The cattleman took one look at him and understood. He reached down and
jerked the young fellow from the hay as if he had been a child. The
stomach muscles of the boy contracted with fear and the heart died
within him. Clint Wadley in anger was dangerous. In his youth he had
been a gun-fighter and the habit had never entirely been broken.
"I--I'm ill," the young fellow pleaded.
"You'll be sure enough ill if you don't watch out. I'll gamble on that.
Onload yore tale like shot off'n a shovel. Quit yore whinin'. I got no
time for it."
Arthur told his story. The cattleman fired at him crisp, keen questions.
He dragged from the trembling youth the when, where, and how of the
robbery. What kind of pilgrim was this fellow Moore? Was he tall? Short?
Dark? Bearded? Young? Old? What were the masked men like? Did they use
any names? Did he see their horses? Which way did they go?
The messenger made lame answers. Mostly he could only say, "I don't
know."
"You're a damned poor apology for a man--not worth the powder to blow
you up. You hadn't the sand to fight for the money entrusted to you, nor
the nerve to face me after you had lost it. Get out of here.
_Vamos!_ Don't ever let me hear yore smooth, glib tongue again."
The words of Wadley stung like hail. Arthur was thin-skinned; he wanted
the good opinion of all those with whom he came in contact, and
especially that of this man. Like a whipped cur he crept away and hid
himself in the barn loft, alone with his soul-wounds.
From its window he watched the swift bustle of preparation for the
pursuit. Wadley himself, big and vigorous to the last masculine inch of
him, was the dominant figure. He gave curt orders to the members of the
posse, arranged for supplies to be forwarded to a given point, and
outlined plans of action. In the late afternoon the boy in the loft saw
them ride away, a dozen lean, long-bodied men armed to the limit. With
all his heart the watcher wished he could be like one of them, ready for
any emergency that the rough-and-tumble life of the frontier might
develop.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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