Part 3

“What do you know about hate?” Bud’s voice was flat, toneless.

He looked at his wife. Her eyes were wide with fright and her face looked pale and drawn.

“Bud,” she whispered, “you--you didn’t do this. Why, you couldn’t have done a thing like that, Bud.”

Bud looked at her thoughtfully. Then he shook his head, and a wistful smile passed his lips as he said:

“May, yuh never can tell what a human bein’ will do. I’ve kinda lost faith in folks.”

“But you can prove that you didn’t do it, can’t you, Bud?”

“No-o-o,” Bud shook his head. “I don’t reckon I can, and I don’t know anybody that can prove it for me.”

Breed turned to Mrs. Daley.

“Wasn’t Bud home last night?”

“You don’t need to answer that, May,” said Bud quickly.

“No, she don’t have to,” admitted Breed.

“But why do yuh blame me for it, Dug?” asked Bud. “You ain’t told me a thing, except that I’m guilty.”

Breed stepped in closer to Bud, examining the sides of his leather chaps, while Bud watched him curiously. Then Breed pointed to a spot about midway of Bud’s right leg.

“Where’s the rosette gone, Bud?”

“The rosette?”

Bud frowned and looked closely. On the left leg there were five silver rosettes; on the right there were only four. They were of a peculiar design, hand-hammered from silver. Bud had made them from Mexican silver and had stamped the designs with a leather stamping tool.

“I must ’a’ lost it,” muttered Bud.

“I found it on the vault floor,” said Breed slowly, watching Bud’s face. “There was some scattered money, too. Findlay was over by the front window--dead.”

“On the vault floor?” muttered Bud vacantly. “That’s funny.”

He examined the leg of his chaps closely. The piece of whang-leather, which looped through the rosette, had worn through.

“Yeah--on the vault floor,” said Breed.

“Oh, Bud!” breathed his wife. “You didn’t do this. Say that you didn’t do it, Bud.”

Bud sighed and shook his head.

“What’s the use, May? I reckon it don’t make much difference, anyway.”

He held his hands out to Breed, a wistful smile on his lips.

“Better put ’em on, Dug, yuh never can tell about me--or any other human bein’.”

Breed snapped the handcuffs on Bud’s wrists, took Bud’s gun and shoved it inside his own waist-band.

“You’ll have to saddle my horse for me, Dug,” he grinned.

“All right,” Breed sighed with relief.

He was glad to have taken Bud Daley without trouble. Bud followed him down to the horse, but Mrs. Daley turned and went back to the house, a dejected little figure, and leaned against the kitchen door wearily, while Bud and the sheriff rode away.

Bud did not look back.

“Mebbe it’s better this way,” he told himself. “I don’t care a dang what happens from now on.”

There was no demonstration in Modoc when the sheriff came in with his prisoner. Bud was well liked by the cattlemen. Jordan had made an investigation of the robbery and found that the Modoc bank was about twenty thousand dollars loser.

Jordan lost no time in interviewing Bud in the jail. Even if Bud was convicted, the fact still remained that the Modoc bank was still twenty thousand dollars short--which was a lot of money.

Jordan intimated that the return of the money would react in Bud’s favor; but Bud only grinned at him and reminded him that murder was murder and had nothing whatever to do with money.

“And besides,” reminded Bud, “if I was able to hand yuh back that money, it would only cinch the murder on to me. Whoever got that money killed Findlay.”

Then came Uncle Jimmy Miller, like a raging bob-cat. He swore and raved about what he was going to do, while Bud grinned and smoked his cigarets. Then he cooled down and told Bud that one of Bud’s shots had killed Sody Slavin’s horse. The fact that Uncle Jimmy was sure that Bud had done the job made no difference.

