you can keep an eye on him. When he comes to himself, I wanta talk to him."
"Yessuh, Mist' Meddalahk, yo'all sho' am a hahd man to git shet of bein' talked to!" Now that Palmer was safely tied, Sam could afford to take a full breath and to grin once more at his new friend. "When yo'all say you wanta talk wif a man, 'tain't no use to avoid de cawnvusashum—'tain't no mannah of use atall. Might as well make de bes' of it an'talk. Yessuh, Mist' Meddalahk, yo'all sho' am detumined!"
Gelle laughed, but that did not cause him to relax his watchfulness.
"What about the men that work here, Snowball? Purty good friends of yourn, ain't they?"
"Friends uh mine? Bat 'n' dat ah Mex, 'n' Ed friends uhmine? No, suh, Mist' Meddalahk, dey ain't no friends ob nobody but deyselfs. Dem fellahs, dey so plum mean an' awnery, dey jes' about hate deyselfs mos' awl de time. No, suh, Ah ain't got no friends—not on dis heah ranch, Ah ain'. Cusses an' kicks, dat 'bout awl Ah evah gits aroun' heah."
"Oh, all right. I just wondered, because if they come lopin' home, I'm liable to need more rope. Snowball—"
"Yessuh, yessuh, Ah gits moah rope direckly, Mist' Meddalahk. Lawsy, how dem fellahs do lie to dis heah ole niggah 'bout you gemman at de Meddalahk! Yessuh, dey sho' do lie!"
"Got anything to bandage a broken rib?"
Sam gave him a startled roll of eyeballs and hurried out. Gelle heard him clumping around overhead for a few minutes and wondered what he was up to. But when Sam came down he had a sheet, yellowed and smelling a bit musty; and over his arm was hung a coil of cotton clothes-line.
"Onlies' sheet in de house was up in de lof'. Big trunk awl wrop up wid dis heah rope. Mist' Meddalahk, suh, Ah mighty sorry yo'all done bruk a rib, kase mo' fightin' sho' is boun' t' come along when dem three gits heah, an' ole Sam, he ain' no good nohow."
"You can tie 'em up if I can get 'em into the house and pull down on 'em with my gun. Purty tame way to git 'em, but I guess it'll be best to play safe. How soon you reckon they're liable to come?"
But Sam, of course, did not know. All they could do was wait and hope for action before dark. There was, Gelle knew upon reflection, small chances that the three Palmer men would be left to ride unhindered out of Smoky Ford, once Delkin's party arrived. Palmer they had of course missed on the way, but unless his men left soon after he did, they would be captured and held in town until the sheriff could come and get them. It was just a bit of good luck that had sent Palmer into his hands.
And then, not more than half an hour after they had finished their preparations and time was beginning to drag, a scattered fusillade of shots came crackling thinly from the pasture, down near the ledge.
Gelle got up too carelessly and was obliged to sit down again, white and sweating. Sam was goggling at him as if in Gelle's face he could read the explanation of the sounds.
"Our boys chased 'em out, mebbe," Gelle muttered, speaking in that repressed tone which comes of not being able to take a deep breath. "Still—I dunno. Gee, I'd love to be down there! All I git outa this deal is sittin' around whilst the rest plays. Listen at 'em, Snowball! Darn the luck, anyway!"
Life would sometimes be simpler if events were more evenly spaced and periods of inaction put to a better use by letting them hold the incidents that otherwise must pile on top of one another and crowd one day overfull of excitement. But so long as we remain unscientific enough to take things just as they come and let our emotions rule our hands and feet, life will continue to go steady by jerks.
Take this day in Smoky Ford and at the Palmer ranch, just seven miles out yet well within the trouble zone. If there is anything in thought vibrations, Tony and Bud must have owned powerful mental dynamos and set them working full speed that morning. The pity is that they did not work altogether in harmony, but instead set up different currents of violent thought action—and most of the mental activity gyrated around that money looted from the bank.
The money itself was safe enough, once it reached Delkin's stable. Delkin was a shrewd man when sudden misfortune did not upset him, and his method of safeguarding the bank's property was truly ingenious.
Among his horses was one with the significant name, The Butcher. His character lived up to his name, and with the exception of the stableman and Delkin himself, not a man in Smoky Ford would venture within reach of his teeth or his heels—and both had an amazing reach, by the way. Delkin studied long and deeply over the safest place—barring the bank—for the money and papers, and his cogitations brought him finally to The Butcher. The bank, he considered, was out of the question for the present. Some one would be sure to see them carrying the stuff inside, and the news would spread like scandal. Until Palmer's gang was safe behind the bars, it must be taken for granted that the money was still missing.
This naturally left Delkin thinking of The Butcher, and the more he thought of him the easier he felt in his mind. The Butcher had his own little corral for exercise, his own box stall. Moreover, the manger was built high and had a false bottom nearly two feet from the floor. Who in Smoky Ford would ever dream of finding anything in The Butcher's box stall, even if they dared look there?
Delkin did not say a word until they reached the stable and he had sent the stableman up into the office to watch for chance callers. The Butcher was out in the corral, and Delkin closed the stall door to make sure that the horse would stay outside for a while. Even then he took only Bradley into his confidence, after the others had gone to see what was doing in the saloons and whether the Palmer men were still in town, and what the Meadowlark boys had gained by confession. Not even Bud suspected Delkin of having a secret, but supposed that the money would be kept in the office until it could be transferred to the bank vault.
