Six Feet Four

by Jackson Gregory

  CHAPTER XIV

  IN THE NAME OF FRIENDSHIP

  Twenty yards from the door he drew rein, sitting still, frowning intothe darkness. Not for the first time was he realizing that the notemight not be from Clayton at all; that some other man could have knownof his debt of gratitude to the little fellow who had befriended himfive years ago; that the name might have been used to draw him here,alone and very far from any ears to hear, any eyes to see, what mighthappen. He could name a half dozen men who were not above this sort ofthing, men who had, some of them, sworn to "get him." There were theBedloe boys, the three of them. There were two other men who do not comeinto this story. There was Henry Pollard.

  "And it would be almighty like Pollard to put up a job like this," hetold himself grimly. "He could afford to pay a man a good little pile toget me out of the game, and keep the money I've paid him and get backhis range besides. And I reckon the Kid would be one of a dozen whowould take on the job dirt cheap!"

  He reined his horse a little deeper into the shadows. Then he slippedswiftly from the saddle, one end of his thirty-feet rope in his hand,the other end about the horse's neck, and with a quick flick of thequirt sent the animal trotting ahead to swing about and stop when therope drew taut. He half expected his ruse to draw fire from somewhere inthe darkness. Instead there came a low voice, sharp and querulous,through the open door.

  "That you, Buck?"

  "Yes. That you, Clayton?"

  "Yes. Are you alone?"

  "Yes."

  Then Thornton came on swiftly, coiling his rope as he walked. For he hadrecognized the voice.

  "What's the matter, Jimmie?" He was at the door now, peering in butmaking nothing of the blot of shadows.

  "Come in," Clayton answered. "An' shut the door, Buck. I'll make a lightwhen the door's shut."

  He stepped in, dropping his rope, and moving slowly again, his backagainst the wall. For after all he would not be sure of everything untilthere was a light, until he saw that he was alone with Clayton.

  A match sputtered, making vague shadows as it was held in a cupped hand.It travelled downward to the earthen floor, found the stub of a candle,and then the greater light, poor as it was, drove out the shadows. AndThornton saw that it was Jimmie Clayton, that the man was alone, andthat evidently his note had put it mildly when he had said that he hadstruck "hard luck."

  The man, small, slight and nervous looking, lay upon a bed of boughs,covered with an old saddle blanket, his eyes bright as though with feveror fear. The skin of his face where it was seen through the blackstubble of beard looked yellow with sickness. The cheek bones stood outsharply, little pools of shadow emphasizing the hollowness of his sunkencheeks. Above the waist he was stripped to his undershirt; a rudebandage under the shirt was stained the reddish brown of dried blood. Aquick pity drove the distrust out of the eyes of the man who saw and whoremembered.

  "You poor little devil!" he said softly. He reached out his handquickly, downright hungrily, for Jimmie's.

  Clayton took the hand eagerly and held it a moment in his tense hotfingers as his eyes sought and studied Thornton's. Then he sank backwith a little satisfied sigh, lying flat, his hands under his head.

  "I'm sure gone to seed, huh, Buck?" he demanded.

  "It's tough, Jimmie. Tell me about it."

  The broken line of discolored teeth showed suddenly under the liftedlip.

  "It ain't much to tell, Buck," Clayton answered slowly as the snarl leftthe pinched features. "But it's somethin' for a man to think about whenhe lays in a hole like this like a sick cat. But, Buck," and he spokesharply, "didn't you bring no grub with you?"

  "Yes, Jimmie. Wait a minute." Thornton stepped outside, not forgettingto close the door quickly after him, jerked the little package from hissaddle strings where it had posed all day as his own lunch, and broughtit back into the dugout. "I didn't know just what you wanted, but here'ssome bread and a hunk of cold meat and here's some coffee. We'll get itto boiling in a minute, and..."

  "An' a drink, Buck?" eagerly. "You brung a flask, didn't you?"

  "Yes, Jimmie," Thornton assured him with a quiet smile. He whipped theflask from his pocket and removing the cork held it out. "I rememberthat you used to say a meal without a drink wasn't any use to you."