“I’ll back yuh for the last ---- cent I’ve got,” he declared. “Never did have no use for banks, by ----! Wanted to borry some money about a year ago from Jordan. Wanted ten p’cent.! Wanted me to give him a mortgage on the JM. Dang him, he wanted the world with a fence around it. Jist the same as told me that m’ word wasn’t no good. I’ll betcha he’ll be dunnin’ yuh for ten p’cent., if they convicts yuh, Bud.”

“They’ll likely hang me, if they find me guilty,” grinned Bud.

“Like ---- they will! Let ’em try it. By ----, I’ll organize a gang of m’ own and take this town apart. Oh, I ain’t too old to act right smart at times, Bud. I used t’ be a hellion in m’ time, and Dug Breed won’t be the first sheriff that I’ve called upon to hunt a new stompin’-ground. And some of ’em has sure hummed like a spike gettin’ away, too.”

Bud laughed and shook his head.

“Better let things go as they lay, Uncle Jimmy.”

“Uh-huh.” Thoughtfully. “What about May? How’d she take it?”

“Oh, all right, I reckon.”

Uncle Jimmy considered Bud closely.

“You and May ain’t antagonistic toward each other, are yuh?”

“No-o-o.”

“Yes, yuh are. Now, you jist set easy, Bud; I’ll take care of May.”

Bud shook his head and stared at the ashes of his cigaret.

“Better let her alone, Uncle Jimmy.”

“Thasso? You go to ----, will yuh?” Uncle Jimmy got to his feet and backed to the barred door. “You see if I let her alone, young feller. Ain’t either one of yuh got any sense. Now you set down on the seat of yore pants, ’cause you ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Dug Breed unlocked the door and Uncle Jimmy went swearing back to the street.

Sody and Dinah came cautiously back to town, but every one seemed to have forgotten the incidents of the night before. Uncle Jimmy told them about the arrest, and Sody swore wonderingly at the fact that it was one of Bud’s misdirected shots that killed his horse.

“Gug-gosh!” blurted Dinah in amazement.

“Now that’s about all from you,” warned Sody. “This ain’t a case that requires a lot of conversation, Dinah. How much money did Bud get, Uncle Jimmy?”

“Twenty thousand dollars.”

“The ol’ son of a gun!” applauded Sody. “Bud ain’t no piker, is he? Whooee-e-e! Twenty thousand!”

“But he’s in jail for murder,” reminded Uncle Jimmy.

“I know, but--gosh, that’s a lot of money. He likely planted it in a safe place, too.”

“You kinda amaze me, Sody,” said Uncle Jimmy sadly. “Don’tcha know yo’re applaudin’ a murderer? My ----, ain’tcha got no respect for the law?”

“Since when did you git so danged sanitary?” demanded Sody.

“I’ve allus respected the law, Sody.” Softly and sadly.

“You have, like----!”

“I have respect for the law, Sody.”

“Yeah, sure yuh have. You respect a kickin’ bronc, too. You don’t monkey with the business end of the ---- thing; you get ahead of it.”

“He-he-he-he,” chuckled Dinah.

“Sure he does,” interrupted Sody. “We know him. He gits ahead of the law--where the thing can’t kick him. Ha-ha-ha-ha!”

“A prophet is without honor in his own home town,” said Uncle Jimmy sadly, shaking his head.

“Profit!” snorted Sody. “Yo’re a dead loss, Jim Miller. Let’s go and git a drink.”

“If I was in m’ right mind, I’d fire you, Sody,” declared Uncle Jimmy.

“If you wait for that, I’ve got a life job,” grinned Sody.

They went into the Rest Ye All and stopped at the bar. Several men were there, and among them was Cleve Lavelle. He nodded absently and continued to converse with the others. Naturally the robbery and murder was the topic of conversation.

“I dunno how Bud Daley is goin’ to even hire a lawyer,” said one of the men. “He’s flat broke, I hear.”

“I’ll be ---- if he is!” snorted Uncle Jimmy, “the JM ranch is behind him, with every horn and hide I’ve got.”

“You don’t think he’s guilty, Miller?” asked Lavelle.

