He stopped to rest, but even now did not look to see what effect his words had upon his hearer.
"I don't know much about it," he went on after a moment. "You can find out. But I do know they stole a saddle of yours, and a horse. They're going to stick up the stage out of Rock Creek Mines next week; there's going to be some shooting, and a horse is going to get killed. That'll be your horse, Buck. An' it'll have your saddle on."
He had told his story. He told nothing of how he knew, and Thornton did not press him, for he guessed swiftly that somehow the telling would implicate Kid Bedloe, who was a pal… and little Jimmie Clayton was not going to squeal on a pal.
Half an hour after he had come to the dugout Thornton left it. For
Clayton would not talk further and would not let him stay.
"I got a horse out there," he had said irritably. "I can get along. I'm going to move on in the morning. So long, Buck."
So Thornton went back to his horse, wondering if, when tomorrow came, Jimmie Clayton would not indeed be moving on, moving on like little Jo to the land where men will be given an even break, where they will be "given their chance." His foot was in the stirrup when he heard Clayton's voice calling. He went back into the dugout. The light was out and it was very dark.
"What is it, Jimmie?" he asked.
"I was thinking, Buck," came the halting answer, "that … if you don't care … I will shake hands."
Thornton put out his hand a little eagerly and his strong fingers closed tightly upon the thin nervous fingers of Jimmie Clayton. Then he went out without speaking.