Instead, the two men carried it into the box stall, pried up a board in the manger and dropped everything underneath, replaced the board and the hay in the manger and heaved sighs of relief. Then Delkin waved Bradley out of the stall, opened the outer door and called The Butcher in. He came, nickering softly for a lump of sugar, got it and nibbled daintily while Delkin slipped out and shut the door. It was a bit early to shut up The Butcher, but the stableman would not bother with him unless he had to; Delkin knew that.
"There! We needn't worry about anybody stealing it to-night," grinned Delkin. "Unless the stable gets afire we're dead safe, Brad. We can leave it right here until we are ready to open up the bank again. Now, let's get after Palmer and his gang."
They met Bud coming with four much-ruffled Meadowlarks, a small, rat-eyed Mexican hustled along in their midst. Bud's eyes were once more snapping with excitement, the others inclined to glassy stares through red and swollen lids.
"Here's the one they call Mex. Took two knives off him, and the boys got a gun. Haven't located Palmer and Bat yet," Bud announced, as the two bankers hurried toward them.
"Aw, they crawled off t' die som'ers!" Tony pompously declared. "We licked 'em to a fare-ye-well. Didn't we lick 'em, boys?"
"Shore enough did," Mark Hanley boasted. "Put 'em both awn the run. One of 'em chawed m' ear off, purty near, but I got 'im."
"Sh'd say we licked 'em!" big Bob boasted. "Now I'm goin' to git drunk."
"Yes, y' betcha!" Jack Rosen approved gravely.
"Betcha they know now who the thieves is an' who the murderers is," Tony cried exultantly. "Told 'em m'self. Called the turn on that boat—made 'em swaller twice, that did! Told 'em I could put m' hands awn—"
"Good Lord!" Bud gave Delkin and Bradley a quick look that had in it a good deal of consternation. "They'll beat it out of the country now. Gone for the loot, and they won't stop short of the Badlands. Tony, you damn' chump, why didn't you keep your face closed?"
"Why? Had t' open it, didn't I, t' swaller a drink er two? Me, I don't drink only with m' eyes, I tell you those! Had t' open m' mouth, anyway—thought I might as well use it. Wha's matter with that? Theyarethieves an' murderers, ain't they? Told 'em so—licked 'em to a frazzle. Didn't we, boys?"
"Damn' right," three voices growled in chorus.
"Palmer, he run out on us, 'r we'd licked him too. This Mex, here, he's licked. Howled like a pup. Didn't you, Mex?" Tony turned gravely to the cringing captive, who nodded sullen surrender.
"Well, get your horses," Bud snapped. "You've got some riding to do now, you're so darn gay and festive. How long have they been gone? Do you know?"
They thought they knew exactly, but their answers were so conflicting that Bud and Delkin finally took the word of a boy who volunteered the information that Bat and Ed White had ridden out of town about ten minutes ago, headed toward home.
"We'll have to fan the breeze, boys, and we may wind up in the Badlands. Mr. Bradley, we'd better take a little grub—sardines and crackers, or something like that. Because if we don't overhaul them at the ranch, we'll just keep on going."
"I'll bring some stuff to the stable," said Bradley, and started on a trot to the store.
"Oh, hell, and we don't get drunk at all!" Big Bob Leverett complained disgustedly. "Wish I had the whisky I washed m' face in. A hull quart of Metropole gone t' granny!"
Bud whirled on the group and stared angrily from one to the other.
"You're drunk enough," he said contemptuously. "You fellows seem to think this is just a picnic. Do you want me to round up a posse here in Smoky Ford, and tell them that we've got the goods on the gang that killed Charlie and robbed the bank and that we're going after them, but our own men are too drunk to be of any use? I can take a town bunch, if you say so, and let you boys stay here and swill whisky. It would be a consistent finish to the damage you've done already—telling the gang that we're wise to them, rough-housing awhile like any other drunken chumps, and then letting them all get off except this greaser who may not know a thing about it." His lip curled in a sneer. "A hell of an outfit you are to round up outlaws!"
"Gwan an' git your Smoky Ford posse if you want to, Bud," Tony said stiffly, the whisky fumes swept clean from his brain by the hurt Bud had given. "While you're gittin' them, we'll hit the trail. Come awn, boys."
They took the remaining distance in a run, and they were saddled and ducking under the stable doorway and racing off up the road and out of town while Bud was still waiting for Bradley to come with supplies, and Delkin was telephoning the sheriff to come as quick as the Lord would let him. Smoky Ford itself saw only that the Meadowlark boys were in town raising Cain again, never dreaming that their one big tragedy of the summer was reaching a fortuitous climax, under the guise of a drunken fight in a saloon.
The Mexican, dropped unceremoniously when the boys ran for their horses, would have ducked out of sight completely if Bud had not seen his first furtive sidling and caught him by the collar. Him they turned over to the stableman for safe-keeping. He would be kept safe, because the stableman hated any man not of his own race, as is the way of certain cramped souls.
"Now, we'll have to fan it," Bud cried impatiently, "before those drunken punchers of ours do some other fool thing. How soon will the sheriff get here, Mr. Delkin?"
