"How's the bank? Cleaned out?" Bud was still conscious of his own personal responsibilities.
"Everything." Delkin waved an apathetic hand. "We're so far from other banks, and Charlie slept right here—so in spite of the fact that we sometimes didn't have more than a dozen customers in here all day, we kept more cash on hand than was safe. At least we had more on hand right now than usual. With the bookkeeper sick, Charlie was alone here part of the time. Near closing time especially. So few people came in, along in the afternoon. We did most of our business during the forenoons." He moistened his lips and looked away. "It looks as if Charlie had just set the time lock and was getting ready to close the vault when—it happened. Another half hour, perhaps, and they'd have had to blow open the vault, and some one would have heard. Maybe five minutes before you came—I can't see how they got away without being seen."
"Well, I can't do any more to-night, Mr. Delkin. My horse and I are both about all in. Of course you 'phoned for the sheriff."
"Right after it happened. He'll be here with a posse of his own before morning."
Outside Bud almost collided with young Brunelle, who caught him by the arm with an impulsive gesture.
"I recognized your horse. Come over to our cabin, won't you, Mr. Larkin? You see I've discovered what your name is. I've been watching for you to come back, for I knew you'd be hungry; and Marge—my sister Margaret—has supper all ready for you. We're pretty lonely," he added wistfully. "People here seem to be very clannish and cool toward strangers."
"That's because they're roughnecks and know it," said Bud, and picked up the reins of his horse. "If you'll wait until I put my horse in the stable I'll be right with you. Only I'm liable to clean you out of grub if I once start eating. There's over six feet of me, Lightfoot, and I'm all hollow."
"That'll be all right," smiled the other. "It's yours while it lasts—and that may not be long if the bank is really closed for good. We haven't any money to buy more."
Delkin's hostler took charge of the Meadowlark horse and the two men walked on to where a light shone through a cabin window, set back from the main street in an open space that gave a close view of the bluff. Bud very likely did not grasp the imminent poverty of his host, probably because he was not paying much attention to his last sentence; and that his ready acceptance of the invitation to supper was caused chiefly by a too intimate knowledge of the hotel cuisine.
"My sister," Brunelle explained on the way, "is an author of short stories. She has had one printed in the paper back home, and the editors of several Eastern magazines have given her quite a good many puffs on the stories she sent them. They were very sorry they couldn't use them and said it wasn't because there was anything wrong with the stories. I know all our friends at home are very anxious that she should make that her life work. But back in our home town there never seemed to be anything to write about, and Marge felt the need of going where there would be interesting subjects. So when mother died we decided to come right out West and write up some cowboy stories, and I could illustrate them with pictures drawn from life. Western stories are all the go now, and these ought to take pretty well with the editors, I should think—though of course one needs to have a pull to get right in. Still, these will be done right on the spot with pictures of the real characters, and that will make a hit with the editors, I should think.