“What the ---- difference does that make?”

“All right,” nodded Lavelle. “I’ll go fifty-fifty with you on the deal.”

“You mean that you’ll help him, too, Lavelle?”

“Just that,” said Lavelle firmly. “As far as Daley is personally concerned, I’m not interested; but we’ve got to remember that he’s got a wife. Things like this hurt a woman, boys. Whether he’s guilty or not, we’ve got to try and save him. He owes me a lot of money, which I never expect to collect. He got sore because I would not lend him another ten thousand.”

“Then he needed money, eh?” queried one of the men.

“I suppose I shouldn’t have mentioned that,” said Lavelle. “He must have needed it, or he wouldn’t have tried to borrow. Yes, he claimed that some one had stolen all his cattle.”

“They did,” said Uncle Jimmy. “Bud won’t lie.”

“All right,” laughed Lavelle. “Let’s have a drink.”

II.

The smoking-car creaked and groaned as the train swung slowly around one of the many sharp curves in the Modoc country. From the engine came the shrill whistle, sounding eerie and far away; from the wheels came the _clickety-click_, _clickety-click_, caused by the rail-joints.

There were only two men in the smoker--“Hashknife” Hartley and “Sleepy” Stevens. Hashknife sprawled his six-feet-plus in solid comfort, hunched down so low that his coat hiked up around his ears and the lower part of his lean face was hidden inside the unbuttoned collar.

Sleepy was also at ease, although he did not have as much length to distribute. His booted feet were heel-hooked against the cushion of the opposite seat, his nose slightly flattened against the window as he stared out into the darkness.

Both men were dressed in range fashion. On the seat in front of them rested a couple of cheap telescope valises, not at all bulged. In fact, the sides were just a trifle sunken, which would indicate that these two sons of the range were traveling light.

Hashknife’s right hand fumbled in the pocket of his faded vest and drew out a conglomeration of matches, cigaret papers, a revolver cartridge and a piece of string. He selected a paper, carefully replaced the other impedimenta and glanced sidewise at Sleepy.

“Gimme yore Durham.”

Sleepy’s nose squeaked on the glass, as he turned his head.

“Why dontcha buy yuh some Durham once in a while?”

Hashknife looked with disapproval upon his partner.

“You ain’t refusin’ me yore Durham, are yuh, cowboy?”

Sleepy grunted complainingly, dug into a hip-pocket and drew out a sack of the required brand.

“Yo’re always stingy,” observed Hashknife, helping himself from the inverted sack, and spilling a goodly quantity into the wrinkles of his shirt. “I always give you tobacco, don’t I? Answer me that, why don’t yuh? Any old time I have tobacco----”

“Any old time yuh do!” snorted Sleepy, accepting the sack and shoving it deep in his pocket.

Hashknife scratched a match and settled down to solid comfort again. Sleepy humped over, searching under the seat for a much-thumbed time-table, which he perused diligently for a while.

“The ---- fool that got up this here time-table must ’a’ knowed what he meant; but I don’t,” he declared. “It says here for yuh to read up. Read up, ----! It ain’t no ways----”

“He means for yuh to read up the page,” informed Hashknife.

“Didja think I thought he meant for me to read up the side of my boot? I know what he meant.”

“Didja? When do we hit Modoc?”

Sleepy perused the page again.

“Up or down?” he asked.

“Which way are we goin’?”

“That’s why I complains,” explained Sleepy, throwing the offending folder on the floor. “Nobody knows, except the _hombre_ that wrote it--and he prob’ly didn’t want to go to Modoc.”

“Probably not,” agreed Hashknife. “I’ll betcha that Modoc don’t care what he thought, though.”

“I s’pose not.” Thus Sleepy wearily. “Mebbe Bud Daley won’t be a ---- bit glad to see us.”

“Yeah, he will,” said Hashknife. “Old Bud’s a good feller.”

“Was,” corrected Sleepy. “You ain’t heard from him lately.”