"Wel-l, it's about four-thirty now—little more. Oughta make it by ten or eleven. I was lucky to catch him in the office. Just got in off a wild goose chase down river, he said. I told him if we aren't here or at Palmer's, he better pick up our trail there. Didn't mention getting the money back—too darn many mule-ears on the line. Didn't say anything definite, only I needed him right away, and he'd find me out at Palmer's or somewhere beyond. He'll come on a long lope. And say, Bud, the way the boys shot out the door and took off up the road, I don't believe they were so darn drunk after all!"
"Why?" The harsh judgment of youth still held Bud's reason in thrall. "Think it takes brains to stay on a horse? I never saw our boys too drunk to ride, Mr. Delkin. It's all right—if they take it out in riding and don't attempt tothink."
Unconsciously Bud maligned those four. They weren't so far from being sober, once they were out of the atmosphere of the saloon and pelting up the road in the cooling breeze of late afternoon. In spite of Bud's opinion of their mental condition, the four were beginning to think.
"Know what old Palmer done?" Bob Leverett, soberest of the four, half turned in the saddle to face the others as they raced along. "Went after the dough they took from the bank. I'd bet money on it. He heard them cracks you made to Bat about the boat, Tony. That's about when he beat it. Great friend, ain't he? Quit his men cold at the first word you let drop. Betcha he's got the money and gone with it."
"Betcha we ain't fur behind 'im," Tony flashed back. "Bud, he makes me sore! Tell you right now, I don't like the way he rares up an' gives us this high-schoolin' talk when things don't go jest to suit his idees. Hell, I punched cows before Bud was big enough t' keep his own nose clean! Drunk! Huh!"
"Bud, he's a good kid enough, but he'sjusta kid," Mark Hanley opined. "Swell-headed; knows it all; thinks a little schoolin' gives him a license t' ride herd on us boys like we was yearlin's turned out in the spring. C'm awn—mebbe we kin round up the bunch 'fore he gits there. Learn 'im a little somethin', mebbe."
"Well, I don't want to make any brash statements," said Rosen, "but I betcha Bud, he'll wish 't he'd trailed with our party, 'stead of his own, 'fore he's through. We got 'em runnin' for the boodle, and now we'll fog along behind and glom em jest about the time they git it."
Bob Leverett nodded and pricked his horse with the spurs, and the others lunged ahead to keep pace with him. They were yet some distance from the house when they heard the distant pop of gunshots—the unmistakablepow-wof a .45 fired several times in quick succession, or else one or two shots from several guns. And, riding hard to the gate, they were not too late to see the tell-tale blue haze down by the pasture gate to show where the shooting had taken place.
Bob, in the lead, opened the gate and let it swing wide to where the weight sagged it down so that it dropped against a rock and remained there. The three pounded through and took his dust to the stable and beyond, passing the house without a glance toward it.
"It's dem Meddalahks dat shot shingles off ouah roof, suh," Sam called excitedly to Gelle, who was standing in the kitchen door with his six-shooter in his hand and a longing look in his eyes. "Now moah shootin' takes place direckly, Mist' Meddalahk. Yessuh, dey shuah can shoot!"
"My luck—always settin' around in the shade watchin' the rest of the bunch have all the fun!" Gelle turned back, walked very circumspectly to the bedroom door, turned the knob and looked in. "Yore boss is showin' signs of life, Snowball. Guess I better camp here, seein' he's the old he-one of the bunch. Tell you what you do, Snowball. You go down there and tell the boys Jelly's here with a rib broke into a thousand pieces, an' old Palmer's hog-tied; so I can't leave, nohow. Will you do that?"
"Ah—Ah do anything awn uth fer yo'all, Mist' Meddalahk. Ah—ef dey all shoots ole Sam, Ah wish yo'all 'd kinely keep dis heah dollah fo' tokum ob ma gratefulness, Mist' Meddalahk, suh."
Gelle took the dollar, looked queerly at Sam and gave it back. He took what was left of the sheet, thrust it into the negro's shaking hands and grinned reassuringly.
"You wave that, Snowball, and they won't shoot. I'm kinda afraid they might go out the other way, up along the field to the road. You ketch 'em, Snowball, and I'll give you another dollar when you bring 'em back. Tell 'em what I said—I got Palmer hog-tied, but my rib is stickin' through my liver er somethin' like that, so I can't fan down there. Gwan."
Sam went, waving the torn sheet every step of the way; a brave thing to do, considering how scared he was. And Gelle, watching anxiously from the doorway, wondered why the shooting did not begin again, now that his fellows were at hand. For that matter, since it was not the Meadowlark boys who had started the gun-fighting in the pasture, down by the ledge, who was it? He had Palmer safe, and so far as he knew, Bat Johnson and the others had not returned from town. Certainly they had not passed the house, or Sam would have seen them. Yet they must have left town, or the Meadowlark boys would not be here.
"If I don't find out how about it right pronto, I'll bust!" Gelle complained to a lean cat that came walking up the path with a chipmunk in its mouth,—earning its board, Gelle thought irrelevantly while he waited, sight and hearing strained to catch some indication of what was going on down there. It was too quiet. Gelle did not like it at all.
And then from the road to town came the pluckety-pluckety tattoo of galloping horses, and Bud, Delkin and Bradley swerved without checking their pace and came racing through the gateway; saw Gelle standing in the doorway and reined closer to the house. Bud's horse stopped in two stiff-legged jumps within ten feet of Gelle.
