"And there was that complaint from Beaudet," reminded the inspector softly and meaningly.
Bud whirled quickly and came back to the desk.
"That was a damn lie!" he snapped, as he leaned forward, his gray eyes boring into the startled face of the officer.
"I'm no longer a policeman, Grandon—remember that. I've handed in m' resignation, you'll notice. I may only be a cowboy from Montana, as some of the red-coats have said behind my back, but I've got a mother some'ers and I used t' have a sister."
The anger faded from Bud's eyes and a wistful expression crossed his seamed face, as his mind seemed to flash back through time. Then he shook his head and looked at the inspector.
"Hold your temper!" ordered the inspector coldly. "I am not in the habit of being——"
"Aw-w-w, hell!" interrupted Bud wearily. "I dunno how I've stood this as long as I have; danged if I do."
He turned away and walked back to the door, looking at the thumb and index finger of his right hand, which were badly stained with ink. Bud had little education, and the writing of his resignation, brief as it was, had been a man-sized task.
Bud was of medium height, slim-waisted, long-armed. His pugnacious jaw, tilted nose and mop of unruly hair gave no lie to his ancestry. He hated discipline, petty details, and his blood inheritance from a line of Irish ancestors rebelled and his tongue snapped in spite of punishment. Bud had been a top-hand in cow-land, which meant ability—plus.
Just now Bud was both mad and muddled. The day before he had been sent out to try and locate the party or parties who had been selling whisky to a bunch of Indians.