“Year ago last Christmas.”

“And this is September. Danged near two years.”

“That’s right. Time sure does gallop along.”

“And it wasn’t nothin’ but a Christmas card he sent yuh.”

“That’s all,” Hashknife yawned widely and threw away his cigaret. “But it said he’d like to have us stop and see him some time, Sleepy--him and May.”

“He had to be polite,” grinned Sleepy. “I wonder if May is as pretty as she used to be? My golly, she sure was a dinger.”

“Wouldn’t change much in two years, or so. Yessir, she sure was pretty, Sleepy. I’ve seen a lot of girls, but I’ll betcha that May Daley is the prettiest. She was too pretty to be safe and sound.”

“M-m-m-m. I s’pose that Bud and her are gettin’ along like old married folks. He prob’ly puts on his slippers at night, don’t play no poker, has to sneak a drink and then eat cloves. Smokes a pipe out in the woodshed and never says ----, except when he refers to a irrigation project.

“How did he ever happen to go to this Modoc country, Hashknife? Didn’t her folks live up here, or how was it?”

“I dunno about her folks, Sleepy. Bud met the owner of a cowranch up here and he offers Bud a good job, I reckon. That’s the way it was told to me. Bud never said how it comes. Anyway, it don’t make me no never mind. As long as we’re passin’ Modoc, I thought we might as well stop off to see him.”

“Sure; I’d like to see old Bud. He used to be a forked sort of a puncher. Didja ever hear anythin’ about this Modoc range?”

Hashknife shook his head.

“Nope. It’s a big range, I reckon. There’s a lot of cows shipped out of here. Remember them two painted broncs that Red Ellers had at Skyline? They was branded with the Bow-Knot. Red called ’em the ‘Necktie’ broncs. Them two was from Modoc. Red spoke about the range once in a while, but I don’t remember much of his talk.”

They were silent for quite a while as the train lurched along through the hills. Then:

“Hashknife, I wonder if me and you will ever settle down?”

“I dunno.” Hashknife smiled softly and rubbed his chin against the collar of his shirt. “I s’pose so, Sleepy. I’m gettin’ kinda tired of rammin’ around the country, hornin’ into other folks’ business. Sometimes I wish I had a home, cowboy.”

“Mebbe we’ll hit a good range some day; a range where we’ll want to settle down and take life easy. The years roll along, Sleepy. A buckin’ bronc kinda makes me weary, and I’m gettin’ slow with a gun. We’re bound to slow up, don’tcha know it? We try to kid ourselves into thinkin’ that we’re just as fast as we was a few years ago, but age sneaks along and takes the snap out of us. Pretty soon me and you will buck up agin’ a tough deal and we’ll find that we’re just a fraction of a second slow.”

Sleepy looked at Hashknife and laughed.

“All right, Methusalem; yo’re about ready for the bone-yard.”

Hashknife grinned and stretched in a wide yawn.

“All right. Anyway, I’m growin’ timid in my old age. Here comes the brakeman, lightin’ his way with a lantern that don’t give no light.”

The brakeman came up the swaying aisle, grasping the backs of the seats, and when almost to the two men, he opened his mouth and yelled--

“Moo-o-doc!”

Hashknife and Sleepy uncoupled quickly and grasped their valises. Came a long-drawn wail from the locomotive, and the _clickety-clicks_ sounded at longer intervals as the brake-shoes gripped softly on to the wheels and slowly brought the train to a stop.

* * * * *

Hashknife and Sleepy were halfway to the doorway, when the train stopped, with Hashknife in the lead. Suddenly he stopped and Sleepy bumped into him. For a moment Hashknife held firm, then turned quickly and shoved Sleepy out of the aisle and into a seat.

It was all done so quickly that Sleepy had no time to protest, and found himself sitting down, with Hashknife beside him, while through the doorway came two men. Sleepy blinked. One of the men was Bud Daley, the man they were going to stop at Modoc to see, and he was linked by a handcuff to the other man.

