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Meadowlark Basin

<h2>CHAPTER EIGHTEEN</h2> <h3>BUD GOES AFTER BUTCH</h3> 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 party is this? 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'd eat that 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 you were a 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—would you tell 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." "Oh, I'll set with the sick any time." Kid squatted on his haunches, after the manner of outdoor men, and began rolling a cigarette. "Keep the boys from gittin' curious. They'll think we're talkin' private out here." Silence fell, save for the creaking of crickets, the whisper of a cool breeze through the grass next the fence. Kid smoked, his big hat tilted back on his head, his eyes turned thoughtfully up toward the stars. Bud lay quietly with his face on his folded arms, his gun against his cheek, ready to come up shooting at the first breath of need. The cooling coffee sent faint whiffs of torturing fragrance to his nostrils. His eyes, half closed under the pinned-back brim of his hat, regarded Kid with unblinking attention. His ears, like faithful sentinels set on guard by his intrepid spirit, listened for hoof beats down the lane. <hr class="chap" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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