"It's down in the pasture, whatever's goin' on," Gelle called, without waiting to be asked. "I got Palmer tied up in here—the boys went foggin' past—there was some shootin', but it quit before they got there. For the Lord sake, go bring me some news!"
At that moment the boys came loping around the end of the stable, riding loose and in no great hurry.
"Show's over," Tony bellowed, with possibly a shade of mean triumph in his voice—for Bud's benefit. "Bat and Ed, they're down there in the pasture deader'n last year. That Mex and ole Palmer's about all there is left to hang, and we glommed the Mex and Jelly's got Palmer. Bud, you might as well gwan home. Us boys have wound things up for yuh."
"Yes? Did you get the money back?" Bud was young enough and human enough to take that fling at them.
"Oh, no-o—but that's a mere detail. We ain't come to that yet." Tony's manner was still charged with triumph.
"Say, who shot Bat an' Ed White?" Gelle's mind pounced upon the one puzzling point in the affair. "You fellers didn't. There wasn't a shot fired after you boys passed the house."
"Why—we figured they shot each other. Bat's gun was still smokin' when we got there, and Ed's gun was warm. Bat had fired three shots and Ed White two—"
"Yeah? Who fired them other four or five shots? I counted nine er ten, I wasn't shore which. How many 'd you hear, Snowball?"
Sam had just arrived, puffing from haste and excitement.
"Jes' what yo'all heah, Mist' Meddalahk, yessuh. Me, Ah doan' count good nohow, but Ah's shuah Ah huhd shootin' lak dey nevah would run outa bullits. Ah counts mighty slow, but Ah huhd jes' as many as what yo'all huhd."
"Sounded like more than five to me," Bob Leverett declared, now that the subject was opened. "More like about four guns in action than two; three, anyway. Reckon there's more in the gang that we don't know about?"
"That," said Delkin, "is what we must find out."
With two of the boys—Mark Hanley and Bob Leverett—on guard over the bodies of Bat Johnson and Ed White, the remainder of the party returned to the house in a thoughtful mood. Certain small details puzzled them, and Bud appeared to be the most worried man among them, though he did not say much. What he did do was give Gelle a meaning glance and tilt of the head when no one was looking, and then stroll out to the well some distance away and down hill at that—too many ranchers seeming to believe that the cook needed exercise. In a couple of minutes Gelle came walking circumspectly down the slope, his face twisted with pain of moving.
"What's eatin' on yuh, Bud? Thought I told yuh I got about four inches of rib wound around my backbone," he complained, as he came up.
Bud's eyes were somber as on the day of the bank tragedy, and he gave no sign of sympathy—proof of how worried he was.
"Jelly, there's going to be a kick-back in this thing if we aren't mighty careful. Bradley and Delkin are wondering right now how polite they can be about Palmer's money being gone. Are you sure he came straight here to the house from town?"
"Yeah, I saw him ride up to the gate and open it and ride in. I wish now I'd throwed down on the ole coot before he got into the house. I'd 'a' saved me a busted rib. But I was scared maybe the rest was right behind him, Bud, an' I wanted to git 'em all. Gittin' Palmer inside the house, what I done to him wouldn't be publick. That's what comes of bein' a hawg," he added grimly. Then he came back to the meat of Bud's question. "Why, Bud, is Palmer's cash missin'?"
"Yes, and Bat Johnson and Ed White were dead before they reached the ledge. They didn't have any money to speak of; a little chicken feed in their pants pockets was all. Our boys don't know where the stuff was hidden, and I went with Delkin and the others to town and came back with them. So you see, Jelly—"
"Yeah, I see, all right." Gelle's eyes went cold as they bored into Bud's mind. "Well, what d' you think about it yourself, Bud?"
"I?" Bud looked at him straight. "Whatever you say, Jelly, goes with me."
Gelle stared longer, exhaled a long breath and relaxed to a mirthless grin.
"I oughta lick you, Bud, fer needin' my word. But friendship wabbles when there's money in sight, so—I never went near the damn' place after I packed that back-load of gold away from it. You was behind me—behind us all, fer that matter." Gelle's sudden grin turned a little sardonic. "Still, whatever you say goes with me! I kin be as good a friend as you kin, Bud."
Bud had to laugh, though he felt little enough like it.
"You win, Jelly. I'd have had to do some quick work, but I suppose it would have been humanly possibly for me to duck back up the ledge, grab Palmer's money and come along with it until I saw a place to ditch it where I could come back after it. Fast work—but I did stand in the fringe of the trees by the ledge and watch the stables here until you fellows were out of sight. I wanted to make darn sure you weren't seen."
"Well, I didn't go back either. But the fact remains that the cache is cleaned out—in a hurry, by the look of things around there. And these two dead men dropped in the open, just inside the gate and before they had been to the ledge. For one thing, Jelly, our boys weren't so very far behind them, so Bat and Ed wouldn't have had time to get the stuff, hide it somewhere else and then get into a fight over it and kill each other off before our boys came. They'd have had to do faster work than I would to have raided the cave while you fellows crossed the open down there."
"And awn the other hand, you fellers rode off and left me in easy walkin' distance of the money, and the old man sound asleep and snorin'." Gelle reasoned it out soberly, stating the evidence against himself quite as impartially as Bud had done in his own case. "Yea, I'm the pelican, too, that told Delkin to grab the works. Looks like I'm bogged, right now, and sinkin' fast. Bud, on the face of it, you an' me both is guilty as hell. Ain't we?"