Then the train started on. The two men sat down a few seats ahead and across the aisle from Hashknife and Sleepy, without paying any attention to them. The two cowboys looked at each other, as if seeking an answer to the question that was uppermost in their minds. Bud Daley had not seen them. Just now he sat on the inside, looking straight ahead, saying nothing.

The other man turned his head and looked at Hashknife and Sleepy. He was a man of about forty years of age, hard-faced, keen of eye and rather cruel of mouth. He merely glanced at them and turned back.

“Whatcha know about that?” whispered Sleepy.

“Bud has done had the deadwood put upon him, it seems.”

The train gained speed again. It was evident that there were many curvings of the railroad on this side of Modoc, as the old coach protested against the contortions; while the engineer shrilled an almost constant warning.

They were possibly two miles out of Modoc when the train seemed to shudder its whole length as the brakes were applied heavily. The windows rattled and the doors banged loudly, while the whistle shrilled in short blasts. Then the train ground to a lurching stop.

The man to whom Daley was linked leaned across and peered out of the window. Sleepy flattened his face against the window and tried to see something, but there was nothing but the dark.

“Prob’ly hit a cow,” said Hashknife.

“They sure can flag a train. I remember----”

Hashknife stopped and turned his head. Some one was coming down the aisle from the rear of the train. And that someone was two masked men, very business-like with their six-shooters.

“Don’t move, gents!”

The one in the lead spoke sharply. Bud Daley jerked around, as did the man with him.

“Just take things easy,” he cautioned. “That’s what we’re aimin’ to do.”

He walked past Hashknife and Sleepy, past Daley and the other man and turned, while his companion stayed farther back, guarding from the rear.

The man at the front took off his hat, disclosing the fact that the mask covered his entire head.

“Now,” he said, “we will take up the collection. Just ante what you’ve got and don’t hold out on the handsome gent. Remember that the man behind yuh is lookin’ on, and don’t start nothin’.”

He held out his hat, and for the first time he seemed to notice that the two men were linked together.

“Well, well!” he exclaimed. “What have we here, folks? This must be the sheriff, takin’ a prisoner to the big corral. Bet there ain’t enough money on the two of yuh to buy a breakfast for a hummin’-bird. Huh!

“Probably against the law, but I’m goin’ to ask the officer to turn his man loose. Officer, have yuh got the key for that padlock?”

The officer squinted closely at him and was about to shake his head, when the bandit continued:

“Go ahead and lie, if yuh want to; you’ll have to produce the key, just the same.”

“All right,” grunted the officer, taking the key from his pocket. “You’ve got the drop.”

He snapped the hand-cuff loose. The bandit motioned for Bud Daley to get up, which he lost no time in doing.

“Beat it,” said the bandit. “I’ve done all I can for yuh.”

Swiftly Daley went to the door and swung off into the darkness. The bandit laughed, stepped past the officer and faced Hashknife and Sleepy, holding out his hat.

“Pardner,” grinned Hashknife, “you’ve sure picked a blank. We’ve got what’s left of a pair of tickets, an appetite and nowhere in particular to go.”

“Yeah?” The bandit glanced sidewise at the officer, who was sitting rigidly in his seat.

“Broke, eh?” he asked.

“Bent all to thunder,” nodded Hashknife.

Swiftly the bandit reached into his pocket and drew out a handful of silver, which he tossed to Hashknife.

“Breakfast stake, gents,” he laughed. “Sit just like yuh are and everybody will have a pleasant evenin’.”

“Much obliged,” said Hashknife, “and we’re holdin’ firm.”

Swiftly the two bandits backed out of the car, shutting the door behind them. Then the officer sprang to his feet, drew a gun and ran toward the rear door; but there was no sign of the two bandits.

He came back cursing his luck, and went to the front door. From outside, farther up the train, came a fusillade of shots. The officer stepped out on the platform, but did not leave the car.

