Part 2

Then Bud blundered into the table, knocking away the sheriff’s visible means of support; and he and Sody went out through the front door. They heard the sheriff hit the floor again, and his curses were wonderful to hear; but Sody and Bud were too joyful to care about mere words.

“Oh, m’ ----!” wheezed Sody, clinging to Bud. “It went jist like clockwork, Bud. Ain’t I the thinker? Ain’t I? And then you moved the table away from him! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

“He’ll try to kill us both,” choked Bud.

“He can’t. It’s ag’in’ the law, Bud.”

“He’s so mad that the law won’t stop him, Sody.”

“All right,” laughed Sody. “I hope I don’t die so painful that I can’t take time to think of how I kicked him in the shin, fell on top of him and then spurred him in the knee. Ha-ha-ha! And every danged bit of it was accidental, too.”

“I couldn’t help bumpin’ into that table,” added Bud. “I was so drunk I never knowed what I was doin’. I wonder where Dinah went?”

“He won’t go far,” gasped Sody. “What did the ---- fool bust that mirror for? Why, he jist whaled away at it with his glass.”

“I--I--I--I--I----”

Dinah stepped out from the dark corner of the building and began his explanation.

“Wait a minute,” begged Sody. “Let’s get farther away from Breed.”

They went farther down the street and stopped in a dark spot.

“Didja jist want to bust that mirror?” asked Sody. “Don’t talk, Dinah; nod or shake.”

Dinah shook.

“Accidental?”

Dinah shook again.

“Uh-huh,” reflected Sody. “That’s funny.”

“Say, didja see somebody in the mirror?”

Dinah nodded violently.

“Who?” asked Sody.

“Sh--sh--sh--sh--sh--”

“Stop it!” snapped Sody. “Was it Short-Horn Adams?”

Dinah nodded quickly.

“Well, that’s settled,” said Sody. “Now what do we do?”

“I’m goin’ home,” said Bud. “I’ve got a home and a wife, yuh must remember.”

“If I was in yore condition, I’d not thank anybody to remind me of it,” said Sody seriously. “You might as well stay and make a good night of it, Bud.”

“I’ll be sober by the time I get home, Sody.”

“Yeah--by the time yuh git home. You’ll prob’ly fall off yore horse before yuh get there.”

“No, I won’t either. You and Dinah better go home, too. If yuh stay around here, Breed’ll have yuh both in jail.”

“You better stay,” insisted Sody. “You’ll get a lot of good laughs out of watchin’ him try it.”

But Bud had made up his mind to go home; so Dinah and Sody parted reluctantly with him and went seeking more fun, while Bud mounted and rode swiftly out of Modoc.

* * * * *

It was five miles from town to Bud’s ranch, but before he had gone half the distance he realized that he contained far too much whisky. Solitude and the swinging motion of his horse caused him to realize also that he was in no condition to converse with his wife.

“It can’t last always,” he told himself; “so I’ll swing into the hills and ride it off.”

There was a full moon, which lighted the hills, and a cool breeze that fanned his fevered brow; but instead of sobering up, he grew even more intoxicated. In a half-daze, he circled through the hills and came in at the rear of the ranch.

He could see a dim light in the living-room, and he knew that May was waiting up for him. He felt sorry for her. He had promised her many things which she had been denied. Now he was worse than broke. He remembered dimly that Breed was not going to try to find the stolen cattle, and that Lavelle had refused to help him again. It seemed like weeks ago that he had talked with them. He dismounted and dropped the reins, forgetting to unsaddle his horse.

“To ---- with ’em!” he told himself thickly. “I’ll git along. Tha’s jist what I’ll do--git along, y’betcha.”

He approached the house from the rear, laughing foolishly at his erratic progress. At the kitchen door he stopped. The door was open. A foolish idea took root in his addled brain. He would take off his boots and sneak in. The idea appealed to him immensely.

So he sat down on the step and drew off his boots, chuckling to himself. Somewhere he had heard of a drunken man doing that same thing. It didn’t seem so funny then, but it did now. Perhaps, he thought, May might be asleep--and never know that he did not come home sober.

He tucked a boot under each arm and crept inside. He could see the light in the living-room. It was an oil-lamp, turned low. Into the living-room he went and stopped near the table. The front door, which led out on to a porch, was open, and he heard voices. They were talking softly.

