McLaren stared after him. Joe Rich staggered slightly, but he was not drunk. McLaren unfolded the paper and read it carefully. It was Joe’s resignation, written to the board of county commissioners. McLaren put it in his pocket.
“Life’s queer,” said the big Scot thoughtfully. “Yesterday he was Joe Rich, sheriff of Tumblin’ River, the luckiest young man in the world. And today—nobody! Ye never know yer luck, so ye don’t; and who has the right to judge him?”
He turned and went back to his office.
Joe staggered off the main street and went down through an alley. He wanted to get off the street; to be where no one would talk to him. Strangely enough, he felt no pain from the blow. Except for the fact that his face was bleeding, he was not aware he had been hurt.
The thought of Jim Wheeler knocking him down hurt worse than any blow, and he moved along blindly; not going anywhere—just away from everybody. He did not realise where he was until he heard a voice speak his name.
He was standing beside a picket-fence, and there was Honey Bee, holding the reins of his horse. The picket-fence was the one around Joe’s house; the one Aunt Emma had called “Honeymoon Home.”
“I seen yuh cuttin’ across this way,” explained Honey. “You shore got an awful lookin’ face on yuh, cowboy. Horse kick yuh?”
Joe shook his head. He didn’t want to talk with Honey Bee, but he knew there was no chance of getting away from him. Honey was tying his horse to the fence, and now he came over to Joe.
“Mebbe we better go in the house, Joe,” he said. “Yuh got to wash off that blood.”
Joe nodded and followed Honey to the house. It was not locked. Folks did not lock their houses in the Tumbling River country. Honey filled a basin with water and found a towel. Honey was rather rough but effective.