Bud"s head turned, and the muzzle of a gun touched his cheek. The blazing eyes behind it shone like coals of fire as they glared into his.
But the great Bud"s purpose was stronger than the madness of the other"s agony.
"Put up your gun, Jeff," he said, in a deep gentle voice. "We"re jest goin" to hide this poor boy wher" the eyes o" men an" beasts can"t see him. We"re jest goin" to hide him away wher" mebbe the good G.o.d"ll watch over him, an" help him, an" surely will forgive him. You ken jest help me, boy, to locate the place, an" when we find it we"ll sort o" seal it up, an" you ken hide the key away in your heart so no one"ll ever find it. Are you goin" to help, Jeff?"
For answer the gun was abruptly withdrawn. Then Bud saw the stricken man"s hand dash across his eyes, and, as it pa.s.sed, he realized the moisture of tears upon the back of it.
CHAPTER VIII
JEFF CLOSES THE BOOK
Ju Penrose was a mild sort of sun-worshipper. But he confined his regard to the single blessings of light and warmth. Some of his deity"s idiosyncrasies were by no means blessings in his estimation.
He blamed the sun for the flies. He blamed it that it made necessary the adoption of light cotton shirts, which required frequent washing.
He, furthermore, blamed it for the temperature of drinks in summer time, in a place where no ice was procurable. This he regarded as wholly unfair. Then, too, possessing something of an artistic eye, he failed to appreciate the necessity for changing the delicate hues of nature in spring to a monotonous summer tone by the overbearing process of continuing its spring blessing _ad nauseam_. And as for winter, it was perfectly ridiculous to turn off its "hot" tap when it was most needed. Yes, there were moments when he certainly felt that he could order matters far more pleasantly if he were given a free hand.
Still, just now winter was a long way off. So that did not trouble him greatly as he lounged in his doorway, and reposefully contemplated the ruddy noonday light which was endeavoring to lend picturesqueness to a scene which, he a.s.sured himself, was an "everlastin" disgrace an" stain on the lousy pretensions of a museum of b.u.m human intellec"s." He was referring to the rest of the buildings which comprised the township, as apart from his own "hotel." The word "saloon" had been struck out of his vocabulary, except for use in scornful depreciation of all other enterprises of a character similar to his own.
Just now he was chewing the cud, and, incidentally, a wad of tobacco, of a partial peace. He felt that the recent break up of the Lightfoot gang, so successfully achieved through the agency of hangings and shootings, should certainly contribute to his advantage. He argued that the long-endured threat against Orrville removed, money should automatically become easier, and, consequently, a considerable vista of his own personal prosperity opened out before his practical imagination.
Yes, Ju was undoubtedly experiencing a certain mild satisfaction. But somehow his ointment was not without taint. He detected a fly in it.
And he hated flies--even in ointment.
To understand Ju"s feelings clearly one must appreciate the fact that he loved dollars better than anything else in the world. And something he hated with equal fervor was to see their flow diverted into any other channel than that of his own pocket. Ten thousand of these delectable pieces of highly engraved treasure had definitely flowed into some pocket unknown, as a result of the Lightfoot gang episode.
The whole transaction he felt was wicked, absolutely wicked. What right had any ten thousand dollars to drift into any unknown pocket?
Known, yes. That was legitimate. It always left an enterprising individual the sporting chance of dipping a hand into it. But the other was an outrage against commercialism. Why, if that sort of thing became the general practice, "how," he asked himself, "was an honest trader to live?"
The enquiry was the result of extreme nervous irritation, and he scratched at the roots of his beard in a genuine physical trouble of that nature.
He was so engrossed upon his meditations that he entirely failed to observe some mounted strangers debouch upon the market-place from the western end of the township. Nor was it until they obstructed his view that he awoke to their presence. Then he became aware of two men on two horses, leading two pack ponies.
He scrutinized them narrowly without shifting his position, and, long before they reached him, he decided they were strangers.
They dismounted in silence and without haste. They went round their horses and loosened cinchas. Then they tied the four beasts to the tie-posts in front of the saloon.