Bud frowned and listened closely, but could not hear plainly enough; so he moved over closer to the door. It was a man’s voice and a woman’s. He could hear them plain enough now. The man’s voice was very distinct:

“Oh, I know--loyalty and all that. But you’ve tried it two years. And what have you got? Nothing. Why, this ranch wouldn’t bring the price of two dresses--the kind you ought to have.”

Bud blinked wonderingly, straining his ears for the woman’s reply, which was pitched too low for him to hear what she said. He looked around the room, as if wondering if he had entered the wrong house by mistake. Then the man’s voice again:

“Look at it right. You are young yet; the prettiest woman in this county. Do you want to throw away your youth? Do you want to look like the rest of these cattlemen’s wives in a few years, or do you want to live in luxury, retain your beauty?

“Bud Daley can never hope to give you much. I will admit that Bud is doing the best he can, but it isn’t enough. As a cattleman, he is a failure; and you two can’t live on a cowpuncher’s salary. Just now,” the man laughed, “he is down in Modoc filling his skin with whisky--leaving you here alone.”

If the woman made any reply, Bud was unable to hear it. He was sober now. The whisky had evaporated from his brain. He looked down at his bedraggled socks and at the boots under his arms. He lifted his eyes and stared toward the door, as the man’s voice continued:

“I remember when you came here to Modoc. I knew then that you were the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. I pictured you in silks and furs, May. Since then you have been in my dreams, day-dreams and night-dreams. You are not happy. No, you are not. Can you look me in the eyes and tell me that you are satisfied with life? No, I didn’t think you could.

“May, you can’t afford to throw away your life. Bud is man enough to understand--and if he doesn’t--well, what matter?”

Bud’s face had gone gray in the yellow light of the lamp, and the lines of his face deepened, as he stared across the room into space. His mouth was so dry that it was painful, and his eyes ached from the intensity of looking far into the future.

They were talking again, but he did not listen. The world had gone flat, stale. He wondered dimly if May had a wrap around her shoulders. It was cool out there on the porch. He felt cold.

Then he found himself back at his horse and started to mount before he realized that he still carried his boots. They were hard to get on, and he wondered why he had ever taken them off. It was a foolish thing to do, he thought.

He mounted his horse and looked slowly around.

“Where am I goin’?” he asked himself, half-aloud. “I’m ready to go, and there ain’t no place.”

Somewhere a cow bawled sleepily.

“Wish I was a cow,” said Bud wearily. “Cows don’t think.”

On all sides stretched the moonlit hills, silver, blue and haze that hid their harsh outlines--a sparkling fairyland, topped with a ceiling of stars. Bud turned and rode out of the rear gate, heading into the hills; riding away from humanity, seeking the open places to clear his brain.

On the slope of the hill he drew rein and looked back toward the ranch-house, where the oil-lamp gleamed, a dull pin-point of yellow light. It seemed that he could still hear the drone of voices on the front porch; but it was only the whispering of the breeze through the purple sage.

“Lavelle, I reckon yo’re right,” he said softly. “Bud Daley can’t ever hope to give her much. And she can’t afford to throw away her life--look like the rest of the cattlemen’s wives. I--I never thought about it thataway, Lavelle.”

Bud sighed deeply and the fumes of the forgotten whisky tasted sour to his palate.

“Gawd,” he said softly, “you made a wonderful world, but, if I’m any judge, the makin’ of humanity wasn’t no job for one man.”

Then he bowed his head and rode straight into the hills.

* * * * *

After Bud had left them, Sody and Dinah proceeded to keep out of Dug Breed’s way and to drink much liquor. Dinah promised Sody that he would bury the hatchet as far as Short-Horn Adams was concerned and hold nothing but good thoughts for everybody.

And so passed several pleasant hours in the lives of Dinah and Sody. The wooden sidewalks became far too narrow for their tread and the buildings, at times, surged and jerked violently. Then, without any warning, Dinah’s cup of joy turned sour, and he choked with a great emotion. In fact, he wept brokenly. Sody tried to cheer him, without avail. Then a great sadness came down upon Sody, and he cried too.

It is very likely that the tears blinded them to such an extent that they separated. No one will ever know whether Sody lost Dinah or Dinah lost Sody. Anyway, as soon as he partly recovered from his crying spree, Sody went hunting for his little partner.

But in all that vast army of gyrating houses, lamps, cowboys, he was unable to find the object of his search. From saloon to saloon he went, but there was no sign of Dinah Blewette. Then Sody decided that Dinah had gone home; so he went to the hitch-rack, intending to see if Dinah’s horse was still there.