“What do yuh make of it, Hashknife?” queried Sleepy.

“I dunno, cowboy. Let’s investigate.”

They found the officer on the steps, leaning out, looking toward the front of the train. There was nothing to be seen. Then a man came running back, carrying a lantern. It was the brakeman.

“They’re gone!” he yelled, as he came up to them. “Robbed every car, cut loose the express car and engine and took ’em away. Did they come into this car?”

“By ----, they sure did!” snorted the officer. “They took my prisoner away from me.”

“Uh-huh,” nodded the brakeman, too excited to even care who the prisoner might be. “They’ve done a good job of it, I guess. I’ve got to flag the rear, or some darned freight will come along and ruin us.”

He trotted away up the track, his lantern bobbing in the dark.

“Got any idea who pulled the job?” asked Hashknife.

“No!” The officer was sore.

“You’re the sheriff, ain’t yuh?”

“Yeah.”

“Waitin’ for ’em to come back?”

“Waitin’ for who to come back?”

“The hold-up men,” said Hashknife innocently.

The sheriff grunted an unprintable word and dropped off the platform.

“Now yuh went and made him sore,” complained Sleepy. “And he’ll go away and leave us here alone. You don’t show no judgment a-tall, Hashknife.”

The sheriff heard it, but did not turn his head. The conductor came on to the platform and flashed his lantern into them.

“Did they collect back here, too?” he asked.

“They had it in mind,” grinned Hashknife. “But it wasn’t in the cards. What did they do--swipe the express car?”

“They sure did,” said the conductor. “There must have been a bunch of ’em, because they worked all the cars at the same time. Some of the bunch took the engine and express car, but the rest of them had their horses handy and pulled out as soon as they had cleaned out the train. It sure was a neat job.”

“Yeah, they knowed how to do it,” said Hashknife. “How far are we from Modoc?”

“About two miles.” The conductor swung his lantern outward.

“Who is that out there?” he asked.

“That’s the sheriff,” explained Hashknife. “He’s lookin’ for ’em to come back.”

The sheriff turned and climbed back onto the platform, where he glared at Hashknife and turned to the conductor.

“I got on with a prisoner--a murderer,” he said coldly, “and that gang turned him loose.”

“Got on at Modoc?” asked the conductor.

“Yeah.”

From down the track came the whistle of a locomotive. The conductor swung down and ran toward the front of the train, as the engine came backing around the curve, shoving the express car. There was a great bobbing about of lanterns near the car, as the train jerked from the jar of the coupling. Came a shrill blast of a whistle, and the train began slowly backing toward Modoc.

The sheriff turned and went back into the car, followed by Hashknife and Sleepy.

“Did you say that yore prisoner was a murderer?” asked Hashknife.

“What’s it to yuh?” Thus the sheriff sarcastic in his anger.

“Don’t antagonize him, I tell yuh,” warned Sleepy. “He’s the sheriff, and he’s got a awful mad spell upon himself.”

“You think you’re smart, don’t yuh?” queried the sheriff.

“Well, mebbe I ain’t so smart,” said Sleepy seriously, “but I’m sure cautious. As far back as we’ve ever traced our family tree, there has been a cautious streak. Yessir, the old sap jist fairly oozes caution. Now----”

“Aw, to ---- with your family tree!” snorted the sheriff.

“That’s what I always told pa. I don’t hold with no----”

“My ----!” breathed the sheriff wearily and moved away down the car.

* * * * *

Hashknife and Sleepy exchanged mirthful glances and secured their valises. The train was backing into the depot at Modoc; so they swung on to the platform and headed up the main street of the town. Neither of them cared to stay there at the depot and hear a rehearsal of the hold-up; and it would likely be a relief for the sheriff to know that he was rid of their presence.

The main street of Modoc was not well-enough lighted for them to get much of an idea of the town, but from the number of hitch-racks and the general appearance of the street it appeared to be a well patronized cow-town.