Buck could scarcely believe his ears. And his incredulity was not lessened as he looked into the furtive eyes of the man who had expressed himself so cordially.
But he had been given the opportunity he knew he would need sooner or later. He knew that there were men in the camp who would stand by the Padre in emergency, and they must know the truth. Since Aunt Mercy’s campaign had opened, and the news of it was spread abroad, these men must be told the facts, and know his own attitude. He might well need their assistance in the future, as they, in the past, had needed the Padre’s.
“I take it you mean that, Beasley,” he said without warmth. Then, ignoring the man, he turned to those gathered about him. “I don’t know how Beasley’s got this thing, fellers,” he said, in his simple fashion. “It don’t matter, anyway. I hadn’t a notion the sheriff was comin’ along yet, either. That don’t matter. Anyways I guessed he would be comin’ sooner or later, an’ that’s the reason I’m layin’ in stores of gun stuff an’ things. Yes, he’s comin’ for the Padre on a charge of murder, a low-down charge of murder that he never committed. You know the ways of the law, an’ how things sure go in such rackets. The charge is nigh twenty years old. Wal, maybe it’ll be nigh impossible for him to prove he didn’t do it. It looks that way. Anyways, I tell you right here, ther’ ain’t no sheriff in this country goin’ to git him while I’m alive. He’s raised me from a starvin’ kid, an’ he’s bin the biggest thing on earth to me, an’ I’m goin’ to see him through. You fellers, some o’ you, know the Padre. You know what he’s done right here to help folks when they were starvin’. He even sold his farm to help. Sold it right out, an’ give up twenty years’ work to hand grub to empty bellies. Wal, they want him fer murder. Him, the best and straightest man I ever knew. I ain’t got nothin’ more to say ’cept Beasley’s right—the sheriff’s comin’. An’ when he comes he’ll find the hills hotter than hell fer him, an’ I’ll have a hand in makin’ ’em that way.” He turned abruptly to Beasley, and pointed at the paper lying on the counter. “You’ll do them things for me, an’ I’ll get ’em to-morrow.”
He turned away, flinging his farewell back over his shoulder as he reached the door.
“So long, fellers,” he cried, and pushed his way out.
The moment he had gone every tongue was let loose. The gamblers cashed their “chips” at the bar. There was no more play that afternoon. Excitement ran high, and discussion was at fever heat. To a man those who knew the Padre, and those who didn’t, commended Buck’s attitude. And amongst the older hands of the camp was an ardent desire to take a hand in resisting the law. Beasley was in agreement with nearly everybody. He expressed a wonderful fury at the absurdity and injustice, as he described it, of the charge. And, finally, he possessed himself of the floor again for the purposes of his own subtle scheming.
“What did I tell you, fellers?” he cried, when he had obtained a general hearing. “What did I tell you?” he reiterated in a fine fury. “I don’t like him, but Buck’s a man. A straight, bully feller. He’s goin’ to do the right thing. He’ll stand by that Padre feller while he’s got a breath in his body, an’ he’ll shoot the sheriff up as sure as sure. An’ why? Because that feller, the Padre, sold his farm to help us old hands. Because he sold his farm to that ‘Jonah’ gal, who’s brought all this trouble about. If she hadn’t come around Pete an’ Ike would have bin living now. If she hadn’t come around the Padre wouldn’t be wanted for a murder he never committed. If she hadn’t come around Buck wouldn’t have set himself up agin the law, an’ found himself chasin’ the country over—an outlaw. D’yer see it? You’re blind if you don’t.” He brought his clenched fist down on the counter in a whirlwind of indignation. “She’s got to go,” he cried. “I tell you, she’s got to go. Chase her out. Burn her out. Get rid of her from here. An’ I got five hundred dollars says—do it.”
Beasley knew his men. And in every eye he saw that they were with him now. Nor could anything have pleased him more than when Curly shouted his sudden sympathy.
“Beasley’s right, boys,” he cried. “She’s brought the rotten luck. She must go. Who’s to say whose turn it’ll be next?”
“Bully for you,” cried Beasley. “Curly’s hit it. Who’s the next victim of the rotten luck of this Golden Woman?”