"On the face of it, yes." Bud studied the evidence while he finished rolling a cigarette. "Of course, we can't tell yet just how it will affect the case against Palmer. Not at all, maybe. That's something we have nothing to do with. I wanted you to know the money Delkin left in the cache was gone—how much, none of us know, of course. It's mighty mysterious, don't you think? Say, Jelly, what about those shots? Are you dead certain you heard more than five?"
"Shore I am. But I couldn't prove it, Bud—not in a thousand years. Snowball, his word ain't no good, so there y' are. I believe in my heart that somebody else was after that boodle and Bat and Ed White, they run into 'em, goin' after it theirselves. But that ain't proof. Say, Bud, d' you s'pose Butch Cassidy rode over on the quiet—"
"I've been thinking of Butch. He's that stripe, and so is the rest of the Frying Pan outfit in my opinion. But as you say, Jelly, opinions aren't proof. Besides, Skookum says he didn't tell Butch where his grandfather had his money hidden. I'll take the kid's word. He wouldn't lie—not to me, or any one he likes. Butch tried to pump him, all right, but Skookum says he didn't tell Butch anything much that we didn't hear in the cook house."
"Did the kid say what ole Palmer's money was—gold or paper or whatever?"
"He said he saw a lot of gold money in a sack. You were looking over Delkin's shoulder, Jelly. What did it look like to you?"
"Gold. Jest about what the old thief would take and hide, Bud. Prob'ly most of it was stole, and bills has got numbers on. Then again, gold ain't spoilable. What you laughin' at, Bud?"
"At us, Jelly. Delkin certainly must know Palmer's money was in gold. And Lark's loaded up with gold coin—"
"So we got our alibi right there, Bud. Fur's that goes, the Fryin' Pan's got some honest gold money."
"And there istheiralibi. And Delkin is sure to consider Lark's gold as an out for us, just as we can believe that Butch would account for any gold he flashed."
"Can't we ketch 'im? Why don't you take out after 'em an' see if you can't pick up their trail? Gosh, Bud, if the money's gone, you 'n' meknowsButch musta glommed it. I'd go, only fer this damn' rib."
"Better have one of the boys hitch up a rig and take you into town, Jelly. Old Doc Grimes isn't much force, but he ought to be able to fix you up all right. I'll take Bob and see if we can't pick up their trail. He'll keep his mouth shut."
"Yeah. Talk is what we want damn' little of, Bud. One word is all them pelicans would need to send them down into the breaks—and I ain't a doubt in the world but what they got hide-outs down in there where they kin live a year if they feel that way, and never show a head. You beat it now, Bud. I'll gwan down an' take Bob's place. I kin walk slow. An' I'll have some lie thunk up fer Delkin an' Bradley, time they git t' askin' questions about you. They're so tickled to git their claws on Palmer that they won't say much. We'll let on like you 'n' Bob had t' go home fer somethin'. I'll fix it."
At the house Delkin and Bradley were having quite enough to occupy their minds without watching the coming and going of the Meadowlark boys. Palmer was conscious, sitting up in a chair and getting somewhat the best of an amateurish third degree which Delkin and Bradley were attempting to give him. Palmer had a wet towel tied around his head, and the loose folds collected extra moisture and sent it trickling down his seamed, sallow face and his collar. Palmer's eyes were just as human as a snake's with an opaque, impersonal glitter that masked effectually the thoughts shuttling back and forth in his brain. Now and then he barked a question of his own which proved how well his brain was working in spite of the gash on his head.
"Killed two of my men, ay? Come on to my ranch and shot down two men in cold blood—that what you're tryin' to tell me I'm responsible fer?"
"We didn't shoot your men," Delkin explained, when he should not have replied to the charge. "They shot each other. They were after the loot from the bank, and they're lying down there inside your pasture fence, waiting for the sheriff to look them over when he gets here. Even you thieves and murderers can't hang together, it seems. They meant to get the plunder and leave you in the lurch."
"Plunder? What plunder is that?"
"The stuff you folks stole from the bank—"
"Looky here, Mr. Delkin. You be careful what you say! It ain't safe to make charges you ain't prepared to prove. I'm just remindin' you now that there's a law that takes care of malicious slander. I can't answer fer Bat an' Ed, but I want you to understand the bank owes me over seven thousand dollars that I had on deposit—and that was stole—so you claim. You been hand-in-glove with the Meddalark right along, and I'm the loser by it. Ef I was you folks, I wouldn't shoot off my mouth too much about that bank robbery."
Delkin and Bradley withdrew to talk it over, and it was then they discovered that Bud and Gelle were missing. With Tony and Jack Rosen on guard at the house, they hurried down to the pasture and found Gelle reclining in the grass with his hat over his eyes to shield them from the slanting rays of the sun, and Mark Hanley sitting cross-legged beside him, killing time by carefully whittling a stick to a sharp point and cutting the point off so that he could sharpen another; an endless occupation so long as the stick lasts.
"Bud? Him an' Bob, they went home quite a while ago. Us boys can't all of us be away more 'n a few hours at a stretch, an' Lark had give them first four a coupla days off. I jest come awn in with Bud fer the day, but now I'm kinda laid out so I can't ride, and Bob, he went home in my place." Gelle vouchsafed a glance apiece to Delkin and Bradley before he let the hat drop down again over his face. They could not know, of course, that beneath the hat his lips were twitching with ironic laughter.