It was--and so was Dinah. He was sitting on the ground, with his back up against a post, and Sody did not see him until he stepped on his leg.

“Yuh-yuh-yuh----” began Dinah indignantly.

“Oh, there yuh are, eh?” said Sody.

Sody lighted a match and looked Dinah over. His eyes were swollen and purple, his nose slightly out of line and he appeared to be minus several front teeth. Taking him all in all, Dinah was a greatly changed man.

“Yuh found Short-Horn, didn’t yuh,” commented Sody. “Don’t try to answer me, Dinah. Every inch of yuh proclaims the fact that you cried yore way into his heart. My ----, but yo’re a mess!”

He helped Dinah to his feet and backed him against the post, while he tried to wipe Dinah’s face with a handkerchief, which only increased the misery of the little cowpuncher.

“Don’t try to tell me what to do,” growled Sody. “Yore face has got to be set right, or it’ll look awful queer. You ain’t got no sense, Dinah. Short-Horn is big enough to tie yuh in a knot and hang yuh up to dry.”

“He-he dud-did,” said Dinah sadly.

“Uh-huh.” Sody made a last swipe at Dinah’s face with the handkerchief and hitched up his own belt.

“Well, we’ll have speech with Mister Short-Horn, Dinah. He’s a powerful mean critter, the same of which I ain’t too drunk to remember; so I goes cautious-like. I ain’t takin’ yore troubles upon me, yuh understand. Yore battles are yore battles, Dinah; but jist now I feels antagonistic agin’ him and all his ilk.

“Know what ‘ilk’ means, Dinah? Don’t answer me. My ----, I do like these one-sided conversations. C’mon.”

Sody hitched up his belt, squared around to get his bearings and headed for the Rest Ye All, with Dinah weaving along in his wake. For all of his huge bulk, Sody was as hard as nails; but he was cognizant of the fact that he was just a little too drunk to do a good job of fighting with his hands.

The Rest Ye All was well filled with cowboys, who were spending their round-up stakes as fast as possible. The long bar was crowded to capacity, and the gambling-hall, at the rear, was blue with tobacco smoke and shifting forms. Sody shouldered his way past the bar, with Dinah following along in his wake, taking advantage of Sody’s bulk to clear a trail for him.

Dug Breed was coming out into the barroom, elbowing his way along; but when he saw Sody and Dinah he turned around and forced his way back. Breed had heard that Short-Horn Adams had whipped Dinah Blewette, and he knew that the trail of these two JM cowpunchers would probably lead to trouble.

And not only that, but Breed held no forgiveness in his heart for what Sody had done to him earlier in the evening; and he was all primed to tap Sody over the head with a gun and take him to jail.

Short-Horn Adams was bucking a roulette wheel at the extreme end of the room and was having no luck whatever. Short-Horn’s voice was plainly audible as he complained over his ill-luck. Other punchers laughed, shouted with rough glee and placed their bets.

A dapper little gambler was running the game, his derby hat cocked at a rakish angle on his head, a cigar held jauntily between his teeth. Short-Horn glared belligerently at him, as the gambler raked in Short-Horn’s last bets.

“The house is lucky tonight, gents,” he laughed. “Put down your contributions and accept our sympathy.”

“Yeah, yo’re sure lucky,” agreed Short-Horn. “I betcha I know what makes yuh lucky.”

With a sweep of his hand, Short-Horn removed the hat from the gambler’s head and placed it on his own. Short-Horn’s head was a trifle too small and the derby fitted down over his brows.

“Now spin yore wheel,” roared Short-Horn. “C’mon, gents. I’ve removed the curse from our midst, and we c’n break the danged game in three whirls.”

_Whap!_

Sody’s broad palm descended upon the derby with great force and drove it down over Short-Horn’s head, covering his face and wedging it down over his ears. Short-Horn whirled around clawing at the brim of the hat, but only succeeding in ripping the brim away.

“Now yuh got him, Dinah,” said Sody calmly. “He’s yore size now, li’l feller. Help yoreself to the mustard.”

And Dinah did not need a second invitation. With both fists he hammered the blinded Short-Horn unmercifully, while the crowd cheered wildly and gave him plenty of room. Many of them knew that Short-Horn had beaten Dinah, and they wanted to see the smaller man even the score, even if he was doing it unfairly.

