Ironheart

Tug walked to the bunkhouse beside the foreman, the latter’s fingers fastened like steel bands to his wrist. If Forbes said anything to his prisoner during the tramp through the wheatfield, the young fellow scarcely heard it. His mind was full of the girl who had defended him. In imagination she still stood before him, slim, straight, so vitally alive, her dark eyes begging him to deny the charge that had been made against him.

The low voice rang in his brain. He could hear the throb in it when she had cried, “Tell him you didn’t do it,” and the joyous lift of her confident “I knew it—I knew it all the time.”

The vagrant’s life was insolvent in all those assets of friendship that had once enriched it. He had deliberately bankrupted himself of them when he had buried his identity in that of the hobo Tug, driven to it by the shame of his swift declension. It had been many months since any woman had clung so obstinately to a belief in him regardless of facts. He had no immediate family, no mother or sister with an unshakable faith that went to the heart of life.

But this girl who had crossed his path—this girl with the wild-rose color, the sweetness that flashed so vividly in her smile, the dear wonder of youth in every glance and gesture—believed in him and continued to believe in spite of his churlish rejection of her friendliness.

Though he was one of the lost legion, it was an evidence of the divine flame still flickering in him that his soul went out to meet the girl’s brave generosity. In his bosom was a warm glow. For the hour at least he was strong. It seemed possible to slough the weakness that rode him like an Old Man of the Sea.

His free hand groped its way to an inner pocket and drew out a package wrapped in cotton cloth. A fling of his arm sent it into the stubble.

“What you doin’?” demanded Forbes.

“Throwing away my gun and ammunition,” the tramp answered, his sardonic mouth twitching.

“It don’t buy you anything to pull that funny stuff,” growled the foreman. “You ain’t got a gun to throw away.”

Forbes turned the captured vagrant over to Burwell, one of the extra harvest hands, and left him at the bunkhouse while he went to telephone the doctor and the sheriff.

It was a busy night at the Diamond Bar K. The foreman drove away and presently returned. Tug heard the voices of Betty and her father as they moved toward the house. Some one chugged up to the house in a car with one spark plug fouled or broken.

Burwell went to the door of the bunkhouse.

“Get ’em, Dusty?” he asked.

“Not yet,” the cowpuncher answered while he was loosening the plug. “But, y’betcha, we’ll get ’em if this bird we done got caged didn’t play a lone hand.”

Presently Dusty drove away again, in a hurry to rejoin his companions. He had come back to find out whether anything new had been discovered.

The foreman showed up in the doorway. “The boss wants to have a talk with you, young fellow,” he said.

Betty would have known without any explanation that the prisoner had no intention of running away. But Lon had no perception of this. He did not release his grip until the tramp was in the living-room.

The owner of the Diamond Bar K lay on a lounge and Betty was hovering close to him as nurses do in their ministrations.

Reed spoke at once. “Let’s get down to brass tacks, young man. Put your cards on the table if you’re in the clear. Come through clean. What do you know about this business?” The rancher’s voice was crisp, but not unfriendly.

Tug sensed at once a change in attitude toward him. He had come expecting to be put through the third degree. It was possible that was being held in reserve for him. His mind moved cautiously to meet Reed.

“What do you mean come clean—confess?” he asked.

“Call it what you want to. You claim you didn’t shoot me—that you weren’t in to-night’s job at all. Let’s hear your alibi.”

“If you’d care to tell it to us,” Betty suggested gently.

The vagrant looked at her. “Why not? I don’t fire wheatfields and I don’t shoot from ambush.”

“All right. Let’s have it,” the wounded man said impatiently.

“When I left the ranch yesterday, I went to Wild Horse and camped a mile or so out of town. I didn’t care to meet the fellows I’d been with. They blamed me for having them hauled back to the ranch here—thought I’d hurried back to squeal on them. But I was looking for work and I wasn’t going to run away from them. About noon I tramped it into town to see about getting a job. I saw this Cig in a store. He was buying a gun and ammunition for it. He didn’t see me, so I passed by. Later I went back to the store and made sure, by asking the clerk, that Cig had bought the gun.”

Betty broke in eagerly. “And you thought he meant to kill Father. So you followed him out here to-night,” she cried.

“Not quite,” the tramp answered with an edge of cold anger in his voice. “I wouldn’t have lifted a finger for your father. He brought it on himself. He could look out for himself. I don’t know what he did to Cig yesterday afternoon, but I know it was plenty. What would he expect from a fellow like Cig after he’d treated him that way? He’s dangerous as a trapped wolf and just about as responsible morally.”

“Very well. Say I brought this fellow and his gun on me by giving him what was coming to him. What next?” asked Reed brusquely.

“I couldn’t get him out of my head. If I could have been sure he’d limit his revenge to you and your foreman— But that was just it. I couldn’t. He might lie in wait for your daughter, or he might kidnap her little sister if he got a chance.”

“Kidnap Ruthie?” the girl broke in, all the mother in her instantly alert. “Oh, he wouldn’t do that, would he?”

“Probably not.” He turned to her with the touch of deference in voice and manner so wholly lacking when he faced her father. “I thought of it because the other day we were talking of the Charley Ross case, and Cig had a good deal to say about just how a kidnapping ought to be done. The point is that I wouldn’t trust him, after what your people have done to him, any more than I would a rattlesnake. His mind works that way—fills up with horrible ideas of getting even. And he’s absolutely unmoral, far as I’ve been able to find out.”

