Slim Regan was glad that Franklyn Moran arrived in time to take charge of the affair. It would take the responsibility off of his shoulders, and Slim didn’t care for responsibility.He and Clayton splashed through the ford at Black Horse Creek and, about a quarter of a mile beyond, they met Jimmy Moran. Jimmy was alone, singing at the top of his voice. He had a very good barytone, developed to a certain extent in a college glee club.“Drunk ag’in,” declared Mark.But Jimmy wasn’t drunk. He drew up beside them, grinning good-naturedly. Slim Regan scowled. Jimmy had a habit of getting on Slim’s nerves.“Your father just came in,” said Slim.“Yea-a-a-ah? Too much for you to handle, eh?”“You don’t need to let that bother you?” retorted Slim.“Oh, I know all about it,” grinned Jimmy. “You wired him. I got the depot agent drunk, and he told me about it.”“The dirty bum!” exploded Slim. “I’ll fix him.”“Well, he told the truth, didn’t he?”“He didn’t need to tell anythin’.”“Well, he didn’t,” laughed Jimmy. “I guessed it, and you bit like a hungry fish. I saw you head for the depot after the inquest; so the rest was a cinch. How’s the old man lookin’, and what’s he goin’ to do about it?”Slim gnawed the corner of his lip.“He’ll do somethin’—that’s a cinch,” said Clayton. “Old Mose Conley cut his upper fence, herded eight Big 4 steers down into Hot Creek basin and shot ’em. I reckon that’ll hold him for a while.”“A-a-a-aw, what are you talkin’ about!” snorted Jimmy. “He never did any such a thing.”“Yes, he did,” said Slim quickly. “We found ’em, Jimmy. We went down to bring the old man to town, and the girl got the drop on us with a shotgun. Oh, we all know how you feel about that girl—but I’m tellin’ you the truth.”“Got the drop on you, Slim?”“She shore did. Two-barrel shotgun.”“Empty,” chuckled Clayton.Jimmy took a deep breath and grinned widely.“Well, can you beat that? What are you goin’ to do?”“That’s up to your dad. He sent us to town after Roarin’ Rigby.”“Well, I’ll be darned! Are you sure about them steers?”“We seen ’em. Eight white-faced steers, with the Big 4’s pointin’ skyward. No mistake, kid. And the fence was cut.”“Gosh, that’s bad, huh!”“You headin’ up that way?” asked Clayton.Jimmy shook his head quickly.“Not me. I’ve been warned to keep away. This is gettin’ to be a great place for warnings. I got a tip today that the Black Horse Saloon wouldn’t be healthy for me. I suppose the bartender has his orders to put ground glass in my liquor. They tell me that Lovely Lucas mopped off the back-bar with Kent Cutter the other day and busted forty dollars’ worth of glasses. This Western country is gettin’ tough. Well, you boys better trot along and get the sheriff.”“I reckon we better,” nodded Slim.“So long!”“Want to send any message to your dad?” asked Clayton.“Yeah. Tell him to mind his own business, and to give Slim Regan orders to the same effect.”Slim turned and glared at Jimmy in the gathering gloom, but Jimmy didn’t see the glare. He was riding on, lifting his voice in song.“He’s a tough pup, that feller,” growled Slim. “Why, he didn’t know I sent that telegram.”“Not until you admitted it.”Clayton turned in his saddle and listened. Jimmy’s voice floated back to them. He was singing “The Message of the Violet” from the “Prince of Pilsen.” They drew up their horses and listened.“I wish I had his voice,” said Clayton seriously.“I wish I had his gall,” said Slim.
Slim Regan was glad that Franklyn Moran arrived in time to take charge of the affair. It would take the responsibility off of his shoulders, and Slim didn’t care for responsibility.
He and Clayton splashed through the ford at Black Horse Creek and, about a quarter of a mile beyond, they met Jimmy Moran. Jimmy was alone, singing at the top of his voice. He had a very good barytone, developed to a certain extent in a college glee club.
“Drunk ag’in,” declared Mark.
But Jimmy wasn’t drunk. He drew up beside them, grinning good-naturedly. Slim Regan scowled. Jimmy had a habit of getting on Slim’s nerves.
“Your father just came in,” said Slim.
“Yea-a-a-ah? Too much for you to handle, eh?”
“You don’t need to let that bother you?” retorted Slim.
“Oh, I know all about it,” grinned Jimmy. “You wired him. I got the depot agent drunk, and he told me about it.”
“The dirty bum!” exploded Slim. “I’ll fix him.”
“Well, he told the truth, didn’t he?”
“He didn’t need to tell anythin’.”
“Well, he didn’t,” laughed Jimmy. “I guessed it, and you bit like a hungry fish. I saw you head for the depot after the inquest; so the rest was a cinch. How’s the old man lookin’, and what’s he goin’ to do about it?”
Slim gnawed the corner of his lip.
“He’ll do somethin’—that’s a cinch,” said Clayton. “Old Mose Conley cut his upper fence, herded eight Big 4 steers down into Hot Creek basin and shot ’em. I reckon that’ll hold him for a while.”
“A-a-a-aw, what are you talkin’ about!” snorted Jimmy. “He never did any such a thing.”
“Yes, he did,” said Slim quickly. “We found ’em, Jimmy. We went down to bring the old man to town, and the girl got the drop on us with a shotgun. Oh, we all know how you feel about that girl—but I’m tellin’ you the truth.”
“Got the drop on you, Slim?”
“She shore did. Two-barrel shotgun.”
“Empty,” chuckled Clayton.
Jimmy took a deep breath and grinned widely.
“Well, can you beat that? What are you goin’ to do?”
“That’s up to your dad. He sent us to town after Roarin’ Rigby.”
“Well, I’ll be darned! Are you sure about them steers?”
“We seen ’em. Eight white-faced steers, with the Big 4’s pointin’ skyward. No mistake, kid. And the fence was cut.”
“Gosh, that’s bad, huh!”
“You headin’ up that way?” asked Clayton.
Jimmy shook his head quickly.
“Not me. I’ve been warned to keep away. This is gettin’ to be a great place for warnings. I got a tip today that the Black Horse Saloon wouldn’t be healthy for me. I suppose the bartender has his orders to put ground glass in my liquor. They tell me that Lovely Lucas mopped off the back-bar with Kent Cutter the other day and busted forty dollars’ worth of glasses. This Western country is gettin’ tough. Well, you boys better trot along and get the sheriff.”
“I reckon we better,” nodded Slim.
“So long!”
“Want to send any message to your dad?” asked Clayton.
“Yeah. Tell him to mind his own business, and to give Slim Regan orders to the same effect.”
Slim turned and glared at Jimmy in the gathering gloom, but Jimmy didn’t see the glare. He was riding on, lifting his voice in song.
“He’s a tough pup, that feller,” growled Slim. “Why, he didn’t know I sent that telegram.”
“Not until you admitted it.”
Clayton turned in his saddle and listened. Jimmy’s voice floated back to them. He was singing “The Message of the Violet” from the “Prince of Pilsen.” They drew up their horses and listened.
“I wish I had his voice,” said Clayton seriously.
“I wish I had his gall,” said Slim.