While Short-Horn clawed at the hat-brim, which stuck tightly, Dinah socked him with both fists, driving him back into the roulette layout. And then, through the cheering crowd, came Dug Breed, shoving his way to the center, only to be met by Sody Slavin.

“Stop it!” yelped Breed. “I’ll arrest every----”

But his threat was unfinished, when Sody bumped into him, crashing him back into the crowd. At this moment, Short-Horn managed to get the hat loose, and charged Dinah, who ducked down and let Short-Horn fall over him.

“Rattle yore hocks, Dinah!” yelled Sody. “The sheriff is angry with us. C’mon!”

Sody dived straight at the crowd, with Dinah wobbling after him, and the crowd surged in behind them, blocking the sheriff and the cursing Short-Horn, who had a gun in his hand and murder in his eye.

Straight out past the bar went Sody and Dinah, heading for their horses, which were up the street at the nearest hitch-rack. Sody knew that it would be dangerous for them to stay in Modoc. It would mean a gun-battle with Short-Horn and his gang--if the sheriff did not get them first.

They had swung on to their horses and spurred into the street when they heard the unmistakable thud of a revolver shot, fired from inside a building. Sody’s horse lurched sidewise and went to its knees, while Sody flung himself free, bounced to his feet and ran to Dinah, who was having trouble with his animal.

Up behind Dinah’s saddle climbed the big cowpuncher, while Dinah’s horse, unused to a double-load, bawled wildly, threw down its head and bucked out of town, heading for the home ranch.

But the bucking was of short duration, because of the fact that Sody’s weight was too much for the broncho to handle; but they faded out of Modoc’s sight so fast that only a wisp of dust blew back to show of their leaving.

* * * * *

Dug Breed clawed his way to the street about the time that they faded out. Several others arrived about this time, their interest centered on Sody’s horse, which sprawled in the middle of the street. The fact that some one had fired several pistol shots did not alarm them in the least.

“I heard three shots fired,” volunteered a cowpuncher. “I was comin’ up the street and I see this horse go down. I think the first shot hit the horse, but I dunno where they was fired from.”

Dug Breed said nothing. The horse was quite dead; so they unsaddled it, and two cowboys, using their ropes, hooked on to it from their saddle-horns and dragged the carcass off the street.

Breed knew that the shots had not been fired by Short-Horn nor by any one in the Rest Ye All; and he wondered who else had a grievance against Sody Slavin.

Across the street was a general merchandise store, post office, restaurant and the Modoc bank. The restaurant was the only one of the four that was open at this time of night. Farther up that side of the street were more saloons, but the shots could hardly have been fired from there.

Beside the Rest Ye All saloon was a big feed store, on one side, and on the other was another general merchandise store, both closed. Breed found the cowboy who had heard the shots and questioned him.

“I dunno much about it,” confessed the cowboy, “but they did seem to come from the other side, and they was kinda muffled, like they was from inside a house. I heard one shot, and then I seen the horse fall down. I was kinda interested in that, but I sure heard two more shots.”

Breed crossed the street and walked past the restaurant. There were several diners within, busily engaged with their food. He walked past the store, which was unlighted, the door locked. The post office was locked, blinds drawn.

But in front of the Modoc bank he stopped. There was glass on the sidewalk, which had fallen from one of the front windows. A closer examination showed that almost the entire pane was missing.

“Did somebody shoot from inside the bank?” wondered Breed as he peered in through the broken window.

He broke away some of the jagged glass and prepared to climb within, but changed his mind. It might look bad, he thought.

It was only a short distance to the home of Frank Jordan, president of the bank, and Breed negotiated it in short order.

Jordan was asleep, but Breed beat a tattoo on the door with the muzzle of his gun and soon aroused him.

“This is the sheriff,” informed Breed. “One of the front windows of the bank has been smashed out.”

“Smashed out?” Jordan grew very wide awake. “Who smashed it?”

“----, I dunno!” snapped Breed. “Hop into yore pants and let’s find out. And don’t forget yore key.”

Jordan appeared in a few minutes, and they hurried down to the bank. Breed told him nothing about the shots nor of the dead saddle-horse, but Jordan volunteered the information that George Findlay, the cashier, intended to work late that evening.

“Did he have anythin’ agin’ Sody Slavin?” asked Breed.

“Slavin? That big cowboy? Why, I--I really can’t say, sheriff. Not that I know of. In fact, I doubt that George knows him.”

Jordan grunted wonderingly at the broken window and opened the door. The bank was lighted with oil-lamps, which it took several moments to find in the dark. The vault door was wide open, as was the inner door.