“So you trailed him out here—on the off chance that he might hurt Betty or Ruth. Is that it?” inquired the rancher.

“You see I can’t mind my own business,” the prisoner jeered. “You invited me forcibly to get off your land and stay off, but I had to come trespassing again.”

“No need to rub it in,” blurted Reed by way of apology. “I got off wrong foot first with you. Not all my fault, though. You acted mighty foolish yourself. Still, you’ve got a legitimate kick coming. I’ll admit that. Sorry—if that does any good.”

He did not offer to shake hands. It was his judgment that this youth with the somber eyes so ready to express bitter self-mockery did not want to have anything more to do with him.

The vagrant offered no comment. His white face did not soften or its rigidity relax. Clearly he would make no pact with the Diamond Bar K.

Betty asked a swift question, to bridge the silence left by his rejection of her father’s tentative acknowledgment of wrong. “How did you know when they were coming?”

“I knew they’d come after dark, and probably to-night.” He corrected himself at once. “I oughtn’t to say ‘they,’ for I knew York wouldn’t come. He hasn’t the nerve.”

“You’re dead right there,” the foreman said. “All we give him was a first-class chapping, an’ he howled like he was bein’ killed. That other guy, now, he’s one sure-enough bad actor, if you ask me, but he’s game.”

“So I lay in the brush near their camp,” the gay-cat explained. “York went down to the railroad yards. He’s likely riding the rods for ’Frisco by this time. After dark Cig started this way and I followed. When he left the track, I trailed behind. The moon wasn’t up, and I lost him. I knew he couldn’t be far away, so I headed for the ranch, keeping close to the creek. For a while I didn’t see or hear anything more of him. Just as I’d made up my mind to strike for the house, the fires flamed up. I heard two or three shots, then some one went by me on the run. Time for me to be going, I thought. Your Mr. Forbes was of another opinion. He showed up just then and invited me to stay.”

Reed’s cool, shrewd eyes had not lifted from the tramp while he was making the explanation. He was convinced that he had been told the truth. The man had come out to do a service for his children, which was equivalent to one for Clint himself. Again he felt the sting of self-reproach at having played a poor part in this drama that had been flung into the calmness of their quiet round of existence.

“Glad Lon did find you,” the wounded man responded. “I’ll go the whole hog and tell you straight I’m right sorry for the way I’ve treated you. That makes twice you’ve come through for me. I’ll not forget it, Mr.——” He hesitated, waiting for the other to supply the name.

“Mr. Ne’er-do-well,” suggested the white-faced tramp, and on his face was a grim, ironic smile.

Reed flushed. “You’ve a right to remind me of that if you want to. It’s not the first time I’ve been a damned fool, and it likely won’t be the last. But you can tie to this, young man.” The steel-gray eyes seized those of the hobo and held them fast. “If ever there comes a time when you need Clint Reed, he’ll be here waiting. Send for him, and he’ll come. That’s a promise.”

“Will he bring along with him Dusty and Mr. Forbes and the rest of his outfit?” Tug asked, a derisive flash in his eyes.

“Say anything you’ve a mind to. I’ll not blame you if you hold hard feelings. I would in your place. But don’t forget the fact. If you’re ever in trouble, Betty and I are here waiting to be called on.”

The girl slipped her hand into her father’s and gave it a quick squeeze. It told better than words how glad she was of the thing he was doing.

“I can count on that knock-out punch of yours, can I?” the prisoner asked ironically.

The girl came forward impulsively, a shell-pink flag fluttering in her cheeks. “Please don’t feel that way. We’re sorry—we truly are. We’d love to have you give us a chance to show you how we feel.”

The hard lines on his face broke. An expression warm and tender transformed it. He turned his back on the others and spoke for her ears alone.

“An angel from heaven couldn’t do more for me than you’ve done, Miss Reed. I’ll always remember it—always. If it’s any comfort for you to know it, be sure one scamp will never forget the girl who out of her infinite kindness stretched down a hand to him when he was sinking in the mud.”

“But won’t you take the hand?” she whispered, all eager desire to help. “It’s not a very strong one, I’m afraid, but it’s ever so willing.”

He took it, literally, and looked down at it where it lay in his. “I’m taking it, you see. Don’t blame yourself if it can’t pull the scalawag out of the mire. Facilis descensus Averni, you know.”

“Is your trouble so far beyond help?” she murmured, and in her eyes he read the leap of her sweet and gallant soul toward him. “I can’t believe it. Surely there can’t be any sorrow or distress that friendship won’t lighten. If you’ll let me in where you are—if you won’t shut me out by freezing yourself up—”

The honk of an automobile horn had drawn Forbes to the window, from which point of observation he was reporting progress to his employer.

“Reckon it’s the sheriff an’ Doc Rayburn.... Yep. They’re gettin’ outa the car an’ comin’ in.” He turned to Reed. “What about this fellow here? What’s the play we’re makin’ to Daniels?”

“That he came to warn us, but got here too late. I’ll do the talking, Lon.”

A fat little man with a medicine case in his hand bustled into the room. At his heels moved a big blond cattleman whose faded blue eyes were set in a face of brown leather.

“What’s the trouble? What’s the trouble?” fumed the doctor. It was his habit of mind and manner to effervesce.

“Some tramps set fire to my wheat and shot me up, Doc. Nothing worth putting in the papers, I reckon,” answered the ranchman easily.

“Let’s see about that. Let’s see,” the doctor said with his little touch of pomposity.

He stripped his automobile gloves for action.