"Yeah, they been gone half an hour, mebbe more," Mark contributed idly. "How long do we have to set here an' keep them unlovely dead from feelin' lonesome?"
Without answering, Delkin turned and walked back to the house, Bradley following close.
"What do you think about it, Jim?" Bradley asked, when two thirds of the distance had been covered.
"Brad, it doesn't matter what we think or don't think," Delkin told him irritably. "We'll do well to keep it to ourselves, no matter what it is. We won't mention Palmer's money to the sheriff, Brad. The Meadowlark boys have done a lot for the bank—we mustn't overlook that. I suppose they felt they had a right to collect their own damages from Palmer for starting all that talk about them."
"They?"
"Bud and Jelly; one or both. I wouldn't think Bud would have had time to do it, or the inclination. But you can't tell what's going on in a man's mind. Jelly, of course, had the chance and he's the one that suggested taking it. No, sir, we've got to keep our mouths shut for the present, anyway."
"Let it look like them two down there—Bat and Ed White—got away with it," Bradley suggested, all in favor of protecting customers as good as the Meadowlark outfit. "We've got Palmer dead to rights, anyway, and we've got the bank property back. I guess we can afford to let Palmer hunt his own money, eh?"
"They were both in on it," Delkin went on glumly. "I saw them holding a little private confab down by the well. Bud felt as if he'd better get the stuff into the Basin, I guess, before we asked him about it. But damn' it, Brad, I can't believe either of those boys would steal money!"
"You heard Jelly. They don't call it stealing, Jim, when they annex something that a thief has cached away. Buried treasure, maybe, is what they'd call it. Anyway, they'd have a name that made it sound all right. Well, we'll have to let it go for the present. But I wish they'd kept their hands off that money!"
The two had ridden for a mile or more through the foothills bordering the western line of the Indian Reservation, boring into the wilderness to the east of the Little Smoky, following no trail, but taking the easiest course, Bud leading the way. Certain horse tracks had led off in this direction from a rocky hollow across the road from Palmer's fence corner, and Bud, having determined that point while Bob was sneaking their horses away from the corral where the others were tied before piles of Palmer's treasured new hay, was following a general course without attempting to trail the horsemen who had left their mounts in the hollow.
"Bud, if it's a fair question, I'd like to ask if we're the hunters, or are we the game?" Bob cocked an inquiring eye toward his grim-faced leader.
"Both," Bud made laconic reply.
Bob studied that for a while, reins held high, big body poised lightly in the saddle, while his horse negotiated a particularly complicated descent through rocks to a gully bottom.
"All right with me, Bud," he said pensively, when they could once more ride together. "What's on my mind right now is when do we feed this purty face of mine?"
"Didn't you eat in town?"
"Nh-nh. Tony, he went and got an idee in his head, and us boys was rung in on workin' it out. It was a hell of an idee, Bud. It started off with bathin' in whisky like they say the Queen of Sheeby done in asses' milk, without drinkin' none. Would you b'lieve that could be done? Well, it can't. But I done it, Bud. Tony, he got t' beefin' around about us fellers gittin' too dawggone drunk t' carry out this swell idee he had, so we done it. And then I'll be darned if Tony, he didn't git jagged and queer the hull entire play by tyin' into Bat Johnson! Made me so darn sore—and then after that, Bud, we was too busy whippin' them pups of Palmer's to go eat like white men. Gosh, I'm holler!"
"Well, so am I, if that will help you any."
"Don't feed a thing but my imagination, Bud. Whatfer partyisthis? Don't tell me a thing—but did you pick me to go off and starve to death with yuh? I'm a pore companion, Bud. Don't say nothing—I don't want t' hear a thing!"
"I know you don't, so I'll make it short. I found out from Skookum where Palmer cached his money, and I found all the stuff they'd stolen from the bank. Delkin and his outfit took that to town, and left Palmer's where it was. Now it's gone. They think Jelly or I got it—we could have, if we worked fast enough. I think I know where it went, Bob. I think Butch Cassidy got more out of Skookum than the kid realized, and went after the dough himself. We'd beaten him to it, and the bank money is safe. But Jelly and I are in wrong unless we can locate the stuff we left in that cache."
"So you and me is headed fer the Fryin' Pan by our lonelies, thinkin' we can make Butch let loose of Palmer's stuff?"
"That's one way to put it, Bob."
"Well," sighed Bob, after a long interval of deep meditation, "all right. Me, I'm a chancey cuss, anyway. I crawled into a wolf den once, and the old she come and crawled in with me by another hole I didn't know about, and caught me with about four pups in my arms." He heaved another reminiscent sigh. "D' you pick awn me, Bud, b'cause you knew I had the heart of an angry lion?"
Bud's brown-velvet eyes smiled briefly into his.
"I picked you primarily because I knew you'd keep your mouth shut afterwards."
"Primarily, it's a cinch I will," Bob agreed with melancholy assurance. "Dead men tells no tales outa school. That's why."
"Oh, I don't think it will be that bad. They can't be far ahead of us, Bob. We may not have to go clear to the Frying Pan."
"No, boy, we might not live that long. But that's all right—only I always did hate the thoughts of dyin' on an empty stomach."