Jordan gawped wildly around, while Breed walked to the vault door and peered inside.

“Look over there!” exclaimed Jordan, pointing back toward the door.

Just to the left of the door, directly below the smashed window, was the huddled body of the bank cashier. Breed went swiftly to him, turning his face up to the light.

“Is he dead?” asked Jordan hoarsely.

“Yeah.” Breed squinted at the window and back at the dead cashier.

“He’s been hit over the head,” said Breed. “Mebbe that didn’t stop him; so they used lead on the poor ----. Better take a look at the vault, Jordan.”

They left the body lying there and went to the vault, carrying a lamp. Swiftly the banker examined the place, but shook his head wearily.

“I can’t tell how much, if anything, is missing, sheriff. It will take a complete check to tell. I am afraid that the Modoc bank is hit hard.”

He stooped and picked up several loose bills which had been dropped on the floor. The sheriff picked up several silver dollars, and among them was a silver piece, which was not a dollar. He looked closely at it.

“What is it, sheriff?” asked the banker.

“A rosette,” said Breed thoughtfully.

“A rosette?”

“Yeah. One of them ornaments that punchers wear on the side of their chaps. I’ll keep this, ’cause it might come in handy.”

They went back into the room, and the banker closed the vault, while Breed studied the case. There was a spot of blood on the floor near the vault door. The cashier was wearing a coat. Just to the right of the front door, the sheriff picked up a black hat.

“That’s George’s hat,” said the banker.

“They probably laid for him,” said Breed. “When he came out the door they herded him back in here, made him open the vault and then sapped him over the head. They probably thought he was hit hard enough to make him lay still; but he recovered and tried to make a getaway. They missed him with one shot and smashed the window. That bullet killed Sody Slavin’s horse. The other two got George. You stay here while I get the coroner, Jordan.”

“Have you any idea who did it?” asked Jordan.

“If I have, I ain’t yellin’ it,” said Breed, and slammed the door behind him.

He felt of the hammered silver rosette as he hurried along, and the feel of it brought a grin to his lips.

* * * * *

It was after nine o’clock the following morning, when Bud Daley rode up to his stable. All night long he had ridden the hills, and his horse stumbled wearily to a standstill, its head hanging.

And Bud was just as weary as the horse. His face was gray and drawn from his mental battle, but his lips were drawn tightly in a stern resolution to put the case squarely up to his wife. He felt that he would know in a moment just how she felt about it.

She came out through the kitchen door as he dismounted, shading her eyes from the sun, and walked slowly toward him, while he yanked the saddle from his horse.

Another rider was coming in toward the ranch, and Mrs. Daley turned to look at him. It was Dug Breed, the sheriff. He raised his hat to Mrs. Daley and dismounted beside her, as Bud came up to them.

“Hello, Dug,” said Bud wearily.

He felt that Breed was out there because of what happened the night before, and grinned slightly, as he remembered that he had knocked the table away from the sheriff.

“Mornin’, Bud,” said Breed softly. “Been ridin’?”

Bud looked at his wife. Her general appearance indicated that she had spent a sleepless night. Breed looked at Bud’s horse, which was rolling in the dust beside the corral. It was easy to see that the horse had traveled many miles during the night.

“Yeah,” Bud nodded slowly. “I’ve been ridin’. Why?”

“Where yuh been ridin’ to, Bud?”

“What’s that to you, Dug?”

“Mebbe a lot--mebbe a little, Bud. Can yuh prove where you’ve been ridin’?”

Bud shifted uneasily and his eyes hardened.

“Where was you about midnight, Bud?” asked Breed.

“None of your ---- business!”

Bud’s body tensed angrily and his right hand dropped to his side. Mrs. Daley looked from one to the other quickly and started to put her hand on Bud’s arm, but he stepped aside.

“I ain’t goin’ to quarrel with yuh, Bud,” said Breed slowly. “You don’t have to tell me where you’ve been, if yuh don’t want to. But, under the circumstances, I’ve got to arrest yuh for the murder of George Findlay and for robbin’ the Modoc bank.”

Bud’s right hand came up slowly and the back of it brushed across his eyes. He scowled thoughtfully, but a grin crossed his lips.

“You jokin’ me, Dug?” he asked hoarsely.

“Wish I was, Bud. You’ll come peaceful-like, won’t yuh?”

“I’m under arrest?”

“Yeah, yuh sure are, Bud. I hate----”