  Clayton put out a swift hand for the flask, shot it to his lips, and thegurgle of the running liquor spoke of a long draught.

  "Now, the grub, Buck." He sat up, a little healthier color in hischeeks. "Let the coffee go; it'll come in handy tomorrow."

  Thornton made a cigarette and leaning back against the door watched thisoutcast who bore the brand of the hunted on his brow, whose eyes werefeverish with a hunger that was ravenous.

  "Poor little old Jimmie," he muttered under his breath.

  Clayton picked over the contents of the little package with hastyfingers, pushing the bread aside, eating noisily of the meat. When atlast he had finished he rolled up the remainder of the lunch in thegreasy paper, thrust it under the corner of his blanket, and put out hishands for the tobacco and papers.

  "I ain't even had a smoke for three days, Buck. Hones' to Gawd, Iain't."

  "Now, Jimmie," Thornton suggested when both men were smoking, andClayton again lay on his back, resting, "better tell me about it. Can'tI move you over to my cabin?"

  "No, Buck. You can't. An' I'll tell you." He broke off suddenly, hiseyes burning with an anxious intensity upon Thornton's. Then, with a newnote in his voice, a half whimper, he blurted out, "Hones' to Gawd, I'llblow my brains out before I let 'em get me again! But you wouldn't giveme away, Buck, would you? You'd remember how I stuck by you down in ElPaso, won't you, Buck? You wouldn't give a damn for ... for a reward ifthey was to offer one, would you, Buck? 'Cause you know I'd shoot myselfif they got me, an' you don't forget how I stuck to you, do you, Buck?"

  "No, Jimmie," came the assurance very softly. "I don't give a damn forthe reward and I don't forget. Pull yourself together, Jimmie."

  "Then here it is, an' I'll give you my word, s'elp me Gawd, that everylittle bit of it is like I'm tellin' you. I ain't stringin' you, Buck,an' I am puttin' myself in your hands, like one friend with another.That's right, ain't it?"

  "That's right, Jimmie. Go ahead."

  "They had me in the pen, then; you knowed that, Buck? Run me in, byGawd, because I happened to be havin' a drink with a man named Stentonan' a man named Cosgrove an' a dirty Mex as was all crooked an' waswanted for somethin' they pulled off back down there ... I don't knowrightly what it was, damn if I do, Buck! But they wanted _somebody_, an'they got the deadwood on them jaspers, an' me bein' seen with 'em, theyput me across, too. Put me across three years ago, Buck! An' it washell, jes' hell, that's all. Hell for a man like me, Buck, as is used tosleepin outdoors an' the fresh air blowin' over the big ranges, an'horses an' things. An' ... well, I stood it for three years, Buck. Threeyears, man! Think o' that! _You_ don't know what it means. An' then,when I couldn't stand it no longer," and his voice dropped suddenly andthe look of the hunted ran back into his eyes, "I broke jail. An' I gotthis."

  He touched his fingers gingerly to the bandaged side, wincing even withthe gesture.

  "Two bullets," he muttered. "Colt forty-fives. An' I been like this ninedays. Or ten, I ain't sure. An' nights, Buck. The nights ... Gawd!"

  Thornton, his lips tightening a little, watched the man and for a momentsaid nothing. And then, suddenly, his voice commanding the truth:

  "Don't hold back anything, Jimmie," he said. "It'll be all over thecountry in a week, anyway. How'd you make your get-away? Did you haveto kill anybody?"

  He had his answer in the silence which for ten seconds Clayton'stwitching lips hesitated to break. When spoken answer came it was brokendown into a whisper.

  "I ... I wasn't goin' to hurt anybody, Buck. Hones' to Gawd, I wasn't.An' then, then I got hold his gun, an' I seen he was goin' to fight forit, an' I ... I _had_ to shoot! I didn't go to kill him, Buck! An' heshot me firs' with the other gun ... you oughta see them h
oles in myside!... an'...." He stopped abruptly, and then, a little defiancesweeping up into his eyes, rushing into his voice, he ended sulkily,"The son of a ---- had it comin' to him!"

