IV
On the second day after Ches’ arrival, Bud had come through with the mail, and before leaving, drew Jim aside, out of the boy’s hearing.
“The little feller’s yours agin all comers now, Jim,” he said.
“What’s that?” asked Jim, surprised by the meaning in the tone.
“He’s yours,” repeated Bud. “That sweet-scented blossom that called himself the boy’s dad, filled his skin with red-eye farther up the line and settled the fuss he had with his dame.”
“Hurt her?”
“Man!” said Bud slowly, “he used a knife a foot long—gave it to her a dozen times as hard as he could drive—what’s your opinion?”
“Lord Almighty! Did he get away? But no, of course he couldn’t, being on the train—”
“He didn’t get away. The Con. wired the news to Kimballs. What was he to do when a small army of punchers boarded the train and took the prisoner? He couldn’t do nothing, and he never loved that black-muzzled whelp from the time he sassed him in the depot. The punchers took our friend out and tried him.”
“Tried him?”