"Why the sudden pessimism?" Having worries of his own, Bud leaned to sarcasm.
"Gosh, I'deatthat word if I could chew it!" Bob muttered longingly. "Say a softer one about that same length, won't you, p'fessor?"
"Go to the devil!" growled Bud angrily.
"I might, at that. I feel m'self slippin' that way," sighed Bob. "If it's a fair question, just what do you aim to do when we meet up with Butch? Ride up and say, 'H'lo, Butch, I'd thank yuh fer that money or whatever you swiped from Palmer,' and then fall back graceful outa yore saddle, or what? B'cause Butch is bound to shoot. Don't make no mistake about that."
"What I do," said Bud shortly, "will depend on circumstances. I'm not fool enough to draw a chart. If Butch has been over here, he got that money. If he got it, I'm going to get it away from him and turn it over to Delkin. Only a fool would plan the details at this stage of the game."
"Yeah, that's right," Bob admitted meekly.
For a time they rode in silence, Bud leaning over the saddle horn to study the loose soil of the canyon bottom. Bob, riding close behind him, studied each wrinkle and draw with eyes narrowed to keener vision in the soft half-lights of early evening when the shadows were sliding higher and higher on the western slopes and the peaks stood out all golden, clean cut against the tinted clouds.
"Three horses," Bud looked over his shoulder to announce. "All shod, but I've a hunch there's only one rider. Butch is so darned foxy I'm going to outguess him right here." He pulled up and swung round so that Bob, halting likewise, faced him. "Bob, you've done a good deal of riding over this way, so I'll let you take the lead from now on. Never mind the tracks. I believe Butch thought he'd try the loose-horse stunt, and brought a couple along with him. Farther on he'll turn them loose and haze them up different canyons—scatter the tracks. But I happen to know the shoe marks of that high-stepping brown he rides all the while. He's ahead of the other two, and back there where those rocks are lying helter-skelter Butch rode ahead and the other two followed him like led horses. Riders would have picked different trails among those rocks. You didn't follow my tracks, you remember. Each rider has his own notions of such things, and no man likes to trail right after another rider unless the path is so narrow he's got to. Ever notice that?"
"Ye-ah, now you speak of it. Gosh, you'll be a smart man, Bud, when yo're growed up."
"Well, right ahead here, I'll bet you a new hat the tracks will jumble a bit and then separate. And, Bob, I'm betting on another psychological twist. I bet you Butch will angle through these hills, and won't make straight for the Frying Pan. He'll be watching out behind—that's one reason why I'm holding back just here. We don't want to crowd him, come to think of it. What we want to do is hit straight for the Frying Pan by the shortest trail we know. Or the shortest you know. I lost a lot of trail lore in the years I had to spend in school."
"Yeah, I get you, Bud. I know a short cut through these hills, all right. But what if he don't show at the Fryin' Pan? Looks like a long gamble, t' me."
"He will. He's working there, and the Frying Pan is a bad bunch to break with. Butch is foxy. Also, he wants the big end, if I'm any judge. I'll bet you he hasn't said a word to Kid or any of the others about this deal. Didn't you see how Butch's eyes kind of glittered when I counted out that fifteen hundred to Kid? It was a pretty sight—gold twenties and tens stacked like poker chips on the table. Fifty twenty-dollar gold pieces—ten piles, five high, and fifty ten-dollar pieces, five piles ten high. It was enough to make any one's mouth water for gold money, wasn't it, Bob? I saw Butch's face when Kid raked the gold back into the bags. I saw how his tongue went licking across his lips—"
"Made me lick m' chops too, Bud. And I ain't no thief," Bob put in fairly.
"Then think how you'd scheme if youwerea thief!" Bud flashed back. "Put yourself in Butch's place. If you knew about where you could annex a fortune in gold and paper money—stolen goods that every one knew you couldn't have taken from the bank—and all you had to do was to ride over on the quiet and swipe it away from thieves—wouldyoutell anybody else and have to divvy? You know damned well you wouldn't, Bob. Neither would I. I'd want it all.
"And by thunder! Bob, that's why he brought along extra horses! I'll bet you he thought he might need one to pack away the bank loot. He wouldn't know exactly how bulky it was, you see. Well, maybe it was partly that, and partly to make enough tracks to confuse Palmer's bunch. If he got the stuff to the Frying Pan, and needed help to hang on to it, he could cache most of the gold and then take Kid in on the deal and split the rest. At least, that's what I'd do."
"And is this what you'd do too? Set here chinnin' all night an' let him git the money all spent b'fore we take in after him?" Bob's voice had lost its humorous patience. "Me, I'm ready to swaller m' saddle strings like they was egg noodles! You wanta git over to the Fryin' Pan by the shortest rowt. Nothin' like hunger to drive a man, Bud, so I'm goin' to lead yuh back to them rocks and take awn up over the ridge. It'll be nasty ridin' after dark, so I advise you to pry yore eyes loose from them tracks and come awn, if yo're goin' with me."
He reined his horse around and rode back the way they had come without another word or glance, and Bud followed him. Plainly, Butch had chosen to keep to the canyons where he could duck out of sight or even lay an ambush if necessary. That way must be longer, and in spite of the rough going Bud counted on making time.