They approached the saloon-keeper. The larger of the two surveyed the unmoved Ju with steady eyes. Then he greeted him in deep, easy tones.
"Howdy," he said. "You run this shanty?"
The reflection upon his business house was not lost upon its proprietor.
"Guess I"m boss of this--hotel."
"Ah--hotel." Bud"s gaze wandered over the simple structure. It settled for a moment upon a certain display of debris, bottles, cases, kegs, lying tumbled at an angle of the building. Then it came back to Ju"s hard face, and, in pa.s.sing, it swept over the weather-boarding of the structure which was plastered thick with paint to rescue it from the ravages of drip from the shingle roof to which there was no guttering. "Then I guess we"ll get a drink."
By a curious movement Ju seemed to fall back from his position and become swallowed up by the cavity behind him. And Bud and his companion moved forward in his wake.
The place was entirely empty of all but the reek of stale tobacco, and the curious, pungent odor of alcohol. The two customers lounged against the shabby bar in that att.i.tude which bespoke saddle weariness.
Ju stood ready to carry out their orders, his busy, enquiring mind searching for an indication of the strangers" ident.i.ty.
"Rye?" he suggested amiably, testing, in his own fashion, their quality.
But these men displayed no enthusiasm.
"Got any lager?" demanded Bud. "A long lager, right off the ice."
"Ice?" There was every sort of emotion in the echo of the word as the saloon-keeper glanced vengefully across at a window through which the sun was pouring. "Guess we don"t grow ice around these parts, "cep"
when we don"t need it, an" I don"t guess the railroad"s discovered they hatched Orrville out yet. We got lager in soak, an" lager by the keg, down in a cool celler. Ef these things ain"t to your notion I don"t guess you need the lager I kep."
"We"ll have the bottled stuff in soak. Long."
"Ther"s jest one size. Ef that don"t suit, guess you best duplicate."
There was no offense in Ju"s manner. It was just his cold way of placing facts before his customers, when they were strangers.
He uncorked the bottles and set them beside the long gla.s.ses, and waited while Bud poured his out. Then he accepted the price and made change. Jeff silently poured out his and raised it to his lips.
"How, Bud."
"How."
The two men drank and set down their half-emptied gla.s.ses.
The sharp ears of the saloon-keeper had caught the name "Bud," and he now stood racking his fertile brains to place it. But the stranger"s ident.i.ty entirely escaped him.
"Been times around here, ain"t ther"?" Bud remarked casually.
And Ju promptly seized the opportunity.
"Times? Sure. Say, I guess you don"t belong around. Jest pa.s.sin"
thro"?"
Bud nodded. Jeff had moved off toward the window, where he stood gazing out. The saloon-keeper"s gaze followed him.
"Why, yes. We"re pa.s.sin" through," returned Bud, without hesitation.
"You see, we belong down south in the "T.T." an" "O----" country."
"That so?" Ju reached a box of cigars and thrust them at the new customer. "Smoke?" he enquired. His generosity was by no means uncalculated.
Bud helped himself, and in response to Ju"s "Your friend?" he called across to Jeff at the window. But Jeff shook his head, and the saloon-keeper was given an opportunity of studying his set features, and the premature lines he saw graven upon them. He withdrew the box and turned his attention to the more amenable Bud.
"It"s a swell country down your ways," he observed cordially. Then he added, "You ain"t been cussed with a gang o" toughs raidin" stock, neither, same as we have fer the last fi" years. But they"re out. Oh, yes, they"re sure out. Yes, siree, you guessed right. Ther"s sure been some play around here. As neat a hangin" as I"ve see in thirty-five year tryin" to figger out the sort o" sense stewin" in the think tanks o" the crazy guys who live in cities an" make up po"try about gra.s.s. Mebbe you"ve heard all the play?"
Bud shook his head. He drank up his lager, and took the opportunity of glancing over his gla.s.s at Jeff"s back. Then he set his gla.s.s down and ordered another bottle for both of them.
"No," he observed. "I ain"t heard much. I heard there"s been some hangin". The Lightfoot gang, eh? Seems to me I"ve heard talk of "em down our way. So you boys here got in on "em?"