  For a long time Buck Thornton, sunk into a deep, thoughtful silence,said nothing. Jimmie's account of an adventure of this kind was sure tobe garbled; considering it in an attempt to get to the truth at thebottom of it was an occupation comparable to that of staring down intomuddy water in search of a hidden white pebble. He knew Jimmie Clayton.He knew him as perhaps Clayton did not know himself. The man had beensent to state's prison, not because of the company he kept, but because,in Jimmie's own words, "he had it comin'." He had known long ago thatJimmie Clayton would end this way, or worse. Now Clayton was giving hisown version of the killing of the guard, and this version would probablybe a lie. But through all of these considerations which Thornton saw soclearly there was something else; something seen as clearly, loominghigh and distinct above them: Jimmie had played the part of friend whenbut for a friend Thornton would have died. That counted with BuckThornton. And now Clayton had sent for him, had entrusted into his handsall hope of safety. And he was not this man's judge.

  While the cowboy sat silent and thoughtful Jimmie Clayton was watchinghim, watching him with anxiety brilliant in his eyes, his tonguemoistening, constantly moistening the lips which went dry and parchedand cracked. Thornton knew, without lifting his eyes from the pool ofshadow quivering at the base of the candle stub.

  "You ain't goin' back on me, Buck!" The wounded man had drawn himself upon his elbow. "I'll leave it to you, Buck, if I didn't stick by you whenyou was in trouble. Remember, Buck, when I found you, out on the trailbetween Juarez and El Paso. And you don't care a damn about the reward,Buck; you said so, didn't you?"

  "Jimmie," said Thornton slowly, lifting his eyes from the floor to meetboth the pleading and the terror in Clayton's, "I'm going to do what Ican for you. But I don't quite know what is to be done. They're going tobe on your trail mighty soon if they're not on it now. Can you ride?"

  "I can't ride much, Buck." And yet Clayton's voice rang with its firstnote of hope. For if Thornton knew him, then no less did Clayton knowThornton. And Buck had said that he was going to help him. "I rode themtwo hundred miles getting here, me all shot to hell that away. An' Irode into your camp las' night to leave the letter. An' I guess if ithad been half a mile fu'ther I wouldn't never have made it back."

  "Why didn't you come in at my cabin? I'd have fixed you up there."

  "I come awful near it, Buck! I wanted to. But I didn't know. There might'a' been some of the other boys bunkin' there an' I wasn't takin'chances."

  "I see. Now, let's see what we're goin' to do."

  He stood whipping at his boots with his quirt, trying to see a way. Thislonely place might be a safe refuge for a few days. But range businesssometimes carried his men this far, and soon or late some one wouldstumble upon Clayton's hiding place. Clayton's voice, eager again andconfident, broke into his thoughts.

  "I got to find somebody as'll give me a lift, ain't I? A man can't go onplayin' a lone han' like I'm adoin' an' get away with it long. Now, Igot to be laid up here four or five days, anyway, until I can rideagain. You can keep your punchers away from here that long, can't you?"

  "Yes. I can give them plenty to do on the other end."

  "That's good. An' you can ride out again, at night, you know, Buck, an'smuggle me some more grub, can't you?"

  "Yes. But...."

  "Wait a minute! I know a man in Hill's Corners as'll give me a han'. Idone him favours before now, same as I done for you, Buck. An' he knowsthe ropes up here. You can git word to him, can't you? An' then I'lldrift, an' he'll look out for me, an' you'll be square with what I donefor you, Buck. Will you do it?"

  "Yes, Jimmie. I'll do it. I'll ride in and see your man at the Corners.Who is it, Jimmie?"

  "An' you won't tell nobody but him, will you, Buck?"

  "No. I won't tell any one else. Who is it?"

  "It's a man as may be crooked with some," said Clayton slowly. "But he'sawful square with a pal. It's a man name of Bedloe. They call him theKid."