The stars were out in a velvet sky when the two loped unhurriedly up the long lane which was the only feasible approach to the Frying Pan, and pulled up at the high, barbed-wire fence that warded off intruding animals from the dooryard. Kid himself came walking stiltedly down the beaten path to the gate, and behind the green-curtained windows the boisterous talk and laughter stilled. In the shadow of the house, away from the seeping light from the windows, darker shadows indicated the blurred outlines of Frying Pan men who were making unobtrusive investigation of these unheralded horsemen.
"Why, hello, Bud," Kid cried distinctly, for the comfort of his men. A note of genuine surprise was in his voice which Bud wished had been pitched in a lower key. "That you, Bob? Turn your bronchs in the big corral and come on in. Had yore supper?"
That word brought a groan from Bob so lugubrious that Kid laughed.
"Hey, Bill! Come take the boys' horses to the corral, will yuh? Bob's groanin' fer pie—I know that tone, Bob." Then he added carelessly, "Butch didn't come back with you, eh?"
"We've been scurruping around—looking for a couple of those horses," Bud lied. "Butch will be along, maybe. Was he coming back to-night?"
"Said he was when he started out this morning. But I dunno, Bud. That Eastern girl's a strong drawin' card, looks like. Guess you folks 'll just about have to carry rocks in your pocket for Butch! Any time you ketch him ridin' into the Basin, you just rock him home, will yuh?"
"You know it!" Bob made emphatic declaration. "Say, our little pilgress ain't to be dazzled by no sech a hypnotizer as Butch. Say, d' yuh mind if I clean the Fryin' Pan plumb outa grub? I got an appetite, me."
Kid laughed and waved him toward the kitchen. He and Bud followed more slowly and Kid's mind still tarried with Butch.
"Butch kinda wanted to go back with you fellers, I guess," he remarked. "He never said a word about it, though, till you'd been gone an hour or so; then it was too late—I had to use him. B'sides that, I kinda got the idee you and him didn't hitch very well. Butch is kinda funny, that way. Takes streaks. You don't want to pay no attention to him, Bud."
"Why," said Bud, "I never had a word with Butch except that sneering remark he made about those black horses. I didn't mind that. They'll all be jealous before I'm through."
What Kid replied Bud could not have told five minutes after. His mind was keyed up to meet a crisis, and this desultory talk irritated him, distracting his thoughts at a time when he needed to be most alert. One thing he knew: Kid either was wholly ignorant of Butch's design, or he was playing his part so carefully that he would be dangerous later on when Butch came riding home.
Yet there was another point which Bud wanted to think upon. If Kid Kern knew of that bank money and bonds hidden away in Palmer's cow pasture, would he let Butch ride alone after it? Just one possible reason for that occurred to Bud, and that was Kid's wily caution that would think first of establishing an alibi that could not be broken. On the other hand, Palmer would never dare to accuse him openly; moreover, he would immediately suspect the Meadowlark. So far as Bud knew, the Frying Pan outfit had never been mentioned in connection with the tragedy at the bank, save as he and Gelle had spoken of the possibility of the Frying Pan's implication. In the face of Kid's untroubled manner and his evident indifference to Butch's movements, Bud decided that Butch was indeed playing a lone hand; snap judgment, he knew, because he was not left alone long enough to reason it out.
"Come on in and eat," Kid was urging hospitably. "I guess Bob ain't licked the Fryin' Pan clean, already." He laughed at his own joke, standing poised on the doorstep, perhaps wondering why Bud lagged behind.
"I don't feel like eating just now, Kid. Just let me sit out here in the dark for a while. One of those splitting headaches—I don't want the light in my eyes."
"Cup uh coffee'll do yuh good, Bud." Kid turned back with a solicitous air that was extremely well done if it was assumed to lull suspicion. "Tell you what. You go awn upstairs to bed, and I'll send up some coffee. You know where you slept last time; you go crawl in there."
"No." Bud's tone was sharp and decisive. "It's cooler out here, and—if you'll send out a cup of coffee, I'll drink it. And for the Lord sake, Kid, don't go and baby around about me! If you bawl it out to the bunch, I'll take a fall out of you, sure as you're born, when my head quits jumping. All I want is to be left strictly alone for a while."
"Well, I could lick you, but have it yore own way, Bud. Sick folks has got to be humored, they say."
Bud, lying on the ground with his head on his arms, wished with all his healthy young appetite that he dared go in and eat his fill. But that was a joy he must postpone—and then it struck him that Kid might dope the coffee!
The door opened and shut with a bang. Bud rolled over on his face, reached back cautiously and drew his gun from its holster and held it concealed under his folded arms. Lying so, he was as ready for instant action as is a cat that has drawn back its feet and tensed its muscles for a spring.
His nerves relaxed, his mind once more was at peace concerning the immediate future. Lying there on the ground, he could hear the faintest sound of far-off hoof beats when Butch came riding home. And unless Kid or some other began shooting bullets into his prone body without warning, he could take the initiative, could dominate any situation that might arise.
The cup of coffee he waved away when Kid brought it, though the delectable aroma maddened him after his long fast.
"Would yuh take a headache powder, Bud? I got some that shore would knock that pain." The voice of Kid Kern was full of friendly sympathy. He never dreamed that Bud's six-shooter was looking at him bleakly over Bud's left forearm.
"No—this is fine. I'm easy so long as I don't have to move." This was true enough, as Bud recognized with a fleeting grin. "Don't bother any more about me."